Ginny Blue's Boyfriends Read Online Free Page A

by the southern California overindulgence in plastic surgery but seeing the effects on Carmen got to me way down deep. Wondering if I needed therapy, I called Dr. Dick’s number.
    His receptionist answered on the third ring. “Offices of Dr. Richard Malcolm,” she said smoothly.
    “Hi, it’s Ginny Bluebell,” I said. Hearing my own name is easier now. For years I’d wondered if my mother had saddled me with this moniker from some primal need, maybe fueled by the same urge animals feel when they’re about to eat their young. But then, her last name is also Bluebell, so she was stuck, too. But Virgin -ia? No wonder her hair went when she caught me in bed with Jackson.
    “Is he in?” I asked.
    “He’s with someone right now,” she said. Was her tone as smug as I imagined? She’s never liked me. Probably because I, like many of Dr. Dick’s screwed up patients, I’m sure, tend to lose myself in a fantasy while on his couch. He’s just so great to look at. Tall, with long legs and pressed, light-blue denim jeans, a white shirt rolled up the forearms, serious blue eyes, dark, slightly wavy hair ... he’s gorgeous. Movie-star gorgeous in fact, but, well ... normal. Or as normal as any therapist can truly be, I suppose. I’ve tried for months to reveal my deepest, darkest secrets, but in his office I confess that all I manage to do is devise truly convoluted plots to get him into bed with me. He’s the guy with whom I’d really love to indulge in wild, illicit sex, but he appears to have scruples. He doesn’t want to screw around with one of his clients/patients. I’ve thought of quitting him, but that wouldn’t guarantee I’d ever see him again. Though I secretly and lustily drool over him, he seems genuinely disinterested in me.
    A true conundrum. One that could send me straight to the Zoloft if I had any around, which I don’t, because Dr. Dick won’t prescribe it to someone as “frightfully well adjusted” as I am. Go figure.
    “Would you like to make an appointment?” the receptionist asked briskly.
    “Umm ... no, not now. I’ll call back later.”
    She didn’t even respond. Just hung up. A true bitch, but she gets high marks for style.
    The caterer—and restauranteur—I was supposed to be meeting was named Liam Engleston. I knew him by his reputation: wonderful food, but high maintenance to the point of ionospheric. I was really doing this as a favor to the crew members who regarded him as some kind of gastronomical deity, but it worried me slightly because I’m not good at stroking egos, and even worse at frozen-smile groveling. Plus, we have a minimal budget on the job for feeding the production crew. Craft Services provides Red Vines and candy bars, and those are available all day. Gourmet/schmourmet. Chances were the lunch and possibly breakfast would be too rich for our budget, but at least I could say I’d tried.
    I strode into the building that housed Engleston’s restaurant, my fatalistic attitude all over my face. The restaurant was in the heart of the business district which meant it catered to the Suits. Spying several Suits twirling through the revolving door and riding the escalators to the mezzanine/restaurant level, I did a quick mental check of my own outfit. Not good. The business people were all as buttoned down as Wall Street bankers in this part of town while I was dressed in my jeans and turtleneck. I rode the escalator to the restaurant with an underlying feeling of anxiety. It was a rather stark atmosphere of black leather booths and ultracool, high-tech lighting. Glassware sparkled over the bar. Nothing about the place read “cheap,” so when Liam Engleston appeared I was already ready to say thanks, but no thanks, and vamoose.
    He shook my hand and passed a quick look over my getup. His nostrils flared ever so slightly.
    “Ms. Bluebell,” he greeted me with a stiff English accent, offering a handshake as warm and welcoming as an Alaskan cod. His lips had a way of