The Man Plan (5 page)

His thoughts turned to Parker and their date tonight. She had the whole evening arranged. Dinner at a prominent restaurant where they would see and be seen by all the right people. Next the opera—
Tosca,
if he wasn’t mistaken—followed by coffee and dessert at some stylish nightspot. Lastly, sex at her well-appointed brownstone. She’d called that afternoon to remind him about their plans and to let him know how much she was looking forward to the evening, especially the end of it when she’d have him all to herself in her bed.

In that regard, he had no complaints. Parker was a skilled lover. Inventive, indulgent, willing to try something new just for the experience. She’d even taught him a trick or two in their time together. Yet as satisfying as the sex was, he never mistook what he shared with her for love. He knew what love was. Knew how it hurt when you lost it. He never wanted to hurt like that again.

“Well? How about it?” Ivy called from the pool. “Are you coming in?”

He glanced at his watch. “It’s past six thirty already and I’m running late. Let me take a rain check and we’ll do it another day.”

“I’ll hold you to that. Hey, before you go, would you grab me a towel? I forgot to bring one in.”

“Aren’t you going to swim some more?”

“Not since you reminded me of the time. I promised myself I’d put in a few hours painting tonight.”

“Okay. I’ll be right back.”

The trip to the guest bathroom was a quick one, just down the hall. Grabbing a large peach-colored bath towel off the shelf, he strode back. His steps slowed though when he reentered the room, eyes transfixed as he watched Ivy lever herself up out of the pool. Raining like a falls, water sluiced over her translucent skin, slid down her naked limbs, soaked into the two tiny swatches of red cloth that barely constituted a bathing suit.

With her back turned, he had a full, unobstructed view of her graceful back, her lovely rear end, and long, thoroughbred legs. His breath caught as she hooked a pair of fingers into the lower half of her suit and gave the spandex a short tug. Even properly positioned, the suit left most of her rounded bottom exposed.

Saliva dried in his mouth as she faced forward, then bent, tossing her long wet hair over one shoulder. Swelling in their microscopic cups, her breasts all but popped out of the teeny-tiny, sin red bikini top. His eyes nearly popped out too when she reached up a pair of hands and squeezed the excess water from her hair, her ripe breasts jiggling. His fingers tightened against the towel he’d forgotten he held, gripping the soft cloth as though it were a lifeline. Teeth clenched, he forced his eyes away.

God damn,
he swore to himself,
what in the hell is wrong with me?

That was
Ivy
, for Christ’s sake.

Ivy, his friend.

His little sister.

And there he stood, ogling her like a construction worker watching a stripper straddle a nightclub pole.

Fighting temptation and losing, he flashed another glance over her from under his lashes—pert breasts, flat stomach, lean thighs—and felt his body react in ways it had no business reacting. She was barely more than a kid. So why didn’t she look like a kid? A twenty-year-old girl shouldn’t be so sexy, so desirable. At least not to a man his age.

Sex on the brain.

That’s what it must be, he assured himself. Parker’s comments from earlier had put ideas into his head. Sex on the brain, that’s what it was. Anything else was inconceivable. Anything else was obscene.

He blanked his expression as Ivy strolled toward him, his fist clutching the cotton towel as if he were trying to strangle it. He wished now he’d dropped the damned thing on one of the chairs and headed upstairs to his room. He could have made up some excuse for his rudeness later. She would have believed him.

But it was too late now. She was on her way, breathtaking as an Amazon goddess as she walked along the side of the pool.

When did she become so stunning?

He swallowed, his throat tight.

She reached for the towel. “Something wrong?”

“No,” he lied, his words sounding strange to his ears. “What would be wrong?”

She rubbed the towel along one damp arm, the fabric drinking in the tiny beads of moisture. His eyes followed against their will.

“Thanks for the towel,” she said.

He nodded abruptly, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

She stooped over and dried her legs, one at a time. Her wet hair swung forward, drops of water splashing onto his shoes. She straightened up. “Oops, sorry. I’ve gotten water on you. Here. Let me—” She reached out a hand.

“No.” He stepped back as if she might burn him. “Leave it. It’s fine.”

“But—”

“I’m late. I told you I’m late. Let yourself out, okay?”

“Sure.”

“Good night, then.” Trying not to look like he was fleeing, he turned and headed for the door.

“Good night,” she called.

He didn’t listen, didn’t want to listen. He just wanted to get away. He took the steps to his bedroom two at a time and slammed his bedroom door behind him.

Downstairs, Ivy hugged the towel to herself and smiled.

*   *   *

Much later that night, after dinner and drinks, Puccini and coffee, James escorted Parker to her door. He paused on the threshold.

She turned. “What is it? Aren’t you coming in?” She slid her arms around his neck, feathered her fingers into his hair. “I’ve been looking forward to you coming in all day,” she purred, rubbing her body against his in a suggestive slide. She tugged his head down for a kiss.

He kissed her forehead instead. “Forgive me, Parker, but not tonight.”

“Why not? I thought we had plans.”

Yes, they had. And earlier in the day he’d intended to take full advantage of those plans and spend the night in her bed. But for some inexplicable reason, he no longer wanted to, not tonight, not with her. Tomorrow this odd mood of his would pass, he told himself. By morning he’d be back to his normal self. Right now he just wanted to go home.

He touched a pair of fingers to his temple and fell back upon the oldest excuse in the book.

“I’m sorry, darling, but I have a headache.”

*   *   *

Ivy added a dollop of quinacridone red to a blob of cadmium yellow, mashed the paints together with a palette knife, and watched a warm, lustrous orange blossom before her eyes. Deciding it was too intense, she added a speck of blue to gray out the tone. Purists might have chosen black instead, but Ivy preferred the result she could achieve using the color’s complement—in this case blue with orange. She mixed the paint well, added a tiny hint more blue, mixed again. Finally satisfied, she reached for her brush and dipped in.

Nice,
she mused, as she spread the paint across the
bare white stretch of canvas. A sunset come to life. She worked on, slowing to feather in an edge before switching to a smaller brush.

Despite an open window, the room stank of paint and linseed oil, overlaid with the pungent bite of turpentine. Oblivious, Ivy chose a fine-tipped sable brush, wiped the worst drips on a soiled rag long ago turned gray and greasy from a saturation of turpentine and smudged paint. Tossing the rag aside, she gave her brush a final cleaning on the tail of the oversized shirt she wore, the once-white garment stiffened by smears of dried paint in a rainbow of hues.

She worked briefly with the orange, then swished her brush clean in the turpentine jar. Wiped again on rag and shirt, then coated the bristles anew, this time in vivid pink. Humming to a tune blasting from a pair of lightweight speakers, she labored, minutes slipping by.

At half past noon, she plunked her brush in the jar and stretched her arms over her head to ease the slight ache that had settled in her lower back. Up since dawn, she’d put in a full day already. It was time for a break—and lunch, her empty belly reminded her.

She stood for another bit, studying her painting and the progress she’d made. If she kept on track, she should be able to finish the piece in another week or two—three at the outside. Added to the four completed paintings she’d brought with her from home, she’d need only another ten to fifteen to make up her portfolio. Once that was accomplished, she could start making rounds at the galleries. And if—fingers crossed—someone actually liked her work and
offered her a show, she’d have to get busy painting twice that many more.

Cleaning her oily, paint-streaked hands as best she could, she removed her big painting shirt and hung it from a corner of her easel. She needed a hot bath and a meal.

Then she needed to see James.

Despite the progress she felt she’d made that evening by the pool, she hadn’t seen him in more than a week. The first five days she could excuse, since Estella had told her he’d flown to Germany on business. But he’d been back in town almost that same number of days and she’d seen him only once, in the lobby, just long enough to exchange quick hellos and good-byes.

She was beginning to wonder if he was avoiding her. Maybe she’d come on a little too strong in her come-hither bikini. But she’d had to find a way to make him take notice. Perhaps a new strategy was in line.

If he wouldn’t come to her, she thought as she headed for the shower, she’d have to go to him.

“H
i. Is James in?” Ivy asked.

James’s executive assistant, Tory Harris, looked up from the report she’d been reading, her eyes cool. “Mr. Jordan,” she said pointedly, “is occupied at present. May I help you?”

Ivy bounced up, then down, on her tennis shoe–clad feet, a huge canvas carryall slung over one shoulder. “No, thanks. If he’s tied up, I’ll wait.” She paused, then smiled. “You don’t remember me, do you? Though I don’t really expect you to, considering how long it’s been since I was here, and then only a time or two at that. I’m sure I’ve changed quite a bit. You haven’t. You’re every bit as pretty as ever.”

The executive assistant lost some of her arctic demeanor. “I’m sorry. . . . I don’t remember you.”

“Ivy Grayson.” She gestured toward herself. “It’s Tory, right?”

“Yes.” Tory frowned in thought. “Ivy Grayson?” Her features began to clear. “Not Madelyn Grayson’s little sister?”

“The very same.”

Tory’s face lit up with a smile. “Why, my gosh, I do remember you. You were just a skinny kid last time I saw you. Boy, have you grown. Wow.”

“Thanks. I think.”

“You look great!” Tory nodded her head toward a set of tall polished double doors that led into James’s office. “In case you’re wondering, he really is on a conference call. He shouldn’t be much longer. In the meantime, tell me what’s new with you.”

Ivy perched on the edge of Tory’s desk as they chatted, offering Tory one of the homemade chocolate chip cookies she’d brought with her.

That’s how James found them ten minutes later, laughing and chatting, cookie crumbs littering a small napkin placed in the center of Tory’s desk. “Ivy, I didn’t know you were here.”

She shifted her hip and smiled at him. “Oh, I’m just stopping by. If you’re horribly busy, I can leave.”

He frowned, looked down at the file folder in his hand as if he’d forgotten it was there. “I am busy, yes. But not so busy I can’t spare a few minutes. No calls, Tory,” he ordered, handing her the file.

He escorted Ivy into his office.

“Is something wrong?” He motioned her toward a comfortable side chair, then took a seat himself.

“No, nothing’s wrong. I just felt like a visit.”

“A visit?”

“Exactly. Thought I’d stop in to say hello and bring you a treat.” She reached into her shoulder bag.

“A treat?” he repeated warily.

“The baking bug bit me this afternoon—chocolate chip cookies. I had so many by the time I finished, I decided I should give some of them to you rather than eat them all myself. Tory and I split a couple while I was waiting. Hope you don’t mind.” She grinned impishly at him.

His eyes widened in amazement. “You came fifty blocks to bring me cookies?”

“Is it that far?”

“Why didn’t you just leave them for me at the penthouse?”

She shrugged. “I didn’t know when you’d be home, and I thought you might enjoy an afternoon snack. Here.” She passed him a well-burped Tupperware container. He took it without a word.

“Besides,” she continued, “it gave me a good excuse to leave the apartment. I painted all morning; then I started baking. An outdoor excursion seemed perfect. Aren’t you going to have one?” She pointed to the unopened container. “Or are you afraid to try my cooking?”

James pried off the plastic lid, the scent of freshly baked goods drifting up. Ever polite, he offered her one first. She refused. He chose a cookie and bit in. His eyes closed in an instant of bliss.

Pleased, Ivy watched him polish off the first cookie, then dive in for two more. “These are fantastic,” he declared between bites.

She waved off his remark, glowing inside at the compliment. “They’re pretty simple to make.”

“Simple or not, they’re great. I can’t remember the last time I had chocolate chip cookies.”

She imagined that when he ate dessert, it was usually something elaborate and complex, the inspiration of some classically trained chef striving to outdo his competition. She was glad he was so thoroughly enjoying her plebian offering.

“You said you were painting,” he asked. “How is it going?”

“Not bad. I’m making steady progress, although it never seems fast enough. When I’m out and about here in the city and something snags my attention, I make time to do a sketch, which of course sets me back on my canvas time. It’ll all come together though, I’m sure,” she declared with more confidence than she actually felt.

He nodded. “Give yourself time.” He palmed one more cookie, then closed the box. “I’ll have to drop by to see your work.”

“Anytime. Why don’t you stop over tonight?”

“Tonight?” He froze, looking abruptly uneasy once again. “Oh, I can’t tonight.”

She did her best not to look crestfallen, forcing a smile. “I understand, short notice and all. Another date?”

“No. Business dinner.”

Relieved, she tried again. “Tomorrow, then?”

“Friday night? You must have plans of your own.”

“Not this Friday. Look, come over and I’ll make
dinner. Something else simple like hamburgers or spaghetti. Even I can’t ruin those.”

James hesitated, shifting in his chair.

The past few minutes with her had been so natural. Easy. Familiar. The Ivy of old looking like a kid again, dressed in jeans and a baggy T-shirt.

He had been neglecting her, he realized, avoiding her because of the other evening by the pool. She didn’t even know she’d done anything to unsettle him. Why should she be punished because he had issues? Besides, he was over that now. The whole event—like the other one that first day in her apartment—firmly in the past.

And she’d brought him cookies. No one, to his recollection, had ever brought him cookies.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll be there. But right now I have another meeting”—he broke off, glanced at his watch—“that I’m already late for. What do you say to seven thirty on Friday?”

“I’ll have dinner waiting.”

“Great.” He picked up the Tupperware, held it out to her.

She refused it. “No. Those are for you.”

“The cookies are delicious, pumpkin,” he said, using his old nickname for her. “Thanks for a nice surprise.”

“My pleasure.”

*   *   *

At 7:25 Friday evening, Ivy flung aside another outfit, the seven earlier ones she’d rejected heaped on her bed.
Make up your mind,
she thought, her stomach jittery as a handful of Mexican jumping beans. It wasn’t even a
date, she reminded herself, not an official date anyway, since James had no clue that’s what it really was.

Oh jeez, what should she wear? Cutoffs and a T-shirt were too casual—she didn’t want him thinking of her as a fourteen-year-old kid. And all the dresses she’d tried on were way too formal, like the green silk cocktail dress she’d just decided against. If he saw her in something like that, he’d probably make a sprint for the elevator.

She glanced again at her bedside clock: 7:27.

Decide, decide,
she chanted to herself.

If she didn’t, James would arrive and she’d be left standing in her underwear. She grinned at the idea, imagining his expression if she opened the door wearing nothing but lacy pink panties and a bra.
Ah, well,
she mused. She’d have to save that one for later.

She was rifling through her wardrobe for the fifteenth time, when the doorbell rang.

She jumped, then cursed as she stubbed her toe against the closet door.

Why, of all nights, did he have to be so prompt?

Ignoring her throbbing toe, she flew into action, grabbing what came most easily and most comfortably to hand—a pair of slim-fitting white chinos and a short-sleeved blouse dyed the color of newly mown grass. She yanked on the clothes, then, careful of her toe, thrust her feet into chunky sandals. Running a quick brush through her long hair, she raced from the bedroom as the doorbell rang for a second time.

Hand to her chest, she willed her heart to stop pounding. Inhaling deeply, she opened the door.

Breath rushed from her lungs at the sight of him. Gorgeous—it was the only word that did him justice. He was dressed in crisp camel trousers and a white Cuban-style shirt with intricate white stitching on the single breast pocket and front placket. His short hair gleamed, rich and golden as a roman coin. The firm, clean line of his jaw smooth shaven, smelling faintly of soap, a temptation that called out for her touch.

She curled her fingers into a loose fist instead and greeted him with an easy smile. “Right on time,” she chimed.

“You okay? You seem winded.”

“Just running late. Come in. Come in.” She held the door wide.

He strolled in, looked around. “You’ve definitely been busy since I was here last. I seem to remember lots and lots of boxes.”

“Gone, each and every one of them, thank the Lord.”

They moved into the living room. She waited while his eyes roved over the space, taking in the wall she’d daringly painted sunshine yellow and the huge, framed fine-arts posters from exhibits of Gauguin and van Gogh that she’d arranged on the walls.

“The place has your touch,” he commented.

“Loads of garish color and bric-a-brac, you mean?” she teased.

“No, lots of atmosphere and style. The space suits you. Everything looks great, Ivy. Really great.”

She let his compliment wash over her, pleased.

He held out a box wrapped in pretty pink checkered
paper. “Here. For you. A belated housewarming gift. Or should I say apartment-warming gift?”

Ivy accepted the present with a smile and took a seat on the sofa. She gave the box a gentle, experimental shake. “Not much rattle. A vase maybe?”

He stood over her. “Not even close. Try again.”

It was a game they played whenever he brought her a gift. Per the rules, she had three guesses.

She sniffed at the box. “No scent. Hmm, not chocolate or perfume.” She shook the package again, then raised her eyes to his.

They offered her no clues; he had a killer poker face when he wanted.

“You may have me stumped,” she admitted.

“I double-boxed it to give you a real challenge.” He crossed his arms over his chest and waited.

“Book ends?”

“Nope. One guess left.”

She stroked her palm over the polished surface of the paper. “Hmm, something for the apartment maybe? From Germany since you were there only a few days ago. A cuckoo clock? No, too noisy. Mosel wineglasses?” She shook her head. “No, too touristy.” She worried a fingernail between her front teeth as she considered. “Candlesticks. Aha, it’s candlesticks!”

His expression remained neutral. “Is that your final guess?”

She hesitated. “Yes.”

“Nanh,”
he mimicked, making a sound like a game show buzzer. “Wrong again. You lose.”

“Damn it. I thought I had it with that last one.”

“Why would I get you candlesticks? You’ve already got half a dozen pairs.”

“’Cause I like them.”

“You like a great many things. Maybe next time.” He slipped his hands into his pants pockets. “Well, open it up. We haven’t got all night.”

“You know I have to take my time. These things can’t be rushed.” She was notoriously slow at unwrapping presents despite the fact that it drove everyone she knew crazy, including James.

“You have two minutes,” he warned, “or I’ll tear the paper off for you.”

She hugged the gift protectively. “Don’t you dare.”

James tapped his toe while she made a production of removing the wrapping, both sets of it. Eventually she revealed the gift.

“Blu-rays.” She examined the titles. “Old Cary Grant movies.”

“I know they’re nothing extraordinary, but—”

“No, they’re wonderful. I love them,” she said with a grin.

He returned her smile. “You don’t have any of them already, do you? I know you’ve always enjoyed his movies, so—”

She put the DVDs aside and leaped up from the couch. “I have a couple I’m always trying not to erase on my DVR, that’s all. Now I can quit worrying. These are so cool. I couldn’t have asked for a better, more thoughtful gift. Thank you.” She reached out and hugged him.

He quietly accepted her embrace before giving her a quick, avuncular pat on the back and inserting a reasonable distance between them again. Not exactly the response she was looking for. She sighed to herself. Then again, he’d never been standoffish about her hugging him before.

Am I unsettling him?

Hmm, maybe she was making progress, after all.

“So where are these paintings I came to see?” he asked abruptly. “In your studio?” Without waiting for her response, he strode down the hall.

She smiled to herself, her spirits lighter as she trailed after him.

“Ignore the one on the easel,” she warned as she walked into her studio. “It’s only half finished, not much more than blocked in. I should have thrown a sheet over it before you arrived.”

Hands on his hips, he studied the piece, a cityscape depicting a street vendor and a line of customers—a range of people from ordinary businessmen to a fully costumed mime having a smoke. “I don’t see why,” he said. “Looks like it’s coming along well to me.”

“Most people have trouble visualizing what a piece will look like before it’s completed. Like showing someone a skeleton and expecting them to see Robert Pattinson.”

“Good thing, then, that I’m not most people.”

She smiled. “Yeah.”

“Even half finished,” he went on, “there’s no question it’s going to be terrific. As the rest already are.” He gestured to the other paintings on the walls.

She held her clasped hands beneath her chin. “You really think so?”

He nodded. “When I heard you’d quit school to paint full-time, I had my doubts. I thought you should have stayed in school, stuck it out for another year.”

The inner glow she’d been feeling began to fade. “Is that why you came here tonight? To convince me to give up and go back?”

He shook his head. “I wanted to see your paintings. You always were a competent artist, Ivy. I knew you had talent, but I didn’t know if you had more. And it takes more. Art’s a rough field, fine arts one of the roughest. As you know, I invest in a wide variety of endeavors, art included, so I’m not a complete novice in the field. I’ve seen a lot of highly talented artists toil away in obscurity.”