The Last Man on Earth Read online

  “Good, because you’re stuck in mine too.”

  He kissed her then and sent the room and the world spinning away. It was a long time before he let her come up for air.

  “Take me away from here,” she begged. “Take me away where we can be together, alone.”

  “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go, as soon as you agree to marry me. We could even do it today. I think there’s still time. You’re all done up for the occasion, looking so beautiful you take my breath. Your family’s here and the minister; we could go ahead right now.”

  “I already told you, you don’t have to marry me. I’m not going to insist this time. I love you and I want to be with you; the rest isn’t important.”

  He brushed a knuckle across her cheek. “So you don’t mind if we just live together, hmm? No ties? No commitments?”

  “That’s right. No ties. No commitments.”

  “For as long as it lasts?”

  “Yes,” she repeated, “for as long as it lasts.”

  He smiled. “That’s a sweet offer, Red, except for one thing.”

  Her heart gave a great thump of fear. “What thing?”

  “The fact that I expect nothing less from you than forever—kids and pets and a house in the burbs included. And you should accept nothing less from me in return. So you see, you might as well give up now and agree to marry me.”

  “But you don’t want to marry me,” she sputtered.

  “Who says I don’t?” He shot her a fierce scowl. “Can’t a man change his mind at least once in his life?”

  She studied him for a long moment, while the idea sank in that he really meant what he’d said. He really, truly wanted to marry her. He loved and trusted her enough to take the risk and build a life for them—together. She hadn’t thought it was possible, and yet now . . .

  She twined her arms around his neck, smiling. “All right, you can change your mind this once. But after we’re wed, never, ever again.”

  He set his hands on her waist and lifted her off her feet, twirling her in a circle.

  He began to laugh. “After we’re wed, I won’t want to change my mind. I’ll want you, my dearest Madelyn, and only you until death do us part. I swear.”

  “I love you,” she said, joy shimmering in her blue eyes like a perfect cloudless day. “Always.”

  She met his lips and sighed at the sweet, sweet touch. She’d missed it so much. She’d missed him. She closed her eyes and lost herself in the wonder of his embrace.

  He was pressing her mouth wider to take a deeper drink when she unexpectedly pulled away.

  “Oh, I just remembered something,” she declared.

  “Remembered what?” he said, trying to kiss her again.

  “My job. I quit my job.”

  His eyebrows arched. “Ah, and so you did.”

  “And gave my promotion away to you.”

  He grinned. “So you did.”

  She pinned him with a dangerous look. “You should give it back. You’re the only reason I turned it down, you know.”

  “I could give it back. But I won’t. After all, how would we explain?”

  She frowned.

  “Don’t worry,” he said reassuringly. “I’ll think of a way to make it up to you.”

  “You’d better think hard, then, and make it good.”

  “Oh, don’t worry.” He leered, running a hand over her bottom to press her closer. “It’ll be good and hard.”

  She glared at him for a moment, then laughed. “You are incorrigible, but I love you anyway. And we’ll just see who makes creative director first.”

  “So long as it goes to a Douglas, my dear, that’ll be just fine with me.”

  Then he pressed his lips to hers again and made her forget everything but him and the strength of their love.

  Read on for a sneak peek at

  Tracy Anne Warren’s next contemporary romance,

  THE MAN PLAN

  Available in August 2014 from Signet

  “Good evening, sir.” The doorman, who moved with fluid grace to open the front door, was resplendent in his gray and black uniform, his steel gray hair and crisp British accent lending him even greater distinction.

  James Jordan nodded. “Good evening, Barton. I hope you had a pleasant day.”

  “Yes, very pleasant. Thank you for asking, sir.”

  Rather than striding on toward the elevator, James paused. “Did Ms. 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 smiled. “Ivy’s a special girl.”

  Once inside the elevator, James punched the button for the fifteenth floor instead of inserting his pass key 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 thought.

  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—his ex-fiancée, who had jilted him at the altar—and 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’d been there with a date, a thoroughly smitten college boy whose brown eyes had followed her every move, whose every action was designed to please her. Just as James had predicted, she’d outgrown her childish adoration of him, her anguished, lovesick proposal to him all those years ago nothing but a forgotten memory.

  The elevator gave a soft ding. He stepped out, walked briskly down the well-lit hallway with its attractively painted pale blue walls and neat gray carpet. Her apartment was the last door on the left—a cozy end unit.

  Reggae music pulsed like an aching tooth, reaching his ears long before he neared her door, which was propped wide open 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.

  Nothing, only the beating rhythm of the music, which grew louder the farther into the apartment he went. He followed the noise, striding down a hallway and past a guest bath to the bedroom doorway. He stopped on the threshold, eyes widening at the sight that greeted him.

  Snugged into a pair of tight plaid cotton shorts, a woman stood bent headfirst into a huge 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.

  Friend of Ivy’s?

  A grin of pure male appreciation spread across his mouth.

  What a pair of legs, he thought with a silent wolf whistle. They were smooth and golden, with a supple length that went up—all the way up. As for her rear end, a man couldn’t help but get ideas when such round, tight, squeezable lushness was put within reach.

  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. Only a saint could have looked away, and he made no claims to such perfection. Unable to tear his eyes away, he watched her backside do a provocative dance, wiggling up and down, side to side, as she strained to reach whatever it was that eluded her.

  He stifled a groan, and was trying to decide on the politest way to announce himself when she lost her balance, her legs splaying wide.

  A small screech echoed from inside the wardbrobe’s depths.

 
Acting on instinct, he rushed forward and grabbed her hips to keep her from toppling all the way in.

  She screeched again, louder this time, then jerked and stiffened. Her bottom arched backward, pressing for a long, electrified moment smack-dab against his fly. He sucked in his breath and his stomach as if he’d been seared by a live brand, heat scalding his groin.

  Fighting the urge to grind her against his sudden arousal, he hauled her up out of the wardrobe. Dresses, shirts, and skirts exploded across the floor as her head popped free.

  He released her and took a hasty step back.

  “Who is it? Who’s here?” the woman demanded in a fierce voice as she spun around, fists clenched. She was clearly ready to fight despite the sea of long blond hair covering her face.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt you!” he shouted over the blaring music.

  She froze and peered out through her cloud of hair with a pair of curiously familiar blue eyes. “James?”

  His jaw slackened. “Ivy?”

  She shoved her hair out of her eyes. “James! Where’d you come from? You scared the living bejesus out of me.”

  He could say the same, but for different reasons, as he was still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that the mystery woman, whose spectacular ass had just been pressed against his crotch, was Ivy. Little Ivy, who he’d known since she was a baby.

  Clearly she wasn’t so little anymore, and not just because of her height.

  “Yeah, well, you shaved a good year off my life too,” he said, going on the attack to hide his lingering discomfort. “What in the hell did you think you were doing standing on your head in that wardrobe?”

  “Unpacking,” she said simply.

  Suddenly her expression changed, a huge smile spreading over her mouth. “Let’s argue later. Right now I just want to say hello.” She raced forward and threw her arms around him in a fierce hug. “Oh, James, it’s so great to see you! It’s been so long. Way too long.”

  He stiffened momentarily in her embrace before he brushed aside the last of his earlier reaction and hugged her back.

  Even so, he was the first to pull away.

  Once free, he moved across the room to put some much-needed distance between them. “You suppose you could turn that noise down?” he asked once he turned to face her again.

  “What?” she called loudly, giving her head a little shake.

  “The music.” He motioned with a hand. “Turn. It. Down.”

  She nodded in sudden understanding and moved to click off her sound system.

  Silence swept like a refreshing wave through the room. “Don’t you like reggae music?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Not this far north of the Caribbean, I don’t. Sounds a lot better on a beach with a tall rum punch in hand. Numbs the misery.”

  She grinned and met his eyes, blue against blue. “To each his own. Bob Marley and me”—she crossed a pair of fingers—“we’re tight, if ya know what I mean, man,” she said in a bad Jamaican accent.

  He laughed.

  “But, hey,” she said, reverting to her normal voice, “what are you doing here? I thought you were out of town on business.”

  “My meetings wrapped up early, so I flew back a day ahead,” he said. “And what do I find when I stop by to welcome you to your new place? Your door standing wide open, inviting anyone to stroll right on in. You ought to know better. What if I’d been a thief or a lunatic?”

  This time she was the one who laughed. “Please, this is the last place I’d be in danger. The security here is as good as at Fort Knox.”

  “Actually, it’s better. It ought to be, since my company is the one that financed the design of the army’s latest security system upgrade. But you aren’t supposed to know anything about that and I never mentioned it.”

  She stared for a moment. “Of course not. I have no memory of anything you just said.”

  He grinned.

  “As for my leaving the door open,” she went on, “I needed to air things out. I painted the spare room, the one I’m going to use for my studio, and it still smells of latex, even though I used the low-VOC kind.” She wrinkled her nose. “I opened a couple windows and the front door to get a cross breeze.”

  “Airing paint fumes out of an artist’s studio? I’d think an artist would love the smell of paint.”

  “The smell of oil paint for canvas, definitely, but not wall paint,” she said. “Linseed oil’s like a fine wine—you never get tired of the bouquet. Latex is just stinky plastic. Plus, it’s healthier to air things out.”

  James crossed his arms over his chest. “Well, whatever the reason, I want you to promise me that you won’t leave your door open again when you’re alone. Safe building or no safe building.”

  She planted her fists on her hips. “And if I don’t?”

  “I’ll tell your mother, of course,” he replied in a serious tone.

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “Try me.”

  She made a face and stuck her tongue out at him.

  For the first time since he’d walked into the room, he relaxed, recognizing his old Ivy.

  Only she wasn’t his old Ivy, not anymore.

  Studying her once again, he found it as impossible to ignore the physical differences in her from the front as he had from the back.

  Her heart-shaped face, with its high cheekbones and angular chin, had a newfound maturity, all her familiar youthful softness winnowed away into clean, refined lines. Her mouth was a full, womanly pink, and her deep-set blue eyes contained wisdom and determination he’d never glimpsed in her before.

  Then there was her body—lovely, slender, and tall.

  As a man whose height was just over six feet two, he liked tall women; they didn’t intimidate him the way they could other men. Still, he wasn’t used to standing next to a woman who could turn her head and nearly look him in the eye. Particularly not when the female in question was his little friend Ivy Grayson.

  Disturbing—that’s what it was. Not just her height but the whole dynamic package.

  Disturbing and sobering and unwanted.

  I bounced her on my knee, for God’s sake.

  He’d played peekaboo and got-your-nose with her when she was a gurgling toddler. The thought of her sitting on his knee now . . .

  He cleared his throat and glanced around at the stack of packing boxes. “Looks like you have your work cut out for you.”

  “You got that right.” She shot him a hopeful look. “Wanna help?”

  Her question caught him off guard. Professionals always did his packing and unpacking; he’d never had the need or inclination to bother with such mundane domestic chores. A quick phone call and he could have someone over here to help Ivy, but somehow he didn’t think she would care for the idea.

  He had work to do tonight, but then, he always had work to do, and Ivy looked so hopeful. Maybe helping her for a couple of hours wouldn’t be so bad.

  “Sure,” he said, “assuming I’m allowed to have dinner first. Have you eaten?”

  She shook her head. “I kept meaning to take a break and run out to get something, but I just kept working instead.”

  “Then let me treat you to dinner. How about Per Se? I know them there and they can usually squeeze me in even on a crowded night.”

  She bent to pick up a few of the clothes scattered across the carpet, then crossed to hang them up in the walk-in closet. “That sounds wonderful, but would you mind terribly if I asked for a rain check? I’ve been on the run since five this morning and I’m pooped.” She plucked at her shorts and T-shirt. “Plus, I’d have to shower and change and fix my hair. I’d rather stay casual tonight. You understand, don’t you?”

  He did understand actually. There were many times he wished for just such an evening and the chance to stay casual.

&
nbsp; “Okay,” he agreed. “Why don’t we order something in, then? How about Chinese or Italian? I know good places for both that deliver.”

  She tossed him a smile. “Now you’re talking. You call in our order; then I’ll point you toward a packing box while we wait for the food to arrive.”

  James groaned in mock agony before pulling out his cell phone to dial.

  • • •

  Ivy put a last bite of Szechuan beef in spicy ginger sauce into her mouth and chewed.

  Delicious, she thought, her tongue tingling with fiery heat. She swallowed, then leaned back in her chair, replete and content.

  She looked across the small table she and James had cleared earlier of packing paraphernalia and watched him finish his meal. His elegant fingers maneuvered the chopsticks with easy grace; his masculine jaw and the beautiful lines of his strong throat as they worked were something her artist’s eyes couldn’t help but admire.

  Warmth settled low and spread through her belly, thighs, and in between, physical reactions that had nothing to do with the spiciness of her meal. Just watching him made her want. His simplest movements were dynamic, compelling, appealing.

  When she’d first seen him—after she’d gotten over the shock of their actual first encounter, when he’d grabbed her hips to pull her out of the wardrobe (she could still feel the wow from that even now)—part of her had hoped the old feelings would be gone. The sensible side of her had wished she wouldn’t experience the rush of love for him that had consumed so many years of her life, that they would be friends—no more, no less.

  But nothing had changed, at least not for her.

  From the moment she’d touched him, she’d known—all the emotions, all the love surging back like an unstoppable wave rushing to shore. As she’d hugged him, pressing her body to his, she’d breathed him in, savoring the clean, male scent of his skin that was so uniquely his own.

  And she’d clung, wanting to never let go again.

  But he’d pulled away far too soon, stepping back to place a distance between them, to reestablish the barriers and silent borders of platonic friendship that were never to be crossed.