Free Love For Sale by Linda Nightingale

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