Love For Sale (16 page)

She gasped his name, and he whispered, “March.”

She was ready, and dying to be filled by him. His mouth closed over hers, his tongue shafting into her. He backed her to the bed, and, as one, they tumbled onto the pristine white sheets. They were far too hot for each other to take it slow. Bodies tangled together, they rode each other’s rhythm until they collapsed in blissful satisfaction.

He kissed her eyelids, the tip of her nose, butterfly touches over her face. Peaceful and content, March threaded her fingers into the tide of silk cloaking his face. He caught her other hand, twining their fingers.

The phone rang. A knock sounded at the door. Neither of them moved. In the afterglow, he stayed inside her, each on the verge of sleep in that other world they’d carved from the mundane.

****

“Doctor, I’m afraid. My hands and feet tingle, feel like they are asleep.” She glanced at Christian. “I think I should stop the treatments.”

“Why do you look at him?” The doctor rested an elbow on his desk, a ballpoint poised as if to write in the air. “He doesn’t have cancer. I don’t have cancer. You do. We can discontinue treatments if you prefer, but I wouldn’t advise it.”

March inhaled sharply, stunned at the unfeeling answer.

Christian sat forward in his chair. “That was not only rude but uncaring and totally uncalled for. I believe the first of the core values of this institution is Caring.”

The doctor retreated from Christian’s angry advance, shouldering back in his chair, for a moment gaping at the other man. At last, he said, “It’s her decision. We can skip one treatment, which is known to help prevent neuropathy.”

“Please. Even my lips are numb,” March said.

Skipping one dose, the freedom of one week, was a delightful reprieve. March felt as if she’d been pardoned from Death Row, but a nightmare of lying in that hospital bed startled her awake. In a dream haze, she ran her hand over the bed beside her, found it empty and lurched to her feet.

“Christian?” She whispered his name.

“Here. Living room. Good morning.” The sound of his voice always thrilled her, like music with a British accent.

She slid into a satin robe, belting it as she wandered to the living room. “Are you still at the computer? Did you even come to bed?”

He ran his hands back through his luxurious hair. “Looking for work. You need help, March. You didn’t tell me. You’re ill and shouldn’t be working at all.”

Damn Paul for putting her in this position. She didn’t know how to answer Christian, but hated for him to take the kind of job an illegal alien could expect. “We’ll be all right. Don’t worry. The work permit hasn’t yet come through.”

“I do worry. I want to work, March. From eight to five when you’re at the office, I need something to do that earns money, but all my applications are rejected. I think I have to face the fact that no one is going to hire an employee, or particularly a consultant, with no experience.” He snapped his fingers. “I need to retrieve some laundry from the dryer.”

Placing her hands on his shoulders, she leaned down to kiss his cheek. “If you didn’t do things around the house, they’d never get done.”

He turned his head and pressed his gorgeous lips to her hand. “That’s not enough.”

Christian heard footsteps on the stairs and swiveled the chair toward the tapping on the glass doors. “Joy! It’s Mr. Sunshine himself.”

March grimaced. “Oh, no, not this early on a Saturday morning.” She breathed a heavy sigh and faced the door. “Damn it, he’s bringing my mail. Our apartment numbers are only one digit apart. Both with the last name Morgan, Paul frequently receives my mail.”

He shrugged and turned back to the computer, studying a list of jobs for which he was overqualified.
If only someone would give him a chance.
She could read his frustration in the set of his jaw. With only a lamp, the light was dim, the scant illumination caressing the exquisite lines of his face. He cost her nothing except the monthly payment. Though she had insurance, the percentage of the co-pay had thrown her into financial difficulties. Primary responsibility for her money woes could be attributed to cancer.

Her desk overlooked the treetops. Once again, through the glass doors, the two men faced off. Paul’s eyes shot daggers at his opponent. Christian stared at the computer, ignoring the malevolent looks.

Paul tapped on the glass again, though he could easily see them. March belted her robe tighter, strode to the door and stepped outside onto the balcony. He held a stack of mail, the one prominently on top displayed a law firm’s embossing. Her ex pointed at that envelope, then glanced at Christian. He’d abandoned the computer and stood before the TV, remote in hand.
He refuses to eavesdrop
.

“If you weren’t supporting that worthless piece of crap, you wouldn’t be behind on your bills.” Paul’s voice carried, and March cringed.

Even with the noise from the TV, Christian’s phenomenal auditory perception would capture Paul’s degrading remark.

“Shut up.” March bit back a curse. “He’ll hear you.”

“Maybe that’ll get him off his lazy ass.” Paul’s frown darkened as he hurled a mocking, hurtful indictment. “I never thought I’d see the day when you were supporting a man.”

March retreated toward the door, but her ego still suffered a direct hit. “Thanks for the mail. Go. I don’t want to discuss this, now or ever.”

“Your choice.” He shrugged. “I’d put his Highness to work.”

March pointed at the stairs.

“I’m going.” He turned, turned back. “Do you want me to loan you some money to catch up?”

“Thanks, no.” She gripped the door handle, anxious to escape Paul’s accusing expression.

March didn’t watch her ex’s slow descent but whirled and hastened inside. Christian stood in front of the TV, staring at a situation comedy. He hated sitcoms. She tossed the mail, including the collection letter, on the table. Reluctance gripped her as she went to stand behind him. He flinched at the touch of her hands on his shoulders.

Her hand slid down his arm, gripping his wrist. “You heard?”

“Of course.” He patted her hand, faced her with a strained smile. “He’s right. He simply has the wrong reason why you’re supporting me.”

An ambulance siren screamed in the distance. March had always found sirens unnerving. In the early morning stillness, the shrill calls sent a shiver down her spine.

“Christian…” she brought his hand to her lips. “You
are not
responsible for my financial troubles. Cancer is. You eat nothing; drink nothing—”

“You’re making a payment on
me
.” Did he force his tense posture to relax? His expression softened, his bad boy grin captivating. “I simply want to help you buy
me.
”

“My darling, the payment to Mayfair is one I’d never miss.” She wound her arms around him, nestling her face into the crook of his shoulder. “We’ll manage just fine until the work permit arrives and you find something appropriate.”

He caressed her hair in long, comforting strokes but muttered under his breath, “The bloody day after never.”

Chapter 11

Liz hovered close—uncomfortably so—behind Christian as he examined one of the costumes he’d wear on stage. The black thong had a strap circling his neck and a small silver buckle at his navel. He longed to be able to indulge in second thoughts, but he was determined to succeed at something. Neither of his
professions
seemed willing to accept what they considered an inexperienced newbie requiring months, if not years, of training. This morning’s call to Mayfair New York produced merely another promise that the work permit was
being handled as expeditiously as possible.

With the toe of his shoe, he ruffled the leather pants and vest that would be worn over a thong for his first performance. “I’ve never worn a thong.”
And never planned to.
He turned, almost kissing Liz’s nose. “Oh.”

“I don’t bite.” She laughed at his retreat. “You’ll look great in that little black number. And Mr. Christian, you should be pretty proud of yourself. Randy gave you the tuxedo solo and this is your first night. That’s the highlight of the whole evening, so he must think you’re as good as I do.”

“I’m not exactly Jean-Mickel.” Christian had watched the other model practice. “He can dance. I feel like a frog in a blender.”

“If a witch turns you into a frog, I’ll kiss you and turn you back into the handsome prince.” She patted his cheek. “And
Jean-Mickel’s
real name is Earl. No wonder the fancy name, huh? You’re the best looking, even if you’re not the best dancer yet. Women don’t really care how well you dance. They’re focused on looks and sexy. Hon, you’ve got no problem in either department.”

If I access my pleasure droid programming… And study other dancers’ performances before I’m on stage.

Christian flashed back to seven o’clock that morning, the exact time his decision was made. A mere eleven hours ago…

****

Monday, Monday…can’t trust that day…
The line from the classic Peter, Paul and Mary song scrolled through his head as he’d knocked on Liz’s door.

Today, a Monday, after March left for work, unaware he’d reached a turning point, Christian descended the winding staircase into another life.

As the smiling Liz opened the sliding glass door to her apartment, his heart dived thirty thousand feet, crashing on the cobbles.

“Is it a cold day in hell?” She smirked. “Should I be flattered?”

His jaw tightened. It took every ounce of his being to resist turning around and walking back up March’s stairs.

Liz swept a sexy hand through her hair. “Sorry about being snarky. Let’s start over. Well, hello there, come in. Coffee?”

“No, thanks.” Could he really take that fatal step over her threshold?

Every program, every circuit screamed
no.
But what choice had he? He could no longer stand the humiliation, rejection, and final knowledge that he was, more or less, a liability to March. Staring at his damnation, he cursed the encoding ripping him apart. It choked him like a collar, throttling him and rooting him in place.

Apparently, his hesitation didn’t register on Liz.

A low whistle fluttered her full lips. “Don’t you look good in a suit? Where are you going all dressed up on this hot September morning?”

“To the club with you.” He’d worn the dark blue suit and crisp pin-striped shirt for an interview. Granted, he’d never foreseen this
position
in his future.

“I like that idea.” She saluted him with her Houston Texans mug.

He hovered at a door he didn’t want to enter. As Liz’s bold gaze drifted over him, her pink tongue traced her lower lip. Drowning in self-consciousness and guilt, he blew out a breath and accepted her invitation. She wriggled her shoulders, parting her Japanese print robe, immediately turning the visit into a seduction.

A step inside, she gripped his hand. “Welcome to my
casa bonita.
”

The bartender’s home was quite a contrast to March’s apartment. Probably, the sofa had once been expensive, but the olive color as well as the nubby upholstery belonged to another decade. Liz had stacked two open-ended wooden crates for a bookcase, filled with CDs and DVDs. Instead of classical satellite radio, rock music throbbed from a surround sound system. There were few personal touches like photographs and decorations. The beige walls were bare except for a giant flat screen TV and one framed portrait of a man in a g-string humping a microphone on stage.

Liz pointed her coffee mug at the portrait. “He used to be the lead dancer at the club, but he joined Chippendale’s.”

“Liz.” He hesitated. The next question would change his life forever. “Are there any positions open at the club?”

Her brows shot up. “Only dancers.”

Christian nodded, swallowing the bitter confession that he needed a job. “I’d like to apply.”

The robe loosened, a V of pale skin in the sexy red satin, both breasts on exhibit. “Does March know you want to be a stripper?”

Want to be a stripper? Not in this lifetime, but…necessity is the mother of invention.

“I’m no longer with March.” Christian had stood in front of the mirror practicing, but still it sounded like the lie it was. He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, hoping Liz hadn’t heard the sadness in his voice. “I’ll also need a place to stay. Small is okay. I don’t even need a bed.”

“Wow.” Her blue eyes widened. “I’m speechless. What happened to you and your sweetie?”

“We had…a disagreement.” He resisted the urge to fold his arms across his chest, not wishing his body language to shout
stay away from me.

“You don’t have to tell me.” She fingered his lapels. “As far as a place to stay, you can stay here, hon. I don’t have a spare bedroom but…”

He shook his head. “That would not be appropriate with March upstairs.”

March was right. Liz was hot enough to burn your hands. Her hair, brushing her trim waist, looked soft, shiny, and silken. Long lashes fringed deep blue eyes with a mischievous tilt at the corners. Her body would tempt any man. Yet no other woman attracted him, as it should be, and he was determined to survive this close encounter with the sensual blonde.

“Too bad.” Her hand ventured from his neck to his zipper. “We could have a really good time. Oh well, write in a heavy sigh here. There’s an apartment above the club. Randy might let you rent it. The digs have been vacant since Samuel went big time.”

Despite his heavy heart, he smiled. In the UK,
randy
meant
horny
, an amusing coincidence
.
“I have no money.”

“He’ll probably let you move in as an advance. Hell, you’ll pay him for six months rent with your first night of tips. If not, I’ll loan you the money.” Her gaze swept down him, lingering on the front of his trousers. “Wow, they won’t have to stuff your costume.”

Humiliation knifed through Christian. God, why had he come? He was breaking tradition, violating his programming, and he hated the idea of working in a strip club. At some time, he needed to determine
how
he’d overcome his encoding, but Liz was danger, up close and present. If only he could hurry upstairs, shred the goodbye note, and be waiting when March returned from work.