Love For Sale (17 page)

Pride wouldn’t allow him to run back to her arms. She’d spent far too much money on the purchase, and he needed to help her recover. If Liz’s predictions weren’t ego boosts, soon he could return home and comfort March through her treatment. A chill rolled over him.
What if she won’t take me back? I’ve nowhere to go except Mayfair, and she’ll face cancer alone.

“Christian, you’ve gone awfully quiet.” A fingertip traced his ear, ending his wishful thoughts.

He forced a smile. “I thought I’d allow you to take a good look without interruption. I have a feeling that my being hired will depend a lot on you.”

Before he could react, she applied her body along his length, threading her fingers into his hair. He watched helplessly as her mouth closed in on his. For a long moment, he refused to embrace her, then his arms slid around her waist, but he did not react to her feverish kiss.

She stood back, gazing into his eyes, her hands still tangled in his hair. “If you’re not engaged anymore, you could have kissed me back. You don’t like me, do you?”

“You are very attractive, Liz. I like you. It’s simply…I’m still in love with March. I know time heals, but not much time has passed.”
Fifteen minutes to be exact.
A vision of March as she closed the door leapt in front of his eyes. His heart clenched around the low-grade, ever-present ache. The saints knew he longed to yield to the urge to return, seek comfort in the softness of her lips, but he simply could not expose her to more emotional damage.

“Do you want to hang out here until this afternoon when we can see Randy?” She moved in on him again, rotating her pelvis against his.

Christian tilted his hips away, his arms falling to his sides. “Thanks, but I need to dash off.” He’d find a quiet nook, switch into sleep mode with a wide radius warning of anyone approaching. “What time should we visit Randy?”

“I don’t go to work until six thirty, but we can try him around three.” She shrugged, wriggled her shoulders, rubbing her large breasts against his chest. “We can always have a drink.”

Yes, he was dying to have a drink with the woman all but raping him! “I’ll pop around about three, then.”

He considered asking if her breasts were real. Touching them was the only way to confirm or deny. Asking would either encourage or offend her. He suspected the former but was in no position to take chances over trivial questions. The
hooters,
he’d heard them called, appeared too large for her slimness. He bit back a laugh, imagining her boobs overbalancing her and Liz tipping over. Then he’d only have to catch her!

She delved her hands beneath his coat, stripping it off his shoulders. “Stay awhile. You have to know I really want you to—what do you say in England—shag me?”

“I can’t, Liz.” He shrugged out of her grasp. “Please try to understand.”

Something you can’t possibly know or understand. I’m not programmed to love you, and even if they tried, the reprocessing wouldn’t work.

His tormentor swept a hand through her hair, pointing her breasts at him. “Don’t tell me the handsomest man in Houston has erectile dysfunction.”

“Not that. Liz,
I love March
.
”
He accented each word. “Don’t you see?”

“But you’re not together.” She unzipped his trousers.

He zipped. “Take me at my word.”

If persistence was a virtue, Liz was a saint.

“Okay, hot stuff, three o’clock. You won’t need that suit. At least, I’ll get to see you naked, or nearly naked.”

Feeling dead inside, Christian trudged up the winding stairs to March’s apartment, collected his things, and went in search of a place to hide until the dread hour of three o’clock.

****

“Hi, babe,” March called. “I have a present for you.”

An ominous silence greeted her.

“Christian?” A dark premonition slithered down her spine.

The apartment felt as if it had been deserted for years.

It was the Monday following the charged conversation about a job. Heart pounding, March tossed the gift bag on the sofa and ran from room to room. The house was quite simply…empty. Every trace of Christian was gone—his clothes, his toiletries and toothbrush—had disappeared. Stunned, she fell across the bed, letting emotions wash over her until one struck. Grief. Her heart actually, physically ached. Unable to remain still, she climbed to her feet and paced to the door, turned back to the window.

Rubbing the tightness in her chest, she asked the emptiness, “Where is he? He’s not supposed to be able to leave me, but I feel it in my bones. He’s not coming home.”

Her stomach wound into a painful knot. Tears scrolled down her cheeks, but she stood motionless in the bedroom where they’d shared love and pleasure, her hands hanging helplessly at her side. Why had he run away? What had driven him to flee? Damn Paul, he had shamed Christian with his accusations about her supporting a man. Nothing had happened between Christian and March to cause this disaster. In rapid succession, she recalled the obstacles her ex-husband had thrown in the path of their happiness.

“Somehow, I must find him.” Her knees turned to jelly, and she collapsed on the bedroom floor. “I wonder if Mayfair has a way of tracking him.”

She shot a frantic glance at the clock, but it was too late to call England. Sitting on the floor wasn’t achieving anything. As she climbed to her feet, she saw something that had escaped her notice in her frantic search. On the dresser was a folded piece of printer paper. Her heart sank to the bottom of her feet. Staring at the note, she rubbed her aching belly. Then she watched her numb hand reach for whatever message he’d left for her. Holding her breath, she unfolded his goodbye note.

In his perfect cursive handwriting, the message read, “Since I arrived, you’ve had nothing but trouble from your boys, your ex, the downstairs neighbor. And finally from me. I’ve found a job and will send you money to make the payments to Mayfair. Please believe my heart is breaking with each word. I miss you already. Perhaps, one day I can come home. I love you. Christian.”

A sob broke from her. She clutched the note to her breast. “I hate you all. You’ve lost me the only man I ever loved. Your selfishness drove him away. I see that now.” In the beginning, even the boys had manipulated her feelings, trying to destroy her relationship with Christian. Fear fell into step in the parade of her emotions. “And I’m sick and alone.”

March Morgan, cancer survivor by three months, fell on the bed and cried herself to sleep. Later that night, she awoke to the nightmare of an empty bed and emptier house. Stumbling to the kitchen for milk, she stopped to listen to the lonesome whistle of the four o’clock train.

****

Six hours earlier, a troupe of four men dressed in black leather pants and black leather vests mounted the stage. Christian Aguillard, lately of Mayfair Electronics, Ltd., rotated his hips, enticing the women gathered at the foot of the stage to stuff money into his pants.

In a fierce gesture, the men ripped off their vests to cheers and whistles from the audience. Each one, cued by a certain note, danced to the front, perched on their haunches and teased the girls. He could almost smell the sexual tension in the booze-scented semi-darkness. Watching David, a darkly handsome Greek, drop to the polished floor, kick his legs over the stage and shed his pants, Christian dreaded his turn.

Women crowded around the other dancer, sliding the ritual dollars into the waistband of his red thong. One bold hand stuffed a twenty dangerously close to his restricted zone. He bent to whisper to the offender that a lap dance was only twenty-five dollars. Even in the lap dance, there was a no-touch rule, but since nine o’clock, he’d seen many rules bent.

A loud whistle from his side of the stage captured his attention. Without breaking stride, he turned his head and met startling green eyes.

The woman shouted, “Hey, Blondie, aren’t you just the finest thing? I’ve got to have me a lap dance,” and tossed a twenty at his feet.

He couldn’t stop dancing to pick up the money, but what the hell, he’d begin making his mark in the world of male strippers. The attention and the admiration were invigorating—and intoxicating. He
wanted
to give the audience a good performance. Sometimes, being a mechanical wonder was good. He dropped into a full split, grabbed the twenty, and leapt to his feet in one svelte move. Tossing a come-on smile to the girl, he unzipped and wedged the money into his fly.

The green-eyed girl screamed, “Hell yeah!”

A cry of
Woohoo
burst from the crowd. The other men shot him murderous looks. His cue sounded, and, swallowing his pride, Christian danced to front and center stage. As choreographed, he crouched on his haunches, then knelt, but did not throw his legs over to strip. He kicked in his pleasure droid programming. Too far for touches, he reached out his hands to them, making eye contact with each girl pushing to get closer.

The music hit a thundering bass. Slowly, he withdrew the twenty from his fly to gasps and groans. Smiling, he inched his zipper down. The green-eyed girl pushed to the front as he lowered himself to his ass, slung his legs over, and the women began to strip him.

“No, ladies, allow me.” Now was the time he’d dreaded. He took a deep breath and slithered out of the black leather, naked except for the damned trapeze thong.

Nails scraped his skin as they tucked their offerings under his waistband. The green-eyed girl shoved another twenty deep beneath his g-string, her fingers coming close to embarrassing him. His programming made the intimate touch disgusting, and he fought an urge to recoil.

“Can I buy you for an evening?” she purred.

“For the rest of my life,” the woman beside her called.

Funny you should ask. Stranger answer, yes, you can. Or could she?

Daniel’s hurried warning resonated in his mind.
Only prototypes for something bigger and more lucrative.

****

At two a.m., Christian, Liz, and Randy climbed the narrow stairs to the studio apartment above the club—Christian’s new home. Another week or two with nights like tonight, and he could return to his real home…and March. With the music silent and the smell of perfume on his body, he thought of her every step he ascended. He hoped and prayed she hadn’t cried. He had.
Robot tears.
If only the women tonight had known what he was…

Randy said over his shoulder, “You are damn good, but you didn’t make any friends tonight.”

I’m not here to make friends
almost sprang to his lips, but he said, “I thought it was all about the show.”

Liz pinched his ass. “If you got it, flaunt it. And you got it in spades, babe.”

Randy laughed. “Don’t encourage him, Liz, and keep your lecherous hands off the merchandise. Christian, can I call you Chris?”

“If you like,” he said. Another step, another memory of March.

“We’ve got to figure out how to use that English accent.” Randy glanced back at him. “The girls will melt. Prince Charming and all that. Hey, Chris, I’m happy with the impromptu performance but try not to piss off the guys. How many lap dances did that redhead buy?”

“Three.” His heart cramped. The lap dance was touch-less sex. He had been physically ill trying to overcome the love encoded in his being. All in all, the green-eyed girl had spent over one hundred dollars on him and made it clear she’d like to take him home with her.

I just want to go home.

****

March paced by the front doors, staring at the rain, but seeing only Christian’s face. How long was it going to take Mayfair to answer the damn phone?

“Good afternoon, Mayfair Electronics, Ltd. How may I assist you?”

She took a deep breath to steady her racing heart. “This is March Morgan. I purchased one of the androids, a Christian model.”

“Yes, Ms. Morgan, I remember. He looked quite happy. Is there a problem?”

“I’m afraid so. He has disappeared. Yesterday, he left while I was at work, and I haven’t heard from him.”

“But that’s impossible,” the receptionist said. “Unless…something happened to him. Could he have been stolen?”

March thought of Liz and gritted her teeth. “I don’t believe he was stolen. We had a disagreement about his getting a job.”

“Ms. Morgan, that is quite impossible as well.”

“I’m sorry, but it is possible, and he is gone.” Her zinging nerves propelled March around the apartment. “I think he is…more independent than other models.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Is there a way of tracking each unit?” She halted at her desk, staring at the goodbye note.

“Yes, I believe there is. One moment, please. I’ll transfer you to someone who can help.”

The wait was ultra short, and the response equally tense.

“Good afternoon, Melissa here.”

“Melissa, this is March Morgan. To make a long story short, Christian has disappeared. I don’t think he was stolen. I think he left of his own accord. Is there a way to track the androids?” In despair, March flung herself down onto the sofa, absently stroking the cat’s ears.

“Yes, I can track him while you’re on the phone. I’m stunned. We’ve never had a model challenge his programming.”

“This one did.”

“You must return him for a full refund. We are quite willing to pay shipping on the deactivated unit. March, so sorry you’re experiencing these difficulties. There must be something faulty—”

“I don’t want to return him.” When March lurched to her feet, Mugs skittered beneath the entertainment unit. “I don’t want him reprogrammed either. I love him the way he is. I just want him back.”

“May I return your call?” The tap of computer keys filled a hesitation. “It will only take a few minutes to obtain his coordinates.”

“Yes, thanks.” March hit the off button and slumped in her desk chair for the longest wait of her life.

When the phone rang, she started and grabbed the receiver. “Hello, this is March.”

“Melissa here. March, we have an address for you. He is in Houston.” She rattled off the street and number too quickly, and March had her repeat the location.

“I’m not familiar with this address. Thanks, Melissa. I’ll give you a report later today.”