Honey Read Online Free

through the crackle of static. “Ms. Gladwell, there’s a guy—gentleman—here to see you.”
    So she wasn’t to have any reprieve after all. Honey stuffed a fist—the fist of her “good hand”—into her mouth to muffle any sobbing.
    â€œMs. Gladwell?”
    Deep breaths, take deep breaths … What would Audrey do in such circumstances? Mix martinis? Pop on a pillbox hat? Flutter her doe-like eyes and explain, albeit apologetically, that this simply wasn’t a convenient time?
    Only Audrey would never find herself in such circumstances, not on-screen or off. Not even her supposedly Svengali-like first husband, Mel Ferrer, had gotten the better of her. Being the biddable wife had merely been another part to be played, Honey was convinced of it. Even as Holly Golightly, one of her many iconic screen roles, she managed to convey the sense that she was the mistress of her destiny, a gamine-like goddess having a marvelous time making fools of all the mortal men.
    Honey dropped her hand and found her voice. “Yes, yes I’m listening. If it’s Drew … Mr. Winterthur, please tell—ask—him if he’ll please be so good as to come back another time. I’m not feeling terribly well at the moment and—”
    â€œIt’s not Mr. Winterthur, it’s … He says he’s your doctor.”
    *
    â€œAre you stalking me, Doctor … ?” Ms. Gladwell asked him, her one slender arm draped along the doorframe. The other arm was in the soft cast and sling that he’d prescribed.
    â€œSandler,” Marc supplied, more miffed than he cared to admit.
    Had he really just risked his professional reputation and possibly his medical license for someone who couldn’t be bothered to take note of his name? Of all the foolhardy and self-sabotaging things he’d done in his thirty-three years, trailing Honey Gladwell home from the hospital ER might well top the list.
    Her good eye flashed, whether with humor or annoyance he couldn’t yet say. “Well, Doctor Sandler , this certainly is a surprise.”
    â€œThink of it as me resurrecting the time-honored tradition of the house call.” He looked past her and into the apartment, preparing for the possibility that the bastard who’d battered her might have returned, literally, to the scene of the crime. “Can I come in?”
    She shot a nervous look over her shoulder before turning back to him. “I’m not really in a position to receive guests.”
    â€œI’m not a guest. I’m your doctor. I only need five minutes, ten tops. C’mon, what do you have to lose—unless, of course, you’re afraid to let me in?”
    The dare worked like a charm. “Don’t be absurd,” she snapped, backing up to make room for him to enter.
    Not giving her time for second thoughts, Marc planted one Skechers on the other side of the threshold. Inadvertently he brushed against her, catching a whiff of shampoo and shower gel, all overlaid with what was likely some ungodly expensive perfume.
    The apartment was almost exactly as he envisioned it would be, down to the sliding-glass door opening onto a communal, wrap-around balcony, the partial park view, and retro-inspired furniture that was altogether too stylized and sleek to be comfortable. There was, however, one glaring detail that had been missing from his mental picture: it was a wreck. An overturned lamp lay sprawled across the Berber wall-to-wall. A half-open door showed a mussed bed and clothes spread over it and the carpet. The empty shelves and shattered glass suggested that Ms. Gladwell must have made a doomed but spirited attempt to fight back—good for her.
    â€œMaid’s day off?” he quipped, turning back to her.
    She lifted her swollen chin. “The politically correct term is housekeeper, and as a matter of fact it is. She only comes every other Tuesday.”
    Framed