The Man Plan

by Tracy Anne Warren

  “I’m sure.” Ivy spun her glass in a slow circle. “Does James entertain a lot?”

  “Oh, he has a mess of people over on occasion. Mostly business folks in for drinks and such. He usually asks me to do up canapés for those. Hires caterers for the rest, if they’re all to stay to supper. And don’t think I feel slighted lettin’ others cook, ’cause I don’t. No sense getting your back up if all it means is less work and bein’ able to go home at the regular time. A woman’s got her own family to look after too, you know.”

  “How is your family, Estella?”

  “Why, they’re wonderful. Blessed each and every one of them. My husband, Joe, has four more years and he can put in for retirement. Course, he may decide to stay on longer. Says he’d go crazy sitting around watching them talk shows all day.” She laughed. “As if he ever would. There’s just us and our youngest, Joleeta, at home these days, only one of my babies still in the nest. She’ll be finishing high school this next year. Mr. James said to tell her so long as she keeps her grades up, she’s to pick out any school she likes, any one in the country—private ones too—and he’ll foot the bill.”

  Estella lifted the corner of her printed blouse and dabbed an eye. “He’s done the same for my other three young ones, paid for whatever the scholarships wouldn’t cover. The boys are both at the University of Michigan. Darnell’s studying engineering and Clevert, well, he’s still trying to decide, but that’s okay; he’s only a sophomore. Then there’s Julia. Graduated top of her class from Tulane. She starts at Harvard Law this fall. She’s going to be a lawyer.”

  “That’s where my sister Brie went. Tell Julia to give her a call to talk about the particulars.”

  Estella’s eyes lit with pleasure. “I may just do that. Yeah, Mr. James, he’s a good man. Just wish he could find somebody special for himself. I keep telling him he needs a good woman and a bushel of babies to put a smile on his face. He tells me he’s happy just the way he is and to mind my own business. But, of course, I know better,” she added with a wink.

  Realizing Estella had just given her the perfect conversational segue, Ivy strove to make her next question sound as casual as possible. “So, is he seeing anyone these days?”

  “Hmmph.” The housekeeper stood, reached for the empty glasses. “You done, honey?”

  Ivy nodded.

  Estella crossed to the dishwasher, lowered the door. “Yeah, he’s seeing someone. If you ask me, she thinks a bit too much of herself, but I suppose she’s all right. Pretty, dark hair, dark eyes, lots of cleavage. You know how men can be, always being led around by their”—she paused, adjusting her vocabulary—“eyes.”

  “Eyes, huh?” Ivy smirked.

  “Hmm-hmm,” she hummed in a sweet singsong. “Eyes, child.”

  “What’s her name?”

  Dishes loaded, Estella closed the dishwasher door and turned, arms folded at her thick waist. “Parker Manning. Sells real estate, though from what I hear she gets most of her money from a nice fat trust fund. I can tell she wouldn’t mind having more, seeing how taken she is with all of Mr. James’s fine things every time she comes to visit. Appears she’d like to dig her nails in more permanent-like, if you ask me.”

  Alarmed, Ivy straightened. “You mean marriage?”

  “Mmm-hmm—she’d like it, anyway. Been divorced once, and she’s working hard to earn herself a new ring.”

  “How long have they been together?”

  “Oh, on about a year now, if I’m not mistaken.”

  That long? Ivy thought, her spirits lowering at the news. “What about James? How serious is he about her?”

  “Couldn’t say. Men are nothing but a mixed-up puzzle at the best of times.” Estella narrowed her shrewd black gaze. “How come you’re so all-fired interested in Mr. James’s love life anyhow, Miss Ivy?”

  Ivy blinked and glanced away. “Just curious. I’m living close by now and I . . . I care about James—always have. He’s my friend.”

  “Sure, he’s your friend. You thinking you want to be something more than just his friend? Seems I recall you always was especially partial to him.”

  Ivy lifted her chin, arched her back, and slipped on what she thought of as her “mature look.” “And what if I am? I’m twenty now, you know.”

  Estella’s lips twitched but she didn’t laugh. “That old, huh?”

  “Twenty-one come March.”

  “He’s a might-bit older than you, honey, even if you are almost twenty-one.”

  “What does that matter? Age doesn’t count where feelings are concerned.” Ivy caught Estella’s look. “At least it shouldn’t count. You think I’m wrong?”

  Estella rubbed a finger over one cheek. “No. I think you’re young and in love. And don’t you never tell your mama this, but I think you might be just the thing he needs.”

  Relieved, Ivy beamed. “I think so too. I only want to make him happy.”

  “And yourself too, I expect?”

  Ivy laughed. “It would be a nice fringe benefit.”

  Estella joined in, chuckling. “Well, you have your work cut out for you, lamb. How you plannin’ to get started?”

  Ivy pulled off her shirt to reveal the skimpy red bikini top that barely covered her firm young breasts. She struck a sultry pose. “I thought I might take advantage of the pool. What time is he expected home?”

  * * *

  James found Ivy in his pool, cutting knife-clean lines through the clear blue water. He set his briefcase on a lounge chair and turned to watch her swim.

  He’d passed Estella at the front door. “Ivy’s here,” she’d chirped as she bade him good night, a mysterious gleam in her eyes. He’d wondered at the look and the cheery tune she was humming under her breath. She’d worked for him for more than a dozen years and still there were times when the woman was a total enigma. He’d shaken his head as she closed the door behind her.

  He walked across the earth-tone Italian tiles to the pool.

  At the far end, Ivy made a neat flip and began to retrace her path. She slowed as she drew closer, gliding up to the edge, her skin beaded with water.

  “Hi,” she said.

  He gazed down. “Hi back. Having fun?”

  “Yeah.” She blew at a pair of water droplets dangling from her lashes, flashed him a welcoming smile. “The water’s great, perfect for doing laps. Swimming here will probably ruin me for any other pool, especially public ones. How will I ever force myself to swim in one again?”

  “If you’re really worried, I think there’s a Y over on West Sixty-third you can join.”

  “No, thanks.” She laughed. “I’ll take the risk of being hopelessly spoiled.” She pushed off, glided into a shallow float, soundlessly treading water. “Why don’t you come in?” she invited.

  He held his arms out at his sides, displaying his hand-tailored navy pinstripe suit, white cambric shirt, and matching tie. “I’m not dressed for swimming.”

  “You’ve got trunks upstairs. Go put them on.”

  “Can’t.” He shook his head. “I need to shower and change for dinner. I have a date tonight.”

  A barely perceptible frown passed over Ivy’s pale brows. “A quick swim, then,” she coaxed. “It’ll relax you after a long day.”

  He was tempted, the clear, translucent pool beckoning like a siren. Or perhaps it was the girl in the pool who beckoned. He liked being with Ivy. He’d known her so long he had nothing to hide, no expectations to meet, no one he had to be except himself. She was as sweet as they came. With her, he never had to wonder which she enjoyed more—being with him or his money.

  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 w
as 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.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Hi. 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.”