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.
“Thanks,” T.W. said. “Hopefully the patient will be here soon and you can go.”
“So 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.
“I appreciate the offer, but just send the patient back and I’ll take care of everything.”
“Even the registering?”
He smiled. “I’m sure you want to get home to Phillippe.”
“Ah, 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.”
“I 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.
“You deserve it,” he said roughly, thinking for some reason about the number of nights his wife ate alone. “So please go home and celebrate.”
“I will, Doctor. Merci mille fois. ” Marcia bowed and went over to the receiving desk—which was really nothing more than an antique table with a phone hidden in the side drawer and a laptop you accessed by flipping open a mahogany panel. “I shall just sign out of the system and wait to welcome your patient.”
“Have a great night.”
As T.W. turned away and left her to her glow, he took his ruined hand back out of his pocket. He always hid it from her, part of the leftover from having been a teenager with the damn thing. It was so ridiculous. He was happily married and not even attracted to Marcia, so it shouldn’t have mattered at all. Scars, though, left wounds on the inside of you, and as with skin that didn’t heal right, you still felt the rough spots from time to time.
The three lasers in the clinic’s facility were used to treat spider veins in legs, port-wine-stain birthmarks, and red dermal imperfections, as well as provide resurfacing treatments for the face, and the removal of the guiding tattoo marks of cancer patients who’d received radiation.
B. Nalla might need any one of those things done—but if he were a betting man, he would go with cosmetic resurfacing. Just seemed to fit . . . after hours, in the downstairs clinic, with a mysterious name. No doubt another one of the very wealthy, with a paralytic need for confidentiality.
Still, you had to respect your cash cows.
Going into the second laser suite, which he preferred for no good reason, he took a seat behind the mahogany desk and logged on to the computer, reviewing the patients who were coming in the morning and then focusing on the dermatology fellows’ reports he’d brought with him.
As the minutes ticked by, he started to get annoyed at these rich people and their demands and their self-important view of their place in the world. Sure . . . some of them were fine, and all of them helped support his efforts, but man, sometimes he wanted to choke the entitlement right out of them—
A six-foot-tall woman
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.
“Thanks,” T.W. said. “Hopefully the patient will be here soon and you can go.”
“So 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.
“I appreciate the offer, but just send the patient back and I’ll take care of everything.”
“Even the registering?”
He smiled. “I’m sure you want to get home to Phillippe.”
“Ah, 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.”
“I 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.
“You deserve it,” he said roughly, thinking for some reason about the number of nights his wife ate alone. “So please go home and celebrate.”
“I will, Doctor. Merci mille fois. ” Marcia bowed and went over to the receiving desk—which was really nothing more than an antique table with a phone hidden in the side drawer and a laptop you accessed by flipping open a mahogany panel. “I shall just sign out of the system and wait to welcome your patient.”
“Have a great night.”
As T.W. turned away and left her to her glow, he took his ruined hand back out of his pocket. He always hid it from her, part of the leftover from having been a teenager with the damn thing. It was so ridiculous. He was happily married and not even attracted to Marcia, so it shouldn’t have mattered at all. Scars, though, left wounds on the inside of you, and as with skin that didn’t heal right, you still felt the rough spots from time to time.
The three lasers in the clinic’s facility were used to treat spider veins in legs, port-wine-stain birthmarks, and red dermal imperfections, as well as provide resurfacing treatments for the face, and the removal of the guiding tattoo marks of cancer patients who’d received radiation.
B. Nalla might need any one of those things done—but if he were a betting man, he would go with cosmetic resurfacing. Just seemed to fit . . . after hours, in the downstairs clinic, with a mysterious name. No doubt another one of the very wealthy, with a paralytic need for confidentiality.
Still, you had to respect your cash cows.
Going into the second laser suite, which he preferred for no good reason, he took a seat behind the mahogany desk and logged on to the computer, reviewing the patients who were coming in the morning and then focusing on the dermatology fellows’ reports he’d brought with him.
As the minutes ticked by, he started to get annoyed at these rich people and their demands and their self-important view of their place in the world. Sure . . . some of them were fine, and all of them helped support his efforts, but man, sometimes he wanted to choke the entitlement right out of them—
A six-foot-tall woman
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