Off the Rails by Isabelle Drake Page B

off of I-75. “Can you believe that? A woman who doesn’t know how to dance? I made sure Carol took dance lessons. She can swing, salsa, polka, clog—you name it, she can do it.”
    First wife . That meant there had to be at least two. Could there be more than two? Past wives was a topic a few steps out of her comfort zone. Madison swallowed hard. “What about Amelia? Can she dance?”
    Marcus laughed. “You are funny. I’m glad. I need someone to make me laugh.”
    “Really?” she asked, honestly interested. “Why?”
    “My clients. They drive me crazy sometimes. More than half of them don’t really need any work done and they have no sense of humor. They get indignant if I tease them. All they care about is what other people think.”
    “They sound pretty shallow.” After a pause, she asked, “What about the rest?”
    He ran one hand through his thick, glossy hair. “They need help. Burn victims, kids who’ve been chewed up by dogs. Trust me. There is nothing funny about what those people have been through.” His nervous laugh bounced around inside the car. “Sorry. That’s not a fun topic for a date.”
    But at least she knew that he wasn’t completely without morals and values.
    Curious thing, though, he didn’t look that old. No wrinkles. No loose skin around the neck. Lots of nice hair. No pudgy middle.
    Ohhhhhh…
    How many times would she have to go out with him before she could ask which parts of him were real and which were, um, adjusted? Did it matter? It wasn’t like she was waiting in line to be wife number…three?
    Four?
    He couldn’t be that old.
    “Do you have any other children? Besides Carol?”
    “Two boys.”
    Not the answer Madison was hoping for, which would have been no .
    “They’re both from my second wife. Don’t worry. They live with her.”
    Her.
    Mercifully, Marcus didn’t elaborate, and Madison, being smart enough to know when to say when, at least some of the time, kept her trap shut.
    The yacht club parking lot was jammed full of vehicles she and Tia always made fun of. Hummers, probably driven by macho guys who did MMA, X class Jaguars, driven by people who couldn’t afford Audis and enough SUVs to ruin the air quality of a Third World village. Marcus rolled his Caddy to a stop under a white awning and hopped out. She tumbled out, snuggled deeper into her coat, and took Marcus’ hand. Three valets grinned from under their blue caps, letting their gazes zigzag across her breasts then down her legs as she moved out of the car. Marcus greeted them all by name and didn’t seem to notice the discourteous way they leered at his date. Inside the club, things were pretty much the same. Cheerful personal greetings for the doctor, impolite stares for her. By the time they were seated, the meet and greet seemed to be over. Thank God.
    “You have dinner here a lot?” she asked after the waiter had delivered the menus and strolled off.
    “Is what you really want to know how often I bring dates here?” Marcus asked as another person showed up to fill their water glasses.
    That hadn’t really been what she wanted to know, but his question did clarify the staff stares. If she had known about the reception she was to receive, she would’ve been able to prepare a handout detailing their hook-up and a disclaimer that she was not trying to be the good—aka rich—doctor’s next wife. She only wanted him for one night.
    Hmm.
    That didn’t sound so great.
    But really, she didn’t care what they thought about her. They were complete strangers. The people she was worried about were all those people who had driven her crazy five years ago.
    Urgh.
    That was so wrong.
    Madison looked across the table at Daddy Marcus. Grandpa Marcus.
    Stupid Tia. “Do people make jokes about your bedside manner?”
    He lifted his eyebrows and offered her a sly smile. “On the first date? Only if I get lucky.”
    A musical score buzzed inside Madison’s head. The words? She couldn’t quite