Father Mine by J. R. Ward

Especially the burn victims.
    No matter how expensive or how long the course of treatment for a burn was, he never said no. Especially to the children.
    If he was seen as a sellout to commercial demand? Fine. No problem. He didn’t make a big deal about what he did on the free-care side of things, and if his colleagues in other cities wanted to portray him as a money-grubber, he’d take the hit.
    When he got to the elevators, he reached out with his left hand, the one that was scarred, the one that was missing a pinkie and had mottled skin, and pressed the button for down.
    He was going to do whatever he had to to make sure folks got the help they needed. Someone had done it for him, and it had made all the difference in his life.
    Down on the first floor he hung a right and walked along a stretch of corridor until he came to the mahogany-paneled entrance of the cosmetics clinic. In discreet lettering that was frosted into the glass were his name and the names of seven of his colleagues. There was no mention of what kind of medicine was practiced inside.
    Patients had told him they loved the exclusive, members-only-club vibe.
    Using a pass card, he let himself in. The reception room was dim, and not because the lighting had been turned off after main business hours were through: Bright lights were not becoming on people of a certain age, either pre- or postoperatively, and besides, the calming, soothing atmosphere was part of the spa environment they were trying to create. The floor was tiled in soft sandstone, the walls were a comforting deep red, and a fountain made from cream and white and tan rocks twinkled in the center of the area.
    â€œMarcia?” he called out, pronouncing the name MAR-see-uh, in the European fashion.
    â€œâ€™Allo, Dr. Franklin,” came a smooth voice from the back where the office was.
    When Marcia came around the corner, T.W. put his left hand in his pocket. As usual, she looked right out of Vogue with her coiffed black hair and her tailored black suit.
    â€œYour patient is not here yet,” she said with a serene smile. “But I have the second lasering bay set up for you.”
    Marcia was a perfectly touched up forty-year-old who was married to one of the plastics guys and was, as far as T.W. knew, the only woman on the planet except for Ava Gardner who could wear bloodred lipstick and still look classy. Her wardrobe was by Chanel, and she’d been hired and was paid well to be a walking testimonial to the outstanding work performed by the staff.
    And the fact that she had an aristocratic French accent was a bonus. Particularly with the nouveau riche types.
    â€œThanks,” T.W. said. “Hopefully the patient will be here soon and you can go.”
    â€œSo you do not need an assistant, no?”
    This was the other great thing about Marcia: She was not just decorative; she was useful, a fully trained nurse who was always happy to assist.
    â€œI appreciate the offer, but just send the patient back and I’ll take care of everything.”
    â€œEven the registering?”
    He smiled. “I’m sure you want to get home to Phillippe.”
    â€œAh, oui . It is our anniversary.”
    He winked at her. “Heard something about that.”
    Her cheeks reddened a little, which was one of the charming things about her. She might be classy but she was real, too. “My husband, he says I am to meet him at the front door. He says he has a surprise for his wife.”
    â€œI know what it is. You’re going to love it.” But what woman wouldn’t like a pair of flashers from Harry Winston?
    Marcia brought her hand up to her mouth, hiding her smile and her sudden flusters. “He is too good to me.”
    T.W. felt a momentary pang, wondering when the last time was that he’d bought something frivolous and fancy for his wife. It had been . . . well, he’d gotten her a Volvo last year.
    Wow.
    â€œYou deserve it,” he said