The Man Plan Read online

Dishes in hand, she headed down the hallway to the kitchen.

  Knowing when he was beaten, James picked up a pair of hors d’oeuvre trays and followed her.

  He could count on one hand the number of times he’d done dishes. But with Ivy at his side, he found the process strangely enjoyable. He washed while she dried. Neither of them hurried, savoring the simple chore and the brief time together.

  They were nearly finished, counters wiped clean, dishwasher loaded, when James reached for one remaining glass.

  The goblet slipped in his wet hand, then tumbled to the floor. The delicate crystal shattered, jagged pieces flying everywhere.

  Instinctively, Ivy jumped out of the way to avoid the sharp fragments.

  “Are you all right?” he demanded, his voice harsh with concern.

  “Yeah. What about you?”

  “Fine.” He waved off her worry, then crouched down to pick up the pieces.

  “Hey, don’t do that,” she cautioned. “Let me get the vacuum.”

  Ignoring her, he began to stack a few of the larger shards off to one side. He hissed as he misjudged a piece, a ruby-colored line of blood beading across his palm.

  “Oh God, look what you’ve done.” She rushed forward, glass crunching under her shoes. “How badly have you cut yourself?” She grabbed a dish towel from the countertop and gently pressed it to the wound. She pulled the cloth away moments later to check the cut.

  “It doesn’t look too deep,” she murmured. “Still, you might need stitches.” Fresh blood welled into the gash. She wrapped the cloth around his palm again, vivid splotches blossoming on the material. “Maybe we should take you to the emergency room.”

  “I don’t need the emergency room. It’s nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing. You’re hurt.”

  “A little cut. I’ll recover. All I need is a Band-Aid.” He laid his other hand over hers. “Ivy, I’ll be fine.”

  Her lips tightened, clearly irritated by his male obstinacy. “Are there any bandages here in the kitchen?”

  “I don’t think so. I have a box in my medicine cabinet upstairs.”

  “Then let’s go find one before you bleed to death.”

  “In a minute. Let me finish cleaning up this broken glass first.”

  “The glass can wait,” she said, glaring at him. “That cut on your hand can’t.”

  She took hold of his uninjured hand and pulled him along behind her. She paused on the kitchen threshold to step out of her shoes, indicated to James that he should do the same.

  “We’ll leave our shoes here so we won’t track any glass,” she explained.

  He tossed her a look, wondering when she’d gotten so bossy. Deciding it wasn’t worth fighting over, he did as he was told. She led him upstairs into the cool tiled expanse of his spacious bathroom.

  “Sit,” she ordered, motioning him toward a chair near the bath’s one window, blinds closed against the night.

  Obediently, he sat.

  She rummaged in the medicine cabinet, found the bandages, then opened a pair of drawers on either side of the sink to gather cotton balls, ointment, and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide.

  “Put that stuff away,” he complained, gesturing toward the peroxide. “It stings.”

  “Don’t turn crybaby on me now.” She set her supplies on the counter next to him. “You’re the one who vetoed any real medical attention, and this’ll keep out an infection. Now, let me see your hand.”

  “Won’t soap and water do?”

  “No.” She pinned him with a stern eyebrow.

  Reluctantly, he offered his hand. Her touch gentle, she unwound the bloodstained cloth and inspected the cut.

  “The bleeding’s stopped at least. I still think you could use a stitch or two, but if you want to risk a scar, that’s your choice.”

  She reached for the antiseptic, soaked a trio of cotton balls, then pressed them to the cut.

  He sucked in his breath. “Jesus Christ, that stings.”

  “It’ll feel better in a minute,” she soothed, continuing to clean the wound.

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “Hey, I’ve had my share of cuts and scrapes over the years. I know how it feels.” She tossed the last bloodied cotton ball into the trash, then bent closer to inspect the gash on his hand.

  He jolted in surprise when she stroked a fingertip across his palm just beneath the cut. Mesmerized, he sat statue still as she raised his hand and blew a cooling line of air across the wound.

  His belly muscles tightened, desire flaring to life. His hand trembled in hers.

  “Better?” she murmured.

  Hardly, he thought, though he had to admit the cut didn’t hurt anymore. He’d practically forgotten it was there.

  Long moments ticked past. Slowly, she glanced up and met his eyes.

  The power of her gaze struck him like a fierce wave crashing to shore, sweeping him in and under. All the longing, all the pent-up need inside him rushed to the surface, demanding to break free.

  Suddenly he could be silent no more. “Do you love him?” he asked, his voice rough.

  Her eyebrows rose in obvious surprise. “Love who?”

  “That guy, that Kip,” he spat. “The one you’ve been seeing.”

  “Is that what you think?” she murmured.

  “What else am I supposed to think?” He swallowed past the lump in his throat, lowered his eyes to their still-joined hands. “Well, do you?”

  She sank to her knees before him. “No. He’s my friend, nothing more.”

  “Not your lover?” he asked, the question all but wrenched from him.

  She shook her head. “You’re my only lover.”

  Reaching up, she stroked her palm, soft and smooth, over his cheek. His eyelids lowered to half-mast, her touch radiating all the way to his toes. “I want no one else,” she said.

  He whispered her name, murmuring it like a prayer. He bent to kiss her, but she stopped him with a hand.

  “What about her?” she asked.

  “Who?”

  “Parker.”

  He curled a finger beneath her chin. “There’s nothing between Parker and me, not anymore.” He brushed a thumb across her cheekbone and confessed. “There’s been no one since you. How could there be when you’re the only woman I want?”

  “Oh, James.” She wrapped her slender arms around his neck. “I thought . . .”

  “What did you think?”

  “That you were back with her. That you realized you were completely, totally over me.”

  His mouth twisted in irony. “Then it would seem we’re both damned good at fooling each other these days. It’s been hell without you, Ivy, pure hell.”

  She pressed her mouth to his, her yearning caress one of wonder, relief, and delight. The contact sent sparks whirling between them.

  He tugged her up into his lap, took the kiss deeper. He breathed her in, losing himself in the scent and texture of her skin, the honeyed flavor of her lips on his.

  “I love you,” she whispered on a shivery sigh.

  His heart caught inside his chest. Until that moment, he hadn’t realized how much he wanted, even needed, to hear those words, sentiments he’d once distrusted and dismissed. Could he trust them now? Did she truly love him? Would she, now and forever?

  He leaned his forehead against hers. “Tell me again.”

  “I love you.”

  He kissed her gently, tenderly. “Oh, Ivy, what is it that you do to me?”

  “The same thing you do to me.” She skimmed her mouth along his jawline.

  “I’ve tried to fight these feelings for you, but it’s just no use. I can’t get you out of my head. Or my heart. I love you, Ivy. So much sometimes it frightens me.”

  She smiled, joy spreading inside her eyes like a brilliant sunrise. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited to hear you say that. Sometimes I despaired you ever would. But don’t be afraid. Not of this, not of me, not ever of love.”

  He kiss
ed her again, unwilling to wait even a second longer to claim what he’d been so long without. He tangled his fingers in her hair as she tightened her arms around him, returned his kiss with a fervor that sent hot blood rushing through him.

  He reached for the zipper on her dress. “Ouch,” he said, fresh pain from the cut stabbing through his palm.

  “Oh no, your hand . . .” Ivy pulled away. “Is it bleeding again?”

  “I don’t know.” He didn’t much care, either. All he cared about was getting her out of her clothes. He settled his mouth on her neck, trailing a line of kisses over her satiny skin.

  “Let me see.” She reached around, caught hold of his arm. She cradled his palm to her breast. “Oh, it is bleeding.” She snatched a few tissues from a nearby box, pressed them against the cut.

  He leaned over to steal another kiss.

  She pulled away after a quick peck. “Stop it, James. Let me take care of your hand.”

  “You can take care of it later. Right now we have more important things to do.” He located her zipper tab, grasped it with his good hand, and slid it home, straight to the base of her spine. The dress sagged around her shoulders, exposing her breasts, clad in sheer, lacy white cups. He buried his face against them, breathed in her scent.

  He groaned in frustration when she pulled away, climbed off his lap.

  “There’s no need to rush,” she said, letting the dress slide into a pool at her feet. “We have all night.” She leaned forward, feathered a kiss over his lips, against his cheek. “I’m not going anywhere, I promise. Now, why don’t you relax and let me take care of everything?”

  “Everything, hmm?”

  She reached for the box of bandages, an irrepressible gleam in her eyes. “That’s right. Everything.”

  Considering the possibilities, he extended his palm. “When you put it that way, how can I refuse?”

  In bra and panties, she bandaged his cut, unaware of the incredibly sexy picture she made.

  When she finished, she tidied the countertop, rinsed and dried her hands, then turned to him. “Come along.”

  She led him into the bedroom, over to his wide, king-sized bed. She pushed him down on the mattress, where he landed with a slight bounce.

  “No using your injured hand,” she warned. “Let me take care of you.”

  Ivy stepped between his legs, then reached out to undo the buttons on his shirt. She watched his eyes darken.

  A shiver of anticipation slid through her, turning her molten inside.

  He loved her. He wanted her.

  Tonight was everything she’d waited for and more. And whatever difficulties might lie ahead, she knew they would weather them together.

  She pushed his shirt off his shoulders, unfastened his cuffs, and eased the garment free, careful of the cut on his hand. His eyes closed as she glided her hands over his exposed flesh, his body acquiescent beneath her touch. Powerful, masculine, he could have taken over their lovemaking in an instant, controlled every nuance and sensation. Instead he gave himself to her, and she reveled in the gift of his trust.

  She leaned down and kissed his neck, using her lips and tongue to learn its shape. Pressing her mouth to the hollow of his throat, she swirled her tongue over the spot in a way that made him quiver.

  Taking her time, she worked her way downward, scattering licks and kisses across his firm chest. She gazed up at him to take in his strong, beautiful face, taut with arousal.

  Her long hair slid over his knees as she bent to remove his socks. He reached down with his good hand and threaded it into her tresses to massage her scalp. She shivered, loving the way he touched her.

  Her eyes lowered, landed between his legs. Suddenly some of her bold nerve deserted her as she stared back up at his belt buckle. Her fingers trembled as she began to reach for the metal clasp.

  He reached down and with one hand pulled her to her feet.

  “Enough, Ivy,” he murmured, clasping her around the waist.

  Falling onto his back, he tumbled her across him, then crushed her mouth to his. She yielded with a heady sigh, all thoughts and inhibitions floating away on a wave of delight.

  They helped each other finish undressing. Her bra and panties found their way to the floor, his trousers and boxers tossed after.

  They twined together, sharing ravenous, open-mouthed kisses, touches that scalded skin and singed nerves.

  Using only his mouth and his one good hand, he soon had her writhing beneath him. She clutched the sheets as he brought her to the edge. Panting, heat pouring through her like a furnace, she was lost as he sent her over with a kiss to her core that was as shocking as it was profound. She cried out, eyelids fluttering as the earth rose up, then crashed down around her.

  She reached for him, half delirious as she pulled him up and over her. Unlike their first time together, when he thrust inside, there was no pain. Only a raw, exquisite need.

  Matching him, move for move, she gave as he gave, took as he took, reveling in their shared closeness, knowing this time he felt each moment with not only his body but his heart.

  He brought her to climax twice more, leaving her sobbing from the power of her final release.

  When he took his own satisfaction, he shouted out her name, shouted out his love for her.

  Afterward, he buried his face in her neck, warm and replete as he murmured sweet endearments in her ear.

  Happy, so happy, she cradled him to her and murmured back.

  * * *

  James woke at dawn with Ivy touching him like a siren bent on enslaving his soul. Fully aroused, his body was hard and hot, aching for release, as her mouth and hands ranged over him. Silken, savage, seemingly everywhere at once. He moaned and shifted against the sheets as he reached for her.

  She eluded him, bending low to do something thoroughly wicked with her teeth and tongue. He moaned again and willed his body not to explode, not just yet anyway. He stretched his arms up over his head, linked his fingers together on the pillow, and fought for control.

  She rose, straddling his hips. Her long hair brushed his chest, his face, as she leaned over and locked her mouth on his to share a deep, wet, penetrating kiss.

  “Good morning,” she purred. “Are you awake?”

  “God, yes,” he groaned.

  She laughed, then kissed him again until his brain heated to the consistency of mush. He began to lower his arms, eager to touch her, but she stopped him, her soft fingers encircling his wrists.

  “Don’t move,” she whispered, pressing his arms into the pillow. “You’re injured, remember? Stay where you are.”

  “Like this?”

  “Hmm. Exactly like that. Stay there and let me.” She rocked up, rocked down, sheathing him inside her warmth. “Just let me, let me, let me,” she chanted.

  He heard her breath catch, sigh, sing out, as she moved upon him. As he had only hours earlier, he willed himself to relax and allow her to do as she pleased. Allow her to take him in a way he’d never been taken before.

  Branded. He felt branded in those moments. Bonded to her, a girl who was more woman than any woman he’d ever known, more feminine that any female in existence.

  She sent him skyward—high, high, higher, until he shattered, until both of them shattered, drifting as one back to reality.

  Gradually, his senses became his own once more, his thoughts clearing, his breath growing even once more.

  In those moments, he knew one thing. He would never be free of Ivy again. He would never want to be free of her.

  In the lightening day, holding her to his heart as she slept, he wondered exactly what he was going to do about it.

  * * *

  “We should get married,” he stated hours later over brunch in the sunny breakfast room off the kitchen.

  Ivy paused, a slice of bacon halfway to her mouth. “What?”

  “Seems like the logical thing to do,” he hurried on. “And it’s what you want, isn’t it?”

  She set down the baco
n and wiped her fingers on a linen napkin. “It always has been,” she murmured softly.

  “Good. Then that’s what we’ll do.” He stabbed a fork into the last of the eggs on his plate.

  He proposed, she thought, mildly stunned.

  Though, as proposals went, that one lacked a certain essential something. In fact, on the face of it, it had kind of sucked.

  Somehow, when she’d imagined this moment—and believe you me, she’d imagined it plenty of times—his proposal had been special. With sweet music floating on the air, a little champagne bubbling in a pair of long-stemmed glasses, James down on one knee telling her he couldn’t imagine another instant without her as his wife.

  But there’d been nothing the least bit special or romantic about his blunt declaration said over a plate of cooling eggs.

  And he hadn’t actually asked, had he?

  Hadn’t spoken the words “Will you marry me?”

  He’d said “should.”

  They “should” get married, not “I want to marry you. Please say yes.”

  Then again, a proposal was still a proposal, she supposed, no matter the circumstances or the words.

  She listened in silence as he rattled on.

  “I’ll take you by your apartment when we’re finished eating,” he said. “You can change clothes; then we’ll go pick out an engagement ring.”

  “What about your great-grandmother’s ring?”

  His great-grandmother’s ring was a huge, old-fashioned emerald-cut canary yellow diamond roughly the size of a shooter aggie. He’d given it to Madelyn years ago when they’d been engaged. As she remembered, her sister hadn’t much cared for the style, though Madelyn had worn it graciously because of the sentiment involved.

  Why wasn’t he offering it to her?

  “You don’t want that old monstrosity, do you? Surely you’d rather have a ring of your own.”

  “I don’t think it’s a monstrosity. I’ve always loved that ring.”

  And she meant it. She’d always thought the stone was exquisite, the old-fashioned setting graceful and charming.

  “Really?” He looked skeptical.

  “Yes, really. It’s beautiful, and it’s an heirloom handed down through four generations of your family. I think that’s lovely.”

  He paused for a long moment. “Well, all right, if that’s what you want. The ring’s up at the house in Connecticut.”