The Man Plan (18 page)

“I didn’t realize you were in the habit of attending the ballet,” he said.

“I’m not, not usually, but it’s Fred’s big night. He asked us to come see him dance. He’s in lead position tonight.”

“Well, that solves one nagging mystery. I knew something seemed oddly familiar about Romeo. Apparently, I didn’t recognize him sober.”

“As I recall, he wasn’t the only one who drank too much that evening.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, she remembered what else had happened that night. The first and only night they’d made love. She met his eyes, saw that he remembered too.

James looked away, shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. A terrible, awkward silence descended between them. He scoured his mind for something to say. “So how have you been? You look well.”

Well
didn’t do her justice.

She looked beautiful, exquisite. Her cheeks flushed with healthy color, her eyes more brilliant than the sky on a cloudless summer day.

I could drown in those eyes if I let myself
.

“I’m fine,” she murmured. “You?”

“Oh, fine.”

Another silence fell.

He cleared his throat. “And umm, your painting? How are the preparations for the show moving along?”

“Great. I’ve finished one canvas and am nearly done with another. Rhonda’s seen them both and she’s pleased. She hopes I’ll have time to do one more, but it’ll be nothing short of a miracle for that to happen.”

“How are things with Rhonda?”

“Wonderful. Exciting. She’s very supportive, very down-to-earth. Far more than I would have expected from someone in her position. Being represented by her gallery’s the opportunity of a lifetime. I only pray I don’t flop.”

“You won’t flop. The possibility doesn’t even exist.”

Her eyes warmed with pleasure. “You always say the nicest things.”

“Nothing that isn’t true.” Another quiet moment passed. “I haven’t had a chance to thank you.”

“Thank me? For what?”

“The present. For my birthday.” His voice deepened. “It’s beautiful, Ivy.”

Her smile widened. “You really like it?”

His thoughts turned to the small oil painting, framed and now hanging in a place of honor in his bedroom. It
was a landscape of the woods near their family homes in Connecticut, leaves riotous with color, the ground cool and ready to crunch underfoot. Fall. His favorite time of year.

“Yes,” he said. “I love it.”

I love you
.

“I painted it nearly a year ago,” she said, “hoping you might like it.” She smiled again, her lips soft and full.

Lord, he wanted to kiss her, snatch her up into his arms and lose himself in the very wonder of her.

“James?” she murmured, her voice puzzled. “I was talking to my neighbor this morning. Lulu. She says you stopped by the apartment a few weeks ago.”

“Did she?”

He could see the exact spot on the delicate curve of her neck where her pulse beat, warm and strong; he imagined bending down and pressing his lips just there.

“She says you came to see me. Why?”

Why? Because no matter how many reasons there are why we shouldn’t be together, I can’t get you out of my mind, my heart.

Because I wanted to carry you away that night and make love to you until you’d forgotten everything and everyone but me.

But maybe it wasn’t too late to do those things, he considered. Maybe he should tell her now, take her somewhere they could be alone.

“I knew I’d find you near one of the art displays,” a male voice suddenly said. “Hey, neat sculpture.”

She turned her head. “Kip.”

“Here’s your iced tea,” he said. “Thought I’d never get through that line at the concession stand.”

Absently, Ivy accepted the drink, repressing a frustrated sigh. James had been on the verge of saying something, something important. She’d felt it in her bones.

And the way he’d been looking at her; ooh, she had goose bumps all over her body.

Then Kip had barged in and ruined everything.

Why, oh why, couldn’t he have waited just one minute more?

“You must be James Jordan.” Kip stuck out his hand. “Ivy mentions you often.”

“Does she?” After a brief but noticeable hesitation, James accepted Kip’s hand to shake. “And you are?”

“Oh, sorry. Didn’t mean to forget my manners. Kip Zahn.”

“He’s an artist,” she interjected, hoping to ease a bit of the tension.

“Yes. I sculpt.” Kip jerked a thumb toward the imposing marble statue behind him. “Though nothing as adventurous as the stuff in here.”

“Don’t be modest,” she defended. “Your sculptures are very compelling. Every bit as powerful as these, just different.”

Kip grinned. “Not to everyone’s taste, she means, but it’s sweet of her to say. I’m lucky to have a friend like Ivy.”

“Yes,” James said, his tone hard. “You are. Do you show your work?”

“Not until recently. I was invited to join an artist’s co-op a couple of weeks ago. Several of my pieces are there on consignment. I’m hoping for a sale soon. Particularly now that I’ve finished the sculpture of Ivy.”

“What sculpture of Ivy?”

Reacting to the note of hostility in James’s voice, Kip nearly choked on a mouthful of soda. He swallowed with obvious effort. “Hey, relax, man. It’s not like she was naked or anything.”

James’s eyes gleamed dangerously. “I would think not.”

A flash of red drew Ivy’s attention. She turned her head and saw Parker Manning, sheathed in a long, body-hugging crimson evening gown, glide into the room. She walked over to James and slid a proprietary arm through his.

“So this is where you wandered off to,” Parker said. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, darling.”

James angled his head her way. “You were involved swapping real estate stories with the Domerchis. You know how that bores me. I decided I’d look around.”

“Umm, so I see.” Parker stroked his sleeve. “Well, I’m finished with that now, so we might as well drift back. The curtain’s due to go up on the second act at any moment.”

“Yes, you’re right,” James agreed.

Ivy listened to the exchange. Her fingers clamped around the condensation-slick plastic cup were as cold as the ice inside it. Her throat tightened, an ache spreading through her chest.

She willed James to look at her.

But he didn’t.

Instead he moved ahead with the required social niceties. “Parker, allow me to introduce Kip Zahn to you. Zahn, Parker Manning. Zahn, here, is a sculptor.”

“Oh, how intriguing.” Parker inclined her head and gave him a perfunctory half smile.

“And you remember Ivy Grayson,” James continued, still not looking Ivy’s way.

“Yes,” Parker said, oozing with ill-concealed venom. “Though we’ve never actually been introduced. Now, dear,” she said to James, “we really should be going.”

For a moment, Ivy imagined upending her tea on top of Parker’s perfectly coiffed head. If only she had the nerve to do it.

“Yes, of course,” James said. “Ivy. Zahn. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

Finally, James looked at her. What she saw in his eyes—or rather what she didn’t see—made her want to cry.

“James,” she whispered, too low to be heard.

Then he and Parker were gone.

She wilted the instant he left.

Kip reached out a supporting arm. “Do you want to leave?”

She did. She wanted to run away, dive underneath the covers of her bed and pretend none of this had ever happened. But she’d promised Fred she would see his ballet, and she couldn’t disappoint him by leaving halfway through.

The overhead lights flashed, signaling everyone to return to their seats.

Through sheer force of will, she straightened. “No. I came to support Fred, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“Good girl.”

But as she sat in the darkened auditorium, she was barely aware of the dancing. Instead, she located a familiar golden head several rows away and watched him while her heart wept.

S
omeone thrust a glass of champagne into her hand.

Someone else—one of her cousins, she thought—bussed her on the cheek. Head in a whirl, Ivy stood in the center of the crowded gallery and marveled at the minor miracle taking place around her.

Her art was a success. And so, it appeared, was she.

She wondered if she ought to pinch herself to make sure it was real. She drank a sip of champagne instead, effervescent bubbles bursting against her tongue, tart and cool. Silken strains of music floated to her ears; the lovely, gentle strains were nearly drowned out by the hum of conversation.

Everyone was here tonight—friends, family, critics, and curiosity seekers. There were even a handful of serious art lovers sprinkled in among the multitudes, avidly perusing the paintings on display. Others nibbled on cheese cubes and canapés, debating the merits of this style and that trend.

As the hours ticked by, so did the sales.

Five paintings and three commissions, steady work that would soon have the money rolling in. Oh, not in dream proportions, but comfortable, she reasoned. Enough that she’d be able to quit her job at Reflections if she wanted.

Tonight was only a beginning. As beginnings went, though, it was a damned fine one.

Everything about the evening should have been perfect,
would
have been perfect, except for one rather important detail.

James wasn’t there.

She’d masked her disappointment well—at least she thought she had—smiling and laughing, acting as if she were having the time of her life.

Yet even as her heart thrilled to hear the compliments and praise being tossed her way—including an unexpected nod of approval from an influential critic for the
Times
, who’d cooed at length over her brave use of color and bold, neorealist design—part of her remained focused on the door, waiting for the instant when James would arrive.

But he hadn’t, and at nine forty-five, a trickle of people were already starting to depart. She would simply have to face facts.

He wasn’t coming.

She’d never for a moment imagined he wouldn’t be there. In spite of the awkwardness of their last meeting, she’d thought he would come. He, more than anyone, knew how important this night was to her. He’d made a promise, and once James promised, he never went back on his word.

At least he never had before tonight.

Optimistic to the last, she searched the entrance one more time.

Suddenly a long male arm slipped around her shoulders and gave a mighty squeeze.

She jumped, then relaxed just as quickly when she recognized the tall, broad-chested man at her side.

“Hi, Dad.” She met his generous smile with one of her own.

“Hey, kiddo. About time I found you alone. The crowd around you has been so thick all night. I was beginning to worry you wouldn’t have a moment for your old man.”

“Not a chance. You know I always have time for you, and I always will.” She flashed him a grin. “No matter how famous I become,” she teased.

The idea of that made Philip Grayson’s eyebrows soar skyward. Two slashes of coppery red that contrasted strongly with the crown of snowy white hair age had seen fit to deposit on his head.

“Glad to hear it,” he declared. “If tonight’s any indication, this is only a taste of things to come.” His voice deepened. “Your mother and I are very proud of you.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Really, we are, despite any reservations we may have had at first. We never doubted your talent, you know.”

“I know. You were just concerned. You’re parents and that’s what parents do. They worry about their kids.”

“Damn right they do.” He gave her shoulder another
quick squeeze. “Though I should have known you’d beat the odds and pull it off. Once you put your mind to a thing, there’s no stopping you until you get it.”

Not always,
she thought with an inward sigh as she scanned the entrance one more time.
No, I most certainly do not always get what I want.

“Come and say good night to your mother,” her father said. “We’re heading back to the hotel in a few minutes.”

“Oh, do you have to leave? I thought we all might grab a late supper together.”

“Not tonight, kiddo. Your mom’s tired. She’d been running on adrenaline all day, though she doesn’t want to admit it.”

“She’s okay, isn’t she? She isn’t sick?”

Her father blinked, momentarily taken aback. “No, no, nothing like that.” He patted her shoulder. “She’s fine, a little worn-out is all. A new florist she hired messed up an entire order for one of her weddings. She was up most of the night doing damage control, arranging centerpieces herself. I offered to help, but she sent me to bed. She was over at the reception hall by seven this morning. Needless to say, she barely slept last night. You’ll understand if we beg off tonight.”

She swallowed her disappointment as the two of them made their way across the room. “Of course.”

“Anyway, your friends must be planning something special for you. You don’t need a pair of old fogies tagging along to spoil the fun.”

“You wouldn’t spoil anything.”

Assuming there was anything to spoil. Her friends
had dropped by the opening hours ago, exchanged congratulatory hugs, then deserted her to go their various ways.

They’d all had to work tonight.

All of them.

Neil, Josh, Fred, and Lulu.

Even Kip.

She’d thought at least Kip could have gotten the evening off. But he said his boss was a shrew and had nixed the idea before he’d even opened his mouth to ask for the time.

Maybe Madelyn and Zack would like to do something, she hoped.

And Brie.

She’d been touched that her other sister had flown up from Washington, D.C., just to see the gallery opening. Especially since Brie was serving as lead attorney in an important lawsuit.

Apparently, Brie’d had to twist a few influential arms to get even two days’ vacation. But she’d managed, arranging a short postponement before handing over the reins to her cocounsel while she was away.

Ivy knew she was lucky to have such a generous, warmhearted family. Even P.G. and Caroline, who was looking healthier than she had in months, had made the trip into the city. Unbeknownst to her, they’d left a short while ago, their two sleepy children in tow.

“You were tied up,” her father explained about P.G. and Caroline departing without saying their good-byes in person. “Oh, and Madelyn and Zack wanted me to pass along their apologies as well.”

“What? They’ve left too?”

“Some scheduling mix-up with their sitter. And Brie received a call from the office. Some problem with one of the legal briefs. She said to tell you she’d phone in the morning before her flight.”

Ivy’s spirits deflated as fast as a balloon jabbed with a pin. Apparently, everyone was deserting her. Instead of celebrating tonight, it looked like she’d be taking the train home alone and catching up on her sleep.

She worked hard not to let her disappointment show.

“Here she is,” her father announced, coming to a halt next to her mother. “Our very own artistic genius.”

“Dad, please,” Ivy admonished.

“Don’t turn modest now. I’ve got eyes. I know genius when I see it.”

“So do I,” Laura Grayson declared, leaning over to brush a kiss against her daughter’s cheek. “I didn’t want to say it before, but these other people who’re sharing your show, well, they don’t hold a candle to you.”

“It’s not my show. It’s all of our shows. And they’re very good too.”

“Good perhaps, but not as good as you.”

Ivy studied her mother, finding her as lively as usual. For a woman who was supposed to be tired, she didn’t look it.

Her father cupped a hand around her mother’s elbow. “I told Ivy we were leaving. Since you’re so worn-out from last night.”

She watched as her parents exchanged some sort of silent communication.

“Yes, yes, I
am
tired.” Laura raised a hand to cover a
yawn. “Practically dead on my feet. I hope you’ll forgive us, sweetheart, for running out on you on your special night.”

“Sure. It’s fine.” She faked a smile.

But as she looked between them again, she paused, suddenly suspicious. If she didn’t know better, she’d think they were lying. But no, why would they lie? Unless—

“Congratulations again on your marvelous show,” her mother said, interrupting the thought. She pulled her into her arms. “We’ll talk tomorrow before we head home, dear.”

Ivy returned the hug, then gave one to her father. “Get some rest.”

She watched her parents depart, then stood alone in the rapidly emptying room. A sudden wave of depression hit her. Where had her brilliant evening gone?

Then she saw him, a glimpse of gold wandering among the canvases; James was here after all.

He wore one of his trademark suits, looking debonair in dark charcoal gray—very
GQ
, as Lulu had once called him.

Her feet were moving before she realized she’d taken a step. She followed him as he disappeared around one of the broad, white partitions that split the room into a maze of diagonals. Carefully angled track lights shone from above, illumination pooling like tiny spotlights on each of the artistic offerings displayed.

She found him, his chin tilted upward as he gazed at one of her paintings. She glanced to see which one. His portrait, hanging there like a two-dimensional twin.

He didn’t turn his head as she approached, her shoes silent on the gallery’s white-on-white tile floor.

“When did you do this?” he asked softly.

“Not long ago. It was the last piece I finished before the show.” She stopped a few paces away. “What do you think?”

Nervously, she waited through the long quiet that followed.

“I think you see things in me I barely recognize in myself.”

His words surprised her, pleased her. “And the painting? Do you like it?”

He turned. “What’s not to like? It’s as splendid as all the rest of your work. Not for sale, I see.”

“No.”

She could never bear to part with a piece so dear to her heart. If she couldn’t have him, at least she would have this painting and all the memories that came with it.

She crossed her arms over her breasts. “It’s late. I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”

“I said I’d be here. You needn’t have worried.”

“And you didn’t stop to say hello when you arrived.” Her tone was a gentle reproof.

“You were busy talking to your parents, and I wanted to see the paintings. Where are they? Did they leave?”

She nodded. “Mother’s tired, or so she says.”

“You don’t believe her?”

“I’m not sure. She and Dad were both acting a little peculiar.” She narrowed her eyes, her earlier suspicions
returning. “You don’t know anything about it, do you?”

“Know about what?”

“Whatever it is that’s going on.”

“Why would you think something’s going on?” he said, his face a perfect mask of innocence.

She narrowed her eyes. “Now I’m even more suspicious. What gives?”

James held out for another few moments. “All right, but promise you’ll act surprised.”

“Surprised by what?”

“The party they’re throwing for you at my place. That’s why I’m late. I had to stay to let the caterers in.”

“A party? For me? I had no idea.”

“At least not until I spilled the beans. I told them to draft somebody else to play decoy. I’m no good at this sort of thing.”

“It’s not you. It’s my parents. They’re the ones who can barely keep a secret.” A thought occurred to her. “So how were you going to lure me up to your penthouse?”

Their eyes met. They both looked away.

“I was supposed to tell you I’d bought one of your paintings and needed help deciding where to hang it,” he explained. “Hardly convincing, considering the hour.”

“Still, it might have worked.” Even a transparent excuse, she reckoned, would have been enough to convince her to go with him. “Were you really prepared to buy one of my paintings?”

“I bought two before the show even opened. It wouldn’t have been an issue.”

Her mouth dropped open. “You bought two? Why?”

“Why else? Because I like them. It wasn’t done out of pity, if that’s what you’re thinking. You ought to know me well enough by now to realize I don’t make frivolous purchases. The ones I bought are worth every penny, and I suspect they’ll be a bargain once word gets around about you.”

She should be angry with him, she supposed. A sale to James wasn’t the same as a sale to a stranger. On one level it smacked of cheating. Then again, she had no desire to be cross with him, especially when she knew he sincerely respected and appreciated her talent.

A spot warmed deep inside her. “Which two did you buy?”

“The
Street Vendor
and the painting of Estella. I couldn’t see it going out of the family. It’ll be my Christmas present to her and her family.”

Her heart swelled with even greater delight. “She’ll be so pleased.”

Her lips curved.

His curved back.

The connection between them was electric, as magnetic as the pull of the moon and the stars. She watched him watch her and nearly forgot how to breathe, her senses quivering beneath her skin.

He reached out, ran a gentle finger over the strand of creamy pearls encircling her neck. “Is this the necklace I gave you all those years ago?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

She remembered the day, the moment, as if it were yesterday. Standing with him beneath the study
window in her parents’ house, sunlight streaming over them both to chase away the late-winter chill. She’d been only fifteen, the pearls his birthday present to her. They’d been far too indulgent a gift for a girl her age, but she’d treasured them then as she treasured them now.

His fingers moved as if compelled by a will of their own to trace one of the large, luminescent pearl earrings in her ears; he’d given the matching set to her as a sweet sixteen.

She shivered beneath his touch.

Then his hand fell away and he stepped back. “We’ve probably given everyone enough time to get settled,” he said. “Why don’t you say good night to Rhonda; then we’ll be on our way.”