Julia’s throat tightened with both humor and insult. “Let me open the door.”
“Don’t bother.” Dorothy sat up and slipped off the table. “I can’t stand to smell myself, and I’m not going to trap you in the room with me.”
She flung the door open and hobbled into the rec room, her gown flapping open, exposing her bony back, butt, and legs. “Dorothy, wait. Let me tie—”
“Ah, forget it.” She waved Julia off as she passed Clara, who looked like she’d been on her way to the exam room. “If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ’em all.”
Clara’s what-the-hell expression made absurd humor bubble up inside Julia again. There was one thing she could say about this job—patient personalities made up for at least some of the monotony.
Dorothy entertained the room at large with a spectacular version of walking farts before Clara turned back to Julia with raised brows and wide eyes.
“Oh…well…” Clara stammered in a low voice. “This might be awkward. I was just coming to get you. Seems you have a visitor.”
Clara’s gaze turned pointedly toward a far corner of the room. Julia’s gaze followed and settled on a man standing in one empty corner alone. A man who absolutely did not belong. He was built strong and lean in a way that made his suit—probably Armani, if she knew him, and, unfortunately, she did—hang off every curve and plane perfectly. He was staring out a side window into a courtyard where two older women played a tame game of Ping-Pong, but he was grinning like a kid with a secret, which meant he’d just witnessed Dorothy’s vivid audiovisual presentation.
Of course he had. Only him witnessing just how far she’d fallen would add insult to injury.
“Ah, hell,” she muttered, caught between dread and fury. “What does he want?”
“That was not the response I expected,” Clara said quietly beside her. “I’ll take care of Dorothy and move the other patients out, but only if you promise details.”
The innuendo in Clara’s voice spoke of sexual details. Which, despite the man’s model looks, made Julia’s lip curl. “He’s a snake. That’s the only detail you need to know. And Mabel’s hand is still in paraffin—”
“I can take care of paraffin.” Clara’s dark eyes roamed up and down Drake’s long frame. “You take care of the sexy snake.”
The snake’s hands were tucked into the pockets of his jet-black suit pants, his blazer pushed off his hips, his gaze riveted to the docile game of Ping-Pong on the deck. His hair, as dark as his suit, was cut short and stylish, his face tan from rounds of golf or time on the slopes with clients.
Julia approached Drake Mitchell, but his attention held on the Ping-Pong players. One hand slid from his pocket and absently gestured toward the elderly pair outside. “Does the one in the lavender have an agent? With a little work, I could get her into the Huntsman World Senior Games. Imagine the sponsorships—Kimberly-Clark for Depends, GlaxoSmithKline for Poligrip—”
She huffed a sad laugh at his attempt to break the foot-thick slab of ice wedged between them. “You’d do anything for a buck, wouldn’t you?”
He cast a sidelong glance at her with mock seriousness. “Table tennis is as big in some countries as the NFL is here.”
She leaned into one hip and crossed her arms with a disgusted sigh. “What do you want?”
He turned toward her, head tilted, his smile fading. “I could see how working in a place like this would kill your sense of humor.” He pulled his hands from his pockets and lifted them in a gesture of dismay. “I almost didn’t come. Was sure the information I had on your new employment was wrong. What in the hell are you doing working here, Jules?”
She clenched her teeth to keep her temper from flaring. “Turns out the rich and famous don’t want people with scuff marks working on their team, regardless of the truth. At the moment, I don’t get to pick and choose my employment, and I still have rent and student loans to pay. Food to eat. You know, petty stuff no one thinks about unless it’s happening to them.”
“But here? Surely you could find—”
“Stop trying to talk about something you don’t understand.” She’d done her best to make peace with her situation and didn’t need him whipping up the anger she’d fought to let go. “I already told you I’m not going to sue you or Phillips. Why are you here?”
He rocked back on his heels and glanced down at his perfectly polished black shoes. “There are always a few bad apples in the bunch.”
“Your bunch always seems a little more rotten than others.”
“That’s because I always have the ripest fruit. Sometimes they turn bad faster.”
“God, you can spin anything. I have to get back to work. Just tell me what you want.”
His gaze sharpened the way it did when his brain was clicking on all twelve cylinders. “So, I have this client—”
“Stop.” She put up a hand. “Jesus, I can’t believe you’ve got the balls to bring this to me.” Disgusted, she turned away. “The answer is no.”
“Whoa, whoa…” He grabbed her bicep and gently pulled her to a stop. “Honey, I know I’m the last person you want to listen to right now—”
“You’re right,” she said, pulling from his touch. “So leave.”