The Man Plan Read online

  “Good night, Tory.”

  “Good night, James.”

  He continued working after she’d gone, after the outer office lights had been dimmed and the only sound in the corridors was the distant droning hum of a vacuum cleaner being used by one of the night cleaning crew.

  He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, then laid down his pen. He watched it roll across his desk and come to a stop against his empty coffee cup.

  I have to quit thinking about her.

  For weeks now Ivy’d filled his mind, his life. First with her vibrant, unpredictable presence, sweeping in like a warm wind to stir up his carefully arranged—albeit mildly tedious—existence. Spreading laughter and sunshine in her wake, beauty and surprise. And passion. She’d brought that to him as well. A pure, unjaded want that for those few brief hours had made the world go away.

  But then it had been over, leaving a void inside him he didn’t understand and hadn’t anticipated. He’d known her her whole life, and yet suddenly he no longer seemed to know her at all.

  Who was this girl who made him smile? This woman who turned him inside out and upside down?

  Was Madelyn right? Did he love Ivy?

  Ever since Madelyn had made the suggestion, he’d been unable to get her words out of his head. They’d been there, whizzing around like pinballs, setting off bells and whistles and alarms all over the place.

  He still wanted Ivy; he knew that.

  Even after all this time, he had dreams. Hot, sweaty, aching dreams that plagued him day and night. It was one of the reasons he’d crashed here on his office sofa last night. He hadn’t wanted to face another night alone, lying in his bed where she’d once slept.

  Dear God, maybe I really do love her.

  The idea shot a tremor straight through him.

  And if I do love her, then what?

  She claimed to love him.

  Maybe he should see where it took them despite all the obstacles in the way.

  Do something impulsive this weekend.

  Tory’s words echoed in his ears.

  Impulsive, hmm?

  What would Ivy think of Paris?

  If they left by eleven, his jet could have the two of them there in time to watch the sunrise crest over the Seine. They’d find a quiet patisserie and breakfast on delicate brioches and fresh, warm croissants with butter and jam and cups of steaming café au lait. Then he’d show her the city as she’d never seen it before.

  He reached out to turn off his computer, then dialed a phone number before he had enough time to change his mind.

  * * *

  He rapped his fist on the door to apartment 419. While he waited for an answer, he eyed the quarter-sized spot of brown paint that had worn away beneath the pitted chrome knocker.

  “They’re all out tonight.”

  He swiveled his head toward the Queens drawl.

  A lanky blonde with a pair of the longest legs he’d ever seen exited the apartment across the hall. She yanked her door closed with a hard slam, then jiggled the key in the lock until the bolt finally slid home with an audible click.

  She turned, rolled her gray eyes, and gave him a wry smile. “I’ve complained about this lock a hundred times. Do they fix it? Of course not.” She opened her purse, dropped the keys inside. “Who’re you lookin’ for?” She angled her head toward 419.

  “Ivy. Ivy Grayson. Do you know her?”

  “Sure, I know her. I know all my neighbors.” Eyes alert, she gave him a quick once-over from head to toe. “You aren’t her brother, are you?”

  His jaw firmed. “No. I’m not her brother.”

  “I just thought . . . both of you being so blond and all.”

  “Ivy and I, we’re . . . old friends,” he explained, seeing her curiosity. He held out his hand. “James Jordan.”

  “Lulu Lancaster. A pleasure.” She smiled broadly, taking the hand he offered. “Ivy sure has some nice taste in friends. Attractive, well dressed, and polite. We don’t see much of that around here. Though we don’t see many classy girls like Ivy around here either. She’s a sweetheart.”

  “Yes, Ivy’s one of a kind. You wouldn’t happen to know where she’s gone this evening, would you? Or when she might be planning to return?”

  “Hmm, not sure. She had a date. I know that. No telling where they went. She probably won’t be home for hours, if at all, if you know what I mean,” she finished on a wink.

  “A date?” One hand squeezed into a fist at his side.

  “Yeah. Some guy she’s been seeing for the past couple weeks. I can never remember his name.” She waggled a finger in the air as she thought. “Kirk, Karl, something like that, something with a K. He’s an artist.”

  His gut squeezed, hard and sick. “Is he?”

  “Neil introduced them at this coffeehouse where he and Josh hang. Ivy really seems to have hit it off with the guy. They talk art, old masters and all that boring la-la stuff. You should hear them. Very intense—brushstroke this, contrast that. I listen for five minutes and my eyes begin to roll to the back of my head.”

  She flexed a foot, displaying a long, shapely leg. “I’m more physical. Dancing’s my passion.”

  He stood silently, her words ringing in his ears.

  Ivy was on a date.

  Ivy was seeing another man.

  “Hey, you don’t look so good all of a sudden.” Lulu stepped closer, tipped her head back for a better angle. “Are you okay?”

  He gathered his grim emotions around himself like a heavy coat. “I’m fine. I need to get going.” He turned away.

  “I’ll tell Ivy you stopped by,” she called after him.

  His footsteps slowed. He tossed her a last look. “No. No need. My visit wasn’t important. Nice to have met you, Lulu.”

  She nodded, a troubled frown on her brow. “Yeah, back at ya.”

  He took the stairs at breakneck speed; he couldn’t wait to get out of there.

  Reaching the bottom floor, he pushed outside into the warm, muggy night air. A cat yowled, spooked by his abrupt exit. It darted away on quick, silent paws, disappeared around the corner.

  A couple, arms looped around each other’s waists, strolled around him where he stood in the middle of the sidewalk. He barely noticed their intimate murmurings as they continued on.

  So, he’d been right.

  A little more than a month and already she’d found someone new. Kirk or Karl from the coffeehouse, who shared a common interest in art and who knows what else.

  Twentysomething, no doubt. Handsome. Charming and penniless as well.

  But Ivy wouldn’t care about that. She’d never cared about money, never been impressed by it the way so many others were. That’s one thing he’d always found so refreshing about her; she didn’t like him for his money.

  She said she loved me.

  Obviously, once she’d moved away, had a chance to rethink her feelings for him, she’d realized her mistake.

  A crush, just as he’d figured.

  What an idiot he was, believing even for a second that there could have been something real and lasting between them. Thank God she hadn’t been there tonight. Thank God he hadn’t had a chance to tell her his plans, reveal his newfound feelings, his ridiculous dreams.

  Well, those dreams were dead. His feelings, he knew, would take a bit longer to erase.

  He walked to his black Mercedes parked at the curb. He turned off the alarm, clicked open the locks, and climbed inside. He sat for a moment, then dialed a number on the car phone.

  “Yes, this is Jordan. I ordered the jet for this evening. My plans have changed. I won’t be needing it after all.”

  * * *

  Ivy tapped discreetly on the dressing room door. “How are you doing? Is the pant combination working out better than the dress?”

  “Hmm. I believe it is.”

  The hinged three-quarter door opened from the inside, and Ivy took a look at her customer, an energetic, chestnut-haired mother of two. She had sma
ll breasts, broad hips, and a no-nonsense attitude that defied anyone to hold her figure flaws against her.

  The woman had come into the shop needing something for a party—her party—being hosted in honor of her forty-fifth birthday, which was due to arrive in six days, whether, she’d told Ivy with a mock growl, she liked it or not.

  Relaxed yet stylish with just enough kick to make it fun. Dramatic but not outrageous, that’s the sort of outfit the client, Rhonda, had told Ivy she was looking for.

  So far they’d been through ten outfits.

  This was the eleventh.

  Rhonda turned in a slow circle, showing off the long-sleeved organza blouse with ruffled collar and cuffs. The material was dyed in feminine swirls of apricot and pink, the wide-legged trousers cut and colored to match in the palest of peach. “What do you think?”

  “It’s not what I think that’s important,” Ivy said. “How do you feel in the outfit? Does it make you feel pretty?”

  “No, no. I’m not saying a word until you give me your unbiased reaction.”

  She met Rhonda’s inquiring brown eyes. “I think it’s smashing. Honestly.”

  “You don’t think the ruffles are too much?”

  “On anyone else, yes. On you, no way. The cut of the blouse is just right, emphasizing your shoulders and drawing attention to your face. While the pants show off your height and slim your hips. If you didn’t have the confidence to carry it off, I would never have suggested it.”

  Rhonda grinned like a schoolgirl sharing secrets with her BFF. “This is the one. The material’s so soft and the color’s to die for. When you brought it in, I nearly laughed and sent it back. But you were right. It’s exactly what I need for my party. You’re a miracle worker, Ivy.”

  She dismissed the notion with a hand. “Just glad we had what you wanted.”

  Rhonda pivoted for another look in the set of full-length mirrors. “You have a real eye for design and especially for color. Brilliant.”

  “Probably a by-product of my art training.”

  Rhonda cocked her head. “Art training? What sort of art?”

  “Oh, painting, drawing. I studied in college. That’s my real passion. I’m working here until I can get my art career going.”

  “Have you tried at any of the galleries?”

  “A few. No luck yet.”

  “Well, it’s a tough profession. Even the great ones struggle at first.”

  Ivy nodded. “Yes. Well, I’ll wait for you out front, unless there’s something else you’d like to try on?”

  Rhonda flipped over the price tag. “No, this will do more than enough damage for one day.”

  Ivy gathered an armful of rejected clothes from the hooks in the dressing room, then left Rhonda to change.

  Her conversation with the other woman had her feeling abruptly disheartened. She was having a hard time lately buoying her spirits even with Neil’s determined campaign to keep her busy and active. She had him to thank for a new friend and confidant though, fellow artist Kip Zahn.

  He was a sculptor by choice, waiter by necessity. She and Kip had been drawn toward each other by common interests and backgrounds. The youngest son of two distinguished West Coast attorneys, he’d also traded privilege and comfort for a chance to prove himself and succeed at his dream on his own terms.

  With less than a semester to go, he’d abandoned college and the career in law his parents had wanted for him. And just like Ivy, he was nursing a bruised and bleeding heart; the girl he loved had been unwilling to leave her old life behind to start a new one with him.

  He’d taken Ivy out to dinner and a movie the other night as a kind of thank-you. She was posing for him, her modesty protected by a cleverly draped sheet. Easy as it might seem to find willing models here in the city, the professional ones wanted to be paid, and Kip’s job barely covered his rent. Taking pity, she’d agreed to help him out—no charge.

  During their sessions, they talked. About art. About life and philosophy. About the miserable state of their love lives.

  She hadn’t heard from James in nearly a month, despite Neil’s hopeful prediction that he’d come to his senses and admit he couldn’t live without her.

  She was beginning to fear he could live without her just fine.

  She’d considered throwing herself at him again, but what was the use? She’d only end up humiliating them both. Then again, what was the point of pride where love was at stake?

  “I’m ready,” Rhonda sang out, handing her purchase and platinum card to Ivy.

  They chatted casually while Ivy rang up the sale. She slipped the garments into a protective plastic bag, turned to hand them over to her client.

  Rhonda extended a small white business card. “I have a little place on Thompson Street you might find interesting,” she said. “I’m not usually in the habit of doing this sort of thing, but I see possibilities in you, Ivy. No guarantees, but give me a call. We’ll see what develops.”

  Ivy accepted the card, mildly perplexed.

  Before she had time to look at it, another customer drew her attention. She tucked the card inside her pocket and promptly forgot all about it.

  On break nearly two hours later, she relaxed in a chair in the back room, sipped an iced tea, and rested her weary feet. Only then did she remember the card.

  She pulled it from her pocket and read:

  West Galleries

  Thompson Street, SoHo, NYC

  Rhonda West, Proprietor

  Rhonda West?

  Her mouth dropped open, eyes wide. Everyone in the Western world—or at least in the art world—had heard of Rhonda West and West Galleries. Some of the finest artists working today exhibited their work in her gallery.

  She had a little place, she’d said. Some little place!

  My God, Pantsuit Rhonda was Rhonda West? She couldn’t believe she hadn’t put two and two together and recognized her name from her credit card.

  And Rhonda had told her to give her a call.

  Her heart thundered like a storm inside her chest.

  Smoothing out the card with trembling fingers, she stared at it again to make certain it was real.

  She had an interview with the owner of one of the top galleries in New York.

  Maybe sometimes miracles did come true.

  * * *

  “Good evening, sir. How are you this evening?”

  James strode up the sidewalk to his building, briefcase in hand. He gave a friendly nod to the familiar gray-haired gentleman who held open the door with the dignity worthy of royalty.

  “I’m well. And you, Barton? Pleasant day?”

  “Very pleasant, sir. Particularly so since Miss Grayson arrived.”

  “Miss Grayson? You mean Ivy’s here?” he blurted before he had time to think.

  “Yes. She went up about twenty minutes ago. I presumed you were expecting her.”

  He wiped the emotion from his face, struggled to conceal the sudden leaping of his nerves. “Of course. She’s earlier than I’d planned, that’s all.”

  What was she doing here? he wondered as he continued into the building and onto the elevator.

  The delicious murmur of her voice came to him the moment he opened the door. He let it wash over him, sweet as a warm spring rain. He listened for a few moments more before he set down his briefcase and forced himself to move forward into the living room, where she was in conversation with Estella.

  “. . . and that’s exactly what he got,” Estella said. “Two cents.”

  Ivy was chuckling when he entered the room, a gentle smile limning her pink lips.

  “Good evening, ladies,” he said, striding toward them across an expanse of polished hardwood.

  Ivy’s head swung his way, her pretty eyes lighting with pleasure. “James.”

  The sound of his name on her lips slid over him like a caress. The sight of her long feminine form curled on his sofa, a blow to his senses. Through sheer force of will, he kept his features even, in no way revea
ling the longing that rose within him.

  “You didn’t mention you’d be stopping by,” he remarked, his tone deliberately casual.

  “I didn’t know I would be,” Ivy replied.

  “She’s got news,” Estella said, her excitement palpable.

  James switched his attention to the older woman. “I thought you’d be finished for the day by now.”

  “I am, but I couldn’t run off without visiting with Miss Ivy.” She flapped a hand and teased. “Don’t worry. I won’t charge you any overtime.”

  He snorted softly in reply, crossed to the wet bar on the far side of the room, and reached for the bourbon decanter.

  “Go on, child,” Estella urged after a pronounced silence. “Tell him your news.”

  “Yes.” He turned, drink in hand. “Tell me your news.”

  Ivy rose from the couch to face him, dismayed by the hard undertone in his voice.

  She’d been so happy this afternoon, so over the moon with excitement, that she hadn’t stopped to think. She’d wanted to share her achievement, reveal her triumph to someone who mattered.

  Of course, he’d been the first person she’d thought of.

  When she’d received the offer, it had been early afternoon. She’d considered surprising him at his office but worried he might be too busy to celebrate properly. So she’d come here to his penthouse to wait.

  But now, as she looked at him across the room, she wondered if she’d made a mistake. He looked . . . cold, remote. She’d known him her entire life, yet suddenly he seemed like a stranger. His eyes were so flat and blue.

  His look made her want to shiver.

  She shuffled her feet. “This woman came into Reflections the other day, you know, the shop where I work.”

  “I know where you work.”

  “She wanted an outfit for a party. I helped her.”

  James rattled the ice cubes in his glass, downed a half inch of the contents as if he were already bored.

  She lifted her chin, pressed on. “She was very nice, and as we chatted, my art came up in the conversation. Turns out she’s Rhonda West.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Of West Galleries?”

  That caught your attention, didn’t it? she thought.

  “The very same,” she continued. “She gave me her card, told me to call her. Well, I did; then I did better. She took a look at my portfolio today, at least what I have finished of it, and she loves it. She said she rarely accepts representational art, but she’s giving me a show. It’s not solo. I’ll be exhibiting with three other artists, but still it’s a great opportunity.”