Bluegrass Seduction (The Bluegrass Billionaire Trilogy Book 1) (3 page)

“Send Jervis the bill,” I added, knowing this would just deflate Jervis that much more. He would, of course, go to Father in complaint. And, of course, my father would write out a check and console the condescending son-of-a-bitch. Father might think he’d finally rid himself of a problem, but he was wrong… so, so wrong.

***

I wheeled my Porsche into the parking lot at eight o’clock sharp Monday morning. Jervis wouldn’t be in for another hour and I knew it would throw him for me to arrive first. I knew he’d want to cook up some sort of self-obliging ceremony… transferring the keys to the kingdom, in a manner of speaking.

Jeremy had come through. It was like walking into a different century. As a matter of fact, it was exactly like walking into the next century. Gone were the dark fabrics and cherry paneling. I entered a world of glass, silver, crystal, pale grays and gray-blues. This was far more my style, not the somnolent heaviness of traditional old Kentucky.

I stored my case in the lower drawer of the immense glass desk and opened my laptop. Jervis’ staff had been kind enough to set me up with passwords, templates for patient records and a list of my victims for the day.

Jeremy had thoughtfully installed a small kitchenette in a secreted closet with mirrored doors. I slid it open and snapped on the Keurig. There was a tap at the door and I turned to behold my new secretary, Patsy. I ran into her at the Paddock Club Wednesday night. Her skirt was minuscule, and she had legs like a two-year-old at Keeneland. I hired her on the spot.

“Patsy,” I acknowledged her and noted that she had dressed suitably. One might think she was a plant by my father were it not for the fact that he would have chosen some thick-ankled old maid who wore buttoned up blouses and knee-length suits. “I take it you noticed your desk just outside the waiting room?”

“Yes, Worth, that is, Dr. LaViere.” She giggled just enough to sound like a flirt and spun on her spiky heels to survey her new throne.

“Oh, Patsy,” I called after her. She turned, her legs parting slightly as she stood. I loved that. “Lunch.”

“Of course,” she answered. “Galt House or the Hilton?”

“You choose,” I offered, making sure the corner of my mouth lifted just right.

It did. She giggled again and disappeared.

Worth

T
he yellow light on my desk blinked, signaling there was a patient waiting for me. I opened the door to the waiting room and discovered a woman seated there. When I motioned her in, a waft of her perfume enveloped me as she passed. I was instantly hard.

“Mrs. Marcum?” I inquired and she nodded, smiling slyly. I resisted the urge to thrust out my hips as she looked me up and down, more down than up. “Won’t you have a seat? Wherever makes you comfortable.” I indicated the seating arrangement Jeremy had cunningly assembled. The furnishings were ultra-modern, and depending on the preference of the patients, they could sit upright or recline completely. Even if they chose to sit, the seating was low and a less inhibited woman could choose to let her knees open a bit to sit more comfortably. He had thought of everything and knew me so well. Amazing for a man who didn’t care for women, I mused.

“You’re the new one.” Her voice was husky and low, the kind you dreamed of hearing over the telephone.

“Dr. LaViere,” I introduced myself and sat down with my tablet to take notes.

“Do you have another name?” she prompted, her green eyes reflecting the glow from the lamp.

“Not yet,” I countered and smiled. “We’ll see how much progress you make.” My response was filled with innuendo and I knew she was already formulating her plan.

“How long do I get?” she purred and ran a hand through her hair.

“Our visit is forty minutes long, Mrs. Marcum.”

“Call me Stephanie.”

“Very well, Stephanie. I see by the forms you completed that you’re here to talk about some issues you’re having in your marriage?”

“Yes.” She bit her lower lip, looking down at her pink tipped fingers. I didn’t have to be a mind reader to know she was trying to decide how much to tell me without making herself look undesirable. She wanted to roast her husband but come out looking untouched.

I shifted in my seat, pulling one leg back and extending the other, which caused my knees to open so she could clearly see I was aroused. Her eyes flared as they met mine again and a pink tongue moistened her lips. I chuckled internally. Yeah, I had it. “So, how long have you been married?” I began the conversation and sat back to gather facts.

Her face fell somewhat as she remembered her purpose in coming. “Howard and I were married seven years ago,” she began. “We met at Churchill in the Stevens’ box seats. He’s considerably older than I am, you should know.”

“How much older?”

“Ten years,” she answered and then her mouth twisted. “Okay, five, but as you might have noticed, I age well,” she added, hope bright in her eyes.

I flipped to her personal information and saw she was almost forty. She was right. She had aged well, but then, most likely, there were a few wealthier plastic surgeons who could account for that. I looked at her bosom just long enough to make a guess and she smiled coyly, “Yes, I see you do.” She was satisfied that her game was working and this made her happy. I hoped Howard had deep pockets because this smoky number would be showing up for the long haul. I moved my knee open incrementally and she blushed with pleasure. I could even see the slightest glaze of perspiration above her upper lip as she licked them again and swallowed. The movement was not lost on me.

“Why don’t you tell me how I can help you?” I invited, the double entendre making her draw in her breath.

She chuckled in her husky voice. The sound was well practiced, I could tell. It was clear as to why Howard might be having some problems with her.

“Howard has some issues…” she began. “He isn’t able to, well, shall we say… please me in bed any longer?” She emphasized her need more for my benefit than for her own.

“Are you saying your husband is impotent?” I asked, keeping my tone professional.

“Flat as a punctured inner tube,” she popped back coarsely and for a moment, I felt sorry for the son-of-a-bitch.

“Mrs. Marcum, you do realize there are many new medications available for these issues and that your husband should seek the guidance of his personal physician or a qualified urologist, don’t you?”

She seemed disappointed that I wasn’t snapping at her bait. She tried another course. “Let’s just say you can’t fill up on a cocktail frank when you have an appetite for a bratwurst,” she offered. This turned my stomach a bit. I readily saw why Howard was having issues. I hated these kinds of bitches. They used emasculation to get what they wanted.

“Do you love your husband?” I asked her pointedly.

She took a few moments to consider this. “I’m used to him. He’s broken in, if you understand what I mean.”

“So you’re saying you’d like to remain married to him?” I framed it simply.

“Yes.”

“Have you considered taking a lover?” At this, her eyes opened slightly, a sign of arousal. She looked pointedly at me and frowned to see my erection had disappeared. I knew she was wondering where she’d lost me.

“Why… why…” she stuttered to answer.

“Have you?” I detested weakness. I didn’t give a shit whether she was screwing around. I just didn’t want her wasting my time by not being up front about it.

“Well…” she began, her fingers twisting together.

“You have, then?” I didn’t even wait for her confirmation but made notes on my tablet. This seemed to concern her, even alarm her.

“What are you writing?” she demanded, sitting upright.

“Just making notes, Mrs. Marcum. It’s quite normal,” I answered matter-of-factly. I knew she was discomfited. She wasn’t sure whether to defend herself or release her claws into me. I didn’t give her a chance to decide. “Mrs. Marcum, we’re going to end the session for today. I believe we should schedule a session for me to see Mr. Marcum next time, alone. Then, we’ll follow that with one for you both. This is really a couple’s counseling situation as there is nothing to be accomplished without Mr. Marcum’s input and cooperation. Good day,” I finished and stood, signaling an end to the conversation.

Her carefully molded face turned sour, and I glimpsed the hell old man Marcum must see every morning over his breakfast table. It was no wonder he had performance issues.

I found myself looking forward to lunch as I opened the door for Stephanie Marcum to make her exit. I noticed as she passed that her perfume no longer had any effect on me. In fact, quite the opposite. Interesting.

Worth

I
was beginning to feel more like a babysitter than a psychologist. Throughout my education and while interning, patients had generally fallen into a few categories: they were poor, their life was shitty or they were trying to overcome an addiction to their escapism drug of choice.

These patients, however, were completely normal, albeit eccentric, and they manufactured paltry neurosis based on boredom and the chic adornment of “being in therapy.” These were the spoiled wealthy — the least contributive to the socialization of the country. They created pretend lives with self-imposed drama as a means to avoid slitting their liposuctioned necks. It sickened me. It was the world I was born into. These were my people.

My next patient arrived and the blinking yellow light on my desk was beginning to give me a Pavlovian response of nausea. I opened the door and found a young woman of moderate height and build, mahogany-colored hair that hung like a shiny curtain to her waist and a peaches and cream complexion with a few subtle freckles on the tip of her nose. She stood with the grace of an athlete and said abruptly, “You’re not Jervis.”

“I’m not?” I challenged her with a mocking smile.

“Mother would have never chosen someone like you. He’s old and I suspect has a beard. A fuddy-duddy who would be bowled over by her beauty and ready to tell her anything she wanted to hear.”

“I suppose I should take that as flattery?” I asked.

“Take it however you like, but you’re not Jervis,” she muttered as she pushed past me into my consultation room. “So, where is the tactical seat?” She stood with her jean-clad legs spread in a defiant stance, and I was so overwhelmed with her self-assured, sardonic view of the world, I felt my heart actually beginning to race. She was like a two-year-old Thoroughbred. Slender and long-legged, her mane of hair emanating youthful good health. She was also restless, untrusting, and ready to bolt at any moment.

“Take whichever tactical seat you prefer,” I offered, extending my arm to sweep the room. She took mine. This made me smile, and I chose to outplay her and took the seat behind my desk, leaving the expanse of glass between us. This forced her to rotate in her chosen chair in order to see me, but she stared straight ahead, leaving me her profile to contemplate.

I picked up my tablet. “So, Miss Elizabeth Langford…” I began.

“No.”

“No?”

“Auggie.”

“Auggie,” I repeated, feeling as though we were playing some game.

“My name is Auggie, after my Aunt Augusta. Not Elizabeth, or Lizzie, or Betsy or Liz or any other perverted deviation you think you can use to get in my pants.”

My eyebrows rose at this. This game sounded familiar; very, very personally familiar. “Very well, Miss Elizabeth, Lizzie, Betsy, Liz, Augusta…” I mocked her.

“Stop it! Auggie or don’t call me by name.” She turned to look at me briefly and I could see coltish fire in her green eyes.
Jesus, but she turns me on!

“Auggie, it is. What brings you here today?”

“Mother didn’t leave any instructions?” she asked pertly. “Mother must be slipping. She never forgets details when it comes to managing my life. She may as well pin a note to my blouse like when I was in kindergarten.”

So, it was to be a smothering mother thing, but somehow I didn’t think so. I felt like she was playing with me.

“Why do you think you’re here?” I tried.

She lifted a shoulder. “Not really here for any reason. Caught my intended fiancé in a compromising position with someone else and refused his resulting proposal. Mother doesn’t know the truth but seems to think this means I’m disturbed.” She made air quotations around the word as she uttered it.

“Okay, well, is it possible he was having one last fling before committing to you?” I tried to mitigate the damage.

“If you call one last fling a muck jockey with a cock bigger than his,” she spat back and crossed one leg over the other.

I almost choked on the saliva she was creating in my mouth. “I see,” I finally managed. “Hmmm… and you don’t think he swings both ways, I take it?”

She looked at me straight on and asked in a sing-song voice typical for an eight-year-old girl who got kicked out of the cool kid’s club. “Would you settle for being half of both ways?”

I could see her point. God, but I wanted her. “It isn’t important what I think,” I gave the standard response.

“Oh, really? Well, if I don’t care and you don’t think, what the hell am I doing in this chair spending Mother’s carefully planted money?” She was defiance in raging glory.

“Our conversation is privileged,” I pointed out.

“Really? She didn’t pick Jervis by accident, I can tell you that.”

“I’m not Jervis,” I answered succinctly.

She scowled at me. “No, you’re not. So just who the hell are you, anyway?”

I couldn’t resist. “You must have wandered in here by accident. I’m a gynecologist, Dr. LaViere.”

Three precious seconds passed as my words sank in and she considered if what I said could possibly be true. Then, the glow of recognition, the dawning as she realized I was putting her on. “Screw you!” she spat, leapt to her feet and stalked out, slamming doors as she left.

It seemed the day wasn’t a total waste, after all. I was craving something and looked toward the closet bar, but bourbon wasn’t it. I was craving the colt who had just bolted.