He tensed at mention of Madelyn, a reflex he couldn’t seem to shake even after all this time. “But you think Ivy would be willing to move into my building?” he ventured. “You don’t think she’ll feel she’s not suffering enough for her art on the Upper West Side?”
“She should be grateful not to suffer at all. Her father and I will make her see reason, at least on this. Now, tell me you think there’s hope and that you’ll help us.”
“Of course I’ll help, if I can. Let me look into things and I’ll call you tomorrow. Okay?”
“Thank you, dear. We love you, you know.”
“I love you too,” he responded, and hung up the phone.
So Ivy was turning stubborn, was she? Displaying that famous streak of Grayson obstinacy at last.
Ivy. Lord, he hadn’t seen her for . . . well, nearly two years now, he realized. Except for holidays, she’d been away at college while he’d been busy making deals and dollars in the world of international finance.
Fortunately, he thrived on the business, savoring the risk, relishing the challenge of juggling vast sums and gambling on ventures that often had as much chance of going bust as they did boom. And he’d done well for himself, and for the family, as the head of Jordan Enterprises. Since his father had handed over the company reins with a stiff handshake and a grateful sigh nearly twelve years ago, James had more than tripled their holdings.
Lately, though, he’d begun to wonder if that’s all there was to his life—work and profit. He had so much, and he was thankful for it. He tried never to take his life of privilege for granted. Yet sometimes when he awakened in the darkest black of night, an emptiness would sweep through him. A void none of the luxuries he possessed could ever fill.
A home. A family of his own. Children.
If he’d married Madelyn, they’d have those things now. . . .
But no, he refused to dwell on her. He was over Madelyn. She was in his past. He needed to focus on his future. As he knew all too well, she’d built a life for herself, found a happiness separate from him.
If only he could find a way to do the same.
The intercom buzzed. He pressed a button. “Yes?”
“Mr. Jordan, Ms. Manning is here to see you. Shall I send her in?”
Parker.
“Of course. Show her right through. Then why don’t you go on home, Tory?” he said to his assistant. “It’s getting late. You can finish up that report tomorrow.”
“Thanks. Andrew’s got soccer practice tonight, and Bill’s taking Cara to ballet. If I leave now, we can have a quick bite together before we have to run.”
“Go be with your family. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Good night.”
Moments later, the door to his office opened as Parker Manning let herself in. She made a dramatic entrance in a minidress that hugged each and every one of her lean, feminine curves. The color, a bold slash of red, accented her sleek dark hair and olive complexion. A pair of three-inch red heels, a narrow yellow wrap, and a trendy purse shaped like a lemon slice completed the ensemble.
He and Parker had been lovers now for the better part of a year. They’d met at a play, introduced by mutual acquaintances who shared an appreciation for live theater. Divorced with no children, Parker lived off a trust fund from a wealthy grandmother and dabbled in whatever amused her at any given moment.
Right now, it was real estate.
He rose from his chair and went to greet her, taking her into his arms for a warm kiss on the mouth. “I didn’t expect you tonight.”
“I decided to surprise you. I’m celebrating.” She showed him a set of well-straightened teeth. “I sold my white elephant today.”
He raised a brow. “The loft in Tribeca?”
“The very one. I’d about given up hope of ever unloading the thing, but the ideal buyer came along. A computer entrepreneur from California who didn’t bat an eyelash at the price. Just asked me where he could sign. I’ve been in heaven all day. With the commission I’ll be receiving, I decided I deserved a well-earned treat. New outfit, new hair, a complete facial and massage. I feel positively yummy. I thought you could take me out to dinner and make the evening perfect.”
He held back a sigh. He’d been looking forward to a quiet evening at home, a good book and a full night’s sleep. But she’d be disappointed if he said no. He feigned a smile. “Of course we’ll go out. And congratulations. I know how hard you worked selling that property.”
“I did, didn’t I?” she agreed as if the notion amazed even her. “You haven’t mentioned my new look.” She held her arms out at her sides and turned a slow circle. “What do you think?”
He perused her from head to toe, ending by meeting the expectant look in her wide brown eyes. “Stunning as always. But then you know you don’t need a makeover to look gorgeous. You always are.”
She smiled at the compliment.
He closed the distance between them and slid a hand down the taut flesh of one arm. “Perhaps we should forget dinner, go to my place, and celebrate in bed.”
“Aren’t you the naughty one?” She laughed and gave him a playful tap on the shoulder. “But save the thought. We’ll skip dessert and enjoy each other later instead.” She moved away, heels silent on the Aubusson rugs spread over the dark, wide-plank walnut flooring. She stopped in front of a wet bar concealed behind a clever faux niche and pushed the panel to open it. “Drink?” she asked him.
“No, thanks.” He moved in the opposite direction, stopping before the floor-to-ceiling span of glass that formed the outside wall. Beyond it lay an unimpeded view of the city. Twilight was upon them, lights beginning to wink on in the buildings opposite, creating all sorts of interesting patterns and designs.
“I don’t know how you can stand being so close like that,” she remarked. “Gives me the willies wondering if I’ll fall out.”
His lips curved but without humor. He lifted a hand, rapped his knuckles on the thick glass. “Safe enough, I think.”
“Anything wrong? You seem pensive.” Ice clinked in her crystal glass as she took a swallow of vodka and tonic.
“A little tired, nothing more. Long, busy day.”
“Then a good dinner is exactly what you need. We should go.”
“Anywhere in particular you had in mind?”
He stifled a groan when she named a trendy, hideously expensive restaurant that was always booked solid months in advance. If he twisted an arm or two and greased the right palms, he might be able to find them a table for the last seating.
“All right. Let me make some calls.”
* * *
A grunt, followed by a curse, drew Ivy’s attention away from the kitchen linens she was unpacking. She watched as her friend Neil Jones muscled a huge packing box through the doorway of her new apartment.
“I think this is the last of them,” he huffed. He struggled a few more feet, then let the box slide to the floor. “I lost Josh somewhere behind me,” he panted, beads of sweat dotting his tanned forehead, dampening his short, sun-streaked brown hair.
She set her hands on her hips. “I wish you guys would have let me help.”
“You helped. You lugged up your clothes and a few of the lighter boxes. Believe me, cupcake, you wouldn’t have been able to manage these last few.”
She wasn’t entirely sure about that—she was pretty strong for a woman—but male pride could be a delicate thing, so she didn’t argue. It’s why she hadn’t hired professional movers. Neil and his friend Josh had offered to help her move, and she hadn’t wanted to offend by refusing. Neil in particular took affront at paying anyone a thousand dollars for a few hours’ work.
“How come you’ve got so much stuff?”
“It’s from my mother,” she said. “She wants me to be comfortable.”
He snorted. “I don’t see how you could you be anything but comfortable in a swanky place like this.”
He was right. A twinge of embarrassment went through her as she su
rveyed the space. The ocean of plush cream wall-to-wall carpeting, the gleaming cherry woodwork and cabinetry, the crown molding coated with fresh glossy white paint, and the wide windows with their elegant view of Central Park. In addition to the living room, the apartment boasted a spacious bedroom, full kitchen, fireplace, one and a half baths, and a bonus room she planned to use as her art studio.
Perhaps she should have stuck to her principles and refused to give in to her parents’ wishes. She’d been all set to share Neil, Josh, and Fred’s modest apartment in Bushwick. She might have grown up in wealth, but she wasn’t a pantywaist or a snob.
Then her folks had to go and tempt her.
Oh, not with the obvious lures—a luxury apartment in Manhattan, the chance to paint full-time and not worry about finding a job, the free rent. No, they’d reeled her in with a far more insidious temptation. Though to be fair, she knew they had no idea that’s what they were doing. They’d persuaded her with the most compelling enticement of all—the chance to live only seven floors down from James Jordan, the man she’d loved as long as she could remember.
At least she thought she still loved him.
She’d scarcely seen him these past few years, his long-ago breakup with her sister having driven an awkward wedge between him and her family. Still, they’d traded presents and postcards and phone calls during that time. And he’d never really been more than a glimpse away, his handsome, patrician features smiling dependably out at her from the photograph of him she kept on her nightstand.
James.
Her nerves hummed at the thought of him.
What would it be like, seeing him again?
How would she feel?
How would he feel?
Would she want him with the same intensity? The same desperate yearning that had consumed her for nearly the whole of her life? Or would time and distance and newfound maturity have altered her perceptions, her emotions?
Would she meet him again and be chagrined to discover her devotion was nothing more than an illusion? A faded crush? Or would she see him and experience once more the old breathless thrill? Know, as she always had, that he was the one for her?
Moving to New York was her chance to find out. Her opportunity to explore her emotions and to act upon them if she found her feelings unchanged.
“What in the hell’ve you been doing, man?”
Neil’s question ended her reverie. Josh Moran was shouldering his way through the front doorway, the muscles in his arms bulging from the weighty carton he carried. Tall and stocky, his auburn hair trailed in a neat ponytail halfway down his back. “Where’s this go, Ivy?”
She rushed over to check the top. Books was scrawled in black felt-tip marker across the cardboard. But what kind of books? she wondered. After three years of college, she’d collected a lot of them, from cheap paperbacks to fine-art first editions.
“Living room!” she decided.
As he headed in that direction, Neil followed close behind.
“So, where’d you disappear to, man?”
His burden unloaded, Josh dropped down onto the L-shaped navy blue sofa that dominated the space. “I didn’t disappear anywhere.”
“Then where’ve you been?” Neil persisted.
“I was thirsty. I stopped at the water fountain for a drink and missed the elevator.”
“It took you ten minutes to get a drink of water? You’ve been smoking again, haven’t you?”
Josh bristled. “No, I haven’t been smoking. I’ve got this damned patch on, haven’t I?” He yanked up the short sleeve of his shirt, flashed it at Neil. “You’re not supposed to smoke if you’re wearing the patch.”
“What’s that mint scent, then? Smells like breath spray.”
“It’s not breath spray,” Josh said in a hard voice. “Must be the Tic Tac you smell. The one you shoved up your butt alongside the stick you’ve already got in there.”
“Hey, guys,” Ivy said, stepping between the squabbling pair. “Take it easy. It’s been a long day and you’re both tired.”
“If you’ve been smoking again—,” Neil warned, shaking a finger.
Josh bared his teeth. “You’ll what?”
“Please, enough. I’m sure Josh only took a few extra minutes to catch his second wind. And, Neil, you probably smell the mouthwash I used last time I was in the bathroom. Don’t fight, guys, hmm?”
Neil retreated a step, stuck his hands into his jeans pockets, and ducked his head. “Sorry, Ivy.”
“Yeah, sorry,” Josh said. “Not smoking is making my fuse kind of short today.”
She waved aside the apologies, already accepted. “You guys must be hungry. I know I am. There’s a market a block over. How about I run over and bring back sandwich fixings?”
“Sounds great, but we can’t stay.” Neil checked his watch. “The rental truck has to be back by seven, and the Prince of Pop here has a late gig at the club tonight. Don’t mean to leave you in the lurch, cupcake, but we have to bounce. Will you be okay?”
Deflated but determined not to show it, Ivy pasted on a wide smile. “Of course I’ll be okay. The building couldn’t be more secure, the neighborhood’s great, and God knows I’ve got plenty to keep me busy.” She gestured toward the mass of packing boxes.
“You’re right about that, but it’s not what I mean. Will you be okay alone?”
She smiled, touched. “Yes, I’ll be fine. I have been by myself before, you know.”
“Yeah, but being alone and living alone are two different things. I’ll call you tomorrow, see how your first night went.”
“I’ll be waiting by the phone,” she promised with a grin. “Now, you two get going before I make you late.” She gave Neil a fierce hug, then Josh, who’d risen from the sofa to join them. “Thank you, thank you, both of you.”
“I’m still pissed you aren’t moving in with us,” Josh grumbled. “Don’t be a stranger. Drop by the club some night. I’ll make sure you get a front-row seat.”
“And we’ll have lunch,” Neil offered. “I’ll tell you all about the latest cattle call my manager sent me on. Little Shop of Horrorsville.”
She laughed.
The moment they were gone, a thick hush descended on the apartment. She’d never lived alone before. It was scary. . . . No, it was exciting. She would make it an adventure, she decided.
Forcing herself not to mope, she marched into the kitchen and keyed open a music app on her tablet. Humming along to a tune, she dug into a box and got to work.
* * *
“Good evening, sir.” The doorman held open the front door, looking resplendent in his black uniform. His steel gray hair and crisp British accent lent him even greater distinction.
“Good evening, Barton,” James said. “I hope you had a pleasant day.”
“Yes, very pleasant. Thank you for asking, sir.”
“Did Miss Grayson get moved in?”
Barton smiled. “Indeed, yes, she did. Some friends of hers helped with her belongings. She seems a delightful young woman, a very welcome addition to the building.”
James nodded. “Ivy’s a special girl.”
Once inside the elevator, James punched the button for the fifteenth floor instead of inserting his passkey and going directly to his penthouse. Since he owned the building and had made the arrangements for Ivy’s move, he knew exactly which apartment was hers.
It will be nice to see her again, he mused.
Two years ago Christmas, that’s how long it had been since he’d stood in the same room with Ivy. He’d accepted her parents’ long-standing invitation that year because her sister Madelyn, and Zack Douglas—the man she’d jilted him for and then married—had been absent from the family festivities. They’d been visiting Douglas’s sister for the holidays or some such.
Ivy had been there with a date, a thoroughly smitten college boy whose brown eyes had followed her every move, who’d wanted only to please her. Just as James had predicted, she’d outgrown her childish adorat
ion of him, her anguished lovesick proposal to him all those years ago nothing but a faint memory.
The elevator came to a halt with a soft ding, and he stepped out. He walked briskly down the well-lit hallway. The walls were a crisp, light blue, the carpet a tidy gray. Her apartment was all the way down on the left—a cozy end unit.
Reggae music throbbed like an aching tooth, reaching his ears long before he neared her door, which was propped wide with a packing box. More boxes were stacked inside, piles of them ranged in every direction.
He peered inside, rapped his knuckles on the door. “Ivy?”
No answer.
He moved inside, called again. “Ivy, are you here?”
He stopped and set his briefcase on the floor beside the living room sofa.
But there was no sign of her, only the beating rhythm that grew louder the farther into the apartment he went. He followed the noise, walking down a hallway and past a guest bath to the bedroom. He stopped in the doorway, his eyes widening at the sight that greeted him.
Snugged into a pair of tight plaid cotton shorts, a woman stood bent over a huge cardboard clothing wardrobe. The entire top half of her body was concealed beneath masses of hanger-hung clothes as she quite obviously searched for something on the bottom of the box.
Friend of Ivy’s?
A grin of pure male appreciation spread across his lips.
What a pair of legs. He whistled silently.
They were smooth and golden with a supple length that went up—all the way up. And her rear end, it was trim but softly curved, lush.
He tucked his suddenly itchy palms into his pockets and reminded himself to act like a gentleman. Still, gentleman or not, it didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the show.
He watched as her backside did a provocative dance, wiggling up and down, side to side, as she strained to reach whatever it was that eluded her.
The Man Plan Page 2