Love For Sale

Inc.

Motionless, she watched the parade of beauty, but none of them struck the special chord that would make her heart sing. They can be customized, she reminded herself. Still, it took more than looks to make her fall in love.

Then he strode through the door, and her heart did a double backflip. She inhaled a soft gasp. He was perfect, no customization needed. The only programming required was a sense of humor and an intense libido. Lord, she wanted to touch him, run her fingers through his hair and kiss that luscious mouth.

Sorry to keep you waiting. His voice defined musical and played that special chord she’d dreamed of. I was on the phone.

The Special Editions had gathered around her. The auburn-haired woman whispered a laugh. Is there any need for more than one introduction, Ms. Morgan?

That someone was speaking barely registered. March didn’t respond. She was speechless and couldn’t peel her gaze off the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. His eyes were crystalline blue, his hair wheat colored. She’d wanted sparks. She’d gotten fireworks! No way in hell was she leaving London without him.

Spellbound, March was drawn one step toward perfection, her willful eyes traveling over his body, pausing at his zipper, sliding down his long legs. The wasted years looped through her memory, regret stinging her eyes.

Melissa squeezed her hand. Ah, you like our blond. She beckoned. Come, Christian.

In tight jeans and a tux jacket with plaid cummerbund and bow tie, her dream man paused in the light of a crystal and gold chandelier.

Praise for Linda Nightingale

The characters are brilliantly penned, every detail of their being painted like a beautiful picture, exposing their strengths, weaknesses and emotion.

~Cocktails & Books

~*~

Linda Nightingale knows how to lead the reader into the world she creates for her characters and story. Her writing style keeps the reader turning the pages, always wanting more and more.

~Julianne Keller, For Whom The Books Toll

~*~

Nightingale’s writing is beautiful and descriptive. I was mesmerized from the start. The novel’s twists and turns are enough to keep readers engrossed as well as the heights of emotion in which the story is conveyed.

~Vampire Romance Novels

~*~

Ms. Nightingale has a way with words, making it difficult to put the book down.

~Author Karen Michelle Nutt

~*~

The world the author has created is a captivating story with a steady paced plot, vivid details and compelling characters that grab the reader’s attention and keep it to the very end. The author portrays the characters’ emotions and personalities with an intensity and clarity that bring them to life, making it easy for the reader to relate to them. The conflict…is well developed and the author paints the action and suspense with great detail engaging the reader’s imagination.

~The Romance Reviews

Love For Sale

by

Linda Nightingale

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Love For Sale

COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Linda Nightingale

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Fantasy Rose Edition, 2015

Print ISBN 978-1-5092-0180-8

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0181-5

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

Dedicated to all who pursue their dreams.

Chapter 1

It is said you never forget your first love.

Turning forty, looking thirty, March Morgan didn’t have anything to forget. Finally, the years and disillusionment had eroded her youthful vows. She’d been married, but she’d never really been in love. As a girl, she’d argued passionately with her cynical friends about the existence of true love. She’d fended off her mother’s sensible advice to lower her standards, survived unscathed into her mid-twenties when the biological clock and Paul’s crooked grin enticed her to take a walk down the aisle.

The end of her marriage happened as fast as their whirlwind courtship. One summer evening, long-lost determination whispered into her ear. Standing at the sink washing dishes, March gazed out the window at the stars, and her heart made the decision. She had two sons and a husband. That the boys were Paul’s from a previous marriage didn’t matter. March loved them. Paul was content with their life. Both had good jobs, March as a contract administrator for an oil company, Paul, a Senior Systems Analyst, but she felt trapped. The day-to-day reality of cooking, cleaning, working full time, and sleeping with a man she no longer loved had worn her dreams thin.

In An Essay on Man, Alexander Pope had written, Hope springs eternal in the human breast. Because of the boys, she’d tried hard to ignore the whisperings of hope, but her belief in passion and undying love betrayed her.

That night, she asked Paul for a divorce.

Two months later, she strode from a divorce court into the August sunshine, feeling guilty but relieved. Needless to say, Michael and Paul Jr. had elected to live with their father. She regretted losing them, but few other doubts pursued her through the revolving doors. A cloud floated across the sun, darkening the day, and the full realization of what she’d done stopped her in her tracks. She’d given up everything for a dream. Knuckles white, she gripped the rail, her heart thudding. Passersby tossed her curious looks. Fear of the future held her motionless. As the summer sun broke from behind the clouds, any hesitation fled.

I’m free.

On the courthouse steps, she surveyed her new world. A man with long, softly wavy hair smiled at her. He was darkly handsome but ten years younger than she. Her fingers itched to glide through his black mane. March studied the men her age, most of them balding and sporting beer bellies. Her spirits sank. How was she to find her soul mate in this selection?

****

So, it was a miracle really to find that fantasy existed on the last page of a glossy women’s journal.

Waiting, as one always did in a doctor’s office, March thumbed through a magazine. A small display ad in the classifieds caught her eye. Actually, the miniature of a beautiful man with long hair freed the caged romantic. He looked like a hero in a romance novel. Mayfair Electronics, Ltd., in black and white, offered Love for Sale.

The London firm claimed to have engineered sentient androids indistinguishable from humans. She glanced around the waiting room. None of the other women were watching. Feeling foolish, she ripped the advertisement from the magazine and quickly stuffed the shiny secret into her handbag.

The doctor drew blood, March’s worst nightmare, took the ritual slice of flesh for a biopsy, and sent her home with a promise they’d phone with the results. She was worried about the biopsy, but as a summer breeze whipped her hair, a feeling of peace warmed her. She was alone, but she was happy.

A strange excitement quivered inside March. Should she follow duty and go to work or follow her heart and go home?

On the fifteen-minute drive to work, she tried not to envision her own version of the handsome android, but her reckless friend hope fed her images of a tall, blond beauty. She wheeled her sensible sedan onto the street in front of her office, but freedom called louder than duty. The weather was spring-like, and she had vacation time to burn. Today, she couldn’t bear sitting in a cubicle—life in a fish bowl.

An image of the handsome man in Mayfair’s ad flashed through her mind. She glanced at her watch. Ten, Houston time. Four o’clock in London. Feeling giddy and girlish, she backed the red sedan out of the parking space and dodged into traffic.

Windows down, sunroof open, sunshine gliding in, and fresh air whipping her light brown hair—life was good. Homeward bound! She inserted the Simon and Garfunkel CD and sang along.

The torn edges of the ad peeked from the top of her handbag. The photo and the promise of Love for Sale had captured her imagination. The very thought of human-like robots sent a thrill coursing through March. All of the books on her shelves were paranormal or fantasy. Her heroes had always been otherworldly. The latest such love affair was with Marek, the vampire in Tony-Paul de Vissage’s Shadow Lord. Not that she could own one of the androids. They were probably skyrocket expensive.

March stopped for a red light and glanced in the rearview mirror. Her reflection studied her with accusing brown eyes. I’ll just call and ask for literature.

****

Ten fifteen. Only forty-five minutes to make the call.

Rummaging for her door key, she dropped her handbag. Keys, coins, lipsticks and a compact spilled onto her deck, glass shattering. Great! Seven years bad luck! As if in answer to the thought, the breeze captured the snippet of paper. She stood frozen, watching the crumpled ad flutter toward the balcony railing.

No! She scurried after the scrap of paper, slamming her foot down on the ridiculous claim that love, like any luxury, could be purchased. Damn you for a fool, March Morgan.

Fool or not, her fingers shook as she stuffed the ad into her pocket and bent to scoop the spillage into her purse. She waved to her next-door neighbor, closing the door quickly as her cat raced to greet her. Stroking Mugs, she glanced at the gold Anniversary Clock on the mantel. The clock was a present from her ex on their tenth and last anniversary.

Ten forty-five. Four forty-five in London.

She tossed her handbag onto the red leather sofa, smoothed the ad on the kitchen counter, and microwaved a cup of instant coffee. A too-hot sip burned her tongue. Why fight it, March? She studied the photo, then reread the text. Were the androids capable of normal sexual activities? Her sex life was nonexistent. It wasn’t as if she never met anyone or that men showed no interest. One guy at work did everything but dance to catch her eye.

None of them sparked anything inside her. Where was the man who could turn her knees to jelly, make her want to strip and lay naked, craving his touch?

Silly woman, she whispered, judging her face in the mirror. Hair in a sensible angled bob swung chin-length. Brown eyes, large and round. A few wrinkles marred her ivory skin. Okay for forty. She turned, giving her body the same scrutiny. At five-five, she was taller than petite, her figure curvy rather than the slender in vogue today. In her dark blue business suit, March decided she was reasonably pretty, but there was a hungry look in her eyes.

The day she divorced Paul, the dream had been strong. The desire remained, but the intervening year had chipped away at her faith in finding her soul mate. She’d seen too many marriages and love affairs flounder and crash into painful rubble. Were men and women actually supposed to live together? Neither sex understood the other. What was the name of that book, Men are from Mars; Women from Venus? The premise rang true.

She sipped her coffee. Too weak. Tomorrow, I’m buying a real coffee maker and a coffee grinder.

March lifted the small glossy photo of the handsome android. Love for Sale. Could one buy happiness? Was love happiness or Romeo-and-Juliet despair? To be willing to die for love would be…stupid, but she longed to feel that way. In her heart, she carried a definite image of her perfect man. He would be tall. Though March was only five-five, she liked men at least six feet. He’d be blond with blue eyes, long hair, sense of humor imperative. Were the androids charming? Could they carry on a conversation?

On the granite counter beside the ad, the microwave clock performed a countdown. Five until eleven. Five minutes to make the call.

Before she could change her mind, she grabbed her cell and keyed in the number in the ad. Her heart hammered as the connection clicked. Holding her breath, she listened to pring, pring, the distinctive ring of a British phone. Clutching the phone, she paced the confines of her tiny apartment. Dread and anticipation mingled, her emotions in a tangle. March’s finger hovered on the off button.

Mayfair Electronics. The crisp, formal English halted March by the front doors overlooking the park-like landscaping, but she couldn’t stand still.

In a blind haze, she wandered, her dry throat closing on her practiced speech. It was rude to hang up. If she did disconnect, she’d never know what the androids were like.

Hullo? I can’t hear you.

No, by God, she wouldn’t claim she’d reached a wrong number. She wasn’t a teenager, but her heart fluttered as it had years ago on prom night. Damn it, she was a forty-year-old woman come December, and she’d never had trouble talking to anybody.

I’m calling about your androids. Her voice sounded too abrupt, too loud, gravelly as a smoker. She pictured the woman at the other end of the line smirking.

Yes, Madam. The voice eased into a lilting friendliness. You’re the first call from America. We offer five female models, five male, completely indistinguishable from human beings, except that they are programmed to please. They’re simply splendid, I must say. I’m saving to buy one myself. A little laugh whispered into the phone.

It’s no surprise—no calls from America, I mean. The ad was small. Why aren’t you promoting them? Let the public see them, that kind of thing. What was she saying? She wasn’t asking any of the important questions.

Bit controversial. Custom-made companions with the capacity to show sensitivity and love, wholly devoted. Could cause problems. There’d be the inevitable protests. So, Mayfair’s policy with regard to the Special Editions is rather like adoption.

They can pass for human? March interrupted. Sorry.

No need to apologize. You sound excited. We are very excited about the Special Editions. Companionship, love, so very difficult in this day and time, don’t you think? But she didn’t pause for an answer. Yes, they can pass for human in every way. As to the ads, given the personalities built into them, it would be vastly wrong to parade them before perspective purchasers in the malls and on the telly, you see? They have been programmed to feel, to react. Mayfair must select its clientele for these models.

Adoption? In a lifetime long ago, March had worked for a lawyer who specialized in adoptions. Not an easy process. I’d have to apply, be approved. All that legal stuff?

The woman laughed. Not quite. No barristers, no courts. More matching the right model to the right person.

Matching? March’s heart sank. You’d choose for me?

No. The woman drew the syllable long. The brochure will be mailed privately to you. You can peruse our offerings and choose your intended. The models can be customized. Each Special Edition is an individual. Of course, you must come to London and apply. Shall I mail you the information?

They can go out among real people and interact? Her heart thump-thumped loud in her ears. The adrenaline rush dizzied March. Her knees liquefied, and she collapsed on the sofa.

Without flaw.

Without flaw. A perfect man dedicated to her. Her heart was skipping now, dreams misting her eyes. She gripped the phone tight enough to crack the plastic cover. I assume they’re very expensive.

Very. The woman pronounced the word veddy. But if you’re approved, we offer comfortable financing. If you’d prefer a personal viewing without the brochure, we can arrange everything for you.

Thoughts chased around her numb brain. She couldn’t think of anything to say, except—I want one and don’t care how much he costs. Surely, when she hung up, she’d come to her senses. Two weeks for the mail, she didn’t want to wait that long.

Wednesday? Do you have any appointments for this Wednesday? She’d gone stark, raving insane. She was hot all over. In the mirror, her eyes were too bright. Pink splotched her neck and cheeks.

Wednesday would be fine, Madam. Best time for you? I have ten o’clock and four. We’ve had quite a lot of interest as you may imagine. May I have your name?

March considered saying Mary Smith. March Morgan. Ten o’clock.

Shall I make your arrangements—flights, hotel?

Lord, it looked like she wasn’t going to come to her senses. Or maybe she’d wake up in the middle of a flight to London and regret would overwhelm her. If Mayfair made the arrangements, she couldn’t change her mind, could she?

Yes, thank you. Please make my arrangements. Blind to detail, March stared at the tapestry of a piano she’d bought at the symphony. My flight will be from Houston IAH.

Perfect, the woman said. Do you have email? I can send your schedule in half an hour or so.

March gave the receptionist her email address. Thank you. Very kind.

Not at all. My pleasure. The click of a keyboard sounded too close to be three thousand miles away. Now, may I collect your credit card information to process? I’ll also need the security code on the back. Your name exactly as it should appear on the reservation as well.

Another tremor of excitement played over March as she fumbled in her handbag for her wallet. She extracted the card with total conviction of the heart and read the requested information to the receptionist. For the reservation, just March Morgan.

Thank you. Oh, and Madam, since you’ve booked an appointment, I am at liberty to tell you that tonight on the telly, we’re conducting a secret test. One of our male models will appear on a talk show. No one except Mayfair and those who’ve made appointments know he’s an android. You can see for yourself. You won’t be disappointed, Ms. Morgan, I can assure you.

Mayfair Electronics, Ltd. gave March the channel and rang off. The sudden silence sounded a wakeup call. She stared at the phone in disbelief. With this innocuous instrument, she’d just blasted her normal life to hell. Doubt crested on waves of humiliation. She hit the off button, wishing she hadn’t booked an appointment. Yet she was dying to meet these androids. And choose one for me.

Eager. I’m way past eager. She tapped Favorites and scrolled to her boss’s number. I was in such a hurry to be a fool I forgot to call and book time off.

March stunned Jim by requesting vacation starting tomorrow for two weeks. She’d worked for him and the oil company long enough to be able to pull off such a stunt. If she stayed insane, bought—adopted—a sweetheart, she needed time to get to know him and play with him. She flinched at the tail-end of that thought, but her pulse raced, and her hands trembled. In the year since her divorce, she hadn’t played with any man. She was a very sexual creature but too particular to spread her legs for the offerings.

Nerves on end, she wandered the apartment. Sweat prickled her underarms. She took a mechanical sip from the abandoned mug. The coffee was stone cold. Marooned in her slip of a kitchen, she turned a full circle, studying the familiar walls. A small, rectangular mirror framed in stained glass captured her reflection. She looked like a sensible woman. Ah, but the romantic lurked behind those glittering brown eyes. The dreams that had fogged her vision and her brain faded, but it took a minute for her to realize that the light-headedness was excitement not fear.

She emptied the dishwasher, plunked the coffee cup on the rack and wiped the counters. Every five minutes, she glanced at the round face of the clock. Ten minutes dragged to fifteen, fifteen to thirty. Heart slamming her ribs, she strode to her computer, signed onto the Internet, and searched her email box. Her breath caught when she saw the Mayfair email. Tuesday, eleven o’clock British Airways flight from IAH to Heathrow, E-ticket; a reasonably priced hotel near the lab. The email included confirmation of payment, and March didn’t bat an eye at the expense. Rather, a tremor of anticipation pebbled her skin. The electronics company would send a car to the airport to pick her up. Details swam over her. The ground beneath her feet trembled as she exhaled a pent-up breath. Hot flashes