It was a pitch too good to turn down: Dr. Fredric Brandt's publicist was on the line, calling with the welcome news that the self-described ``dermatologist to the stars'' would be in town over the weekend, and would love to ``dish a thing or two'' about his famous clients - Madonna among them.

Madonna! My reporter's mind raced with questions: What are her pores really like? Does she secretly suffer from an oily T zone, or wrestle with combination skin? Is she good about sunblock, even when it's cloudy? Does she have cellular damage, or hyperpigmentation? Is there morning puffiness?

Eager to break what could be an international story, I prepared thoroughly for the interview - exfoliating, toning, moisturizing - and then headed over to Sephora in the Chestnut Hill Mall.

And there he was, the man himself, a study in Gucci, an oversized Bulgari watch on one wrist, a gold-beaded bracelet on the other, his blond hair combed just so.

He was holding court in the corner of the cosmetics store. His 54-year-old face was radiant, moist and line-free, a perfection achieved through frequent Botox injections - he shoots himself up - and endless applications of free-radicals-fighting creams, firming gels and grapefruit-and-green-tea-enriched formulas.

When I happened along, Dr. Brandt was in midconsultation with a woman who, it emerged, suffered from ``early rosacea,'' a condition that fortunately could be treated by one of Dr. Brandt's many skin-care products.

A few minutes later, a second woman took the hot seat (she'd been waiting in line for an hour, and had paid $35, applicable toward product, for the privilege).

``My goal is to clean your pores,'' Dr. Brandt told her.

Meanwhile, I was starting to get nervous. Earlier that day the publicist had suggested I get a consultation from Dr. Brandt for my story - and I'd stupidly agreed.

He turned his professional gaze on my skin.

``Do you wear sunblock?''

I knew he was on to me, and yet I couldn't help myself. I was back in the dental chair, claiming, against all evidence, to floss.

``Yes,'' I heard myself saying, ``even in the winter.''

He ignored my answer and continued his diagnosis.

``We need to do something about the irritation,'' he said - referring to my skin, not my worsening mood - ``and the darkness under your eyes.''

I was ready to bolt from the chair and flee, but then I remembered that I was there in a professional capacity, to learn about Madonna, not my own dermatological issues, so I popped the question: ``What's Madonna's skin like?''

``I can't go into personal details,'' he said, perhaps mindful that despite his publicist's promise that he'd ``dish,'' new rules prohibiting disclosure of patient information were about to go into effect, and violators could face civil and criminal penalties, including fines up to $250,000 and 10 years in prison.

Even so, I figured it was worth asking again. After all, you've got to figure that a doctor with his own PR firm might risk some pesky federal penalties if it meant getting a good story in print.

``Can you tell me anything?'' I asked.

I thought he was going to say no, but then - stop the presses - he let something slip:

Madonna uses his ``lineless gel,'' an anti-aging formula that contains green tea, grapeseed extract and natural botanicals, and costs $95 for 45 milliliters.

I snapped my notebook shut. I had my story.