Breakfast in Stilettos by Liz Kingswood Read Free Book Online Page B

titillation. I picked up the latest and sat down on the closest couch, which was chilly and made gaseous sounds whenever I moved.
    I was just getting into an article on sharks when Dr. Steiner’s inner-office door opened. A short balding man backed out of the room, nodding rather sadly. “Yes, of course. I’ll practice.” He closed the door very quietly, paused, then turned and mumbled to the receptionist as he ambled by, “Next week, Zach.”
    The receptionist—Zach—glanced up, giving a rerun of the absolument parfait smile. “Next week, Mr. Dobson.”
    As I watched Mr. Dobson leave, I could only wonder what sort of “practice” a sex therapist would prescribe. Nothing about Mr. Dobson seemed particularly sexy. In fact, he looked as though he had been denied once too often. And I wondered who might possibly participate in said “practice.”
    When no one else came out of the room, I went back to my shark article. It was another ten minutes before the inner sanctum opened again. As the door swung wide, a very tall woman filled the doorframe. She stood at least six feet and was very thin in a rich, emaciated sort of way. It was hard to tell how old she was—maybe forty or forty-five. She was dressed in a conservative black suit.
    Only her long, fuchsia-streaked, black hair seemed out of place. She wore it loose, which gave her a gothic mystique. The overall effect was a little disconcerting, as though Cher’s head had been grafted onto a young Ivanna Trump body.
    She didn’t call me in, just stood there, smiling warmly. That, at least, was encouraging. Zach was the one who spoke. “You can go in now.” As if I couldn’t figure that out for myself.
    As I walked toward her, I had the sense that she was sizing me up and disapproving of my height, weight and shoe/belt combination. I held out my hand, feeling a slight tingle as though I was passing it through a Star Trek force field. “Dr. Steiner. Thank you for taking the time to see me.”
    Handshakes say a lot about a person, or so I had once written in a Strange and Unusual article. Bone Crushers show insecurity. Limp Wrists are pessimistic (or recovering from hand surgery). The sheepish ones grab only your fingers.
    Dr. Steiner was a dominating Control Freak. There was nothing wishy-washy or faint-hearted about her handshake. She gripped my hand firmly and then turned her wrist over confidently so that my palm went belly-up.
    “Ms. Royce. Please come in.” Her voice had a cultured tone, with a velvety articulation that was slightly mesmerizing. She held on to my hand as she led me into the office, releasing it only when the door had closed. Her touch was eerie, lasting a little too long for business-like, but not long enough to really be called invasive. I wondered if I was being tested. I had a psychology professor in college who liked to stand inside your personal space, just to see how you’d behave. It always made me a bit seasick. The feeling with Dr. Steiner was the same, and I was glad to get a little distance.
    She gestured near a large picture window toward three over-stuffed black leather chairs that formed a triangle in the corner of her office. Rain blurred the naked branches of a large deciduous tree outside. None of the chairs appeared to be her official spot, and I guessed that this was another test. Which chair would I take—the one with the view of the tree, the one with its back to it, or the one from which one could either look or not look? I opted for the intermediate position and sat down to more gaseous leather. My favorite childhood story had been “Goldilocks.” Maybe the story should have been “ Goldilocks and the Three Chairs. ” And this was either my baby bear tactic of “This one is just right” or a symptom of an indecisive streak too deep to fathom.
    Dr. Steiner selected the chair next to the window. The hazy light gave her a shimmering hair halo and cast her face in shadow, making her seem even more mysterious. I