The Man Plan (6 page)

“And poverty,” she added, crossing her arms defensively over her breasts.

“Yes,” he agreed. “And poverty. But looking at what you’ve accomplished here, what you are accomplishing here, I think you have that extra something special. You’ve come a long way with your art. If you can do this at twenty, I can’t wait to see what you’ll be creating a decade from now and beyond. Your paintings are beautiful. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Shock warred with delight as his words sank in. Of course she shouldn’t care what he thought, shouldn’t let his opinion—good or bad—affect her self-esteem, her determination and belief in her own talent. Yet she couldn’t contain the prideful flush of joy that washed through her at his approval.

She wanted to toss her arms around his shoulders, wanted to pull his head down to hers and plant a long, exuberant kiss on his lips. But before she could do either, James moved away.

“I have a number of good contacts,” he continued. “Why don’t I make a couple calls, put a few words in the right ears? Even with the limited number of finished pieces you have, I think you could sell—”

“No.”

He raised an eyebrow at her clipped refusal.

“It’s lovely of you to offer,” she hurried to explain, “but I wouldn’t feel right having you help me.”

“Why not? Part of success is luck, and if I can help you get lucky by putting you in touch with the right people, then why turn it down?”

“Because I’d never know,” she said in a soft, clear voice.

He frowned, crossed his arms. “Know what?”

“Whether I succeeded on my own or simply because of you. Assuming one of your art contacts did offer me a showing, I’d always wonder why. Does the gallery owner really like my paintings? Or is he just doing a favor for a friend? You’re a wealthy, powerful man, James, and wealthy, powerful men wield a great deal of influence even in the narrow confines of the art world.”

He waved away her words. “My influence might get you into a gallery, yes, but it won’t sell your paintings. Succeed or fail, it’ll be on your own.”

It was her turn to raise an eyebrow. “Are you sure? You’ve said it yourself—the right whispers in the right ears can make all the difference.”

“What I’m offering isn’t a cheat,” he shot back, “only a leg up, one you deserve. I meant it about your art. It’s wonderful. Believe me, any success you achieve will be honestly earned.”

“And knowing you think so is enough for me.” She laid a hand on his shoulder. “Please, James, don’t imagine I’m ungrateful. I know you’re only trying to make things easier for me and I thank you. But sometimes I think things are already a little too easy for me. I need to do this on my own—”

He opened his mouth.

She cut him off before he could speak. “
All
on my own. Promise you won’t interfere.”

“I think you’re letting foolish pride stand in the way of a good opportunity. But fine. If you don’t want my help, I won’t give it. With this stubborn streak, I’m surprised you didn’t move into that rat-infested dive in Bushwick like you’d planned, so you could starve like a proper little artist.”

She cocked her head, surprised. “What do you know about that?”

It took him a moment to respond. “Your mother mentioned something or other about it. You know she calls me from time to time.”

“What else did she happen to mention?”

She could almost see the wheels spinning in his head before his face cleared of expression. “Nothing of any significance.”

For a moment she considered pursuing the topic, then decided there was little purpose. Her mother had told him her original plans. So what? Surely there
couldn’t be anything more to it than that. What else could there be? She decided it best to change the entire subject.

He obviously decided the same thing. “So when’s dinner?”

“Anytime.” She smiled. “I just have to toss the salad and put the spaghetti noodles on to boil and we’ll be ready to eat.”

“Lead on, then, Macduff. I’m starved.”

*   *   *

The end credits of
To Catch a Thief
rolled across the television screen, the elegant, unforgettable faces of Grace Kelly and Cary Grant consigned to memory once more. With a quick touch to the remote, Ivy stopped the movie.

From her spot on the large L-shaped sofa, she leaned up on a single elbow and looked over to ask James if he had the energy to watch another film. Seeing him was all the answer she needed.

He was asleep.

Hair ruffled, limbs loosened in a relaxed sprawl across the plush sofa cushions and flowered throw pillows, he was breathing slowly and rhythmically, which indicated a deep sleep. His skin radiated warmth, bathed in a buttery glow of lamplight. His eyelashes lay straight against cheeks grown rough with stubble, pale as wheat chaff after a harvest cutting.

Ivy silently climbed to her sock-covered feet and edged closer.

Jet lag,
she mused.

Even with the convenience and privacy of his own
jet aircraft, transatlantic travel took its toll. Hours shuffled back and forth as casually as playing cards while he winged from one time zone to another, then back again. And knowing James, he hadn’t been easy on himself since his return home, running on too little sleep and too much caffeine. A good meal, pleasant conversation, and simple entertainment had done their work, lulling him into the slumber his body so obviously needed.

He shifted, his shirt bowing open at the neck, giving her a peek at the mat of golden curls covering his chest. Did that hair feel as silky as it looked? Was it as soft as the hair on his head?

Without pausing to think, she dropped to her knees next to him and stretched out a single finger. Close, closer she moved until a solitary curl wound around the tip.

Her lips parted on a rapt sigh.

Soft yet wiry, the hair clung with a tensile strength. Heat rose from his skin, luring her nearer. How easy it would be to rest her palm on that broad plain of flesh, to thread her fingers into the short curls and stroke the skin beneath. How simple to touch her lips to the spot. How much better to touch them to his mouth, parted invitingly in sleep.

She flushed at the thought, desire making her pulse points throb. She curled her hand into a fist against her chest.

Do I dare?

She studied him, time slowing to the texture of winter molasses.

He was a heavy sleeper, hard to rouse once he became tangled in the world of dreams. Everyone in the family knew it. Hadn’t they all laughed on countless occasions, recounting tales of the summer he’d vacationed with them in Maine? How her father had finally resorted one morning to using a foghorn to blast James awake.

If she kissed him, chances were good he’d never know. And oh, how she longed to kiss him.

But what if he woke to find her there . . . ? Hmm, what if he did?

Half-hoped-for imaginings swirled in her brain, and she couldn’t resist her mind’s urgings. Lowering her lips to his, she rested them there, delicately balanced, scarcely touching. Firm, smooth, the shape of his mouth matched hers exactly, as if it had been designed for that express purpose.

He didn’t awaken.

Emboldened, she let her eyes softly close as she increased the pressure, turning the barely there touch into a real kiss. She savored the sensation, the feeling of skin to skin, heat to heat. He tasted like honey, or some exotic variety of fruit, lush and forbidden. She softly drew a breath, her senses swimming as the scent of him flooded through her. His essence swam inside her head, on her mouth, in her nose, down her throat, better than anything she’d ever tasted.

Suddenly he shifted, his head rolling against the pillow. A groan soughed from deep in his throat.

She broke the kiss and began to sit up, but before she could move away, he clamped a hand around the back of her head and crushed her lips to his.

She squeaked as he took possession of her mouth. His turn now, he kissed her the way a man would, hungry and demanding, feeding upon her with a kind of dark intensity that permitted no resistance, expected only surrender.

Heat washed through her like a roaring blast furnace. Blood raged like a river through her veins, clouding her brain, shredding every inch of her control. She whimpered and gave herself to him completely. Let him ravage her mouth, drink in her unknowing cries, tangle his tongue with hers in a slick, velvety duel. Draped over him, she shuddered, lost in a sea of bliss.

Abruptly, he broke their kiss, his chest rising and falling in a sharp inhale, exhale. His hand fell away, body growing slack, eyes tightly closed.

Stunned, Ivy slumped onto her haunches.

Is he asleep?
Had he been asleep the entire time? Impossible, and yet there he lay, slumbering on as if the entire episode had never occurred. She might doubt it herself except for the evidence, her lips bruised and swollen, well kissed. She touched a pair of trembling fingers to them.

Shell-shocked, she stumbled to her feet and nearly tripped over the coffee table. Body aching with unanswered desire, she wondered who it was he’d imagined he was kissing. Dear Lord, if he’d truly been asleep, it could have been any woman. Appalled by the possibilities, she turned and fled to her bedroom.

*   *   *

James woke groggy and disoriented, the light from a single lamp shining in his face. He squinted against the
glare and sat up, taking a moment to realize where he was.

On Ivy’s couch. In Ivy’s apartment.

He blinked and scrubbed a hand over his face.
Whew,
he’d really dropped off. The last thing he remembered was watching Cary Grant kiss Grace Kelly while fireworks exploded behind them. Then he’d been, as the saying went, out for the count.

Ivy wasn’t there, and except for the dim lamplight, the apartment was dark. Obviously, she’d gone to bed. He couldn’t blame her for not waiting up.

What time was it anyway? he wondered.

A quick check of his watch showed him it was late—or really early, depending upon your way of thinking.

It was 3:42 a.m. Way past time to go home.

He raised a hand to cover a yawn.

It wasn’t like him to be so rude, falling asleep on his hostess’s sofa in the middle of the evening’s entertainment.

But Ivy wouldn’t hold it against him. That was the great thing about her. She was a comfortable person to be around, family in a way his own family had never been. If he’d had the bad manners to fall asleep on his mother’s sofa, he was sure she would have given him a hard rap on the head.

And how about that dream?

It sure had been a doozy, so vivid and clear it had almost seemed real. He remembered the woman, her sweet scent, her vibrant touch. The way she’d bent across him, her lovely, gentle mouth pressed to his with delicate pressure. She’d made him yearn, carnal need
raging to life inside him, her whispering kisses not nearly enough to satisfy. In the dream, he remembered reaching up, pulling her closer to take more. And he had, exploring the silken depths of her mouth with eager thoroughness. She’d kissed him back, giving herself to him utterly.

The sound and taste and touch of her had burrowed into his soul.

Ivy, he realized suddenly.

The woman had been Ivy.

Ivy?

Alarmed, he glanced down the darkened hallway that led to her bedroom as if she could hear his shameful thoughts. He shook his head, mortified.

He scraped a hand through his hair.
Jesus, what’s wrong with me lately?

As if it wasn’t bad enough that he was noticing the way she filled out a blouse and a pair of jeans these days, now he was having erotic dreams about her.

What was next?

Nothing,
he assured himself harshly.
Nothing is next.

He had to get out of here.

He sprang to his feet, and that’s when he noticed it. The single golden hair stuck to his shirt. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have thought twice about it since his hair was blond. But as he plucked the strand off his clothing, he noticed the length.

It was long.

Ivy long.

H
er cell phone rang, jolting Ivy from a sound sleep. She fumbled for it on her nightstand. “’Lo.”

“Oops. Did I wake you up?”

Ivy slumped against the sheets as she recognized her sister Madelyn’s voice on the other end of the line. She let her eyes slide shut again. “Umm. What time is it?”

“Eight fifteen. Sorry, but it’s been so long since I’ve slept past six that I’ve forgotten what it feels like. If the twins aren’t up by sunrise, there’s something wrong.”

Slowly waking up, Ivy scootched herself up against her pillow. “And how are my little nieces?”

“Little terrors, you mean. They made a mess of breakfast this morning. I turn my back for a second and there’s Cream of Wheat and mashed banana everywhere—all over them, all over the walls. I gave Zack bath duty while I stayed to clean up the kitchen. He’s got them splashing in the tub right now.”

Ivy couldn’t keep from chuckling.

“Hey, watch it,” Madelyn warned. “Just wait until you have a couple of your own. We’ll see who’s laughing then.”

Ivy just laughed harder.

Madelyn loudly cleared her throat. “If you can contain yourself long enough to listen, I called to ask if you’d like to have lunch at Daniel
on Tuesday. They had a last-minute cancelation, and I managed to snag a reservation. As Weston-Drake’s newest creative director, I figure I’m entitled to a special meal every now and again.”

Ivy sat up. “You got the job?”

Satisfaction rang in Madelyn’s voice. “I got the job. My promotion starts effective immediately, and the best part is they’re going to let me telecommute two days a week so I can be here at home with the girls.”

“That’s fantastic, Malynn. Congratulations.”

“Zack’s really happy for me, even if it is killing him that he lost our bet. You know the one we made years ago about who’d step up to the big chair first?”

Ivy did know. Madelyn and Zack had been business rivals working for the same advertising firm when they’d fallen in love. Despite their undeniably successful marriage, their competitive streaks remained firmly intact, even with each other.

“So what’d you win?”

“A bottle of hideously expensive French champagne,” Madelyn crowed. “Since I switched firms, seems the grass turned greener on my side first. It won’t be long before Fielding and Simmons moves
Zack up too. Although he’s making noises lately about quitting to become a house husband.”

Ivy snorted, imagining her robust brother-in-law pushing a vacuum cleaner, washing dishes, and chasing after a pair of energetic toddlers full-time. “That’ll be the day.”

“Oh, I don’t know. He adores our babies, so much sometimes it surprises me. Says he wants to have another. I told him fine so long as he agrees to be the pregnant one this time.”

“But you’re considering it,” Ivy said, hearing the wistful tone in her sister’s voice.

“Yeah, I’m considering it.”

Ivy smiled at Madelyn’s obvious contentment.

From the background she heard a flurry of high-pitched childish squeals, followed by the noisy thunder of tiny running feet and the stomp of bigger adult ones.

Madelyn laughed. “The troops have returned all scrubbed and polished. Apparently, they’re being chased by a terrifying monster.” A loud, playful masculine growl came clearly through the phone.

More screams erupted, then a series of helpless giggles and cries of “No, Daddy, no tickle.”

Ivy grinned at the hilarity.

She and Madelyn firmed up the time for their lunch date, then discussed the progress Ivy was making on her painting. The talk wound around until it landed on their mother’s annual Fourth of July party, now less than a month away. Every year for as long as Ivy could remember, Laura Grayson had hosted a lavish party at the family home in Connecticut. This year would be no exception.

“What are you bringing?” Madelyn inquired. “And please don’t say brownies, since it’s the only decent from-scratch dessert I can make.”

“I’m not bringing brownies, so you’re in the clear.” Ivy paused, twisting a piece of her long hair around one finger. “Actually, about that . . . I might not be able to make it this year.”

A long moment of surprised silence followed. “What do you mean, not make it?”

No one missed Fourth of July at their parents’ house, certainly not family members. It was an understood rule.

Ivy stifled a sigh, sorry she’d brought it up. But, she reminded herself, if she couldn’t tell Madelyn, she’d never be able to tell their mother. “I have other plans . . . friends, you know, here in the city. They’re throwing a big party and want me to come.”

It wasn’t a lie. Well, not exactly. Neil and Josh were throwing a big party and they had invited her. But the person she was actually hoping to spend the holiday with was James. Of course she couldn’t tell Madelyn that. Her sister might be understanding about most things, but she doubted Madelyn would approve of her pursuing the man who’d once been Madelyn’s fiancé, even if Madelyn had ended up jilting him.

“So,” her sister wanted to know, “have you told Mom yet?”

“Not yet. Working up the nerve.”

A hearty laugh sounded over the line. “Good luck. You’ll have to let me know how it goes. She still brings up the Fourth that I
deserted
the family for Daytona Beach.”

“That’s ’cause you went down there with Derek Childs. She never approved of Derek Childs.”

“With good reason, I later found out. He was a two-timing creep, but that’s beside the point. The point is you and this party. What’s up? Some new man in your life? One who might just happen to also be attending this party, hmm?”

Damn, does Madelyn have radar or something?

Carefully modulating her tone, she worked on lying without actually lying. “No new man.”
Just the same old one I’ve always wanted,
she thought, fingers crossed. “And no one at the party besides me, some of my college buddies, and their neighbors.”

“You sure?”

“Totally sure. It’s just a party, Malynn. You remember parties, right?”

“Yeah, I seem to recall a few despite the senility setting in, ha-ha. I also remember how easy it is to get into trouble at them.”

Ivy stifled a sigh. “I’ll be fine. I’m very responsible.”

“I know. It’s not you I worry about. Sometimes I think you were born an adult. It’s all the other people who’ll be there. And just for the record, if Mom asks, I know nothing about this subject, okay?”

Ivy laughed. “Coward.”

“Damned straight—Hannah, take that out of your mouth,” she broke off to tell one of her daughters. “Look, I’d better go. Zack’s about to send up an SOS flare. See you soon.”

“Yeah, couple of days.”

Smiling, Ivy pushed the end-call button and set
down the phone. She flopped back against the pillows, listened with half an ear to the drone of street traffic and the gentle tick-tock of her bedside alarm clock.

Then she remembered James.

Was he still out in the other room, sleeping on her couch?

Heady warmth rushed through her at the notion.

Rolling out of bed, she pulled on a lavender terry-cloth robe. Feeling unaccountably shy, she opened her bedroom door and moved on silent feet down the hall.

But she needn’t have bothered with the stealth. The room was empty.

Fighting the disappointment, she leaned over to switch off the lamp that was still burning. She noticed the scattered throw pillows, honing in on the one with the faint dent where he’d lain his head. She reached out, lifted the pillow to her nose, and inhaled.

The scent of him filled her.

James.

Senses adrift, her eyelids drifted downward as she remembered their kiss.

*   *   *

James forked up a final bite of breakfast—soft-boiled eggs on toast with a side of Niman Ranch bacon—while he perused a sobering article on the nation’s economy in the Sunday
Times
. He snorted softly when he moved on to an op-ed piece about a recent political scandal and was rolling his eyes at another bit of nonsense when the doorbell rang.

Who could that be?
he thought, frowning as he
swallowed the last of his now-lukewarm coffee. Setting his cup back into its saucer, the china making a faint clink, he rose to find out.

He discovered Ivy on the threshold, fresh and sporty looking in a powder blue T-shirt, hip-hugging black spandex shorts, and a pair of clean white tennis shoes. She’d gathered her long hair into a neat ponytail, darker and damp on the ends from a recent shower. Some sort of skates—he couldn’t tell what kind—hung looped by their strings over one shoulder.

She looked delicious and adorable, like a dish of fresh peaches and cream just waiting to be enjoyed. He shifted uncomfortably at the thought, the dream he’d had last night slamming into his mind. The velvety softness of her lips, the delectable flavor of her tongue tangling passionately against his. Her scent. Even now he could smell the feminine heat of her as if she were wrapped in his arms instead of standing innocently on the other side of the doorway.

He just wished the damn dream hadn’t been so intense, hadn’t felt so real.

Incredibly real.

He wondered again about the hair he’d found. That long length of gleaming gold he’d plucked off his chest after he’d awakened.

How had it gotten there?

Off the couch, of course. It was her couch, so it wasn’t all that extraordinary. And yet . . .

And yet what?

Stop being ridiculous,
he told himself.

It was a dream. A disturbing, bewitching,
thoroughly unwanted dream, and if he was smart, he’d forget all about it.

Mentally, he gave himself a good, hard shake.

Snap out of it
.

Having dreams about Ivy,
erotic dreams
 . . . Well, it was just plain wrong. He didn’t even understand why he was having them. He didn’t lust after girls her age—at least not since he’d been her age.

He liked women.

Mature, adult women who knew the score and didn’t waste time playing games. Whatever this weird phase was that he was going through, well, it had to stop.

It will stop,
he counseled himself,
right here, right now.

Feeling like a letch and half wishing he hadn’t opened the door in the first place, he made himself hold it wider. “Hi there.”

“Hi,” she chimed. “Hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Not at all. I was just finishing breakfast.”

She trailed him through the penthouse into the light-filled dining alcove attached to the kitchen.

“Coffee?” he asked, covering his uncharacteristic discomfort in her presence with politeness.

“No, thanks. I’ve already had enough caffeine this morning to fuel a small power plant.”

“I think I’ll have some more,” he murmured, knowing he needed the distraction. Picking up his empty cup, he carried it across to the sleek metal coffeemaker that rested on the counter.

She set her skates on the floor near the dining table, then slid into a chair. She peered out the broad windows at the blue swath of summer sky above.

“What a great day,” she declared. “Much too nice to stay cooped up inside, don’t you think?”

She noticed the dish of fresh raspberries he hadn’t quite finished, dipped a pair of fingers in and fished one out. He tried but couldn’t prevent himself from watching as she popped the berry between her pink lips and chewed.

Sweet Jesus.

He turned away as she went diving for another berry, worked hard at not burning himself on the coffeepot.

“Anyway, you’re probably wondering why I’m here,” she said.

Lord, he hoped it wasn’t to swim. He didn’t think he could take any more of
that
today.

He cleared his throat. “The thought had crossed my mind.”

“I’ve come to take you Rollerblading.”

His eyes widened in genuine surprise. “Pardon me?”

“Rollerblading. It’s great fun. Have you ever been?”

He leaned back against the counter and sipped his steaming beverage. “No, and I don’t plan to start.”

“Why not?” she demanded. “You’re athletic.”

“Not that athletic.”

She made a dismissive sound. “You ski. You ice-skate.”

“Yeah, in Aspen, where it’s cold and there’s plenty of snow to cushion any falls. Spending the afternoon leaving pieces of my bare skin on the pavement lacks a certain appeal.”

“If you can skate, you can Rollerblade. You won’t fall. . . . Well, not once you get your balance. We’ll get you pads and a helmet, rig you out in full protective gear. You’ll do great. I’ll teach you everything you need to know.” She paused, pursed her lips in a brief pout at the implacable expression on his face. “Oh, come on. You won’t know if you like it unless you try it.”

“I won’t know if I hate it either,” he quipped, taking a careful sip of coffee.

She lifted a pair of beseeching eyes, cast him a look he’d never been able to withstand, not since she’d first turned it on him at age two. “Please. I don’t want to go to the park alone.”

“Call one of your friends.”

“
You
are my friend. Besides, I still don’t know too many people here in the city. And Neil and Josh are busy today.”

A twinge of guilt nagged at him. She did have a point. She was new to the city, was probably lonely and bored, longing for the company of someone familiar.

If he was having certain inappropriate thoughts about her lately, that was his problem. A problem he could and would control, he assured himself. It didn’t seem fair to punish her for something that wasn’t her fault—even if it would be in his best interest to shoo her out the door and return to the safety of his newspaper.

“How about a game of tennis instead?” he suggested on a hopeful note. “I’ll take you to my club.”

She made a face. “I’m all jazzed up to skate. And you will be too once you give it a try.”

He made one last attempt to escape. “I don’t have any skates.”

She waved a hand. “No problem. We’ll rent you a pair.” She leaned forward, showered him with an irresistible smile. “Please, James, come with me. If you don’t enjoy yourself, I’ll never ask again.”