The Man Plan (4 page)

He had work to do tonight. Then again, he always had work to do, and Ivy looked so hopeful. Maybe helping her for a couple of hours wouldn’t be so bad.

“Sure,” he said. “If I’m allowed to have dinner first. Have you eaten?”

She shook her head. “I keep meaning to take a break and run out to get something, but I just keep working instead.”

“Then let me treat you to dinner. How about Per Se? I know them there, and they can usually squeeze me in even on a crowded night.”

She bent to pick up a few of the clothes scattered across the carpet, then crossed to hang them up in the walk-in closet. “That sounds wonderful, but would you mind terribly if I asked for a rain check? I’ve been on the run since five this morning and I’m pooped.” She plucked at her shorts and T-shirt. “Plus, I’d have to shower and change and fix my hair. I’d rather stay casual tonight. You understand, don’t you?”

He did understand, actually. There were many times
he wished for just such an evening and the chance to stay casual.

“Okay,” he agreed. “Why don’t we order in something, then? How about Chinese or Italian? I know good places for both and they deliver.”

She tossed him a smile. “Now you’re talking. You call in our order; then I’ll point you toward a box to unpack while we wait for the food to arrive.”

James groaned in mock agony before pulling out his cell phone to dial.

*   *   *

After finishing off the last of her Szechuan beef in spicy ginger sauce, Ivy leaned back in her chair, replete and content.

She looked across the small table she and James had cleared earlier of packing paraphernalia and watched him finish his meal. His elegant fingers maneuvered the chopsticks with easy grace, his masculine jaw and the beautiful lines of his strong throat something her artist’s eye couldn’t help but admire.

Warmth settled low and spread through her belly, thighs, and in between—physical reactions that had nothing to do with the spiciness of her meal. Just watching him made her want. His simplest movements were dynamic, compelling, appealing.

When she’d first seen him—after she’d gotten over the initial shock—part of her had hoped the old feelings would be gone. The sensible side of her had wished she wouldn’t experience the rush of love for him that had consumed so many years of her life. That they would be friends and only friends.

But nothing had changed, at least not for her.

From the moment she’d touched him, she’d known—all the emotions, all the love, surging back like a turbulent sea rushing to shore. As she’d hugged him, pressing her body to his, she’d breathed him in, savoring the clean, male scent of his skin so uniquely his own.

And she’d clung, wanting never to let go again.

But he’d pulled away, reestablishing boundaries.

She skimmed her eyes over his urbane, classic beauty. His thick, close-cut golden hair and his brows that were two pale slashes across his patrician forehead. His nose that was straight and sized to suit his handsome face, while his masculine lips retained just enough softness to invite a woman’s kiss.

She wondered what he’d do if she leaned across the table and planted one on him. A big, hot, wet smooch that would rock them both all the way to their toes.

Knowing James, he would probably pat her on the head and tell her to find a nice boy her own age, exactly as he had all those years ago.

Only she didn’t want a boy her age, she wanted a man.

She wanted James.

And by God, I’m going to have him, no matter what it takes
.

She’d have to take it slowly though, she realized. She’d have to work hard in order to make him see her in a new light—a mature, desirable light.

Could she do it?

Of course I can,
she assured herself.

No dream was impossible if you wanted it badly enough. Isn’t that what had given her the courage to pursue a career as a painter despite the astronomical odds against success? Wasn’t that what had brought her to New York City to strike out on her own, even though chances were good she’d fall flat on her face?

Still, if she wasn’t daunted by the riskiness of her career choice, then why should she be daunted about the likelihood of winning James? All she needed was a plan of action and some good insider information.

But who was close enough to him to give her the inside skinny about his private life and habits—and any current girlfriend competition, of course?

In the next second, she knew exactly who.

She did a happy little dance inside at the thought.

Outwardly, she sipped her lukewarm China tea and smiled at James.

Suspecting nothing, he smiled back.

I
vy spent the next four days unpacking and arranging her belongings in her new apartment just the way she liked them. Only when she was satisfied with how everything looked, and only when she knew James would be busy at work, did she use the passkey he’d given her that first night and take the elevator to his top-floor penthouse. After all, on this particular occasion, it wasn’t James she was going to see.

She exited into a small, tastefully decorated foyer done in warm, inviting shades of green and blue. An elegant Persian rug lay atop an intricate parquet wood floor, the plush wool comfortably soft beneath her shoes as she moved toward the door. A large window to her right brought in a cheery dose of sunlight. The fine eighteenth-century rosewood table positioned before it added beauty and visual éclat. The effect was further enhanced by the tall porcelain vase centered on
its top, a lavish arrangement of fresh flowers spilling forth in a burst of color and fragrance.

Drawing a deep breath, she took a moment to savor the sweet scents of peony and lily of the valley before pressing her finger against the discreet brass door ringer.

A moment later, she heard muffled footsteps, then a no-nonsense voice coming through the intercom. “Yes? Who’s there?”

“It’s me. Ivy.” She smiled, aware she was being observed through the peephole.

“Ivy who?”

“Ivy Grayson. Don’t you remember me, Estella?”

After a brief silence, the door was pulled wide to reveal the ample figure of James’s housekeeper. Teeth gleaming pure white against her coffee-hued complexion, Estella Johnson raised an eyebrow. “Miss Ivy, is that you?”

Ivy grinned and cocked a jeans-clad hip. “In the flesh.”

“Well, dear Lord, child, I didn’t recognize you,” Estella declared, her melodic Mississippi accent still intact despite the many years she’d lived in the North. “Why, you’ve grown tall as an oak tree and twice as thin,” she clucked. “I can see God’s been busy raising you.”

The two women stood a moment, inspecting the changes time had wrought.

Estella was short and wide with lively brown eyes and a chin that didn’t tolerate sass of any kind; Ivy thought she looked wonderful. A critical eye might
have noted the extra lines on the older woman’s forehead, the additional gray hairs threaded among the dark, but to Ivy she looked just the same.

“Well,” the housekeeper demanded, “we just gonna stand here staring at each other, or are you goin’ to give me a good old hug?”

When she spread her arms wide, Ivy walked straight into them.

“Come in. Come in,” Estella said. “I was just folding up some laundry when I heard you at the door. Thought you were some infernal deliveryman come up here without security letting me know first. That boy they hired new down at the desk has you to thank. I was priming myself to deliver him a sermon, but seems he’s doing his job all right after all.”

Ivy followed Estella inside, where the interior of the penthouse was every bit as beautifully appointed as the entrance. Across more polished wood floors and antique rugs they made their way through the main hall and past James’s large study and the dining room on the right, then turned left into an expansive living room. A series of wide windows gave a spectacular view of the city.

Hugging the distant wall, a graceful stairway curved up to a balcony. Ivy knew the entire second story held James’s master bedroom suite. To the right on the first floor lay a glass-enclosed conservatory, and through a set of lovely French doors, a full-sized pool and sauna. On the opposite side, there was a well-stocked library, four guest rooms with connecting baths, a laundry, a butler’s pantry, and a state-of-the-art kitchen.

It was to this last room that Estella escorted Ivy.

“Sit down.” Estella motioned her toward a chair. “You want something to drink?” The housekeeper bustled over to the stainless-steel, commercial-sized refrigerator that hummed in near silence against one wall. “He’s got nearly everything you could want, including fresh-made iced tea.”

“Iced tea sounds lovely.”

Estella reached in for the pitcher, then went to retrieve a pair of glasses, filling them with ice. “So, when are you moving in? Mr. James said you’ve decided to take a place in the building.”

“I already did—moved in last week. . . .”

“Last week? Why, that man never breathed a word.”

“He’s probably been busy.”

Estella snorted. “He’s always busy, too busy if you ask me. He needs to slow down. Course, you can’t tell him that. Won’t listen to a word a body has to say.” She brought the glasses of iced tea to the table. “What’s this I hear about you dropping out of school?”

“Obviously, he told you about that.”

“He mentions things here and there. So, spill it.”

“What’s there to spill?” Ivy shrugged, taking a sip of her tea. “I want to paint, not study about other people doing it. Working here in the city will be the best classroom I could have.”

She decided not to mention her ultimate fear, that had she stayed in school, she might have given in to the subtle pressure of her peers and her parents to take the easy route. Attend graduate school, study for her master’s, earn a PhD in art history or museum curation.
How simple it would have been to delay her art career, stay in school, let time pass. And wake up one morning to find the years gone by and herself trapped inside the comfortable prison of academia.

She wanted to create her own art, put brush to canvas in the real world, not do so from inside the safe, sterile confines of an elite ivory tower. Whether she succeeded or failed here in the city, she told herself, at least she’d have the satisfaction of knowing she’d tried.

Estella shook a reproving finger. “Painting’s fine and all, but you should have stayed and finished up your education. Bet your parents were none too happy.”

Ivy rubbed a line of condensation off the glass. “They’ve come around.”

“Hmm, I’m sure they did once you didn’t give ’em any choice. I heard about that too.”

“I never realized what a big mouth James has.”

“It’s not big.
I’m
just nosy.” She chuckled. “You want somethin’ to eat with that?” She motioned toward Ivy’s glass.

“Oh no, thanks, I’m fine. Actually, I came up here to take a swim. James gave me a key so I could use the pool, but I thought I’d better ring the bell the first time instead of scaring you to death.”

“Appreciate that, child. You always did have a step as light as a cat. I remember how you used to slip in here like some quiet little ghost when the rest of your folks were out visiting in the main room. I’d look up and there you’d be.”

Ivy smiled, remembering. “I must have been a dreadful pest.”

“Why no, honey. You was always fine company and a good helper too. I’ll tell you true. I’ve had paid party help come in that couldn’t slice a cucumber as nice as you or arrange the trays prettier either. You always was a natural that way. Sure you don’t want to take up catering instead of painting?”

“I’m sure.” Ivy spun her glass in a slow circle. “Does James entertain a lot?”

“Oh, he has a mess of people over on occasion. Mostly business folks in for drinks and such. He usually asks me to do up canapés for those. Hires caterers for the rest, if they’re all to stay to supper. And don’t think I feel slighted lettin’ others cook, ’cause I don’t. No sense getting your back up if all it means is less work and bein’ able to go home at the regular time. A woman’s got her own family to look after too, you know.”

“How is your family, Estella?”

“Why, they’re wonderful. Blessed each and every one of them. My husband, Joe, has four more years and he can put in for retirement. Course, he may decide to stay on longer. Says he’d go crazy sitting around watching them talk shows all day.” She laughed. “As if he ever would. There’s just us and our youngest, Joleeta, at home these days, only one of my babies still in the nest. She’ll be finishing high school this next year. Mr. James said to tell her so long as she keeps her grades up, she’s to pick out any school she likes, any one in the country—private ones too—and he’ll foot the bill.”

Estella lifted the corner of her printed blouse and dabbed an eye. “He’s done the same for my other three young ones, paid for whatever the scholarships wouldn’t
cover. The boys are both at the University of Michigan. Darnell’s studying engineering and Clevert, well, he’s still trying to decide, but that’s okay; he’s only a sophomore. Then there’s Julia. Graduated top of her class from Tulane. She starts at Harvard Law this fall. She’s going to be a lawyer.”

“That’s where my sister Brie went. Tell Julia to give her a call to talk about the particulars.”

Estella’s eyes lit with pleasure. “I may just do that. Yeah, Mr. James, he’s a good man. Just wish he could find somebody special for himself. I keep telling him he needs a good woman and a bushel of babies to put a smile on his face. He tells me he’s happy just the way he is and to mind my own business. But, of course, I know better,” she added with a wink.

Realizing Estella had just given her the perfect conversational segue, Ivy strove to make her next question sound as casual as possible. “So, is he seeing anyone these days?”

“Hmmph.” The housekeeper stood, reached for the empty glasses. “You done, honey?”

Ivy nodded.

Estella crossed to the dishwasher, lowered the door. “Yeah, he’s seeing someone. If you ask me, she thinks a bit too much of herself, but I suppose she’s all right. Pretty, dark hair, dark eyes, lots of cleavage. You know how men can be, always being led around by their”—she paused, adjusting her vocabulary—“eyes.”

“Eyes, huh?” Ivy smirked.

“Hmm-hmm,” she hummed in a sweet singsong. “Eyes, child.”

“What’s her name?”

Dishes loaded, Estella closed the dishwasher door and turned, arms folded at her thick waist. “Parker Manning. Sells real estate, though from what I hear she gets most of her money from a nice fat trust fund. I can tell she wouldn’t mind having more, seeing how taken she is with all of Mr. James’s fine things every time she comes to visit. Appears she’d like to dig her nails in more permanent-like, if you ask me.”

Alarmed, Ivy straightened. “You mean marriage?”

“Mmm-hmm—she’d like it, anyway. Been divorced once, and she’s working hard to earn herself a new ring.”

“How long have they been together?”

“Oh, on about a year now, if I’m not mistaken.”

That long?
Ivy thought, her spirits lowering at the news. “What about James? How serious is he about her?”

“Couldn’t say. Men are nothing but a mixed-up puzzle at the best of times.” Estella narrowed her shrewd black gaze. “How come you’re so all-fired interested in Mr. James’s love life anyhow, Miss Ivy?”

Ivy blinked and glanced away. “Just curious. I’m living close by now and I . . . I care about James—always have. He’s my friend.”

“Sure, he’s your friend. You thinking you want to be something more than just his friend? Seems I recall you always was especially partial to him.”

Ivy lifted her chin, arched her back, and slipped on what she thought of as her “mature look.” “And what if I am? I’m twenty now, you know.”

Estella’s lips twitched but she didn’t laugh. “That old, huh?”

“Twenty-one come March.”

“He’s a might-bit older than you, honey, even if you are almost twenty-one.”

“What does that matter? Age doesn’t count where feelings are concerned.” Ivy caught Estella’s look. “At least it shouldn’t count. You think I’m wrong?”

Estella rubbed a finger over one cheek. “No. I think you’re young and in love. And don’t you never tell your mama this, but I think you might be just the thing he needs.”

Relieved, Ivy beamed. “I think so too. I only want to make him happy.”

“And yourself too, I expect?”

Ivy laughed. “It would be a nice fringe benefit.”

Estella joined in, chuckling. “Well, you have your work cut out for you, lamb. How you plannin’ to get started?”

Ivy pulled off her shirt to reveal the skimpy red bikini top that barely covered her firm young breasts. She struck a sultry pose. “I thought I might take advantage of the pool. What time is he expected home?”

*   *   *

James found Ivy in his pool, cutting knife-clean lines through the clear blue water. He set his briefcase on a lounge chair and turned to watch her swim.

He’d passed Estella at the front door. “Ivy’s here,” she’d chirped as she bade him good night, a mysterious gleam in her eyes. He’d wondered at the look and the cheery tune she was humming under her breath. She’d
worked for him for more than a dozen years and still there were times when the woman was a total enigma. He’d shaken his head as she closed the door behind her.

He walked across the earth-tone Italian tiles to the pool.

At the far end, Ivy made a neat flip and began to retrace her path. She slowed as she drew closer, gliding up to the edge, her skin beaded with water.

“Hi,” she said.

He gazed down. “Hi back. Having fun?”

“Yeah.” She blew at a pair of water droplets dangling from her lashes, flashed him a welcoming smile. “The water’s great, perfect for doing laps. Swimming here will probably ruin me for any other pool, especially public ones. How will I ever force myself to swim in one again?”

“If you’re really worried, I think there’s a Y over on West Sixty-third you can join.”

“No, thanks.” She laughed. “I’ll take the risk of being hopelessly spoiled.” She pushed off, glided into a shallow float, soundlessly treading water. “Why don’t you come in?” she invited.

He held his arms out at his sides, displaying his hand-tailored navy pinstripe suit, white cambric shirt, and matching tie. “I’m not dressed for swimming.”

“You’ve got trunks upstairs. Go put them on.”

“Can’t.” He shook his head. “I need to shower and change for dinner. I have a date tonight.”

A barely perceptible frown passed over Ivy’s pale brows. “A quick swim, then,” she coaxed. “It’ll relax you after a long day.”

He was tempted, the clear, translucent pool beckoning like a siren. Or perhaps it was the girl in the pool who beckoned. He liked being with Ivy. He’d known her so long he had nothing to hide, no expectations to meet, no one he had to be except himself. She was as sweet as they came. With her, he never had to wonder which she enjoyed more—being with him or his money.