appeared in the doorway of the exam room, and he froze solid. What she was wearing was simple, just a crisp white button-down shirt tucked into a pair of ultraslim blue jeans, but she had Christian Louboutin’s red-soled stillies on her feet and Prada hanging off her shoulder.
She was exactly his kind of private clientele, and not just because she was wearing about three grand’s worth of accessories. She was . . . indescribably beautiful, with deep brown hair and sapphire eyes and a face that was the sort of thing other women asked to be surgically altered to resemble.
T.W. slowly stood up, shoving his left hand deep into his pocket. “Belinda? Belinda Nalda?”
Unlike a lot of women of her class, which was clearly stratospheric, she didn’t waltz in like she owned the place. She took just one step past the doorway.
“Actually, it’s Bella.” Her voice made his eyes want to roll back into his head. Deep, husky . . . but kind.
“I, ah . . .” T.W. cleared his throat. “I’m Dr. Franklin.”
He extended his good hand and she took it. As they shook he knew he was staring, and not in a professional way, but he couldn’t help himself. He’d seen a lot of beautiful women in his day, but nothing like her. It was almost as if she were from another planet.
“Please . . . please come and have a seat.” He indicated the silk-covered club chair next to the desk. “We’ll get your history and—”
“I’m not the one being treated. My hell —husband is.” She took a deep breath and looked over her shoulder. “Darling?”
T.W. scrambled back and hit the wall so hard the framed watercolor next to him bounced. His first thought as he looked at what walked in was that maybe he should get closer to the phone so he could call security.
The man had a scarred face and serial-killer black eyes, and as he came in, he filled the entire room: He was big enough and broad enough to classify as a heavyweight boxer, or maybe two of them put together, but Christ, that was the least of your problems as he stared at you. He was dead inside. Absolutely without affect. Which made him capable of anything.
And T.W. could have sworn the temperature of the room actually went down as the man came to stand next to his wife.
The woman spoke calmly and quietly. “We’re here to see if his tattoos can be removed.”
T.W. swallowed and told himself to get a grip. Okay, maybe this thug was just your garden-variety punk-rock star. T.W.’s own taste in music ran more toward jazz, so there was no reason he’d recognize this guy in the leathers and the black turtleneck and the gauge in his ear, but it could explain things. Including why the wife was model gorgeous. Most singers had beautiful women, didn’t they?
Yeah . . . the only problem with that theory was the black stare. That was no manufactured, commercially viable, hard-ass front. There was real violence in there. True depravity.
“Doctor?” the woman said. “Is there going to be a problem?”
He swallowed again, wishing he hadn’t told Marcia to go. Then again, women and children and all that. Probably safer for her not to be here.
“Doctor?”
He just kept looking at the guy—who made no move other than breathing.
Hell, if the big bastard wanted to, he could have busted up the place twelve times over by now. Instead? He was just standing there.
And standing there.
And . . . standing there.
Eventually, T.W. cleared his throat and decided that if there was going to be trouble, it would have happened already. “No, there’s no problem. I’m going to sit down. Now.”
He planted it in the desk’s chair and bent to the side, pulling open a refrigerated drawer that had a variety of sparkling waters in it. “May I offer you anything to drink?”
When they both said no, he cracked open a Perrier with lemon and downed half of it like it was Scotch.
“Right.
She was exactly his kind of private clientele, and not just because she was wearing about three grand’s worth of accessories. She was . . . indescribably beautiful, with deep brown hair and sapphire eyes and a face that was the sort of thing other women asked to be surgically altered to resemble.
T.W. slowly stood up, shoving his left hand deep into his pocket. “Belinda? Belinda Nalda?”
Unlike a lot of women of her class, which was clearly stratospheric, she didn’t waltz in like she owned the place. She took just one step past the doorway.
“Actually, it’s Bella.” Her voice made his eyes want to roll back into his head. Deep, husky . . . but kind.
“I, ah . . .” T.W. cleared his throat. “I’m Dr. Franklin.”
He extended his good hand and she took it. As they shook he knew he was staring, and not in a professional way, but he couldn’t help himself. He’d seen a lot of beautiful women in his day, but nothing like her. It was almost as if she were from another planet.
“Please . . . please come and have a seat.” He indicated the silk-covered club chair next to the desk. “We’ll get your history and—”
“I’m not the one being treated. My hell —husband is.” She took a deep breath and looked over her shoulder. “Darling?”
T.W. scrambled back and hit the wall so hard the framed watercolor next to him bounced. His first thought as he looked at what walked in was that maybe he should get closer to the phone so he could call security.
The man had a scarred face and serial-killer black eyes, and as he came in, he filled the entire room: He was big enough and broad enough to classify as a heavyweight boxer, or maybe two of them put together, but Christ, that was the least of your problems as he stared at you. He was dead inside. Absolutely without affect. Which made him capable of anything.
And T.W. could have sworn the temperature of the room actually went down as the man came to stand next to his wife.
The woman spoke calmly and quietly. “We’re here to see if his tattoos can be removed.”
T.W. swallowed and told himself to get a grip. Okay, maybe this thug was just your garden-variety punk-rock star. T.W.’s own taste in music ran more toward jazz, so there was no reason he’d recognize this guy in the leathers and the black turtleneck and the gauge in his ear, but it could explain things. Including why the wife was model gorgeous. Most singers had beautiful women, didn’t they?
Yeah . . . the only problem with that theory was the black stare. That was no manufactured, commercially viable, hard-ass front. There was real violence in there. True depravity.
“Doctor?” the woman said. “Is there going to be a problem?”
He swallowed again, wishing he hadn’t told Marcia to go. Then again, women and children and all that. Probably safer for her not to be here.
“Doctor?”
He just kept looking at the guy—who made no move other than breathing.
Hell, if the big bastard wanted to, he could have busted up the place twelve times over by now. Instead? He was just standing there.
And standing there.
And . . . standing there.
Eventually, T.W. cleared his throat and decided that if there was going to be trouble, it would have happened already. “No, there’s no problem. I’m going to sit down. Now.”
He planted it in the desk’s chair and bent to the side, pulling open a refrigerated drawer that had a variety of sparkling waters in it. “May I offer you anything to drink?”
When they both said no, he cracked open a Perrier with lemon and downed half of it like it was Scotch.
“Right.
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