“The night I came, wasn’t it? That hunk in the parking lot, the guy who put me in the taxi. What’s going on with him?”
Rudy ignored the question. “I can schedule the surgery for tomorrow,” he said.
“Fine, but I want you to do it,” Heather said. “You personally.”
“Of course,” Rudy said. He’d stay in the O.R. until they put her under, then he’d head for the back nine at Doral. Let one of the young hotshots do the knife work.
“What did you decide?” he asked her.
Heather stood up and stepped out of the slippers. Then she let the robe drop to the carpet. “You tell me,” she said.
Rudy’s mouth went dry at the sight of her.
“Well,” he said. “Let’s see.” The problem was, she didn’t need any surgery. Her figure, like her face, was sensational. Her tan breasts were firm and large, not the least bit droopy. Her tummy was tight and flat as an iron. There wasn’t an ounce of fat, a trace of a stretch mark, the slenderest serpentine shadow of a spider vein—not on her thighs, her legs, not anywhere. Nothing was out of proportion. Naked, Heather looked like an “after,” not a “before.”
Rudy was really going to have to scramble on this one. He put on his glasses and said, “Come over here, Miss Chappell, let me take a closer look.”
She walked over and, to his stupefaction, climbed up on the onyx desk, her bare feet squeaking on the slick black surface. Standing, she vamped a movie pose—one hand on her hip, the other fluffing her hair. As Rudy’s eyes traveled up those long legs, he nearly toppled over backwards in his chair. “The nose, obviously,” Heather said. “Yes,” said Rudy, thinking: She has a great straight nose. What the hell am I going to do?
“And the breasts,” Heather said, taking one in each hand and studying them. Like she was in the produce section, checking out the grapefruits.
Bravely Rudy asked, “Would you like them larger or smaller?”
Heather glared at him. “Bigger, of course! And brand-new nipples.”
Jesus, Rudy muttered under his breath. “Miss Chappell,” he said, “I wouldn’t advise new nipples. There could be serious complications and, really, it isn’t necessary.” Little pink rosebuds, that’s what her nipples looked like. Why, Rudy wondered, would she ever want new ones?
In a pouty voice, Heather said “all right, leave the nipples. Then she pivoted on the desktop and patted her right thigh. “I want two inches off here.”
“That much?” Rudy was sweating. He didn’t see it, plain and simple. Two inches of what?
“Stand up,” Heather told him. “Look here.”
He did, he looked hard. His chin was about three inches from her pubic bone. “Two inches,” Heather repeated, turning to show him the other thigh, “from both sides.”
“As you wish,” the doctor said. What the hell, he’d be on the golf course anyway. Let the whiz kids figure it out.
Heather dropped to her knees on the desk, so the two of them were nearly face to face. “And I want my eyelids done,” she said, pointing with a long cranberry fingernail, “and my neck, too. You said no scars, remember?”
“Don’t worry,” Rudy assured her.
“Good,” Heather said. “Anything else?”
“Not that I can see.”
“How about my butt?” She spun around on the desk, showing it to Rudy; looking over one shoulder, waiting for his professional opinion.
“Well,” said Rudy, running his fingers along the soft round curves.
“Hey,” said Heather, “easy there.” She squirmed around to face him. “Are you getting worked up?”
Rudy Graveline said, “Of course not.” But he was. He couldn’t figure it out, either; all the thousands of female bodies he got to see and feel. This was no ordinary lust, this was something fresh and wonderous. Maybe it was the way she bossed him around.
“I saw you in Fevers of the Heart,” Rudy said, idiotically. He had rented the cassette for a pool party. “You were quite good, especially the scene on the horse.”
“Sit down,” Heather told him, and he did. She was bare-assed on the desk, legs swinging mischievously on either side of him. He put a clammy hand on each knee. “Maybe now’s a good time to talk about money,” she said.