Love For Sale (8 page)

Christian cocked his head, regarding her with his anger-darkened eyes. “I can do that.”

“No!” She gripped his arm. “I wasn’t serious. I’d never send you to kill someone. You are too precious to me.”

I really must watch what I say. He takes me literally.

He crushed her to his lean, all male body. “Not as precious as you are to me. If something happened to you, I’d beg to be deactivated.”

“I like knowing you will go on and on, Christian. There is no doomsday for you. Oh.” She batted her eyelashes, struggling not to cry. “We’re way too serious for a happy homecoming. Let’s scoot back to the sofa and cuddle. I fully intend to drink that entire bottle of champagne. I love Mimosas.”

“And I love you. Shall we watch a movie?”

“HBO. Super series by a well-known fantasy writer.” She didn’t think he’d recognize the author or series name.
Not in my profile.
“I’m behind a week.”

“Sit down. Put your feet up. I’ll handle the remote.” He clicked to the menu of cable offerings, scrolled down, and chose HBO.

The opening music thundered from the small TV, and Christian laughed. “I’m behind a week as well. Daniel and I were addicted to this show.” He turned, discarded the remote. “Cuddle alert.”

He darted to the sofa, fell gently on top of her. She locked her arms and legs around him, loving the feel of his shaft hardening against her belly. They turned their heads toward the tiny television. Cheek-to-cheek, tangled in a lovers’ embrace, they were settled to enjoy their favorite TV show when a phone chimed.

“Bizarre, that’s my mobile. I know no one to call me. Probably a wrong number, unless…Mayfair, perhaps. I’d best answer.” Frowning, Christian wriggled in her grasp, and they unwound from their knot of arms and legs.

“Mayfair?” She shook her head, as confused as he looked. “It’s too late. The office would be closed, and why wouldn’t they call me instead?”

He dashed across the room, fishing a new Android from his pocket. “Christian here.” He muttered, “Daniel,” then silence gripped him, his face slowly losing color. “You’re being watched?”

March rose from the sofa, drawn by his bewildered expression, dread seeping through her. From the tenseness of his posture, she
wasn’t
dying to know what Daniel was saying. He would tell her. Wouldn’t he? In answer to her thought, he held the phone away from his ear and tapped Speaker.

From three thousand miles away, Daniel’s voice came clear…and cautious. “I think we were a prototype for something much bigger and more lucrative…or they plan to scrap the project and
us
—damn their eyes, I have to go.”

The line went dead, the tense hush resonating in March’s bones. She and Christian stared at each other, stunned motionless. Finally, he broke the breathless stillness, launched a furious pacing as he muttered, “Lucrative?” He faced her, his frown deep and troubled. “What could be more lucrative than selling
love…and lust
?”

She winced, her heart plummeting. “Do you feel like my sexbot?”

“No. Sorry.” He shook his head in a forceful denial, wandering the apartment in aimless pursuit of the mystery Daniel had presented in a three-minute call. “I am simply at a loss.”

And I thought this man came with no baggage.

She flopped on the sofa, staring blindly at the TV. “What are we going to do?”

“Wait.” He drifted to rest beside her, slid an arm around her shoulders and hugged her close. “I’m sure Daniel will find a way to make contact again. Until then…”

Chapter 5

“We simply must get out of bed to go grocery shopping.” March stroked his long, hard shaft. “I’m craving New Zealand green mussels sautéed in butter and wine.”

“March, if you continue…” He captured her hand, gave her fingers a gentle squeeze.

While in waiting mode, it seemed Christian was determined to continue their honeymoon, keeping her one happy woman. Last night, after Daniel’s cryptic phone call, he’d made love to her three blissful times. Satiated and travel weary, she’d fallen asleep with Christian spooned around her back. Without a smidgen of dinner.

“I didn’t mind missing a meal last night.” March jumped from bed, stood looking down at him. “Didn’t hurt my waistline at all. This morning, however, bacon, cheesy eggs and toast with lots of coffee is what I need. Up and at ’em, sweetheart.”

I know you don’t eat
almost slipped between her lips, but that wouldn’t be treating him as human. So easy to forget he wasn’t a
real
man because he was more masculine than any she’d ever known. His
birth certificate
and her
certificate of ownership
were filed in her safe. Time to stop thinking of him as anything other than a living, breathing male.

“How you abuse me.” He smiled. “Give me ten.”

He rose smoothly, almost gliding to his feet. Each movement impressed upon her again how elegant he was. Though she’d spent the night in his arms, it was still hard for her to comprehend that he was really here, really hers. He tossed his suitcase on the tousled sheets, riffling through his clothing. Last night, they’d been too wrapped up in each other and the Mayfair mystery to unpack. Today, together, they’d hang his things in the closet stuffed with suits, a few dresses, pants and blouses, and her favorite—formal gowns. Where she’d inherited the taste for dressing up was a mystery. Anything fancier than jeans was of no interest to her mother, who preferred yoga and sweatpants.

Christian tugged a black sweater over his head and slithered into tight matching jeans. She nearly salivated. Her husband was damn gorgeous, but he was going to fry in the cashmere turtleneck from Harrod’s. March smiled. Obviously, he wasn’t programmed to consider the weather outside when making wardrobe choices.

“Darling, maybe you should rethink the sweater. Try this.” She unfolded a black t-shirt supplied by Mayfair.
Thank God, it doesn’t have their name and logo.
“It’s hot in Houston in August.”

“My internal temperature adjusts to the external temp, but I suppose I will look rather ridiculous in winter clothes at the height of summer.” He stripped the sweater over his head, his hair topsy-turvy, and slid into the t-shirt, the knit fabric hugging his muscled chest.

Grabbing the brush from the vanity, he smoothed his hair. “There.” He tapped her butt with the brush. “We’re ready to knock ’em dead. Let’s go.”

A trio walked to the parking lot—Christian, March, and her new friend dread.
After yesterday’s shouting match, please don’t let us run into Paul.
They made the perilous journey without incident, and Christian strode to the drivers’ side.

“What are you doing?” March gaped at him.

“I’ll drive. Keys, please.” He extended his hand, palm up.

“You don’t—of course, you do. Sorry, I forget I’m with a genius.” She frowned, shaking her head. “I’m sure you can drive, but you don’t have a license.”

“Oh, but I do.” He produced his wallet with a flourish. “An international driver’s license. Though at the moment I’m suspicious of her motives, Mother Mayfair thinks of every eventuality. I needed a form of identification other than the passport.”

“What
was
I thinking?” She breathed a laugh and dropped the key on his palm.

Ten minutes later, after a near accident when a mammoth diesel pickup rumbled out in front of their car, they arrived at the grocery. Thanks to Christian’s lightning fast, computerized reactions, they avoided a collision by several feet. The truck driver had the audacity to blow his horn. Christian had the innate courtesy not to respond.

Looking around him, he sauntered to the passenger side, opened her door and handed her from the car. The big Texas sky was cloudless and as bright blue as Christian’s eyes. A mild breeze ruffled the smooth length of his hair. Sunshine lent him a halo. He dropped a kiss to her cheek, then her earthbound angel rescued a cart abandoned in the parking lot. Who would have thought grocery shopping could be exciting and fun?

“Why are people so lazy they can’t return carts to the designated area?” He steered with one hand, caressing her fingers with the other. “This could damage a car.”

On one of the three dates she’d had since the divorce, the jerk wanted to grill at home, meaning her house. When they’d gone to the grocery, he’d walked ahead of her with the cart, leaving her trailing behind like a second-class citizen. It was much better to buy a man. March filled the cart with anything that looked good, and everything sounded delicious.

“Never go to the grocery hungry.” March turned to find a cranny in the loaded cart and froze with the New Zealand green mussels forgotten in her hand.

Michael and Paul Jr. stared at them across the narrow aisle. Michael’s collar-length hair had been shorn to a business cut. With each passing day, Paul Jr. looked more like his father. Michael shot Christian a judgmental glance, then pinned her with an accusing look. Car keys dangled from her eldest’s fingers. Paul Jr.’s focus was on Christian, his expression stony.

“Hi, Mom.” Michael flung a gesture at Christian. “Is this your future husband? Dad said you were getting married again.”

The boy scanned Christian, a slight frown playing with his brows. Though Michael’s tone was accusatory, she thought she heard sadness in his voice. Was he afraid, with a new husband, she’d turn her back on them?

“Hullo, Michael, Paul Jr.” Christian smiled, extending his hand. “I’m Christian.”

Reluctance was too mild a word to describe the way Michael and Paul Jr. accepted the friendly handshake.

“So, are you going to take Mom back to England?” Paul Jr.’s normal slouch became perfect posture as he fired the first shot in the interrogation, and March flinched.

“No, we plan to live here.” Christian continued smiling despite the challenge in Paul Jr.’s stance. “In fact, I don’t think your mother has any intention of moving from the current apartment.”

Michael tucked his hands in his pockets. “Isn’t this engagement kind of sudden?”

Her stomach twisted. God, where had she gone wrong? She wasn’t their biological mother but had raised them since a young age. She’d never have believed them capable of insolence. What had Paul said to poison them against her?

Christian slipped an arm around her shoulders and gave her a quick hug, but his gaze flickered from one to the other of the boys. “Haven’t you ever looked at a girl and said to yourself,
She’s the one
? No one else will do.”

Michael thawed a little, withdrew his hands from his pockets, hooking his thumbs in the belt loops. A trace of a smile brightened his face. “Yeah. My girlfriend. Man, I just looked at her, and I knew. She’s totally awesome!”

“Michael, remember what Dad said.” Paul Jr. gripped the handle of the milk jug.

March stiffened, anger flashing over her. “What did your father say, Paul Jr.? I’d be really interested to know what kind of lies he’s concocting.”

“That he looks like a pool boy on
Desperate Housewives
.” Paul Jr. gave Christian an unflinching stare.

March gasped at the virtual slap in the face. “Paul…”

Christian’s face flushed angry, his struggle at control obvious. He bent over the back of the shopping cart. “Actually, Paul Jr., I don’t clean pools. I build those.” He gestured at a model of the Space Shuttle.

“You put together toys?” Paul Jr.’s mocking tone embarrassed and annoyed March. “Wouldn’t you make more money cleaning pools?”

Christian laughed. “Real ones.”

“Your ignorance is hanging out, bro’.” Michael elbowed Paul Jr. “He means he’s a rocket scientist. What are they called?”

“Aerospace engineers.” March wedged the carton of seafood into the basket. “Excuse me, but is this the Spanish Inquisition?”

Christian straightened, smiling, open and friendly, allowing the boys to take pot shots at him.

Paul was running out of ammunition. He aimed at Christian’s male pride and fired. “Dad says you don’t work.”

“We only arrived yesterday late afternoon, but tell your father I’ll get right on that.”

March crossed her arms. “Boys, it’s time you got my take on this. Marrying Christian will make me happy. Don’t you want me to be happy?”

“He’s younger than you,” Paul Jr. said, this last probably from his father’s arsenal.

Christian edged around the cart to her side. “Actually, I’m not younger. I’m quite a lot older. What makes you think I’m younger?”

Paul Jr. gestured. “All that hair. You’re a Brit, right, like Dad said?”

“I am.” Christian nodded, smiling, an innuendo of sarcasm in his voice. “How did you guess?”

“You sound like it.” Paul Jr.’s gaze never wavered.

“Come on, Paul. She’s our Mom. Leave her alone.” Michael swung keys around his finger. “Dad bought me a car.”

Disbelief widened March’s eyes. Paul had always vowed the kids would have to work and earn their transportation. “When did he buy the car?”

“This morning at eight o’clock.” Michael tossed her a proud, excited smile, forgetting for the moment to be angry.

After last night, Paul was trying to hurt her in every way possible, including buying his own son’s affection. When Christian reached for her hand, she flinched. A frown played across his face. He didn’t understand her reaction. Of course,
she
was his only focus.
He’s programmed to love me.
Now, her focus was divided between two separate and irreconcilable loves. In that heartbreaking instant, March felt completely alone.

“That’s great, son. You’ll have to take me for a ride soon.”

Michael looked long and hard at Christian. “I guess you’re busy now.”

“Never too busy for you two.” With a glance and a smile, she included Paul Jr., but his hazel eyes, exactly the color of his father’s, were focused on Christian. She slung her arms around her children. “Tell me what you want for dinner tonight, and I’ll have it ready when you arrive at my house at seven.”

“We need to get going.” Paul Jr. clapped his brother on the shoulder. “Dad will wonder where we got to. We only came for milk.”

Michael cut him a sideways glance. “Sure, Mom. You know we love your fried chicken.” He shrugged at Paul Jr.’s frown. “Stay at home. I don’t give a rip.”