Father Mine: Zsadist and Bella's Story (11 page)

Z propped himself against the marble counter next to the sinks, rubbed his palm over his skull trim, and got dead serious.

Bella stopped what she was doing. As he stayed quiet, she backed up and sat down on the edge of the Jacuzzi to give him some space. She waited, hands clenching and releasing in her lap.

For some reason, as he sat there collecting his thoughts, she realized that they had done a lot in this bathroom. It was here that she’d found him throwing up after he’d aroused her for the very first time at that party. And then . . . after he’d rescued her from the
lessers,
he’d bathed her in this tub. And in the shower across the way she’d fed from him for the first time.

She thought of that rough period in their lives, her just out of her abduction, him struggling with his attraction to her. Glancing over to the right, she recalled finding him on the tile beneath an ice-cold spray, scrubbing at his wrists, believing himself unclean and unable to feed her.

He’d shown a lot of courage. Getting over what had been done to him enough to trust her had taken a lot of courage.

Bella’s eyes went back to him, and when she realized he was staring at his wrists, she said, “You’re going to try to get them removed, aren’t you.”

His mouth twitched into a half smile, the side distorted by the tail of his facial scar lifting. “You know me so well.”

“How will you get it done?” When he finished telling her, she nodded. “Excellent plan. And I’ll go with you.”

He looked up at her. “Good. Thank you. I don’t think I could do it without you.”

She stood up and went over to him. “You’re not going to have to worry about that.”

NINE

Dr. Thomas Wolcott Franklin III had the second-best office in the St. Francis Hospital complex.

When it came to quality administrative real estate, the pecking order was determined by your revenues, and as chief of dermatology, T.W. was behind only one other department head.

Of course, the fact that his department was such a good earner was because he’d “sold out,” as some of the academic stalwarts maintained. Under his leadership, dermatology not only handled lesions and cancers and burns in addition to chronic skin conditions such as psoriasis, eczema, and acne, but there was a whole subdivision that did only cosmetic procedures.

Face-lifts. Brow-lifts. Breast enhancements. Lipo. Botox. Restylane. A hundred other improvements. The health care model was private-practice service delivered in an academic setting, and wealthy clients loved the concept. The bulk of them came up from the Big Apple—at first making the trip for the anonymity of getting first-class treatment out of the tight-knit plastics community in Manhattan, but then, perversely, for the status. Getting “work” done in Caldwell was the chic thing to do, and, courtesy of the trend, only the chief of surgery, Manny Manello, had a better office view.

Well, Manello’s private bathroom also had marble in the shower, not just on the counters and walls, but really, who was counting.

T.W. liked his view. Liked his office. Loved his work.

Which was a good thing, as his days started at seven and ended at—he checked his watch—nearly seven.

Tonight, though, he should have already been gone by now. T.W. had a standing racquetball game every Monday night at seven p.m. at the Caldwell Country Club . . . so he was a little confused as to why he’d agreed to see a patient now. Somehow he’d said yes and had his secretary find a replacement for him on the courts, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember the whys or whos of it all.

He took his printed schedule out of the breast pocket of his white coat and shook his head. Right next to seven o’clock was the name
B. Nalla
and the words
laser cosmetics.
Man, he had no recollection how the appointment had been made or who it was or who’d given the referral . . . but nothing got onto that grid of hours without his permission.

So it must be someone important. Or the patient of someone important.

Clearly he was working too hard.

T.W. logged on to the electronic medical records system and ran a search, again, for B. Nalla. Closest match was Belinda Nalda. Typo? Could be. But his assistant had left at six, and it seemed rude to interrupt her while she was having dinner with her family with just a what-the-hell-is-this?

He stood up, checked his tie and buttoned his white coat, then picked up some work to review while he waited downstairs for B. Nalla or Nalda to show.

As he headed out of the department’s top-floor stretch of offices and treatment areas, he thought about the difference between up here and down in the private clinic. Night and day. Here the decor was done in hospital non-chic: low-napped dark carpet, cream walls, lots of plain cream doors. The prints that were hung had spare stainless-steel frames, and the plants were few and far between.

Downstairs? Top-tier spa land with concierge services delivered in the kind of luxury the very rich expected: the treatment rooms had HD flat-screen TVs, DVDs, couches, chairs, tiny Sub-Zero refrigerators with rare fruit juices, food that could be ordered from restaurants, and wireless Internet for laptops. The clinic even had a reciprocal agreement with Caldwell’s Stillwell Hotel, the five-star grande dame of lodging in all of upstate New York, so that patients could rest overnight after receiving care.

Over-the-top? Yes. And was there a surcharge? Absolutely. But the reality was, reimbursements from the federal government were down, insurers were denying medically necessary procedures left and right, and T.W. needed funds to fulfill his mission.

Catering to the rich was the way to do it.

Thing was, T.W. had two rules for his doctors and nurses. One, offer the best damn care on the planet with a compassionate hand. And two, never turn a patient away. Ever. 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.

“Marcia?” he called out, pronouncing the name
MAR-see-uh,
in the European fashion.

“’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.

“Your 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.

“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 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?”