The Man Plan (8 page)

H
e didn’t quite know how it happened, but Friday at the art exhibit turned into Saturday at the movies and Sunday at a street fair in Little Italy.

He’d told Ivy that Monday was out—he had work to finish.

Monday evening arrived. Tired and hungry after a long day that had included a protracted videoconference with a company in Japan, he’d eyed the mountain of reports he still needed to review and heaved a resigned sigh.

Tory had gone home a few minutes earlier and he was alone in the office. The whir of a vacuum cleaner hummed in the distance. He was about to call down to a nearby deli and order dinner—a sandwich and coffee—to be sent up, when Ivy appeared.

She’d strolled in with a smile on her face, a large Balducci’s shopping bag swinging on her arm. Before he’d known it, she was spreading a red-and-white-
checked cloth over the thick Aubusson rug on his floor and arranging a delectable array of foodstuffs upon it.

He was a sucker for Balducci’s and she knew it. Especially their Greek salad with imported feta and kalamata olives and their freshly sliced Prosciutto, which she’d brought, along with several other mouthwatering items. Refusing her became impossible once she pulled out dessert, a tender Italian cream cake soaked in rum and loaded with nuts.

He’d tossed down his pen and surrendered to temptation, settling onto the floor of his office for the first picnic he’d ever had there.

Remembering it now, he looked across at the spot and smiled.

Every time he told himself he needed to put some space between him and Ivy, make their most recent outing their last, she would suggest something new, and he’d find himself agreeing to go along.

Nearly two weeks had passed since their skating expedition. Two interesting, exciting, enjoyable weeks, the ramifications of which he refused to dwell upon.

She was his friend.

Just his friend.

If they happened to enjoy each other’s company, well, there was no harm in that. If he happened to like the way she looked and smelled and moved and laughed, it just proved he was a healthy male. Only a blind, gay eunuch would fail to find Ivy attractive, and even then it was questionable.

But her appeal came from more than her good looks,
he realized. There was something special about her. Her sweet, giving nature. Her unique, buoyant personality. A vibrancy so strong she illuminated a room the moment she entered it, as though she were the sun, spreading light and warmth wherever she walked.

He felt good when he was around her. Young, in a way he hadn’t felt in a very long time.

Barely aware, he began to whistle a tune under his breath while he perused the latest stock figures on his computer. After only a couple of minutes, his thoughts drifted back to Ivy.

They were going to a Yankees game tonight, but weren’t sitting in his box, which he kept primarily for business reasons.

Ivy wanted to sit down close to the field, saying it was the only way to truly experience the game. James wasn’t so sure he agreed, given the comfortable, air-conditioned seats in his box and the private chef who would be there to cook an array of fine dining options. But Ivy was so enthusiastic about being in the “heart of the action” that he couldn’t bring himself to disappoint her. He’d never sat in the regular seats before. Who knew? Maybe it would be fun.

He smiled at the thought, then returned to work.

Not long after, his intercom buzzed. “Mr. Jordan, Ms. Manning is on line two.”

Parker.

A little twinge of guilt went through him, her unexpected call making him realize that he’d barely thought of her in days.

He picked up the receiver. “Parker, hi. How are you doing? You aren’t back in town yet, are you?”

She wasn’t due to return from her vacation for another three days.

“No, still here at Mother’s,” she said. “I’m looking at the Golden Gate Bridge even as we speak.”

“So how is San Francisco this time of year?”

“Muggy and full of tediously impossible hills, but the sailing’s wonderful. We took the yacht out yesterday, sunbathed and sipped cold daiquiris on the foredeck. Purely divine. I wish you could have been with us, but I know you have to work. Busy making millions, hmm?”

“Something like that. So what’s up? Why’d you decide to call?”

She paused. He could almost see her perfectly painted lips form into a well-studied pout. “Do I need a reason to call? I miss you. Have you missed me?”

Had he missed her? Actually, he’d been spending so much time with Ivy, he’d hardly had the chance.

“Of course,” he lied, more guilt rising. “Of course I’ve missed you.”

“As well you should. When I get back on Saturday, I won’t waste a minute before I rush over to see you. I want you all to myself, preferably naked,” she added on a sexy purr.

“Hmm, there’s a thought.”

He frowned. He was supposed to see Ivy Saturday night.

“Doesn’t your plane get in late?” he said. “You’ll
probably be worn-out from the trip and the time change, won’t you?”

“Not so much that I can’t stop by.” She paused. “Why? Is there a problem?”

“No, no problem. It’s just I wasn’t expecting you Saturday night. I made other arrangements.”

“What kind of arrangements?” Her tone turned chilly.

“Just an evening out with an old friend,” he hedged.

At least he wasn’t lying this time. Ivy
was
an old friend, and he couldn’t—wouldn’t—disappoint her by canceling. She’d gone to a lot of trouble to get concert tickets—Justin Timberlake at Madison Square Garden. She loved Justin Timberlake. He had to admit he liked the guy’s music too.

“And just what gender is this
friend
?” Parker asked in arched suspicion. “I wasn’t going to mention this—I’d decided it was unworthy of either one of us—but now I’m beginning to think differently. Taffy Hughes gave me a call a couple days ago.”

“Did she? How is dear old Taff?” he asked with a sarcastic edge.

Taffeta Stevenson Hughes was a catty socialite who thrived on spreading rumor and innuendo when she wasn’t otherwise occupied battling the signs of aging with her bimonthly visits to the plastic surgeon and hair colorist.

“Full of disturbing news—that’s how she is,” Parker grated. “She says she saw you.
With a blonde.
She says Daphne Price saw you too, coming out of Zabar’s last Saturday afternoon.
Laughing,
” she added, as if
laughter were a crime. “Who is she, James? Who’s this girl you’re seeing behind my back?”

“Calm down, Parker. It’s not what you think.”

“Really? Then what the hell is it?”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, held back a weary sigh. Why couldn’t people just mind their own damned business and stay out of his?

“Look, she’s a friend—,” he began.

“The one you made
arrangements
with on Saturday night, I suppose?”

“Yes, and you have nothing to worry about. There’s nothing between us, nothing romantic, that is. She’s an old family friend. I’ve known her forever.”

“Then why have I never heard of this
old family friend
?”

“Because she’s been in college. Jesus, Parker, she’s twenty years old. Do you really think I’d be involved with a twenty-year-old girl?”

When she said nothing, he knew he had her attention.

“I’ve known Ivy since she was in diapers. I used to cart her around on my shoulders for piggyback rides and take her to the zoo and the amusement park on summer vacations. I’ve been . . .”

Yes, what had he been doing exactly? And why did he suddenly feel like a philandering dog when his and Ivy’s relationship was strictly platonic?

He swallowed, abruptly uncomfortable. “I’ve been showing her around town. She’s new to the city and she’s still finding her way. There’s nothing between us, Parker. Nothing at all.”

His mood abruptly deflated, he picked up a pen and started doodling on the corner of a notepad.

“Well,” she said slowly, “I didn’t realize. I’m sorry if I misjudged, but you should have told me you’d be spending time with this . . . child.”

“I didn’t realize I would be until after you’d left. I apologize for the misunderstanding.” He flung his pen aside and ripped the piece of paper he’d been drawing on off the pad. Squeezing it into a ball inside his fist, he tossed the wad toward the waste can.

He missed.

It pinged off the wall and rolled to a stop a couple of feet away.

“Shall I come by Sunday, then? Take you to brunch at the Plaza?” he asked.

Brunch at the Plaza was a favorite of Parker’s.

Her voice warmed considerably at the invitation. “That would be lovely. I’ll be ready by ten. Maybe afterward we could take in a matinee. I understand the latest revival of
Cats
is excellent.”

By sheer force of will, he kept from groaning. Seeing
Cats
once in a lifetime was enough for him. If he lived to be 105, he’d never understand the appeal. Cats floating to heaven on a big tire while they sang—how ridiculous.

“I’ll see if I can get us seats,” he said.

“Wonderful. I’m so glad I called. I wouldn’t have wanted this . . . trouble to come between us.”

“No.”

“Oh, and don’t forget, we’ve got dinner and drinks at the Belfords’ on Friday. Fourth of July, you know.”

“Right.” He crumpled another slip of paper, tossed it the way of the first.

The Belfords were society people. Conservative, tasteful, refined. The sort his parents liked. The sort with whom he’d rubbed elbows for as long as he could remember.

Upright, uptight, and boring.

“I’ll be by to pick you up,” he said.

“All right. Be good, dear. Kisses.”

He wished her a safe trip, then hung up the phone.

He buried himself in work for the rest of the afternoon, and for once, he refused to think of Ivy.

*   *   *

James was brooding and Ivy didn’t know why.

She dug her hand into her popcorn box and ate a few kernels. Although he denied it, he’d been quiet and preoccupied ever since they’d left for the stadium.

The crack of ball against bat sounded, the Yankees’ batter racing for first. He made it easily, giving them two runners on base. It was only the second inning, early yet, so she wasn’t worried by the fact that they were down by two.

She and James had lucked into some pretty decent seats, a pair not far from the dugout. She knew James would have preferred to watch the game from the comfort of his club-level luxury suite, but she held firm in her conviction that they’d have a much better time right where they were. Their present location might lack some of the nicer amenities, such as personal concierge service and a private restroom, but it made up for it in spades with the raw natural energy
and excitement of being in the crowd, close to the players and the action.

She nudged the popcorn box toward James. He grunted, took a handful, then chewed without a word.

There was a lull in the action, so she knew his lack of response wasn’t because his attention was riveted to the game. In fact, he barely seemed to have been watching it at all.

She sighed. “James, you’re moody. What’s wrong? And don’t tell me nothing.”

He gave her a sharp look, then turned his eyes back to the field. For a moment she thought he was going to refuse to answer.

“I have a lot on my mind, that’s all,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Maybe I could help. Why don’t you try me?”

He shot her another look, an odd glint in his brilliant blue eyes. “I don’t think so,” he said, his words ringing with sarcasm.

She hid her hurt at his rebuff by watching the game, barely aware of the action even when the Yankees scored another run.

A cheer went up from the crowd.

She ate a few more pieces of popcorn, the kernels sticking in her throat. She washed them down with a long pull from her bottle of spring water as the second inning moved on to the third.

“If you didn’t want to come to the game,” she murmured, “you should have said so.”

He turned his head. “Of course I wanted to come to the game. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“Yes, and apparently having a miserable time. Is it because I insisted we sit here in the stands? We can go up to your box if you hate this so much.”

“It’s not the seating, although my legs might disagree.” His knees were jammed up against the seat in front of him. “It has nothing to do with the game.”

She watched the players prepare for the next pitch. “Then what? Have I done something wrong? Tell me and maybe I can fix it.”

He expelled a breath and angled his body toward her. “You haven’t done anything wrong, okay? It’s me. Just me.”

“Well, all right. But I don’t like to see you unhappy.” On impulse, she slipped her hand into his, threading her fingers between his much larger ones. She gave a gentle squeeze, relishing the warmth, the strength of his hand entwined with her own. “I’m always here for you, you know. I always will be, ’cause we’re friends, right?”

His expression softened, some of the hard lines easing from his face. “Yeah, that’s right, pumpkin. We’re friends.” He gave her a too-bright smile, then extracted his hand from hers as if her touch made him uncomfortable.

Her heart sank.

“Hey, you want a hot dog?” he asked in a poorly disguised attempt to change the subject. He dug into his pocket for his wallet as the hot dog vendor slowly made his way up the rows, the tangy scent of steamed, preservative-laden meat drifting in the air.

“No,” she said, “and neither do you. You never
know what’s in those things—hair and rat poop. Plus, I’ve read they give you butt cancer.”

He gave her a wry look. “Well, thanks for officially ruining hot dogs for the rest of my life. I’ll never be able to visit the steam cart up the street from my office again.”

“You don’t visit the steam cart now.”

He shot her a sideways glance, his lips twitching.

Her lips twitched back.

“Here.” She leaned down and dug into the large carryall she’d set at her feet. “I brought us some nice, healthy trail mix.”

He made a face.

“There’re dried apricots and pineapple in it, just the way you like.” She waggled a clear plastic bag full of mix at him.