Chapter 8

“How’s your young man?” Paul greeted her at the door to his apartment with a smirk.

March bristled but quelled a scathing comeback. Mustn’t let her ex push her buttons and divert her from her duty. “He’s fine.” She squared her shoulders, and her voice took on an edge. “Everyone had better get used to seeing him around. We’re going to marry. Paul, that’s not why I needed to drop by.”

His mocking expression changed to a look of concern. “Come in.” He stood back for her to amble into the bright light Paul preferred. In fact, it appeared that every light in the house was on. The electric company loved him.

The instant she was inside, the mouthwatering fragrances of fresh baked bread and beef stew tempted her stomach to a low growl. The man could cook when he took a fancy. Fancy? I’m not British. Christian’s vocabulary is invading my subconscious. A fleeting smile brightened her mood, then her heart plummeted into the quiet despair that now possessed her.

He mistook her smile, his expression warming. “I’ve made a big pot of beef stew. Are you hungry?”

She shook her head, looked away as she settled her handbag on one of the massaging recliners and faced him, her gaze glued to the floor. “I saw my doctor yesterday. I have news I must share with you…and the boys, of course.”

Her ex gripped her arm. “What’s wrong, March? You’re as pale as a ghost.”

She swallowed a sob and plunged. “I have stage three ovarian cancer.”

“Oh, my God.” Paul tried to pull her against him, but she resisted. He shook his head, his eyes tearing. “I’ll take care of you.”

“Thank you, but we are yesterday. And, today, I have—”

“You have Christian.” He spat out his words.

“Yes, Paul, and he’ll be with me, see me through this.”

“Well, jolly good, you’ve got the Brit, March.” He swung around, stomped to the kitchen, and slid into oven mitts. “Must give the stew a stir.” He continued talking, “What about the hospital bills? Surgery’s expensive, I hear. And treatment? Is he going to pay for that, too?”

“I have insurance. I’ll be okay.” She shrugged, feeling as limp and wilted as the white roses at the center of the pine trestle table. “Those flowers have about had it.” She sought his gaze. “Should I tell the boys? It’s your call. You’re their father.”

“Care to stay for dinner? You always loved this beef stew.” He exhaled a long breath, shaking his head. “Dear God, March. I’m sorry. So sorry. You’ve got enough on your mind. I’ll tell the boys.”

She touched his arm. “Paul, I want to remain friends. Please don’t make this difficult.”

His face screwed into a painful grimace. “Of course, March, of course. You take care of yourself and let us know if we can do anything or if…you need money. You’re going to be fine.” He stroked her hair as he had when they were married. “Just fine.”

She smiled, feeling less confident than she sounded. “I will be fine. Surgery is Monday.”

“I’ll book the day off and take you.” He rested his hands on the countertop and sagged against his knuckles. “Never mind. I remember you have someone to be with you.”

Through it all, she guessed, he hadn’t stopped loving her…in his own way.

“I appreciate the offer, Paul. Yes, he will be with me.” She fiddled with the electric salt and pepper grinders on the counter. Paul had more kitchen equipment than Williams & Sonoma. “Thanks, but I won’t stay for dinner this time. If the boys need any reassurance…”

“Take care of yourself, March.” His gaze lifted to hers, hazel eyes misted. “I hope this young man doesn’t break your heart. That’s the last thing you need right now. If he does, I’ll…”

A shiver capered over March, her heart stumbling. “He won’t, Paul. But thanks for being concerned about me.”

Was it possible for Christian to break her heart? The power was in his hands. Am I to be given no privacy? There’d been nothing subservient in that question. Most human, Melissa had said. A tremor of doubt shook her faith. Her lover seemed capable of ignoring the traits ingrained into him. Could he fall out of love with her? Maybe nothing, after all, was forever.

March didn’t go straight to her apartment. She wandered the cobbled paths beneath the whispering oaks. The tears came and went. Somehow, I must rid myself of this self-pity. I can’t live my life in tears.

“And fear.” In truth, she was as concerned about Christian’s fate as her own. As the sun sank below the horizon, March turned for home.

****

Staring morosely into the distance, Christian perched on the top step of the staircase. When she turned onto the path home, he shot to his feet. “How’d it go?”

She climbed slowly, letting his beauty and grace lift her sagging spirits. “Okay. He was very kind, in fact. He said he’d tell the boys, which is a weight off my mind.”

Blue eyes measured her progress up the stairs. He extended his hand. When she laid her hand in his, he brought her fingers to his lips. “I’m glad it went well. You have to admit your ex is volatile.”

She laughed, stroking his hair. “Only when it pertains to you.”

“Yes, quite. The feeling is mutual.”

“I’ll be glad when Monday has come and gone.” The fear she was trying to suppress lumped in her throat. Her gaze slid off his intense scrutiny. “Then the chemo begins.”

He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “One day at a time, March. We’ll make it through this. Come in. I’m preparing dinner from what looks like your favorite recipe. The paper is dog-eared and faded.”

“You’re making me a fish pie? That’s a lot of kerfuffle.”

“Fish pie in the oven.” He swung her into a bridal embrace, lifting her feet over the railing, and carried her into the delicious scent of her favorite dish baking.

“My stomach is already growling. You’re an absolute darling.” She kissed his cheek. “And I love you.”

He smiled, let her slide down the front of him, his body hard, hers soft. “I’m finishing a salad. Is there anything else you’d like? I thought of kale or spinach, but we have neither.”

A sharp pain pierced her heart. He hadn’t answered that he loved her as he always did. I won’t ruin what we have by pushing him.

He shifted behind her, massaging the tight muscles in her neck. “Let’s play this weekend. Go to Galveston’s Pleasure Pier and, like children, laugh and scream on the carnival rides.”

In paradise, she’d forgotten her hobby. Maybe she could complete that seascape she’d begun months ago, in another lifetime. She could paint Christian into the final work.

She whirled, claiming his mouth in a kiss. “Absolutely! I can’t wait.”

“Remember that lottery ticket I asked you to buy?” He hugged her tight against his body. “You won. A hundred dollars will almost cover the trip.”

“You must be lucky. I’ve never won anything in my life. Let’s pack tonight and spend the day on the beach and at the Pier. Do you sunburn? I do.”

****

They claimed Saturday as their own personal holiday. March felt as if the world belonged to her. She locked the door on any thoughts or dread of Monday. Holding hands, they strolled along the beach, their bare feet making prints in the sand. The waves sang an aria for them alone. They wandered into the surf, laughing like children as the water splashed the hems of their jeans.

On the Pier, she ate pink cotton candy. He guided their wanderings with an arm around her shoulders. They stopped in the middle of the pier to listen to the noise and music, then ambled on as if everything was a brand new experience. For Christian, it was. In the bumper cars, they chased and crashed into each other. Side by side on painted horses, they rode the Carousel. March suffered from a mild fear of heights, but she allowed Christian to persuade her to try every ride, including the Ferris Wheel. At the very top, the ocean wind rocked their chair. She inhaled a cry, gripping the rail, white knuckled. Christian tightened his arm around her, whispering a kiss and it’s all right against her ear.

As they strolled through the crowd, March pointed her candy apple at Gump on the Run. “Let’s eat here. I feel like boiled shrimp.”

“You don’t look like a boiled shrimp.” Christian cringed at his own corny joke.

March laughed and, in a quick, covert gesture, pinched his ass. “You’re in trouble when we get home.”

Late in the afternoon, they found a quaint Mexican restaurant. With her own designated driver, March had two frozen margaritas, developing a case of the giggles as she munched on salsa and chips. At nine o’clock, with the moon silvering the ocean, they hopped into the car, Houston-bound. The lazy, happy day had temporarily freed them of worry and dread.

Sunday, tension crackled in the air. March went through the motions of life, but didn’t really feel alive. Christian was quiet, probably not wishing to intrude on her introversion. They went to bed early, setting the clock for an ungodly morning hour.

****

Monday dawned as gray as Christian’s mood. Sunday evening, nightmares had plagued him. Once, he disturbed March by crying out in sleep mode. He was trying to remain strong for her, but, damn, he was dying inside. Fear sizzled along every conduit. He felt raw, his emotions like naked wires. If he lost her on that operating table today, he’d learned how to deactivate himself. He’d drive to the beach, walk into the ocean and drown a sentient robot. If he opened his mouth, he could probably drink enough salt water to fry his circuits.

“Well. It’s six. Check-in is at seven.” March sighed, shouldering her handbag. “Shall we go?”

In her eyes, he saw the reflection of his fear and dread. How am I going to endure those hours of waiting when I can’t go into sleep mode in a crowded waiting room? Trying to lighten the mood, he said, “When the wind rocked our car at the top of the Ferris Wheel, I really thought you were going to scream.”

She grinned, nodding, measuring an inch with her fingers. “I was that close until you hugged me.”

Christian offered his arm as if they were attending a formal ball. She placed her hand on the crook of his elbow and followed his lead. Again, they drove in silence. Apprehension was a third passenger in the car crawling along U.S. Route 59 in the early morning traffic. Too soon, they arrived in the Medical Center. Hand-in-hand, they entered the hospital, air-conditioned cold, and found the correct elevator. Reluctance dragged at his feet as they approached the admissions desk. He filled his memory banks with her scent, sight, and the sound of her voice.

They sat in chairs facing a soothing aquarium. Neither the gurgling water nor the brightly colored fish calmed his nerves. Too soon, a nurse called her name. Christian and March exchanged a glance, and the process began. He bent, brushed a kiss to her cheek, refusing to kiss her lips. A real kiss was too much like goodbye. The nurse smiled, looking sympathetic, and told him how to find the waiting room. He’d seen the beige and white area where relatives waited and watched. In front of the hospital, he’d noticed a small garden. His footsteps took him there, and he sank down on a lush carpet of grass. Flowers perfumed the summer morning. He found no comfort in the beauty.

Alone, he could go into sleep mode and be unaware of the passage of time.

He’d been in the garden ten minutes when a woman wearing a pink ball cap invaded his haven. As she came nearer, it became evident that she had no eyelashes or eyebrows. Embroidered on her hat was a breast cancer ribbon. Her chest was flat where there should have been breasts. His heart ached for this stranger and for his March, even now in surgery. The woman turned her head, saw him sitting, knees drawn to his chin, his arms wrapped around his legs, in a huddle.

She halted in front of him, studying him with gray eyes. Her features were classic, beautiful. “Do you need someone to talk to?”

He nodded, not knowing he needed comfort until she appeared. “My wife’s in surgery.”

“She’ll be fine. I had a double mastectomy. The doctors are very good. I waited in this little garden while my friend had surgery. She did the same for me.”

“Breast cancer?” He unwound his arms and long legs.

“Yes. I was a two. She was a stage four. She…” The woman’s gaze fled, her face crumbling.

From her reaction, it appeared that her friend had not survived, and a trill of sheer horror shot through Christian.

“I’m sorry. My…wife has ovarian cancer.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Frankly, I’m terrified.”

His visitor extended her hand as if to touch him, but he sat too far away. “I’ll pray she gets along fine. I come to this garden to pray.”

“Yes, please, pray for her. Religion isn’t something that was pro…I know much about.” He plucked a nearby flower, and, rising to his haunches, handed her the purple bloom. “I’ll learn, and I’ll pray for you, too. Her name is March. Yours?”

“Stacy. I’m glad I passed your way.” She turned, venturing deeper into the garden toward the busy street.

Weary of battling tears, he clicked into sleep mode, grateful for the relief of nothingness. One hour fifteen minutes and two seconds later, a buzz along his message circuits woke him. They were to notify him by phone when March reached Recovery. Christian grabbed his mobile.

“Yes?” He blurted without a greeting.

The nurse said, “Mr. Aguillard, March is in recovery. Hold please, the doctor would like to speak with you.”

A pain drove through his chest, a reaction to utter terror. He’d expected a call from a nurse in Recovery. What kind of news would the doctor himself deliver?

“Mr. Aguillard? Ms. Morgan is doing well. We’ll speak later, but I thought you’d like to know. We feel we got it all. The nurse will call you when you can pick your…her up from Recovery.”

“Thank you, doctor.” As relief flooded him, Stacy’s face flashed through his mind. His throat closed. Thank you, God. Man, not God, had created him. Would God listen to a nuts-and-bolts invention?

Christian buried his face against his knees and wept, hot tears wetting the dark blue trousers March had insisted he wear with a crisp pin-striped oxford shirt. If anyone saw, no one intruded. An hour later, the nurse called from Recovery. March was awake and asking for him. Controlling the urge to move with mechanical speed, he jogged into the hospital to the reception desk in OR. An orderly guided him to Recovery. Looking drugged and woozy, March sat propped in blue pillows. His pulse skipped faster. Her smile was the most beautiful he’d ever, or was ever likely to behold.

Christian recorded the doctor’s assessment and orders. He didn’t think his darling girl would remember. Each time he looked at March, he recalled Stacy’s prayers. He wanted to ask his wife if she believed in prayer but her eyes were still dull, and he suspected her thoughts unfocused.

When she recovered, one issue needed to be resolved: the different surnames had confused the doctor. Or was the rush simply that Christian was anxious for her to bear his name, not her ex-husband’s?

A different nurse appeared at the foot of the bed. “Mr. Morgan, if you’d like—”

“Aguillard.” He corrected her. “My surname is Aguillard.” He flashed a grin. “Temporarily, she is Ms. Morgan, but only until I have the time to remedy that.”

“I want a big wedding.” March’s smile slid a little sideways.

Yes, the medications were definitely at work!

The nurse glanced at March, then her admiring gaze returned to Christian. “Congratulations. My name is Ana, and I’ll be taking care of Ms. Morgan. Dr. Belzar would like to keep her overnight. More or less standard procedure. She’ll be moved to her room soon. If everything goes well, as expected, she can go home tomorrow or the next day. Mr. Aguillard…did I say your name right?”

With another lopsided grin, March waved a hand. “Hey, I’m still here. I know he’s good-looking, but could I be included in the conversation, please?”

Ana’s petite, rather round body stiffened, her dark brows raised. “I’m sorry, Ms. Morgan. I thought you might still be a little lightheaded.”

March huddled deeper in the heated blanket around her shoulders. “I’m high as a kite or I wouldn’t have said that, Ana, but I felt ignored. Anyway, since you’re my nurse, call me March.”

“Of course, March.” Ana had one of those smiles that lit her whole face and her black eyes. “Mr. Aguillard may stay with you overnight. There is a comfortable recliner in the room.”

“Thank you, Ana.” Christian slid a chair near March’s bed, claiming her hand. “I plan to stay with her.”

****

On the Wednesday following March’s surgery, Christian stood ready by the car in front of the hospital while a volunteer pushed her wheelchair through the front entrance. He’d spent both nights in her room, watching over her, never activating sleep mode to recharge. When he saw her, looking much better on this the third day, he forgot that his energy was depleted. The volunteer introduced herself as Bennie, and together, they helped March into the seat. Her breath caught as she winced and grabbed her stomach.

“Are you all right?” He rested a hand on her shoulder.

She nodded, and he bent to wisp a kiss to her bare lips. She tangled her hands in his hair and whispered, “It’s done,” her minty breath caressing his mouth.

He brushed the hair back from her face. “How does steak, baked potato, and salad sound for dinner?”

“After hospital food, like a feast for the gods. You spoil me.” She beamed a smile, her beautiful eyes bright and shining. “I meant to ask but always forgot. How long was the surgery?”

“Far too long. I waited in that small garden there.” I don’t have a heart, but I ache for you. Still and all, a heart isn’t just an organ. “I confess I clicked into sleep mode. I couldn’t bear to sit idly by for hours, worrying.” Or the fear something would go wrong.

Resting her head on the seat, she closed her eyes. “You were here. That’s all that matters.”

She was pale, fragile, and as vulnerable as a child. Worry was like a low-grade fever, but he must be brave for her. Was she out of danger? Or would the killer return when least expected? In the next months, his March would go through hell, and by all that was holy, he’d stand at the Devil’s throne with her.

“When we’re home, I’ll carry you up the staircase.” His fingertips glided over the back of her hand, worshiping her soft, smooth skin. “The doctor doesn’t want you climbing stairs.”

Her eyes opened slowly. “I never had children. Now, I never will.”

The sorrow in her voice buried deep in his heart. Did having children mean so much to her? Then why choose him? “Having children doesn’t make a woman more of a woman.” He nosed the car into traffic. “I can’t sire children. If you’d wanted them, you’d have required a human man.”

“I’m sorry, Christian.” She caressed his hair in long strokes. “I didn’t realize how that would sound. I’m not thinking clearly. Darling, I’m more than content with our life as it is.”

“You needn’t ever apologize to me.” Christian braked as a light flashed yellow to red, the hair at his nape quivering as if the color change were symbolic.

Her head drifted to rest on the seat again, her eyes closing. The pain meds made her drowsy, and rest would speed her recovery. In the interim, he’d miss the sassy, petite woman who’d signed a loan agreement to buy him. Sex, of course, was prohibited, but Christian was programmed to react to her needs. He’d click his sex drive to nil.

On the drive home, she dozed, and his mind wandered from the past to the future. Timing was always the key. Someone else might have bought him. He’d have been encoded using the purchaser’s profile, but he’d never have loved as he loved March. The first time they met, the intensity of his feelings had surprised and confused him. Perhaps, some power higher than Mayfair Electronics had programmed him for March.

He swung the car into her reserved space, touching her shoulder to rouse her. Despite her protests, he lifted her gently and, cradled in his arms, carried her up the narrow staircase. At the door, he eased her to her feet and dealt with the lock. In silence, she waited, and in silence, she entered the apartment.

“Are you in pain?” He captured her shoulders in a gentle grip and turned her to face him. “Would you like to go to bed?”

At last, she smiled, albeit slightly tremulous. “Will you hold me until I fall asleep?”

He caressed her cheek, cradling her chin in his fingers. “It would be my greatest pleasure, Madam. I might fall asleep with you.”

“Both nights I was in the hospital, you stayed awake the entire time, didn’t you?” Her eyes were the warm color of milk chocolate. “I’m dying of thirst. Is there any Pellegrino?”

“The case we bought last week. You look a bit woozy.” With his arm around her waist, Christian guided her to the sofa. “Sit down. I’ll bring your drink.”

In all of the Special Editions, Mayfair instilled the quality of nurturing. For Christian, March had requested other programs, like sexual performance, to be dominant. He hoped he was performing properly as a caregiver. March flinched when she eased down on the couch. He winced in sympathy as she grimaced in pain. Feeling somewhat helpless, he turned to fetch the sparkling water.

Neither expected a call. The jangling of the landline startled them. Christian’s heart caught, thinking of Daniel, but he’d ring on the mobile. The nearest phone set was across the room on her desk. She gripped the sofa arm as if to rise, but he gestured for her to remain seated.

“I’ll answer.” Without waiting for a reply, he strode to the window and grabbed the phone.

“If it’s Paul, don’t let him push your buttons.” A troubled expression shadowed her eyes. “In fact, please hand me the phone.”

He arched his brows. “I won’t allow him to push any buttons. You’re too weak for the confrontation that always ensues with him.” Staring out the window at the misty rain, he said, “Christian here.”

A long silence stretched his already tense nerves. Why didn’t the rude bastard speak? “Are you there?” He prompted.

“Paul here.” He mocked Christian’s terse greeting and his accent. “Jolly good, old chap, put March on.”

“She doesn’t feel like talking at the moment. We’ve only just returned from the hospital.” He paced in front of the glass doors, narrowly controlling his dislike for the other man. “Could you ring back later in the afternoon?”

“Ring back later? Hell, no. I want to talk to her, ask how she is.”

“She’s doing nicely.” He picked up a pencil from her desk, twirling it through his fingers.

“Look, Christian, I want to talk to my wife.”

“Ex-wife.” He started when the pencil snapped in half.

“Christian,” March whispered urgently, extending her hand. “Give me the phone. I’ll talk to him before you two get into a verbal sparring match. That will do matters no good at all.”

Christian spoke aside. “I don’t want him to upset you.”

She shook her head, wriggling her fingers. “It’s okay. Really.”

“I am not happy with this.” Unwillingness and anger slowed his progress to the sofa, Paul babbling in the background. “Allow me to set him straight.”

Wide-eyed, she shook her head frantically. He plopped the phone onto her palm.

For heart-pounding seconds, their eyes locked, his defiant, hers wary. The shock and concern in her gaze stalled the angry words crowding his throat. He stared down at her, wishing she could read his thoughts. Her gaze slid to the blank TV.

“Hello, Paul. Only a few minutes ago. I’m a little sore but fine.”

Christian wandered to the kitchen for the Pellegrino, opened the green bottle, and poured the sparkling water into a tall glass. The last thing he wanted was to listen to the one-sided conversation between March and her ex, but the apartment was small and his hearing keen.

“Do not come over. As I said, I’m fine. I don’t need any help.”

He gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to grab the phone and tell the bastard where to go. Instead, like a good little robot, he served her drink. Irritated, confused by her relationship with a man she’d divorced, he strode to the door, slid back the glass, and escaped to the balcony. As soon as she rang off, he’d return.

Still, he heard her part of the conversation.

“Today is not the best day for you to meet him,” Weariness echoed in March's voice.

“That bloody well does it. The jerk doesn’t care she had surgery two days ago. His only damn concern is to be in control.” He whirled, opened the door, and marched to the sofa. “Tell the bastard, in no uncertain terms, to go to bloody hell!”

March’s jaw dropped. He knew she was shocked. She didn’t expect his programming to permit hot expletives or displays of anger, but he’d had more than enough of Paul Morgan.

Christian,” she whispered his name in amazement. “I can’t do that.”

“Won’t.”

“Christian, please.”

“Please?” Christian longed to tell the man to get a life and leave them alone. He deliberately mistook her plea, extending his hand, palm up. “I’d be delighted to do so, March.”

She paled, and suddenly he realized he, not her jerk ex-husband, had upset her. His anger died, leaving him marooned in strange territory.