ManOFFantasy

Man of Fantasy
Rochelle Alers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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The BEST MEN series

You met Tessa, Faith and Simone—the Whitfields of New York and owners of Signature Bridals—in the WHITFIELD BRIDES series. Now meet three lifelong friends who fulfill their boyhood dream and purchase a Harlem brownstone for their business ventures.

Kyle Chatham, Duncan Gilmore and Ivan Campbell have worked tirelessly to overcome obstacles and achieve professional success, oftentimes at the expense of their personal lives. However, each will meet an extraordinary woman who just might make him reconsider what it means to be the best man.

In Man of Fate, high-profile attorney Kyle Chatham’s classic sports car is rear-ended by Ava Warrick, a social worker who doesn’t think much of lawyers and deeply mistrusts men. Ava expects the handsome attorney to sue her, not come to her rescue after she sustains a head injury in the accident. But Kyle knows he has to prove to Ava that he is nothing like the men in her past—a challenge he is prepared to take on and win.

Financial planner Duncan Gilmore’s life is as predictable as the numbers on his spreadsheets. After losing his fiancée in the World Trade Center tragedy, he has finally begun dating again. In Man of Fortune, Duncan meets Tamara Wolcott—a beautiful and brilliant E.R. doctor with a bad attitude. As their relationship grows, Tamara begins to feel that she is just a replacement for his late fiancée. But Duncan knows that he has to put aside his pride if he’s going to convince Tamara to be part of his life.

After the death of his identical twin years ago, psychotherapist Ivan Campbell is a “love ’em and leave ’em” guy who is afraid of commitment. But all of that changes in Man of Fantasy when he meets Nayo Goddard at an art gallery, where she is showing her collection of black-and-white photographs. Not only has she gotten Ivan to open up his heart to love again, she is also seeing another man. Ivan knows that he must prove that he is the best man for her, or risk losing her forever.

Yours in romance,

Rochelle Alers

Counsel is mine, and sound wisdom:

I am understanding; I have strength.

—Proverbs 8:14

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Epilogue

Chapter 1

Ivan Campbell barely heard what the woman, who he’d been working closely with for the past two years renovating his Mount Morris brownstone, was rambling on about.

“Ivan, you’re not listening to me.”

He affected a half smile. “Yes, I am. You said Architectural Digest wants to do a layout of my place for an issue featuring New York City homes and apartments.”

Carla Harris stared at the man with the sensual, brooding expression, wishing he would smile, because whenever Dr. Ivan Campbell did smile, it reminded her of pinpoints of sunlight breaking through dark storm clouds. She’d thought she was attracted to a certain type until she found herself face-to-face with the brilliant psychotherapist.

An inch shy of the six-foot mark, he could not disguise the perfection of his toned body, whether in a tailored suit or in casual attire. She didn’t know why, but Carla preferred seeing Ivan casually dressed, as he was now, in a pair of jeans, short-sleeved shirt and running shoes. His aftershave was the perfect complement to his body’s natural masculine scent.

“Okay, I apologize.”

What passed for a smile quickly vanished as Ivan stared at Carla. They were sitting on soft leather chairs in a pale butter-yellow in an alcove off the living room designed for small, intimate gatherings—a room his mother had referred to as a parlor. He’d lit a fire in the fireplace to ward off an early-autumn chill. The fireplace was an architecturally minimalist design that resembled a hole set inside a low, horizontal box along a wide expanse of wall, without a mantel or surround. Large pillars in bronze candleholders of various heights and sizes were positioned off to one side of the stone hearth, accentuating the modern interior of the brownstone, which was situated in one of Harlem’s most prominent historic districts.

Ivan knew Carla was flirting with him and had been since their initial meeting, which now seemed ages ago. He’d communicated, albeit subtly, that he didn’t believe in mixing business with pleasure. His deep-set, intense, dark brown eyes met and fused with a pair of gray ones behind a pair of oversize horn-rims. The fire-engine-red glasses and flaming-red spiked hairdo had become Carla’s signature look—a look that was a bit too funky for his tastes. Laid-back by nature, Ivan preferred women who were less flamboyant, whose manner of dress didn’t call attention to themselves.

Carla took another sip from a bottle of sparkling water. “I know how much you value your privacy, Ivan, but I’ll make certain your name and address don’t appear anywhere in the piece.”

Ivan knew what the layout would do for her career. It would be the first time Carla Harris’s decorating skills would be displayed in the preeminent magazine of interior design. She was young, having just celebrated her twenty-eighth birthday, and she was not only ambitious, but aggressive. When she’d contacted him for an initial consultation, Carla refused to take no for an answer. She called him relentlessly every other day for three weeks until he’d finally relented, then worked closely with the architect to reconfigure spaces that would restore the century-old structure to its former grandeur.

“Thanks, Carla.”

The designer pressed her vermilion-colored lips together until they resembled a slash of red across her pale face. “You don’t have to sound so enthusiastic, Dr. Campbell.”

“I know how much this means to you,” Ivan said in the comforting tone he always used with his patients, “and because it does, I’m going to agree to the magazine spread.”

The interior designer’s smile was dazzling. “Thank you, Ivan.”

He inclined his head. “You’re welcome, Carla.”

Ivan wanted to tell her he couldn’t care less about someone taking pictures of his residence. At the end of the day all he wanted was to come home and relax after spending hours with his patients and lecturing students as an adjunct college professor.

He’d purchased the abandoned, dilapidated brownstone more than three years ago. It took a year and a half to complete the renovations and another year to decorate the interior. He’d lost count of the number of hours he’d sat with Carla going over catalogs filled with tables, chairs, lamps, rugs, beds and kitchen appliances. Four stories and fifty-seven hundred square feet of living space that comprised a terrace, garden and patio, powered by solar panels and an organic garden, provided the perfect environment for living and entertaining.

The street-level space had a home theater, kitchen, bath, home office and gym. The second floor had a master bedroom, adjoining bath and two guest rooms with en suite baths. The brownstone contained two two-bedroom apartments on the third floor. One apartment he’d recently rented to young married professionals expecting their first child, and a real estate agent was setting up an interview with a recently married New York City couple currently living with their in-laws on Long Island.

Ivan still hadn’t decided what he wanted to do with the fourth floor. The entire space was without interior walls, and he’d had the contractor put in a half bath and a utility kitchen. Not only did he own the brownstone, he was also one-third partner in another brownstone a short distance away that he and childhood friends Kyle Chatham and Duncan Gilmore used for business.

“The photo shoot will take place some time in early December, but I can’t set a date until you do something for me,” Carla said, interrupting his thoughts.

“What’s that?”

“You are going to have to do something with the walls.”

A slight frown appeared. “What’s wrong with the walls?”

It’d taken him weeks to decide on the colors he wanted to paint the rooms. At first he’d decided to have the primer covered with shades of eggshell or oyster-white, then changed his mind because it was too sterile a palette.

“You need pictures, Ivan. The walls are naked, unfinished. It’s like a woman going to a formal affair. She’s wearing an evening gown, dress shoes, makeup and hairstyle but has neglected to put on any accessories. In other words, where are the earrings, necklace, ring or bracelet? She’s beautiful, but incomplete.”

“But I’m not into art.”

Carla pressed her lips together again. “They don’t have to be paintings.”

“What else do people hang on their walls?”

“Sculpture,” she suggested.

“I told you that I’m not into art.”

“What about photography?” Carla argued softly.

“What about it?”

“Would you be opposed to framed and matted photos?”

The seconds ticked off as Ivan thought about the designer’s suggestion. He did have a framed photograph of Malcolm X in his home office that had been taken by his father, who’d attended a Harlem rally in 1964 to hear the charismatic Muslim leader speak. In 1999 the U.S. Postal Service issued a stamp of Malcolm X and Ivan had bought the framed stamp, placing it alongside the photo taken by the elder Campbell.

“No.”

Carla exhaled deeply as she reached for her tote, searched through it and handed Ivan an envelope. “This is an invitation to an opening at a gallery featuring an exquisite collection of black-and-white photographs.”

Ivan removed the printed card from the envelope. The invitation was for later that evening. “Are you going?” he asked Carla.

“No. I attended a preview a couple of days ago. They are magnificent, Ivan.”

“Why didn’t you pick up a few photographs for me?”

Carla saw the sensual smile and heard laughter in Ivan’s query. “I would have, but art is very personal. I know what colors and fabrics you prefer, yet I have no idea what you’d like hanging on your walls.”

Ivan sobered again. He knew the designer was right. He never tired of looking at photographs of Malcolm X.

“Okay, I’ll go. But if I don’t find anything I like, then you’re going to have to improvise.”

“Improvise how, Ivan?”

“Rent whatever you feel would complement the rooms and decor, and return them after the photo shoot.”

He knew his reluctance to put any art on the walls was rooted in a childhood aversion to seeing clothes hanging from hooks or large nails in tarpaper shacks. As a boy, he and his identical twin were sent down South to visit their grandparents. At least, that was what his parents said, but Ivan knew the real reason was to keep them off Harlem’s streets where they might possibly get into trouble. He’d befriended another boy whose parents were sharecroppers, and the first time he visited their house Ivan was stunned to find there were no doors or closets. Rooms were separated by curtains, and clothes were hung on hooks or large nails affixed to walls. The odor from whatever his friend’s mother cooked clung to his clothes, and Ivan had recurring dreams of chickens, pigs and fish coming out of the walls to attack him.

Carla clasped her cavernous tote. She picked up a black angora shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders. “That sounds like a plan.” She stood up. “Now that we’ve settled that I’ll be on my way. I’ll call you on Monday to find out if you found anything to your liking.”

Ivan escorted Carla to the front door, hugged her and then watched as she walked to where she’d parked her red Mini Cooper. He closed the oak door with its leaded-glass pane after she’d maneuvered away from the curb.

Retracing his steps, he returned to the alcove, sitting and staring at the dying embers. Fall was his least favorite season of the year. It wasn’t just the cooler temperatures, shorter days, longer nights and falling leaves, but rather, the reminder of the time he’d lost his twin brother in a senseless drive-by shooting.

Ivan had thought twenty-five years was more than enough time to accept that Jared was gone and was never coming back. But whenever the season changed, it reminded him of holding his dying brother in his arms while autumn leaves rained down on the cold ground while they waited for an ambulance.

He’d wanted to spend his day off doing absolutely nothing, but the call from Carla had altered his plans. At first he thought of telling her he had papers to grade, which he did. But when he’d heard the excitement in her voice, Ivan remembered his promise to the designer that he would do everything he could to help her business. And that meant opening his home to strangers who wanted to photograph the interior.

Leaning to his right, he picked up the invitation. Getting out and attending the showing was what he needed, not obsessing about the loss of his brother. Yes, he mused, he would get out of the house, go to the opening and hopefully find something he could hang on his walls. He scrolled through his cell-phone contacts and punched in the number for a car service, telling the dispatcher he needed a car within the hour.

He owned a classic 1963 Chevrolet Corvette Stingray, which he stored in a nearby garage, but he’d decided not to drive downtown, where there was little or no parking, and risk having his car towed.

Forty-five minutes later, showered and shaved, he closed the door to his brownstone and walked over to the Town Car parked across the tree-lined street. The driver, leaning against the bumper, straightened and opened the rear door.

“Thank you, Robert,” Ivan said, smiling as he ducked his head to get into the vehicle. The dispatcher knew he liked riding with the elderly chauffeur.

“You’re welcome, Dr. Campbell.”

Ivan gave the driver the address of the gallery in Greenwich Village, then settled back to relax and enjoy the ride downtown.

His smile faded with the slam of the solid door. People in the neighborhood had begun calling him Dr. Campbell, rather than Ivan or Mr. Campbell. Referring to him by his title was not only too formal, but pretentious. There was one thing he knew he wasn’t, and that was pretentious.

He’d decided to become a psychologist, not to help people deal with their psychological or emotional problems, but to find out who Ivan Garner Campbell actually was, how to come to grips with his childhood. It’d taken years, but he’d accepted the advice he gave his patients: “Take control of your fears before they stop you from living your good life.”

He’d set up a private practice, purchased a brownstone in the Harlem historic district and dated women who kept his interest for more than a few hours—all that attributed to him living his good life.

Nayo Goddard felt as if she’d been holding her breath since Geoffrey Magnus opened the doors of the gallery for the caterer and his staff to set up for the opening of her extensive collection of black-and-white photographs. She found herself humming along to the prerecorded music of a string quartet.

The curious and critics from the art world sipped champagne, nibbled on caviar on toast points, sushi and tiny finger sandwiches while peering intently at the matted photos displayed around the expansive space in the beautiful, 1850s Italianate row house. The SOLD stickers affixed to three-quarters of the photographs exhibited was an indication that her first showing was a rousing success.

“You did it, darling.”

Shifting slightly, Nayo smiled up at her patron and best friend. “It looks as if we did it,” she said softly.

Her dark brown eyes met and fused with a large, soft, dove-gray pair. Geoffrey Magnus had encouraged her to follow her dream of becoming a photographer, even though her parents believed she’d wasted her time and education indulging in a frivolous hobby. Tall and slender with a mop of curly blond hair, Geoff was a trust-fund baby and the grandson of one of the most prominent art dealers and collectors in the Northeast.

His grandparents, who’d honeymooned in Mexico, met Frida Kahlo and her muralist husband, Diego Rivera, and purchased Frida’s Self-Portrait with Monkey. Their love affair with Mexican art fueled a passion that continued throughout their lifetime. Besides Mexican art, Geoff’s parents preferred folk art and spent most of their time traveling throughout the U.S. and the Caribbean looking for new talent. The result was one of the most extensive collections of nineteenth- and twentieth-century North and South American art ever assembled. Geoff followed in the family tradition when he enrolled at Pratt Institute and earned a degree in the history of art and design.

Nayo’s grandmother had surprised her with a graduation gift of an all-expense-paid trip to Europe for the summer. It was there she’d met Geoff when he was a student at Pratt in Venice, a six-week summer program in which students studied painting, art history, drawing, printmaking and Venetian art. She and Geoff hung out together for two weeks before Nayo traveled south to Rome. They’d exchanged telephone numbers, and it was another six months before they were reunited. Nine years later, Geoff and Nayo, thirty and thirty-one respectively, were still friends. She knew he wanted more than friendship, but she knew that becoming intimate would ruin their relationship. Her mantra “If it isn’t broke, don’t try to fix it” had served her well.

Geoff handed Nayo a flute of champagne, touching her glass with his. “Congratulations.”

Taking a sip, she smiled at him over the rim. “Thank you.”

Ivan moved slowly from one photograph to another, not wanting to believe he’d find himself so entranced with bridges. All the photos were numbered and a catalog identified the city and state in which the bridges were located. There were covered bridges in New England hamlets, beam-and-truss bridges in the Midwest and Pacific Northwest, natural-arch bridges in the Southwest and cable-stayed bridges along the East and West coasts.

The photographer, who went by the single name of Nayo, had captured the natural beauty of the landscapes regardless of the season. He’d found himself staring intently at a triptych of a snow-covered bridge in New Hampshire. The first shot was taken at sunrise, the second when the sun was at its zenith and the third at dusk. It was the same bridge, yet the background in each photo looked different because of the waning light and lengthening shadows.

Ivan uttered an expletive. He was too late. Someone had already purchased the trio of photographs. He tapped the arm of a passing waiter. “Excuse me. Can you please direct me to the photographer?”

The waiter pointed to a petite woman wearing a white, man-tailored blouse and black pencil skirt. “That’s Miss Nayo.”

Ivan smiled. “Thank you.”

He stared at the young woman with skin the color of milk chocolate. Her short, curly hair was the perfect complement to her round face. Throwing her head back, she was laughing as she stood next to a tall, blond man. Ivan found himself as enthralled with the photographer as he was with her work. The diamond studs in her pierced ears caught the light. The wide belt around her narrow waist matched her black, patent-leather, peep-toe pumps.

Weaving his way through the throng that was eating, drinking and talking quietly, Ivan approached the photographer. “Miss Nayo?”

Nayo turned to stare at the man standing only a few feet from where she stood with Geoff. Her practiced eye took in everything about him in one sweeping glance. He was tall and exquisitely proportioned. The jacket of his charcoal-gray suit, with its faint pinstripe, draped his shoulders as if it had been tailored expressly for him. A pale gray shirt with French cuffs and a silk tie in a flattering aubergine pulled his look together.

He was more conservatively dressed than the others who favored the ubiquitous New York City black. Her gaze moved slowly from his cropped hair and distinctive widow’s peak to his lean mocha-brown face and masculine features.

Her lips parted in a warm smile. She extended her hand. “It’s just Nayo.”

“Ivan Campbell.” He took her hand, and it disappeared into his much larger one. She’d pronounced her name Naw-yo.

Nayo felt a slight jolt at the contact, and she quickly extricated her fingers to cut off the electricity. “Mr. Campbell, how may I help you?” she asked as Geoff walked away. Whenever she interacted with a potential client, Geoff made it a practice not to ingratiate himself.

Ivan found himself transfixed by Nayo’s face. Upon closer inspection, she looked as if she was barely out of high school. Her makeup was natural and flawless. The soft highlights on her eyelids complemented her lip gloss and the subtle blush on her high cheekbones. Her round eyes afforded her a slightly startled look. And it was through those eyes she was able to capture incredible images. When he’d stared at the photos of bridges, he felt as if he were viewing them through the camera lens.

“Carla Harris suggested I come to your showing to purchase some of your work. I need artwork for my walls for a magazine layout. I have no interest in paintings or sculpture, but I’m not opposed to photography.”

Nayo smiled and an elusive dimple deepened in her left cheek. “Carla is an extremely talented designer.”

“I agree,” Ivan replied. “She’s turned my home into quite the showplace.”

“That’s Carla. Have you seen anything you like?”

Yes, I have, Ivan thought. He wanted to tell Nayo she was as stunningly beautiful as her photographs. “Yes, I have but…” His words trailed off when her smile grew wider.

Nayo’s eyebrows lifted. “What is it, Mr. Campbell?”

“I noticed your photographs are numbered, and the ones I’m interested in have already been purchased.”

“They are one of a kind.”

“I understand your decision to exhibit a limited number of photographs in your collection, but I’m willing to pay twice as much if you—”

“I can’t do that,” she said, interrupting him. “The photos are part of a limited collection, and to print duplicates would be unethical. There are 120 photos in the bridges collection and not all of them have been sold. I’d like to think there are a few others you’ll find to your liking.”

Ivan’s impassive expression revealed none of what he was feeling at that moment. “I’ll give you four times the price for the triptych.”

A shiver of annoyance snaked its way up Nayo’s body, causing a slight shudder. “Mr. Campbell.”

“It’s Ivan. Please call me Ivan.”

She blew out a breath. “Okay, Ivan. As I told you before, the photos are one of a kind. Perhaps you can negotiate with the person who purchased the triptych. But I cannot and will not print duplicates for you no matter how much you offer.” She hesitated and exhaled a breath. “But I may be able to help you out.”

“How is that?”

“I have other photos featuring bridges you may want to look at.” Walking over to a side table, she picked up a small, printed card, handing it to Ivan. “This is my card. Call me and I’ll set up an appointment to give you a viewing at my studio.”

Reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket, Ivan removed a small silver case with his business cards. He took out a pen and wrote down his home number on the reverse side. He gave Nayo the card. “Call me and I’ll make myself available.”

Nayo turned the card over and read the print: Ivan G. Campbell, PhD. And, it appeared, the persistent well-dressed man was a psychotherapist. If she had to categorize his psyche, it was id-driven.

“I’ll call you,” she promised.

Ivan inclined his head as if she was royalty. He smiled for the first time. “I look forward to hearing from you.”

Nayo held her breath. Dr. Ivan Campbell claimed the most sensual smile she’d ever seen on a man. His was a face she wanted to photograph. “You will hear from me,” she said when she’d recovered her breath. Turning on her heel, she walked away from him, knowing he was staring at her.

She approached a woman who was a regular at the gallery, flashing a brittle smile and exchanging air kisses with her. “Mrs. Meyers. I hope you’re enjoying the exhibit?”

Why, she thought, did she sound so specious? Had she become as plastic as some of the people who fancied themselves art collectors because it afforded them more social status?

The elderly woman waved a hand bedecked with an enormous Tahitian pearl surrounded by large, flawless diamonds. “Of course I am, darling. I bought four featuring the Natural Bridges National Monument. I can’t believe you were able to photograph the night sky showing the Milky Way.”

Nayo wanted to tell Mrs. Meyers that although nearly one hundred thousand people stopped at the Natural Bridges National Monument in Utah each year, only a few took in the most breathtaking vistas, because they could only be seen at night. Whenever she visited a national park, Nayo made certain to seek out the park’s chief ranger and tell him about her project. Most were more than willing to accommodate her. A few had referred to her as the female Ansel Adams. Being compared to the celebrated landscape photographer and environmentalist gave her the confidence she needed to realize her dream.

“The nighttime images were spectacular,” she said, smiling.

“That’s so obvious, Nayo.” Mrs. Meyers waved to someone she recognized, then rushed over to talk to her, leaving Nayo to her thoughts. She’d invited her mother and father, but they hadn’t been able to get away from the restaurant they’d run for more than twenty years.

Her parents had been high school sweethearts who’d married a week after graduating from college. Her father joined the local fire department while her mother had gone into teaching. Marjorie Goddard went back to work six months after giving birth to her son, but opted to become a stay-at-home mom once Nayo was born. Meanwhile her husband, Steven, had risen quickly through the ranks of the small upstate-New York fire department. Everything changed for the Goddards when Steven was injured fighting a warehouse fire. Nicknamed “Chef” by his fellow firefighters, Steven took over the cooking duties at home after having been the cook at the firehouse for so many years. He gave up fighting fires, retired and bought a run-down restaurant from an elderly couple.

What had shocked Nayo was that her parents knew nothing about the restaurant business. But after several false starts, they attracted a loyal following at the restaurant with family recipes going back several generations. What had initially been a hobby for Steven and Marjorie Goddard was now their livelihood. Just as photography had become their daughter’s livelihood.

Nayo stared at Ivan Campbell. She noticed that he wasn’t eating or drinking but studying her photographs. She was still staring at him when he turned and caught her. He smiled and she returned his smile with one of her own. She dropped her gaze with the approach of one of the gallery’s employees.

It was hours later, when Geoff closed and locked the gallery doors, that Nayo tried recalling everything about Ivan Campbell. She didn’t see him as a man who would interest her romantically, but as a subject for her next collection.

Her focus wouldn’t be bridges or landscapes but people. Annie Leibovitz and Francesco Scavullo had become her idols, not only for their photographs of people but for the spirit they captured. Yes, she mused, she couldn’t wait to see Ivan again if only to ask whether he would let her photograph him.

Chapter 2

Nayo climbed the stairs in the three-story East Harlem walk-up. When she’d returned from her four-year, forty-eight-state project to photograph bridges, her first choice had been to return to Greenwich Village where she’d lived while a student at New York’s School of Visual Arts. However, most of the apartments she saw were either too small or too expensive. Turning her sights uptown, she’d found a large studio apartment in a renovated, three-story walk-up at Madison Avenue and 127th Street.

Geoff had offered her an apartment his family owned, but Nayo declined. It was enough that she’d lived temporarily at the beautiful St. Luke’s Place row house after she’d returned to New York. It took several months for her to secure a position as a cataloger for a small Upper East Side auction house. A month later she moved to East Harlem, a neighborhood like West Harlem that was undergoing rapid gentrification.

The door to the neighboring apartment opened as Nayo put the key into her lock. A ball of smoky-colored fluff darted from between her neighbor’s legs to wrap itself around Nayo’s. Bending slightly, she stroked the British shorthair kitten.

“How are you, Colin?” she said softly, smiling at the friendly cat with striking copper-colored eyes. The kitten meowed softly.

When she’d asked her neighbor, Mrs. Anderson, whether she’d named her feline companion for former secretary of state Colin Powell, the retired librarian sheepishly admitted she’d formed a lasting crush on Colin Firth after watching Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice over and over until she’d memorized the dialogue.

Lucille Anderson stared at the young woman who came and went inconspicuously. “I have a package for you, delivered earlier this morning.”

Nayo’s smile widened. “Thank you, Mrs. Anderson. As soon as I put my things down and change, I’ll be over to get it.”

Lucille nodded at the young woman she’d begun to think of as the daughter she’d never had. She’d married young, but lost her husband when he suffered a massive heart attack at thirty. She’d never remarried or had children, but managed to maintain a rather active social life. She was a lifelong member of a sorority, and along with her sorors she socialized with other librarians and schoolteachers.

“Do you have time for a cup of coffee and some pound cake?”

“I’ll make time,” Nayo said.

Nayo had become rather attached to the woman who reminded her of her paternal grandmother. Grandma Darlene had given her the money she needed to fulfill her dream to travel coast to coast photographing bridges and whatever else caught her attention. Unfortunately her grandmother hadn’t lived long enough to see her granddaughter’s success. A week after she returned to New York, Nayo was sitting in her parents’ living room when a call from a local hospital reported that Darlene Goddard had collapsed in a supermarket. By the time she and her parents arrived at the hospital, she was gone.

She opened the door to her apartment and Colin scooted in to jump up on a chaise where Nayo usually sat watching television. Whenever Colin came for an impromptu visit she and the kitten would cuddle together on the chaise.

“Don’t get too comfortable, Colin,” Nayo warned the feline that had settled down for a nap. “I’m taking you back home as soon as I change my clothes.”

Slipping out of her heels, she picked them up and placed them in a closet close to the door. She was fussy when it came to everything being in its place, because she had to eat, sleep and relax in a space measuring only 450 square feet.

A four-poster, queen-size canopy bed occupied one corner, along with an armoire, bedside tables, double dresser. A padded bench sat at the foot. A glass-topped table which doubled as a desk held a computer and printer. Nayo had stored mats and photo paper in canvas-covered baskets lined up along the wall. Her prized cameras, lenses and memory cards were in a safe in the back of the walk-in closet.

The kitchen along a brick-wall area served as her food prep and dining room. A butcher block table and four chairs covered with cushions in a sunny yellow created a cheery atmosphere for dining and entertaining.

Her small living room had a tufted sofa upholstered in the same fabric as the dining-area chairs. The coffee table was littered with art books and photography magazines. Another table against the wall held a flat-screen television and an assortment of Nayo’s favorite movies. Floor lamps and strategically placed track lighting afforded the apartment a warm glow.

It took her less than fifteen minutes to remove her makeup, apply a moisturizer and change into a long-sleeved T-shirt, jeans and a pair of running shoes. “Come, Colin,” she called out, whistling and clapping her hands.

Reaching for her keys, Nayo headed for the door, the kitten trotting after her.

Ivan found his mind drifting. He had to read the same paragraph twice. He taught two classes: Clinical Use of Free Association and Dreams, and Multicultural Psychology.

The first course explored psychoanalysis dating back to Freud’s study of his own patients’ dreams. Course work included the introduction to current theories about dreams, empirical research on dreams and clinical work with dreams. Freud’s The Interpretation of Dreams was required reading.

Leaning back from the desk, he stood and stretched his arms over his head. He’d spent the past four hours reading the papers of college students who, if their lives depended upon it, couldn’t type a simple sentence with the correct subject and predicate agreement.

He walked out of his home office at the same time the phone rang. Retracing his steps, he picked up the receiver on the wall phone. “Hello.”

“Ivan Campbell?”

His eyebrows lifted when the soft female voice came through the earpiece. “This is he.”

“This is Nayo.”

A smile tilted the corners of his mouth as Ivan sat on the edge of the mahogany desk. “How are you, Nayo?” He’d met her for the first time Friday evening and he hadn’t expected to hear from her just two days later.

“I’m good. Thank you for asking. I’m calling because I’ve found quite a few prints I believe would interest you.”

“Are they of bridges?”

“I have bridges and landscapes. However, before you see them I’d like to come and take a look at your home.”

“When would you like to come?”

“My days and hours are flexible, so I’ll leave that up to you.”

Ivan glanced at the desk clock. It was minutes before noon and he had to correct two more papers before tomorrow. He taught classes on Monday and Wednesday. “I have some time this afternoon.”

“Where do you live?”

He gave Nayo his address. “Where do you live?”

Nayo’s tingling laugh came through the earpiece. “I’m within walking distance of you.”

“Where do you live, Nayo?” Ivan asked again.

“I’ll tell when I see you.”

“When should I expect you?”

There came a pause. “I’ll be over in half an hour.”

“Have you—” Ivan’s words trailed off when he heard Nayo had hung up. He’d just replaced the receiver when the phone rang again. “Nayo?”

“Sorry, brother, but I’m not Nayo.”

“DG, what’s up?”

“Don’t plan anything for the first week in June.”

A slight furrow appeared between Ivan’s eyes. “What’s going on, Duncan?”

“Tamara and I are getting married, and I’d like for you to be my best man.”

Ivan went completely still. It was the second time in two months that one of his best friends had announced he was getting married. He’d met Duncan Gilmore and Kyle Chatham when they were in the same second-grade class. They also lived in the same building in a public housing complex. The three had become closer than brothers, watching one another’s back. Even when Duncan’s mother died and he went to live with an aunt in Brooklyn, they’d never lost touch.

Kyle and Duncan were there for him when he lost his twin brother, they attended one another’s graduations, offered a shoulder when a somewhat-serious relationship ended and now, at thirty-nine, they’d fulfilled a childhood dream to own a brownstone in their Harlem neighborhood. All had worked hard to stay out of trouble when the streets had been a seductive siren, beckoning them into what would become a life of fast and easy money—and prison or certain death.

Kyle had become a lawyer, working as a corporate attorney before deciding to set up a private practice. Duncan, or DG, had made millions for clients at a Wall Street investment firm, while quietly amassing a modest fortune with his own investments.

Everything changed for Duncan when his fiancée died in the bombing of the World Trade Center. Finding himself at a crossroads, he retreated from the frenzied world of Wall Street banking and investing to set up his own company.

Ivan’s career also underwent a transformation when the Washington, D.C., mental-health foundation he’d headed for years lost its funding. Ivan transferred his private patients to another therapist, sold his Georgetown home and returned to his Harlem roots.

“First the lovebug bit Kyle, now you, DG? What’s going on?”

“It’s all good, Ivan. I never thought I’d find someone I could love after losing Kali, but I was wrong. And I have you to thank for that.”

“You came to me as a patient and not a friend, so I told you what I tell all my patients, given your circumstances. Now you and Tamara are planning a wedding.”

“You didn’t answer my question, Ivan.”

“What’s that?”

“Will you be my best man?”

“Of course I’ll be your best man, DG.”

“Thanks.”

“Where’s the wedding?” Ivan asked. Kyle and Ava Warwick had planned a Valentine’s Day wedding in Puerto Rico.

“It’ll be in New York. Tamara and I decided to have it on one of the yachts that sail along the Hudson River.”

“I’ll make certain to block out the first week in June. Congratulations and give Tamara my best.”

“I’ll tell her.”

“Have you told Kyle you’re getting married?” Ivan asked.

“I just spoke to him. He said we should set up an MNO at least once a month.”

Ivan smiled. “Are you certain your woman will allow you a men’s night out?” he teased.

“You’re talking crazy, brother. Are you equating marriage with being on lockdown? I think you’ve been dating the wrong women.”

“It’s not about dating the wrong women, DG. It’s just that I don’t want to commit to one woman.”

There was an uncomfortable silence before Duncan said, “You should try it, Ivan. At least once before you get too old.”

“On that note, I’m going to hang up on you, Duncan. Are you going into the office tomorrow?”

“No. Tamara’s off tomorrow, so we’re going to look at rings.”

“Let me know when you both have the same weekend off, because I’d like to host a party for you.”

“I know you’re not cooking, Ivan.”

“Very funny, DG,” he sneered. “Just because I don’t grill that well doesn’t mean I can’t cook.”

Duncan’s deep chuckle came through the earpiece. “I can’t eat what you grill, and I’ve never eaten anything you’ve cooked.”

“On that note, I suggest you hang up, DG, or you’ll find yourself looking for another best man.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“No, I wouldn’t, DG. No matter what happens, you can count on me to be your best man.” The ring of the doorbell echoed throughout the apartment. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to hang up on you. I’m expecting a visitor.”

“I’ll see you Tuesday. And thanks, Ivan.”

“No problem, DG.” Ivan hung up and pressed a button on the intercom. “Yes?”

“It’s Nayo.”

“I’ll be right with you.” Pressing another button, he buzzed open the lock to the outer door, and then went up the stairs to the second floor to answer the door. He hadn’t expected Nayo to come so quickly.

When Ivan opened the door, he didn’t realize he was staring. Nayo Goddard looked nothing like the woman he’d met at the gallery. Her fresh-scrubbed face made her look as if she were a teenage girl. She’d brushed her short hair until there was barely a hint of a curl. A black, hip-length leather jacket, turtleneck sweater, jeans and low-heeled boots had replaced her tailored blouse, skirt and heels. Nayo smiled and the dimple in her left cheek winked at him.

He returned her smile with a warm one of his own. “I’m forgetting my manners. Please come in.”

Nayo realized she hadn’t just imagined the sensual, brooding face of the man welcoming her into his home. Ivan Campbell wasn’t what women would call a pretty brother, but he was without a doubt a very attractive man. And the stubble on his lean face served to enhance his masculinity.

The perfectly proportioned body she’d glimpsed through the cut of his suit was blatantly displayed in a white cotton pullover sweater and jeans. Instead of slip-ons, he had on running shoes.

As she stepped into the vestibule, a wave of warmth enveloped her. A mahogany staircase with carved newel posts led to the upper floors. Her gaze shifted to what appeared to be a credence table that supported a large Tiffany-style table lamp. A leather chair with decorative walnut trim complemented the furnishings in the space.

Her fingers traced the surface of the table. “Where did you get this table?”

Ivan stared openly at Nayo, whose head barely came to his shoulder. “I inherited it.”

Nayo’s delicate jaw dropped slightly as the notion that the table might not be a reproduction registered. “Do you mind if I ask from whom?”

“I got it from the grandmother of a former patient who lived in the D.C. area. It’d been in her family for generations.”

“It’s not a reproduction.” Her question was a statement.

“No. It’s an original. I believe it was made sometime around 1680.”

Nayo stared longingly at the semicircular side table that folded out and was supported by a gateleg frame. She knew that similar antique tables were made of either walnut or oak in Britain around the second half of the seventeenth century. The space-saving tables were used in the nineteenth century to prepare the sacraments in English churches, hence the term credence table, which refers to church tables.

“Have you had it appraised?”

Ivan nodded. “I had to for insurance purposes.”

“But why leave it out here when anyone could damage it?”

“You should’ve seen it before I had it restored. I was shocked when it came back looking almost like new.”

Nayo traced the molding around the drawer with her fingertips. “This should be in a museum.” Her head came up and she met Ivan’s intense gaze. “Has anyone asked you to loan it to a museum?”

Ivan crossed his arms over his chest. “No.”

“Would you if they asked?”

“I don’t know.”

“At least you didn’t say no. Do you occupy the entire building?” Within seconds she’d changed the topic.

Reaching out, Ivan cradled her elbow. “No. I chose the street level and the second floor for my personal use. Come with me and I’ll show you one of the vacant apartments on the third floor.”

Nayo followed Ivan as he led her to the staircase. “What’s on the top floor?”

“You’ll see,” he said cryptically. “By the way, how did you get here so fast?”

“I live on 127th Street off Madison.”

Ivan released her elbow to take her hand, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze. “We’re practically neighbors.”

“How long have you lived here?” Nayo asked.

“Not too long. I bought this place three years ago. It took about a year and a half to renovate.”

She noted the parquet flooring along the third-floor hallway. “It looks as if you restored it.”

Ivan gave the talented photographer a sidelong glance. “I suppose I should’ve said it took that long to restore it. The architect managed to find photographs of another brownstone similar to this one, and he knew exactly what it looked like before the former owners made changes.”

“What updates did you make?”

“You’ll see when I show you the apartment.”

Ivan led Nayo down the hallway to the rear of the brownstone and opened a door to a vacant apartment. It was at Duncan’s urging that he decided to rent out the apartments. The accountant told him that the rental income would offset the expense of renovating the four-story structure.

He’d bought the abandoned brownstone outright with the proceeds from the sale of his D.C. home. He’d taken out a loan for the renovations, because he hadn’t wanted to exhaust his savings and have a cash-flow problem. Although he hadn’t wanted to be saddled with a mortgage, it was unavoidable when he, Duncan and Kyle purchased another brownstone in the same historic district. He would’ve found it stressful to carry two mortgages on two pieces of property. Luckily he and his friends purchased property when interest rates and house prices were still relatively low, and despite the mortgage-and-housing crisis, he, Kyle and Duncan were in good stead financially.

He couldn’t charge his patients the fees other therapists did, which was why he supplemented his income with teaching and private lectures. One of his ongoing personal projects was writing a couple of books—one a humanistic view of multicultural psychology, the other psychology and African-Americans.

Opening the door, Ivan stepped aside to let Nayo walk in. “This apartment is the same as the one at the front of the building.”

An entryway with gleaming hardwood floors in a herringbone design led to a living room with a trio of floor-to-ceiling windows. A raised area for dining overlooked the expansive living room. Nayo walked through the dining area to a gourmet kitchen with top-of-the line appliances and a black-and-white tile floor.

“Each apartment has a full bath and half bath,” Ivan said behind her.

“This place is beautiful,” she said reverently.

And it was. Nayo didn’t know how much Ivan was charging for rent, but if she’d seen the apartment first, she would’ve paid whatever he’d asked. High ceilings with recessed lighting, exquisite wood floors and natural light coming through the tall windows.

Ivan reached for her hand, cradling it gently in his protective grasp. “The half bath is off the kitchen, and the bedrooms are over here,” he said, leading her across the living room.

Nayo entered the master bedroom with its en suite bath. The bath had a freestanding shower and a Jacuzzi garden bathtub. The smaller bedroom, although spacious, lacked an adjoining bath. Solar shades that let light in without sacrificing privacy covered all the windows, and the bedroom floors were covered in carpeting in an oatmeal shade.

“Now the top floor.”

Ivan led Nayo up the staircase to the fourth floor. He’d thought of putting in an elevator, but changed his mind, because he wasn’t certain what he wanted to do with the top floor. Carved double mahogany doors opened to a yawning space with brick walls, cherry-wood floors, floor-to-ceiling windows and a coffered ceiling.

“What do you plan to put up here?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Nayo tried analyzing the man standing less than a foot away. It was only their second encounter, yet she felt very comfortable with him. It’d been that way when she’d met Geoffrey Magnus for the first time. She hadn’t had a lot of experience with men, with the exception of an intense summer romance the year she graduated from high school. She’d dated, although casually, but had yet to experience a passionate affair.

She knew her reluctance to get involved with a man stemmed from her desire to focus on establishing a career as a professional photographer. Taking pictures wasn’t a frivolous hobby or a passing fancy, but a passion. From the first time she held a camera she was hooked, and the obsession continued unabated.

“What I’ve seen is incredible. I see why a magazine would want to do a photo spread of your home.”

“I owe it all to a very talented architect and interior designer.”

Nayo gave Ivan a sidelong glance. “Don’t be so modest, Ivan. After all, you did have to approve the plans and the furnishings.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“I know I’m right,” she countered. “It’s the same when I take a shot. I know within seconds whether I’ve captured the image I want or I have to reshoot it.”

Resting his hand at the small of Nayo’s back, Ivan steered her toward the staircase. “How many pictures did you take to come up with the 120 in your bridge collection?”

“I have more than 120 photographs in my bridge collection.”

Ivan stopped before stepping off at the second floor landing. “I thought you said the exhibition was a limited collection.”

“I said the photographs in that collection will not be reprinted. I have others that I’ll show probably in a couple of years. If I decide never to exhibit them, then I’ll include them in a coffee-table book.”

“Do you have photos of any of the New York City bridges?”

Nayo nodded. “I have several of the Brooklyn Bridge at different times of the day.”

“Hot damn!” he said under his breath.

The skin around Nayo’s eyes crinkled when she laughed, the soft, sensual sound bubbling up from her throat. Ivan’s deep, rumbling laugh joined hers, and they were still laughing when he opened the door to his apartment to give her a tour of what had become a designer’s show house.

Chapter 3

Reaching into her jacket pocket, Nayo removed a small, handheld video recorder. She hadn’t realized her hand was shaking until she tried to take off her jacket. The rumors she’d heard about Carla Harris’s meteoric rise in the world of interior design were true, as evidenced by the blending of textures and colors. The interior of Ivan Campbell’s duplex was breathtakingly beautiful.

“I’ll take that,” Ivan said, reaching for Nayo’s jacket. “You can either start here or downstairs.”

Nayo stared at the area off the entryway, which contained a leather grouping in front of a minimalist-designed fireplace. “I’d like to see the rooms alone.” Her gaze shifted to Ivan, seeing an expression of confusion on his handsome face. “I like to feel the space, and I can’t do that if there’s someone else there with me. Rooms, if they aren’t empty, are like people, Ivan,” she explained softly. “Each one has a personality based on the color of the walls, flooring, the window treatments and the furnishings. It’s the same when I study a subject or object I plan to photograph. It’s not about looking through a camera lens and snapping the image. It’s seeing beyond that. That’s the difference between an amateur and professional photographer.”

Ivan inclined his head in agreement. He’d had a patient who was an artist, and he was more than familiar with his quirky personality. Despite having a successful career, he never believed in himself. After being commissioned to paint a mural for the lobby of a major corporation, he’d spend months procrastinating. Fear and self-doubt brought on a paralyzing anxiety that made it almost impossible for him to pick up a brush. Following a series of intense therapy sessions, he worked nonstop to make the deadline. If Nayo needed solitude, he’d comply with her request.

“Take your time.”

Nayo exhaled inaudibly. She thought Ivan wouldn’t agree to her going through his home unaccompanied, because the first time she’d made a similar request to a potential client, she’d found herself ushered out of the woman’s Sutton Place penthouse—but not before Nayo told her there wasn’t anything in her apartment worth stealing and going to jail for.

Smiling, she winked at Ivan. “I’ll be back.”

“Would you like a café latte or cappuccino?”

“I’d love a latte, thank you.”

“Would you like it now or when you’re finished?”

“I’ll have it when I’m finished.”

Nayo was anxious to tour the house so she could recommend photographs that would be suitable for the magazine spread. Ivan hadn’t mentioned the name of the magazine, but she knew it was Architectural Digest. When Carla Harris attended the preview showing, she’d babbled incessantly about how the preeminent interior-design magazine wanted to photograph the home of one of her clients.

Switching on the tape recorder, she spoke quietly into the speaker. “I’ve just passed an alcove with a leather grouping in butter-yellow designed for small, intimate gatherings in front of a minimalist fireplace. There is no fireplace mantel, but a grouping of shadow boxes would break up the starkness of the oyster-white wall.”

She continued into the living room, where a neutral palette of white, cream and tan provided an elegant backdrop for comfort and elegance. Nayo felt the room was a little too formal with a tufted, brown-leather sofa, chairs and doubled-tiered, beveled-glass coffee table positioned at an angle on the cream-colored plush rug.

Switching on the recorder again, she said, “There are books, a chess set with full-leaded crystal pieces on the coffee table. There’s a Waterford lamp on a side table, along with a Waterford Crystal 2000 World Series Home Plate New York City Subway Series collectible. Dr. Ivan Campbell likes music, sports and chess.”

Nayo lost track of time as she entered and left rooms that bore the designer’s distinctive mark. Carla Harris had made her reputation by incorporating the personality of the owner within the space’s function. Unlike Ivan, she wasn’t a psychologist, but what Nayo saw spoke volumes. He was a chameleon, switching flawlessly from formal to informal with a change of attire.

Friday night he was Dr. Campbell. She’d found him somewhat passive-aggressive when he’d tried to talk her into duplicating the prints he wanted. It was only when she stood her ground that he backed off. Sunday afternoon he was Ivan, welcoming, cooperative and amenable to her suggestions.

It took Nayo less than half an hour to ascertain that Ivan wasn’t married. Everything in his house was as masculine as he, and nowhere was there anything feminine—no intimate products, hairdressing, perfume or deodorant on the dressing tables in any of the bathrooms. His home was the proverbial bachelor pad.

The master bedroom projected a Zen quality: platform bed with gray, black and white accessories. The minimalist Asian decor was carried over into the bath with two large, pale green bowls doubling as basins and a matching garden tub with enough space for four adults.

The furnishings in the three guest bedrooms were reminiscent of Caribbean plantation homes under British Colonial rule. The mosquito netting draping the four-poster beds reminded Nayo of her own bed, with its mosquito netting embroidered with tiny yellow pineapples.

Walking through the formal dining room with a magnificent crystal chandelier over a table with seating for ten, she found herself in a state-of-the-art, gourmet kitchen. Pots, pans and utensils were suspended from a rack over a cooking island. Her gaze swept over a subzero refrigerator, wine cellar and a collection of cookbooks on a shelf near an espresso machine.

Nayo walked through the kitchen into a well-stocked pantry, then a laundry room, then down a flight of stairs to the street level. She pushed a button on the recorder. “Framed movie prints would work well on the walls of the home theater. I’m leaving the home theater and walking into a home office. There are two photographs of Malcolm X, the only photos in the entire apartment. One is a candid shot and the other a framed print issued by the U.S. Postal Service. Black-and-white landscapes will work well in the home office.” She turned off the recorder.

The utility kitchen, with its stainless-steel appliances, and a glass-and-porcelain bathroom needed no additional adornment. Nayo smiled when she walked into the gym. Ivan’s toned body was a testament to the fact that he made good use of the workout bench and assorted weights, a rowing machine and a heavy punching bag suspended from the ceiling by a chain.

She crossed the room and opened the door to a steam room. It was apparent Ivan Campbell had everything he needed to make his life as stress-free as possible. She retreated up the staircase to the gourmet kitchen at the same time Ivan walked in.

“Are you ready for your latte?”

Nayo nodded as she sat on a tall stool at a counter adjacent to the cooking island. “Yes, please.”

His eyebrows lifted in question. “What do you think of the apartment?” he asked as he filled a grinder with coffee beans.

“I love it,” she replied truthfully, “and it’s certainly worthy of a magazine layout.”

“I have Carla to thank for that.”

“Don’t be so modest, Ivan. I’m sure you had some input.”

“A little,” he admitted with a sheepish grin.

“It was more than a little,” Nayo admonished in a soft tone. “I know you like movies, working out, playing the piano, chess, baseball and cooking.”

Ivan made a face. “You’re right about everything but the cooking.”

“What’s up with the cookbooks?”

“I’m trying to teach myself to cook.”

“Why don’t you take a few classes?”

“I would,” he said, “but I don’t have the time. I have my private practice and I teach classes two days a week.”

Ivan decided to experiment with cooking after his best friends refused to eat his food. He’d accepted that his grilling methods were less than stellar, but he hadn’t done too badly on the stove top or baking. The night before, he’d made spaghetti carbonara, following the recipe to the letter, and the result was amazing. He wanted to wait until he’d perfected a few more dishes, then invite Kyle, Duncan and their respective fiancées for dinner.

He couldn’t believe that his best friends’ summer romances hadn’t ended with the end of the season, but would continue beyond the time when they exchanged vows. He’d be best man at both their weddings.

Despite setting up their respective businesses in the same building, they got together less often than when they were employees of other companies. Even when he lived and worked in D.C., Ivan would drive up to New York several times a month to reconnect with his childhood friends.

He, Duncan and Kyle had vowed years ago they would always remain connected even if separated by thousands of miles. And although they did not share DNA, they were brothers in the truest sense of the word.

“What are your favorite movies?” Nayo asked, breaking into his reverie.

Ivan’s gaze narrowed. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t you have at least three or four favorites you’ve seen more than once?”

He pushed a button and the fragrant aroma of coffee filled the kitchen. “I’m somewhat partial to Glory, Witness, The Godfather and The Departed. Why do you want to know?”

Nayo smiled. Ivan had named two of her favorite films. He liked heavy drama. “I’d like to order archival movie posters for the walls of your home theater. Now if you have a few black-and-white favorites, I’ll see if they, too, can be ordered. The contrast between the classic movies and what will become new classics will bring a nice touch to the room. If you decide you don’t want them matted and framed, they can be bonded to a board using a thermal heating process. Another option is to set them up on easels. Either way the posters will add warmth and personality to the space.”

Talented, intelligent and beautiful, Ivan mused. “Are you certain you’ll be able to get those?”

Resting her elbows on the marble-topped counter, Nayo leaned forward. “I know someone in the business.”

“I guess it all goes back to who you know, not what you know,” he quipped.

“Sometimes it’s both. I went to college with a guy whose father is a Hollywood still photographer.”

Ivan emptied the finely ground coffee into the well of the coffee machine, added water and then pushed a button for the brewing cycle. “Which college did you attend?”

“The School of Visual Arts.”

“When did you graduate?”

A knowing smile softened Nayo’s features. “Are you asking because you want to know how much experience I have in the field, or are you asking because you want to know how old I am?”

Ivan went completely still. It was apparent Nayo saw through his ruse. Not many people could read him that well. “Okay, you got me. How old are you, Nayo?”

Resting her chin on the heel of her hand, she made a sensual moue, bringing his gaze to linger on her mouth. “I’m thirty-one.”

“You had me fooled,” Ivan admitted. “I thought you were at least ten years younger.”

“I guess there’s some truth in the saying ‘Black don’t crack.’”

Ivan assumed a similar pose when he rested his elbows inches from hers. “I’d attribute it more to a good gene pool.”

Nayo lifted her shoulders. “It could be a combination of the two. Since you’ve asked me a very personal question, I’m going to return the favor. How old are you?”

Attractive lines fanned out around his eyes when he smiled, a smile she yearned to capture for posterity. “I’m thirty-nine.” He’d celebrated a birthday earlier that spring.

“You don’t look that old.”

“How old do I look?”

“Younger than thirty-nine,” Nayo said.

“How many thirty-nine-year-old men have you known?”

“I haven’t known as many as I’ve seen. I’m a photographer, Ivan, so whenever I meet someone, my first instinct is to study their face. And yours is a very interesting face.”

Ivan gave Nayo a long, penetrating stare. He’d been called a lot of things, but he couldn’t remember anyone referring to him as interesting. The seconds ticked off as they stared at each other.

“Did I embarrass you, Dr. Campbell?”

“No,” he countered. “And please don’t call me Dr. Campbell. You’re not my student or my patient.”

Nayo nodded, but didn’t drop her gaze. “Point taken,” she said. “I think the coffee’s ready for my latte.”

Ivan leaned closer. “To be continued.”

His comment told Nayo more than she wanted to know about the psychotherapist. He didn’t like conceding. She stared at the breadth of his shoulders under the cotton pullover. “Will you allow me to photograph you?” It was a question that had nagged at her since she’d come face-to-face with Ivan at the gallery.

Ivan’s hand didn’t waver as he poured a small amount of steaming, frothy milk into a cup of black coffee.

Carrying the cup and napkin, he placed them on the counter in front of her. “Why do want to photograph me?”

“Aren’t you going to make a cup for yourself?”

“No. I’ve already had three cups today, and that’s my limit.”

Her eyebrows rose. “That’s a lot of coffee.”

Ivan nodded. “I’m down from six cups a day. Why do you want to photograph me?” he asked again.

“I like your face.”

“It’s interesting,” he teased.

Nayo winked at him. “Very. Your features are very symmetrical, and you have what I think of as a beguiling smile. It’s warm, inviting and as a woman I find it quite sensual. You also have beautiful hands.”

“Stop it, Nayo. I thank you for your glowing assessment, but I can’t.”

“I’ll pay you, Ivan.”

“It’s not about money.”

“What is it about, then?”

“I don’t want or need my face on display at some gallery. I’m a therapist and teacher, not some celebrity.”

“But you are a celebrity, Dr. Campbell,” Nayo argued softly. “Are you aware of how many sites come up when your name is searched on Google? Thirty-eight,” she said when he gave her an impassive stare. “Don’t worry, Ivan, I won’t sell your photograph.”

“What do you plan to do with it?”

“Use it in a retrospective.”

“That’s it?”

She smiled. “That’s it, Ivan. And I would stipulate this when you sign a release.”

Ivan shook his head. “I don’t know, Nayo. I have to think about it.”

She wanted to ask him what there was to think about. Most people she knew would jump at the opportunity to have their photographs taken by a professional photographer. She’d spent four years photographing bridges, and now her focus had become people—people from every race, ethnic group and every walk of life. The world was her canvas and she planned to fill every inch of it.

She forced a smile she didn’t feel. “At least you didn’t say no.”

“But I could,” Ivan countered.

A shiver of annoyance shook her. It was the second time in two days that Ivan Campbell had her close to losing her temper. “Either it’s yes or no, Ivan, because I’m not into playing games.”

Ivan bared his beautiful white teeth. “I told you I have to think about it.”

“Dial down the bully-boy attitude. You don’t frighten me.”

A slow smile crinkled the skin around his eyes. “It wasn’t my intent to frighten you.”

Nayo drew the back of her hand over her forehead, mimicking a gesture of relief. “Whew! For a moment I thought you were going to put me under the bright lights and pull out the rubber hose.”

Throwing back his head, Ivan laughed loudly. “Either you’re overly dramatic or you’ve been watching too many old police-procedural movies.”

She gave him a bright smile. “I’ve always had a secret desire to act.”

Ivan sobered. “You’d be a very beautiful actress.”

Two pairs of dark eyes met and fused as a beat passed. Nayo broke the visual impasse when she picked up her cup, staring at Ivan over the rim, and took a sip of lukewarm coffee.

“What’s the matter, Nayo? Cat got your tongue?”

She dabbed her mouth with the napkin. “No,” she answered softly.

“I just paid you a compliment.”

“Was it a compliment, or are you flirting with me?”

“Both.”

Nayo recoiled visibly. It wasn’t often she met someone as honest and in-your-face as Ivan Campbell, and she wondered if it was because of his profession. “Do you flirt with every woman you meet?”

“No.”

“You are flirting, yet you know nothing about me. I could be married.”

“But you’re not married, Nayo.”

Her eyes narrowed. “How would you know that?”

A mysterious smile played at the corners of Ivan’s mouth. “You’re not the only one who’s Internet savvy. It was after I went through the catalog of your work at the gallery that I came home and searched your name. I seriously doubt any normal man would permit his wife to be away from him for four years while she indulged in her obsession to photograph every conceivable natural or manmade bridge.”

“You think of photography as an obsession?”

“Not the profession in and of itself. But to be away from home and all that’s familiar for years doesn’t quite fall within the normal range.”

Resting her chin on the heel of her hand, Nayo smiled at Ivan. “Are you attempting to psychoanalyze me, Dr. Campbell?”

He leaned closer and the fragrance of his cologne on warmed flesh tantalized her olfactory sense. The man in whose kitchen she sat claimed the winning combination of looks, brains and professional success. If she’d been interested in looking for someone with whom to have a relationship, Ivan would’ve been the perfect candidate. However, she didn’t need or want a man, because any emotional entanglement would conflict with her career. She was only thirty-one, her biological clock wasn’t ticking and she had a lot of time ahead of her for love, marriage and children.

Ivan ran a finger down the length of her short, delicate nose. “No. I don’t want to know that much about you. I find it more intriguing to find out things over time.”

“How much time are you talking about?”

“That depends on the woman.”

“Why,” Nayo whispered, “are you being so evasive?”

Ivan winked. “I thought I was being miss-steery-ous,” he drawled in what sounded to Nayo like an Eastern European accent.

“You are so silly,” Nayo countered. “You need to have your head examined.” She sobered quickly. “Now, back to why I’m here. I have a collection of photographs you can use for your living room, master bedroom, bath, living and dining rooms. I’m not so certain about the guest bedrooms. You may have to look elsewhere for something that will conform to the decor.”

“What are you thinking of?”

“I’d like to see ferns, flowers and birds reminiscent of Audubon prints, in keeping with the tropical theme.”

“Where would I find them?”

“I’ll get them for you. Chances are I’ll be able to come up with some quicker than you can, and probably at a better price. And if it’s all right with you, I’ll buy the prints and mats and frame them myself. That also will lower the cost considerably.”

Ivan waved a hand. “Don’t worry about how much they cost. If you’ll give me an approximate amount of what you think they’ll come to, I’ll write you a check.”

Nayo shook her head. “That’s not necessary. The people I deal with will bill me.”

“What about your commission?”

“What about it, Ivan?”

“How much commission do you want?”

Unconsciously Nayo furrowed her brow. She’d put herself into the position of becoming his agent or representative. “Five percent.” It was the first figure to come to mind. She would sell him her photographs, but there was no way she was going to rip him off when she negotiated for the prints for the bedrooms.

“Aren’t the prevailing rates for agents between fifteen and twenty-five percent?”

“Don’t forget I’m going to charge you for the photos, matting and framing.”

“When do you want me to look at the photos?”

“That’s up to you,” Nayo said.

“What if I come to the gallery on Friday?”

Ivan had made it a practice not to schedule patients on Friday. The only exception was an emergency, and thankfully he hadn’t had too many of those. He lectured Monday and Wednesday morning, then saw patients in the afternoon and evening. He was available all day Tuesday and Thursday for scheduled appointments and walk-ins, and had set aside Thursdays as his late night.

“I’m sorry, but the gallery is closed on Friday, unless there is a showing.”

He exhaled. “I teach and see patients every day of the week except Friday.”

Nayo pondered Ivan’s scheduling dilemma. She worked Monday, Wednesday and Friday at the auction house and toured the different neighborhoods on Tuesday looking for subjects to photograph. Her Thursdays were spent cleaning her apartment, shopping for food and dropping off and picking up laundry.

“I can see you on Friday, but it will have to be after six,” she said, knowing she had to compromise to give Ivan what he needed for the magazine layout.

“So I’ll meet you at the gallery?” Ivan asked.

A beat passed. “I’m not sure. I’ll let you know.”

Nayo knew if she couldn’t convince Geoff to open the gallery for her to use for a few hours on Friday, then Ivan would have to come to her apartment. No male, other than her father and brother, had crossed the threshold to what she’d come to think of as her sanctuary. It was there where she went to eat, sleep, relax and examine the shots she’d taken during her block-by-block walking expedition, and not entertain men.

She and Geoff had an explosive interchange when he’d called out of the blue, asking to drop by. She’d tried explaining that she was raised never to drop in on someone without an invitation, but Geoff was quite vocal when he said her protocol was not only rigid, but archaic. His reference to her upstate roots was like waving a red flag in front of a bull, and several weeks passed before she would take his calls. He apologized profusely and never broached the subject again.

“What if we meet over dinner?” Ivan asked.

“Are you cooking?” she teased.

Straightening, Ivan angled his head. “You really want me to cook?”

Pushing to her feet, Nayo waved her hands. “Why do you sound so surprised? You have a kitchen to die for with all the accoutrements, and you have the audacity to ask me whether I want you to cook. Of course I do,” she said, enunciating each word.

Ivan made a face. “I’m really not that good.”

Suddenly Ivan recalled the spaghetti carbonara he’d prepared. “I’ll cook,” he said, smiling. “Do you like Italian?”

Her expression brightened. “I love it.”

“Are you lactose-intolerant?”

Nayo shook her head. “No. Do you mind if I bring dessert?” Ivan flashed the smile she wanted to capture for posterity. Somehow she had to get him to agree to sit for her.

“Of course not. Call me and let me know what time you want me to pick you up.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I live practically around the corner.”

“Even if you lived next door I’d still come and pick you up. The days are getting shorter and by six it’s starting to get dark.”

Nayo knew she had to play nice with Ivan, because she wanted to shoot him. “Okay. I’ll call you when I’m ready and you can come and get me. Thank you for the latte.”

There was just enough sarcasm in her tone to make Ivan give her a pointed look. Pretending she didn’t notice it, she turned on her heel and walked out of the kitchen, Ivan following. He picked up her jacket off the chair in the alcove, holding it while she slipped her arms into the sleeves.

“Don’t leave yet,” Ivan warned as he opened the door to a closet off the entryway. Reaching for a lightweight windbreaker, he put it on, then opened the drawer in the credence table and took out a set of keys. “Now I’m ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“To walk you home.”

Nayo gave the man with the superinflated ego a baleful look that spoke volumes. Yes, he was gorgeous, educated, owned a beautiful home and apparently was solvent, but that didn’t translate into her gushing over him as if he were the last man on the face of the earth.

She knew her youthful appearance shocked a lot of people, but she wasn’t a girl. She’d had a long-term relationship that ended in a broken engagement; she’d spent several summers in Europe, avoiding the advances of men who saw her as easy prey; and she’d put more than one hundred thousand miles on her car when she’d crisscrossed the continental United States shooting more than a thousand pictures.

Ivan had admitted he’d been flirting with her, but Nayo Cassandra Goddard wasn’t biting. Growing her career, not becoming involved with a man, had become her priority.

“I’m not going home. I’m meeting someone for dinner.” She’d made plans to meet Geoff at a seafood restaurant on the Upper East Side. “I’ll call you,” she said cheerfully.

Ivan nodded numbly like a bobble-head doll. Nayo was there and then she wasn’t as the door closed quietly behind her departing figure. He’d detected a subtle defiance in the photographer, defiance he saw as a challenge.

Many of the women he’d dated failed to hold his interest for more than a few weeks, but there was something about the petite photographer that intrigued him, intrigued him enough to want to see her again.

He hadn’t realized that until he’d opened the door to find her standing there. Ivan knew he could’ve asked Carla to purchase or rent the requisite art, but after seeing Nayo’s photos and meeting her, he realized he didn’t want or need Carla’s involvement.

He liked Nayo, but what he had to uncover was why.

What was it about her that made her different from other women?

And how had a little slip of a woman managed to get to the man who’d earned the reputation of “love them and leave them”?

Nayo hadn’t outright rejected his advances, but Ivan knew she wasn’t going to be easy. And that was the difference between her and other women—they’d been too easy.

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