The Man Plan Read online

  He was trying to decide on the politest way to announce himself when she overbalanced, her legs and feet splaying wide.

  A small screech echoed from inside the cardboard depths.

  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 as if he’d been seared by a live brand.

  Fighting the urge to press even closer, he hauled her up and out of the wardrobe.

  Dresses, shirts, and skirts exploded across the floor as her head popped free.

  He let her go and stepped back.

  “Who’s there?” She spun around, shoving aside the long blond hair covering her face.

  “It’s okay,” he shouted over the music. “I’m just here to see—” And then he noticed her eyes, familiar and blue. “Ivy?”

  She froze. “James?”

  He didn’t respond.

  “Where’d you come from?” she asked. “You scared the living bejesus out of me.”

  He could say the same, but for different reasons, still trying to wrap his head around the fact that the mystery woman—whose spectacular ass had just been pressed against his crotch—was Ivy.

  Little Ivy, whom he’d known since she was a baby.

  He scowled. “Yeah, well, you shaved a good year off my life too. What in the hell did you think you were doing, standing on your head in that box?”

  “Unpacking,” she said simply.

  Suddenly her expression changed, delight illuminating her face. “James! You’re here.” She raced forward and threw her arms around him in a fierce hug.

  Hesitantly, he put his arms around her and squeezed back.

  After a moment, he gently pulled away.

  He moved across the room. “You suppose you could turn that noise down?”

  “What?” she called, 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.

  A refreshing wave of silence swept through the room.

  “Don’t you like reggae music?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Not this far north of the Caribbean. Sounds a lot better on a beach with a tall rum punch in hand. Helps numb the misery.”

  She grinned and met his eyes, blue against blue. “Your loss. Bob Marley and me—” She crossed a pair of fingers. “We’re tight, if ya know what I mean, mahn,” 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 Fort Knox.”

  “Actually, it’s better. It ought to be since my company is the one who 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. 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 defended. “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.

  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, not anymore.

  Looking at her now, it was impossible to ignore the physical differences from the last time he’d seen her. There was a newfound maturity in her heart-shaped face with its high cheekbones and angular chin, all her familiar youthful softness winnowed away into clean, refined lines. Her mouth was a full, womanly pink that beckoned with sweetness and something more, something mysterious. And in her deep-set blue eyes, a wisdom and determination he’d never glimpsed before.

  Then there was her body.

  A woman’s body, curved in all the right places despite the reedy length that lingered from childhood.

  Six feet two himself, he liked tall women. They didn’t intimidate him the way he knew 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. Then again, 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. “If I’m allowed to have dinner first. Have you eaten?”

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

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

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

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

  * * *

  After finishing off the last of her Szechuan beef in spicy ginger sauce, Ivy 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 something her artist’s eye 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 initial shock—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 and only friends.

  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 a turbulent sea 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 so uniquely his own.

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

  But he’d pulled away, reestablishing boundaries.

  She skimmed her eyes over his urbane, classic beauty. His thick, close-cut golden hair and his brows that were two pale slashes across his patrician forehead. His nose that was straight and sized to suit his handsome face, while his masculine lips retained just enough softness to invite a woman’s kiss.

  She wondered what he’d do if she leaned across the table and planted one on him. A big, hot, wet smooch that would rock them both all the way to their toes.

  Knowing James, he would probably pat her on the head and tell her to find a nice boy her own age, exactly as he had all those years ago.

  Only she didn’t want a boy her age, she wanted a man.

  She wanted James.

  And by God, I’m going to have him, no matter what it takes.

  She’d have to take it slowly though, she realized. She’d have to work hard in order to make him see her in a new light—a mature, desirable light.

  Could she do it?

  Of course I can, she assured herself.

  No dream was impossible if you wanted it badly enough. Isn’t that what had given her the courage to pursue a career as a painter despite the astronomical odds against success? Wasn’t that what had brought her to New York City to strike out on her own, even though chances were good she’d fall flat on her face?

  Still, if she wasn’t daunted by the riskiness of her career choice, then why should she be daunted about the likelihood of winning James? All she needed was a plan of action and some good insider information.

  But who was close enough to him to give her the inside skinny about his private life and habits—and any current girlfriend competition, of course?

  In the next second, she knew exactly who.

  She did a happy little dance inside at the thought.

  Outwardly, she sipped her lukewarm China tea and smiled at James.

  Suspecting nothing, he smiled back.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ivy spent the next four days unpacking and arranging her belongings in her new apartment just the way she liked them. Only when she was satisfied with how everything looked, and only when she knew James would be busy at work, did she use the passkey he’d given her that first night and take the elevator to his top-floor penthouse. After all, on this particular occasion, it wasn’t James she was going to see.

  She exited into a small, tastefully decorated foyer done in warm, inviting shades of green and blue. An elegant Persian rug lay atop an intricate parquet wood floor, the plush wool comfortably soft beneath her shoes as she moved toward the door. A large window to her right brought in a cheery dose of sunlight. The fine eighteenth-century rosewood table positioned before it added beauty and visual éclat. The effect was further enhanced by the tall porcelain vase centered on its top, a lavish arrangement of fresh flowers spilling forth in a burst of color and fragrance.

  Drawing a deep breath, she took a moment to savor the sweet scents of peony and lily of the valley before pressing her finger against the discreet brass door ringer.

  A moment later, she heard muffled footsteps, then a no-nonsense voice coming through the intercom. “Yes? Who’s there?”

  “It’s me. Ivy.” She smiled, aware she was being observed through the peephole.

  “Ivy who?”

  “Ivy Grayson. Don’t you remember me, Estella?”

  After a brief silence, the door was pulled wide to reveal the ample figure of James’s housekeeper. Teeth gleaming pure white against her coffee-hued complexion, Estella Johnson raised an eyebrow. “Miss Ivy, is that you?”

  Ivy grinned and cocked a jeans-clad hip. “In the flesh.”

  “Well, dear Lord, child, I didn’t recognize you,” Estella declared, her melodic Mississippi accent still intact despite the many years she’d lived in the North. “Why, you’ve grown tall as an oak tree and twice as thin,” she clucked. “I can see God’s been busy raising you.”

  The two women stood a moment, inspecting the changes time had wrought.

  Estella was short and wide with lively brown eyes and a chin that didn’t tolerate sass of any kind; Ivy thought she looked wonderful. A critical eye might have noted the extra lines on the older woman’s forehead, the additional gray hairs threaded among the dark, but to Ivy she looked just the same.

  “Well,” the housekeeper demanded, “we just gonna stand here staring at each other, or are you goin’ to give me a good old hug?”

  When she spread her arms wide, Ivy walked straight into them.

  “Come in. Come in,” Estella said. “I was just folding up some laundry when I heard you at the door. Thought you were some infernal deliveryman come up here without security letting me know first. That boy they hired new down at the desk has you to thank. I was priming myself to deliver him a sermon, but seems he’s doing his job all right after all.”

  Ivy followed Estella inside, where the interior of the penthouse was every bit as beautifully appointed as the entrance. Across more polished wood floors and antique rugs they made their way through the main hall and past James’s large study and the dining room on the right, then turned left into an expansive living room. A series of wide windows gave a spectacular view of the city.

  Hugging the distant wall, a graceful stairway curved up to a balcony. Ivy knew the entire second story held James’s master bedroom suite. To the right on the first floor lay a glass-enclosed conservatory, and through a set of lovely French doors, a full-sized pool and sauna. On the opposite side, there was a well-stocked library, four guest rooms with connecting baths, a laundry, a butler’s pantry, and a state-of-the-art kitchen.

  It was to this last room that Estella escorted Ivy.

  “Sit down.” Estella motioned her toward a chair. “You want something to drink?” The housekeeper bustled over to the stainless-steel, commercial-sized refrigerator that hummed in near silence against one wall. “He’s got nearly everything you could want, including fresh-made iced tea.”

  “Iced tea sounds lovely.”

  Estella reached in for the pitcher, then went to retrieve a pair of glasses, filling them with ice. “So, when are you moving in? Mr. James said you’ve decided to take a place in the building.”

  “I already did—moved in last week. . . .”

  “Last week? Why, that man never breathed a word.”

  “He’s probably been busy.”

  Estella snorted. “He’s always busy, too busy if you ask me. He needs to slow down. Course, you can’t tell him that. Won’t listen to a word a body has to say.” She brought the glasses of iced tea to the table. “What’s this I hear about you dropping out of school?”

  “Obviously, he told you about that.”

  “He mentions things here and there. So, spill it.”

  “What’s there to spill?” Ivy shrugge
d, taking a sip of her tea. “I want to paint, not study about other people doing it. Working here in the city will be the best classroom I could have.”

  She decided not to mention her ultimate fear, that had she stayed in school, she might have given in to the subtle pressure of her peers and her parents to take the easy route. Attend graduate school, study for her master’s, earn a PhD in art history or museum curation. How simple it would have been to delay her art career, stay in school, let time pass. And wake up one morning to find the years gone by and herself trapped inside the comfortable prison of academia.

  She wanted to create her own art, put brush to canvas in the real world, not do so from inside the safe, sterile confines of an elite ivory tower. Whether she succeeded or failed here in the city, she told herself, at least she’d have the satisfaction of knowing she’d tried.

  Estella shook a reproving finger. “Painting’s fine and all, but you should have stayed and finished up your education. Bet your parents were none too happy.”

  Ivy rubbed a line of condensation off the glass. “They’ve come around.”

  “Hmm, I’m sure they did once you didn’t give ’em any choice. I heard about that too.”

  “I never realized what a big mouth James has.”

  “It’s not big. I’m just nosy.” She chuckled. “You want somethin’ to eat with that?” She motioned toward Ivy’s glass.

  “Oh no, thanks, I’m fine. Actually, I came up here to take a swim. James gave me a key so I could use the pool, but I thought I’d better ring the bell the first time instead of scaring you to death.”

  “Appreciate that, child. You always did have a step as light as a cat. I remember how you used to slip in here like some quiet little ghost when the rest of your folks were out visiting in the main room. I’d look up and there you’d be.”

  Ivy smiled, remembering. “I must have been a dreadful pest.”

  “Why no, honey. You was always fine company and a good helper too. I’ll tell you true. I’ve had paid party help come in that couldn’t slice a cucumber as nice as you or arrange the trays prettier either. You always was a natural that way. Sure you don’t want to take up catering instead of painting?”