Lori Avocato - Nip, Tuck, Dead

Neal winked at me, causing a whoosh of air to blow out of my mouth. Then he smiled and all was right with the world. “Okay, Jackie, let me know if he needs anything that’s not ordered.”

When he hung up, I leaned forward, grabbed him by the shoulders and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Thank you,” came out in a rather hoarse, sexy tone.

Guess Neal noticed, since he leaned closer, took my face in his hands and kissed me. Gently. Softly. And on the lips.

And here I thought the wine had given me an internal glow.

Yikes.

After several more kisses Neal eased back. “Nice,” he whispered.

All I could manage was a nod of agreement. How pathetic was I? Actually, this guy was perfect for me to take my mind off my case for a few moments and recharge my “female” batteries. Neal the Igniter. I chuckled.

“What? What’s so funny, Pauline?”

I sipped my wine. “Nothing. This is delicious.”

“Speaking of delicious, let me check on dinner.” He stood, planted a kiss on my cheek, and walked out the door.

Who knows how long I sat there, touching my cheek. I sure didn’t until I noticed the black, obviously expensive briefcase on the floor near the couch.

Don’t even think about it, Pauline.

I was on a job though.

Everything and everyone needed to be checked out.

Slowly I leaned over, to see it slightly open. A sign from above. I took my glass of wine, sipped, then started to put it down when I sipped it again-and then polished it off.

Accidentally, my foot reached out about three yards away and bumped into the briefcase.

“Oh, my.”

I eased closer to that side of the couch and looked down. Several papers spilled out onto the wooden floor. When I leaned down to put them back into the briefcase, my eyes widened.

“Oh…my…God.”

“Can I help you with something, Pauline?”

I swung around to see Neal standing by the doorway. My body had been flat against the couch as if I were reaching for-his briefcase. Shit.

“Oh. No. I’m fine.” I stood up and bent down to pick everything up. “I accidentally knocked this over. So sorry. I’m guessing it’s yours?” Who else’s? Pierre’s?

Neal didn’t exactly look angry with me or even suspicious. And truthfully he needn’t be.

The papers that I read were his notes about Dr. Cook-as if Neal were gathering evidence!

I knew there was a very good reason for this date other than lust…wait, that was a normal red-blooded American girl feeling.

“Here. I’ll get those. The clasp doesn’t always catch. You didn’t hurt yourself. Did you?” He took me by the shoulders before I could get past him toward the door.

“Uh-uh. I’m fine.” Especially in your arms, Doc.

“Good.” He quickly kissed my cheek, let go and bent to stuff the papers into the briefcase.

Phew. Phew. Phew.

“Wow. This looks like a buffet set for the entire town.” I glanced around the table Pierre and some maid Neal had called Marie had hustled about, setting dishes, silver trays and glass decanters of food, wine and delicacies, before us. Several times I had to remind myself not to act as if I were starving and to eat “ladylike” as Stella Sokol would say.

Neal chuckled. “I like to please my dates.”

Date? Hm. Nice ring to that one. The word sounded familiar and made me wonder if the cliché about riding a bike applied. God, I hoped so.

I took a bite of something that looked like a little pansy. I think it was, but it tasted great. I only hoped it wasn’t just a decoration, but Neal didn’t look at me oddly or yell that it was something poisonous, so I chewed on it then swallowed. “I’m so relieved about Goldie. You guys do great work at Highcliff. No wonder you have such a booming business.”

He sipped his wine and looked at me over the glass. “We do all right.”

“All right? Look at this place!” I waved my hands around the ornate, mostly mahogany, mostly gold-leaf-decorated room.

Neal laughed. “I inherited Forsyth Manor, Pauline.”

A house with a name. I loved that! “Oh. Well, I’m sure you and Doc Cook do pretty well. I’ve seen the results, and now Goldie will benefit too.”

“Glad he’s doing so well.” He leaned over and took one of the hundreds of forks from near his plate and started on his salad.

Not wanting to appear “country hick,” I did the same and decided I’d had enough of the flora arrangement for one night. “But,” I said, swallowing, “I have seen some women there who look as if they are…repeat customers.” I’d almost used Ian’s “frequent flier” term.

Neal paused his fork midair. “Yes, there are some.”

Oh boy, I needed him to expound on that, but suddenly the salad was more interesting to him than my conversation as I watched him poke around the arugala. Okay, the tiny grape tomatoes, fresh buffalo mozzarella and red peppers were delicious, but that wouldn’t get me anywhere.

I set my fork down for a minute. “I can’t imagine having so much work done. I mean, I think I’d get therapy before I allowed the ‘Michael Jackson’ syndrome to run my life.” I chuckled.

Neal ate his forkful and smiled. “People are strange sometimes, Pauline. Especially when it comes to appearance.”

“Oh, no doubt. But do you ever refuse to operate on someone?” Going for the gold, I thought. No time to waste.

Neal set his fork down too. “Odd dinner conversation.”

Damn! Did he suspect me of snooping? Did he think I was trying to get a freebie nose job? Or did he think I was plain nuts?

“Then again, with two medical folks, I guess it’s really expected.” He laughed.

Phew again.

“Yeah. I’ve heard conversations during surgery. You guys. I mean, sometimes they border on risqué!”

“We have to do something to keep our minds occupied.” He laughed and took his fork again.

While he ate, I said, “So, do you? Refuse some patients I mean?”

“Sure. Some of them become obsessed. Ever hear of BDD?”

“You mean that is a real disorder? I saw a show on it once on TV.”

Neal told me everything I already knew about BDD, some about what I didn’t know and then some about the practice. “So, sometimes I think of quitting when Dr. Cook gives in to those damn patients who need therapy more than plastic surgery.”

Neal’s eyes darkened. His hand shook as he set down his fork. Yikes. Not a good sign in a surgeon. But at least he was honest about not wanting to work with a crook. Well, he didn’t out and out call Dr. Cook that, but I knew that was what he meant.

Progress in Newport tonight!

Pierre came in with a tray of lobsters all stuffed with what I guessed was plenty more shellfish like clams, scallops and shrimp. The maid carrying a dish of something that smelled heavenly followed him. Yum. I could live like this, I told myself.

I glanced over to see Neal thanking the servants. It impressed me how he treated them so well and not in any condescending way. Neal was the catch of the day. I wondered why he wasn’t already caught, filleted, and married.

“Have you ever been married, Neal?” Okay, pressed for time, I was getting more brazen.

He looked up from his lobster. “Once. Long time ago. You?”

Eeks. That didn’t sound amicable. “Nope. Never. Well not yet.” I stuffed my mouth with stuffing.

He laughed. “Good for you. Wait for Mr. Jagger.”

Did he say Jagger?

“Excuse me?”

“I said Mr. Right. You know, your soul mate.”

“Oh, yeah. Soul…mate.” Jagger? Ha!

What the hell? I pushed that stupid thought from my head, took a slice of French bread, dipped it in the drawn butter and shoved it into my mouth despite a trillion calories dripping off the end. Jagger indeed. “Yeah, I’ll do that.”