ManOFFortune

Man of Fortune
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

She is more precious than rubies: and all the things thou canst desire are not to be compared unto her.

—Proverbs 3:15

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 1

Duncan Gilmore’s head popped up when he heard the two quick taps on the door. A slow smile crinkled around his eyes when he saw a head appear from around the partially opened door.

“Good morning, Kyle. Come on in.”

Kyle Chatham opened the door fully and walked into a sun-filled office with a desk, tables, credenza and bookcases made from rosewood and Jamaican mahogany. Everything in the space, from the furnishings to the occupant’s attire, conveyed good breeding and elegance. He took a chair beside the desk, which was covered with investment portfolios and a batch of tax returns.

“I heard you were looking for me yesterday. What’s up, DG?”

“Are you feeling all right?” Duncan asked.

“Yes. Why?”

“I’ve never known you to take off on a Monday.”

Kyle looped a leg over the opposite knee. “Things have changed now that Jordan Wainwright has joined the firm.”

Duncan smiled, exhibiting perfectly aligned white teeth. “I like your new partner, Kyle. At first I thought he wouldn’t fit in, but after that TV segment where he called his grandfather a slumlord I have a newfound respect for the poor little rich boy.”

Kyle, angling his head, returned his friend’s smile. “I felt the same way before Jordan came on board. Representing clients with deep pockets is very different from fighting for the little guy, but Jordan has proven that he is a man for the people. Even though the plaque out front reads Chatham and Wainwright, P.C., Attorneys at Law, and he’s accepted a partnership, I’m going to wait until after Labor Day to make it official. It’ll give me time to place ads in the local papers and host a reception for a few elected officials and neighborhood residents.”

“That sounds good. Jordan’s elevation to partner and the added staff should level the playing field when you guys compete with other Harlem law firms.”

Kyle ran a hand over his neatly cropped hair. “I don’t want to compete, DG. I had enough of that when I worked eighty-hour weeks for Trilling, Carlyle and Browne. Jordan’s contribution to the firm has allowed me to pay off half of my share of this building’s mortgage and hire additional staff. Taking on a partner has also afforded me a life outside of the office.”

“With Ava?”

“Yes, with Ava,” Kyle confirmed. “She has a lot of comp time coming, so we’ve decided to take long weekends together.”

“I was looking for you yesterday because one of my clients has season tickets to the Yankee home games. I didn’t want to tell him that I’m a Mets fan, so I took them anyway. I know you like the Yankees, and with them playing Boston this weekend it should be quite a series.”

“Talk about bad timing. I’m planning to meet Ava’s folks.”

“Going to meet her parents sounds serious,” Duncan said.

Kyle Chatham stared at Duncan. His friend was a magnet for women. Duncan’s olive skin, chiseled features and close-cropped curly black hair, his beautifully modulated baritone voice and impeccable attire, made him a standout whenever he entered a room. Kyle was always incredulous that Duncan was totally unaware of the impact he had on women.

“It is. I proposed marriage and she accepted.”

Duncan went completely still as he stared at his friend. I proposed marriage and she accepted. Those were the exact words he’d said to Kyle and their buddy Ivan one night when he’d asked the two to join him for drinks so that he could share the news that had given him a fitful night’s sleep. The difference was that he’d proposed marriage to Kalinda Douglas, but the two never became husband and wife. Fate had interceded on September 11, 2001, when his fiancée died in the terror attacks on the World Trade Center.

Duncan, Kyle Chatham and Ivan Campbell had grown up in the same Harlem public-housing development. His two friends had become as close to him as the brothers he’d never had. The year he turned fourteen, Duncan’s single mother had died unexpectedly from a blood clot, and, having never known his father, he went to live with his schoolteacher aunt in an upscale Brooklyn neighborhood.

Kyle was the youngest of the trio by several months, having recently celebrated his thirty-ninth birthday. He was tall, and what women referred to as “fine milk chocolate.” Duncan detected a change in Kyle over the past few months. Now he knew it had something to do with Ava Warrick.

Rising from his seat, he came around the desk to embrace Kyle, who’d also come to his feet. Duncan pounded his back. “Congratulations. When’s the wedding?”

“Not until next year. In fact, Ava wants a winter wedding.”

“She wants to get married in New York in the winter?” Duncan asked, a note of incredulity creeping into the question. He sat on the edge of his desk facing Kyle who had sat down again.

A hint of a smile played at the corners of Kyle’s mouth. “It wouldn’t pose a problem if the wedding were held in Puerto Rico.”

“Damn, Kyle! Now you’re talking.”

Kyle sobered. “I want you to be my best man.”

An expression of sadness flitted over Duncan’s handsome face before he managed to mask it with a plastic grin. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

He didn’t want to relive the time when he’d asked Kyle to become his best man. Kalinda used to e-mail him every morning, counting the days before she became Mrs. Duncan Gilmore. The morning of September 11, the anticipated e-mail never came. Duncan didn’t know what was worse—the weeks of waiting or the telephone call from Kalinda’s parents that their daughter’s body had been recovered in the rubble.

“No, I am not, Duncan.”

It wasn’t often Kyle called Duncan by his given name because there had been another boy named Duncan who lived in their building, and to differentiate between the two he’d always called Duncan Gilmore DG.

“I thought you would’ve asked Micah.”

Kyle had met Micah Sanborn when he’d become the NYPD officer’s law-school mentor. Micah, now a Kings County assistant district attorney, had been promoted to lieutenant when he enrolled in Brooklyn Law School. It’d taken him six years, attending part-time, instead of the normal three to complete his degree. During that time, Kyle had mentored Micah, who had juggled his law-enforcement responsibilities with law school. During his down time Micah would occasionally join Ivan and Duncan at sporting events when Kyle invited him along to unwind.

“Micah’s my friend, but you and Ivan are closer to me than my own brother. If you don’t want to—”

“Hold up, Kyle,” Duncan said, cutting him off. “Did I say I didn’t want to be your best man?”

“You didn’t say you would,” Kyle countered.

He’d asked Duncan to become his best man because he felt closer to him than to Ivan, despite Duncan having moved from Harlem to Brooklyn as a teen. It was Duncan who had always called to see how he was doing, and the routine continued to this day with Duncan stopping by his office several times a week to see how Kyle was doing. Kyle suspected his friend’s concern about his well-being had something to do with him losing his mother. Although Duncan said he had noticed signs of distress in his mother, he hadn’t called for a doctor or an ambulance until it was too late. He’d come home from school to find Melanie Gilmore on the kitchen floor. The medical examiner had put her time of death at approximately ten that morning.

Now the lifelong friends stared at each other until Duncan inclined his head, breaking the silence. “I’m honored you’ve asked, and I accept.”

Kyle blew out a breath. “Thank you, DG. You don’t know what this means to me, because I know it’s not going to be easy for you to relive what happened—”

“I’m good, buddy. I’ll never forget Kalinda, but each year it gets a little easier. It was the same when I lost my mother.” Crossing his arms over his chest, Duncan stared at the pattern on the rug under his shoes. “I have a confession to make.” His head came up. “I’ve had a few sessions with Ivan.”

Duncan had been staunchly resistant to seeing a therapist to deal with the grief he felt with the loss of his fiancée. Dr. Ivan Campbell had told Duncan that anytime he wanted to talk—about anything—his door was always open to him. And it had taken Duncan a long time to work up enough nerve to admit that he needed therapy in order to begin dealing with the demons that wouldn’t let him get past the tragedies in his life. He wasn’t completely free of them yet, but he was getting there.

He’d begun dating again, but none of the relationships had lasted more than a few months. Last weekend he’d asked a woman who was a former college classmate to go out with him. She wasn’t his late fiancée, wasn’t even remotely close to her. But he did enjoy her company and had told her that, but he hadn’t promised he would call her again.

“I’d like to throw a little something at my place to celebrate your engagement. It will be a way for your friends and family and hers to get together and become acquainted with one another.”

Leaning forward, Kyle patted Duncan’s arm. “I’m going to speak for Ava when I say we’d really appreciate that.” In the past, there hadn’t been a month when Duncan and Kalinda hadn’t hosted a gathering at his Chelsea loft. The soirées were always elegant and well-attended. “What’s up with all the financials?” Kyle asked, smoothly changing the topic of conversation.

“You’ve got to stay on top of the market, especially with clients who are counting on me for their financial security.”

Kyle whistled softly. “Damn, maybe I need to have you take another look at my investments.”

“Anytime Kyle. Remember, now’s the time to make sure your investment strategy is sound.” Of his many clients, only Kyle, Ivan Campbell, his aunt Viola Gilmore and a select few got free financial advice.

“On that note,” Kyle said, pushing to his feet, “I’ll leave you to your spread sheets.”

“Congratulations again, buddy.”

“Thanks, DG.”

Duncan waited until Kyle left before he went back to his computer, estimating it would take the rest of the morning to complete his work. His client, Mrs. Henderson, had neglected to reinvest insurance proceeds after her husband passed away. Unfortunately, she’d ignored the mounting pile of letters from the insurance company until her daughter had discovered them in a drawer with a number of unpaid bills.

Pressing a button on the telephone console, he called his secretary. “Mia, please refer my calls to Auggie.”

Augustin Russell, a third-year finance student, worked twenty hours a week when classes were in session and full-time during the summer months. Duncan was seriously considering hiring him after he graduated. Not only was he bright, but he was also very ambitious, reminding Duncan of himself when he’d begun his MBA studies. Not only had Duncan earned an MBA, but earlier that spring he’d applied and been accepted into a joint JD/MBA degree program.

His graduate-studies concentration was venture capital financing and asset management. It was as if he had a sixth sense when it came to buying and selling stocks and bonds. He knew intuitively when to sell stocks before they declined, and he knew the MBA coursework with a focus on investment strategies had been crucial to his success in monitoring his own and his clients’ investment portfolios.

Like Kyle, Duncan had tired of working sixteen-hour days to make money for an investment company. Following the advice he’d given his clients, he invested heavily in the tech market, then sold his shares before they bottomed out. The return on his investments was staggering and gave him the impetus to set up his own financial-planning company.

He purchased loft space, renovated it and moved from the apartment in his aunt’s downtown Brooklyn brownstone to a four-bedroom, three-and-a-half-bath condo giving him more than three thousand square feet for living and entertaining.

Now, working on Mrs. Henderson’s problem, Duncan lost track of time and everything going on around him but the figures on the computer program.

He was interrupted once when his secretary brought him a cup of coffee. His smile of gratitude conveyed his appreciation. It was minutes before three in the afternoon when the final spread sheet came out of the printer that sat on a corner of the L-shaped, glass-topped desk.

Gathering up the pages, he put them in his monogrammed leather briefcase that had been a graduation gift from his aunt. A schoolteacher by profession, Viola Gilmore valued education as much as she valued life itself. She had repeatedly emphasized the importance of a good education until Duncan was convinced he’d been brainwashed.

Viola had cried when he’d told her he was moving out of the brownstone, but she’d eventually come around. It took Duncan several months of living completely on his own to realize he’d become the son Viola had never had. What he didn’t and couldn’t explain to his aunt was that, despite having his own apartment in the brownstone, he’d felt uncomfortable bringing his dates home with him. Never one to boast about his sexual conquests, he’d always kept his personal life very, very private. Ivan and Kyle were shocked when he disclosed he’d proposed marriage to Kalinda, because up until that time neither had met her or heard him mention her.

Duncan shut down the computer, straightened up his desk, slipped into his suit jacket, picked up his briefcase and walked out of his office. Mia Humphrey swiveled around in her chair when he strode past her.

“Good afternoon, Duncan.”

He smiled without turning around. “Go home, Mia.”

A rush of blood suffused her olive complexion. “I’m going.”

The year before, Duncan had instituted summer work hours to allow his secretary and accounting clerk more time to enjoy the warmer weather. Office hours during July and August were nine to three Monday through Thursday and nine to one on Friday.

Duncan knew that Mia, a young single mother, had taken a more than friendly interest in his assistant. Even though he didn’t approve of office romances, he had no intention of interfering in the personal lives of his employees. After all, both were consenting adults.

He walked through the renovated brownstone’s reception area, where a man and several women lounged in chairs watching the wall-mounted flat-screen television, and out into the blistering heat. Spending hours in the building’s air-conditioned interior hadn’t prepared him for the hazy, hot and humid summer weather.

Aside from working for himself, Duncan’s pride came as one-third owner of the renovated brownstone in Harlem’s Mount Morris Park Historic District. His office occupied the first floor, Kyle’s law firm the second and Ivan’s counseling center was set up on the third floor. The street level had been reconfigured to include a gym with a locker room and showers, a modern state-of-the-art kitchen and a dining room. The year before, a game room with pool and Ping-Pong tables had been added, along with several pinball machines and a large-screen television for video games.

Strolling down the tree-lined block, Duncan stopped at the corner and flagged down a taxi. He was loath to ride the subway, not wanting to endure the suffocating heat and the less-than-affable attitudes of straphangers packed into subway cars like sardines.

Sliding into the rear seat of the air-conditioned cab, he gave the driver his destination. “Nineteenth and Park Avenue South.” The cabbie took off, heading downtown while Duncan closed his eyes. The ride was long enough for him to take a power nap.

“I’m going to have to put you out here, mister.”

Duncan opened his eyes, peering out the side window. It seemed as if he’d just closed his eyes. The taxi driver had pulled over on Park Avenue South, but it was blocks from his destination. “I asked for Nineteenth Street.”

The cabbie turned to stare at the man in a suit and tie knotted to his throat despite the ninety-degree temperatures. “I can’t go any farther. The streets are closed. There was a water-main break yesterday.”

Duncan paid the fare, giving the cabbie a generous tip, and walked the remaining two blocks to an opulent Gramercy Park apartment building, where he gave the doorman his name, adding, “Mrs. Henderson is expecting me.”

The doorman rang Genevieve Henderson’s apartment, speaking softly into the telephone receiver. He nodded to Duncan. “You can go up. Mrs. Henderson is in apartment 12D. The elevator for even-numbered floors is on your left.”

Duncan nodded, smiling. “Thank you.”

The doorman inclined his head. “You’re welcome, sir.”

“Are you certain you don’t want another glass of tea?”

Duncan smiled at the quirky woman who at one time had been wardrobe mistress for the American Ballet Company. “I’m quite certain, Mrs. Henderson.” He held up his glass. “Two is usually my limit.”

She wagged a bejeweled finger at him. She wore a ring on each one of her fingers, including her thumbs. The precious and semi-precious stones were sizeable, the designs reminiscent of estate jewelry. “I thought I told you to call me Genevieve,” she scolded. “Pshaw, I can see it if you’d had two double martinis, but not iced tea.”

Duncan curbed the urge to roll his eyes. “I try to limit my caffeine intake.”

“You’re in luck today. I used decaffeinated tea.”

He took a surreptitious glance at his watch. It was after five, he wanted to go home, take a shower and relax, but Mrs. Henderson—no, Genevieve—had held him hostage with her stories about the famous dancers who’d performed with the ballet company where she’d worked for more than thirty years.

Sitting up straighter, he reached for his suit jacket. “I really must go, Genevieve.”

“Do you have a date?”

The question caught Duncan off-guard as he stared at the woman with the cotton-candy-pink curls. Rising to his feet, he slipped into his jacket and reached for the case filled with the papers for her to sign. “No, I don’t. And as much I’ve enjoyed talking with you, I must leave.”

Genevieve’s dark eyebrows lifted slightly. “You sound so formal. You were that way when you took my Lucy to your senior prom. I guess that comes from living with Viola. She is the primmest and most proper woman I’ve ever met. She made everyone on the block address her as Miss Gilmore rather than Viola.”

Duncan smiled. “That’s my aunt.” He made his way across the living room to the door, Genevieve following. “Please call me if you get any more letters from the insurance company.”

“I can’t be bothered with that nonsense. I’ll give them to Lucy to give to you.”

He wanted to tell Genevieve that her rental properties afforded her a very comfortable lifestyle. She’d sold her Brooklyn brownstone and moved into Manhattan after her husband of forty-two years had passed away. What Duncan couldn’t understand was how a woman could live with a man for more than four decades, yet not know he owned several parcels of rental property in Florida. Her late husband’s business partner deposited the rent checks, mailed her a check each quarter, less real estate taxes, but had neglected to send Genevieve the bank statements. When Lucy questioned the man, his response had been that he forgot. He forgot—and as a result Duncan had taken on another client.

He and thrice-married Lucretia Henderson had attended the same high school. Duncan had taken her to the senior prom when her date came down with chicken pox, and they’d been reunited the year before at their twentieth high-school reunion. A long sigh escaped his lips when the door closed behind him.

Do you have a date? No, he didn’t have a date, but he wanted to go home and unwind after what had become a month of nonstop work. Perhaps he would even think about taking a day off to do absolutely nothing.

Duncan hadn’t taken a real vacation in more than three years. The last time was when he’d accompanied his aunt on a cross-country train ride to the Pacific Northwest before they boarded a cruise ship for Alaska.

He pushed the elevator button and made a mental note to stop by a travel agency and pick up some brochures. Within seconds, the doors opened and he met the startled gaze of a woman buttoning her blouse.

“You missed a few,” he said softly as he walked into the car.

Tamara Wolcott glanced down at her chest. Not only had she missed several buttons, but she hadn’t put them in the corresponding buttonholes. There was no doubt the stranger could see her bra and everything inside it.

She rolled her eyes at him. “Thanks!”

Duncan couldn’t stop the smile stealing its way across his face. “You’re welcome. That’s what happens when you have to dress in a hurry,” he drawled facetiously.

Turning her back, Tamara unbuttoned then buttoned her blouse again. “It’s not what you think,” she snapped.

“How do you know what I’m thinking?” Duncan asked.

“It was your snarky comment about getting dressed in a hurry.”

His smile faded. “Is there such a word as snarky?”

“Yes, there is,” she retorted. “Look it up—” Whatever Tamara was going to say died on her lips when the elevator came to an abrupt halt midway between the first and second floors. The emergency light came on and she slapped the emergency button, while muttering a colorful expletive.

Duncan moved over to the panel and released the emergency button, hoping the action would restart the elevator. He waited a full thirty seconds, and then pushed it again. The piercing sound was annoying and deafening. He released it. “It looks like we’re stuck.”

“You don’t say, Einstein.”

“Ditch the attitude, lady,” he countered nastily. “It’s not going to solve anything. It’s apparent someone in the lobby heard the bell, so it shouldn’t be long before we’re out of here.”

Tamara opened her mouth to deliver a sarcastic comeback to the man who not only looked good but also smelled incredibly delicious. He was tall, slender and impeccably dressed in a lightweight gray suit, white shirt and silk tie in varying shades of gray, black and white. His cropped, raven-black curly hair, smooth olive skin and intense light-brown eyes under arching black eyebrows were mesmerizing. A straight nose and firm mouth added to what was an arresting face. And she was annoyed with herself because she found him so physically attractive.

“I hope it’s not going to take too long because I have to go to work.”

Leaning against a wall, Duncan crossed his arms over his chest. “Where is work?”

Tamara closed her eyes for several seconds. “I work in a hospital.” She glared at the man who didn’t appear in the least perturbed that they were stuck in an elevator in a Manhattan highrise. “Can you please push the emergency button again?” She couldn’t control the slight quiver in her voice.

Duncan didn’t move as he continued to stare at the woman with the voluptuous body and sexy voice. If he had ever fantasized about getting trapped in an elevator with someone, then this was his dream come true. She was tall, at least five-nine or ten with flawless tawny skin, and she had pulled her hair into a ponytail ending midway down her back. Her mouth matched her body. It was full, lush and temptingly curved. If the eyes were a mirror into someone’s soul, then hers radiated anger and resentment. The large, dark, slanting orbs gave off sparks that didn’t bode well for anyone on the receiving end of her rage. He forced himself not to look at the swell of breasts under a man’s white shirt. A pair of stretch jeans and black leather mules completed her dressed-down look.

He forced a smile. “I’m certain someone heard the bell.”

Tamara took a quick breath. “How do you know that for certain, Mister-Know-It-All?”

Duncan’s smile faded. She was back with the bad attitude. His temper flared. “Push the damn button yourself if you think that’s going to move the elevator.”

Tamara reached for the button at the same time voices came somewhere outside the door. “We’re stuck in here,” she shouted.

“Hold on, miss. We’re going to try and get you out,” said a muffled voice. “Someone in the Con Ed work crew cut a feeder cable and…” His voice trailed off.

“A feeder cable,” she repeated. “That means there’s no electricity.”

Duncan gestured to the overhead emergency light. “At least we’re not in the dark.”

Tamara reached into an oversized leather tote and took out her cell phone. “I hope I can get a signal in here.” She exhaled a breath. “Thank goodness.” Scrolling through her directory she pushed speed dial. “This is Dr. Wolcott,” she said identifying herself when a clerk answered the phone. “I’m scheduled to cover the six o’clock shift for Dr. Shelton, but right now I’m stuck in an elevator in a building on Park Avenue South. Tell Dr. Killeen I’ll be in once someone gets me out of here.”

“I’ll let—wait a minute, Dr. Wolcott, there’s a special news bulletin coming across the television. The power is out in most of Gramercy Park. Is that where you are?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll let Dr. Killeen know that you’ll be late.”

“Make certain you do.”

Tamara ended the call and looked at the man staring back at her with an amused expression. She didn’t know what was so funny. They were trapped in a space less than six feet wide that was getting hotter with each passing moment.

“What’s so funny?”

Duncan straightened. “Are you usually so brusque, Dr. Wolcott?”

She looked down at the toes of his polished shoes. “No, I’m not. Right now I’m a little stressed out. I’m sorry if I was rude to you, Mr….”

“Duncan.”

Her head came up. “Does Duncan have a last name?”

“It’s Gilmore.” He extended his hand. “Does Dr. Wolcott have a first name?”

She shook his hand, noting the palm was smooth to the touch. “It’s Tamara.”

“Tamara,” he repeated. “What does it mean?”

“It’s Hebrew for palm tree.”

“It’s very pretty.”

Tamara smiled for the first time. “Thank you.” She offered him her cell phone. “I was told that half the neighborhood is without electricity. You can use my phone if you need to make a call.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “Isn’t there someone you would want to know where you are?”

“No.”

Tamara’s eyes narrowed. “Do you live in this building?”

“No,” Duncan repeated. “I was just leaving a client. Do you live here?”

“I wish. I live in an incredibly overpriced East Village walkup.”

“Living in Manhattan is practically prohibitive.”

“You can say that again,” she drawled. “Where do you live, Duncan?”

“Chelsea.” He smiled when Tamara whistled. “It’s not quite Park Avenue or Sutton Place, but it’s getting there.”

“Where in Chelsea do you live?”

“Twenty-First between Tenth and Eleventh.”

“Isn’t that near Chelsea Piers?” she asked.

Duncan nodded. “I can see it from my bedroom window. Have you ever been there?”

“Unfortunately, I haven’t,” Tamara said truthfully.

She’d worked double shifts for the past four years to pay off her student loans and recoup the monies she’d saved before her ex-husband had emptied their joint bank account with the intent of doubling the money at the blackjack table.

“My hectic schedule doesn’t allow for much socializing.”

Duncan glanced at his watch. They’d been in the elevator for ten minutes. He shrugged out of his suit jacket, let it fall to the floor of the elevator car, and then sat down on it. If he was going to spend any more time confined to such a small space then he planned to relax.

Tamara stared at him as if he’d taken leave of his senses. “What do you think you’re doing?”

A pair of clear amber-colored eyes met a pair of coal-black ones. “What does it look like? I’m taking a load off my feet.” He offered his hand. “Come sit down. It’s not as hot down here.”

“That’s because hot air rises,” Tamara countered.

Again, he ignored her quip. “Sit down, Tamara.”

Resting her hands on her hips, she glared down at him. “Are you familiar with the word please?”

Duncan didn’t drop his hand. Baring his teeth, he flashed a facetious smile. “Please, Dr. Wolcott, won’t you sit down?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m only Dr. Wolcott at the hospital. Otherwise it’s Tamara.”

Half rising, Duncan eased Tamara down to sit beside him on his jacket. He caught the scent of her perfume. They sat silently as the seconds ticked off to minutes. He checked his watch again. Another quarter of an hour had passed. If Genevieve Henderson hadn’t insisted he stay he would’ve been home by now. It took about half an hour to walk from Gramercy Park to where he lived in Chelsea.

A slight smile tilted the corners of his mouth when Tamara rested her head on his shoulder. “How are you holding up?” he asked after a prolonged silence.

“I’m okay.”

Tamara wanted to tell Duncan that she was more than okay. His tailored shirt concealed a lean, hard body. Soft hands, hard body, she mused, wondering what he did for a living. It was the first time in a very long time that she’d felt so comfortable with a man. After a rocky marriage and less-than-amicable divorce she’d sworn off men. She had dated but hadn’t slept with a man since her divorce, and at thirty-two she was more than content not to change her lifestyle or marital status.

Duncan shifted into a more comfortable position. “Why did you decide to become a doctor?”

“It’s a long story, Duncan.”

“We have nothing but time and you have a captive audience. Pardon the pun.”

Tamara laughed. The sultry sound filled the confined space, sending shivers up Duncan’s spine. He suspected the woman pressed to his side was unaware of how sexy her voice, laugh and curvy body were concealed under a man’s shirt and body-hugging jeans.

“I became a doctor to spite my mother.”

Chapter 2

Tamara couldn’t believe she’d just told Duncan something she’d never told another living soul—and that included the man whom she’d believed was the love of her life before he’d become the bane of her existence. It didn’t matter what she said to Duncan Gilmore because after they were rescued from the elevator the odds were she would never see him again.

“Spite her how?” Duncan asked.

How, she mused, had she not noticed the low, sensual timbre of the voice of the man pressed against her side? Physically he was perfect, and she felt an unexpected jolt of envy for the woman who claimed him for herself.

“I spent all of my childhood and the beginning of my adult life trying to get the approval of my overly critical mother. I’m the youngest of three girls and my sisters Renata and Tiffany are black Barbie dolls, and there wasn’t a day when my mother didn’t remind me that not only was I taller but I also weighed much more than they did.”

“How much do they weigh?”

“Tiffany claims she’s one-ten, while Renata admits to being one-thirteen.”

“How tall are they?”

“Both are five-eight.”

“Aren’t they anorexic?”

Tamara forced a smile. “I’d say they are. At thirty-six and thirty-eight they wear a size zero and a size two after having several children. But Mother says they’re perfect. They had debutante cotillions, but I was denied one because my mother claimed she didn’t want me looking like I was wearing a white tent.”

Duncan stared at Tamara’s hands, which were balled up in fists. He didn’t know whether she’d been an overweight teen, but she definitely wasn’t now. Her figure was full, rounded and undeniably womanly. Everything about Tamara Wolcott was feminine and as close to perfection as a woman could get.

“Were you overweight?”

“No. I was five-ten and weighed one forty-five. My pediatrician constantly told Mother I wasn’t overweight. But she has her own set of standards that were and are totally unrealistic. The Wolcotts have been educators for more than a century, so when I graduated from college it was expected that I go into teaching. I never told anyone that I wanted to be a doctor, so I took a lot of math and science courses pretending that I planned to teach science or math.

“My oldest sister was getting married and Mother was so focused on making certain Renata would have the wedding of the season that she didn’t have time to monitor my life. I took the GMAT and the MCAT, and got nearly perfect scores. Meanwhile I’d applied to medical schools.”

“Where did you go?”

“New York University. I’d been accepted at SUNY Stony Brook, but decided against it because that’s where my father is head of the sociology department.”

“Did you live on campus?”

Tilting her chin, Tamara stared at Duncan. “Not the first year. Getting up before dawn and commuting from Long Island into Manhattan five days a week left me with little or no time for studying. Once I was approved for campus housing my life changed and I swore never to live at home again.”

Resting his hand over her clasped ones, Duncan gave it a gentle squeeze. “Were you screaming, ‘Free at last?’”

“How did you know?”

“I knew a few people who had parents who refused to cut the umbilical cord.”

Tamara laid her head against his shoulder again as if it was something she’d done countless times. “Did it happen with you, Duncan?”

“No. I think it’s different with guys, because we’re expected to grow up and be men, while daddies think of their daughters as little girls even when they’re grown women.”

He recalled the in-depth conversation he’d had with Kalinda’s father who’d said he expected his daughter to be still a virgin when she married. What the older man hadn’t known was that Duncan wasn’t the first man who’d slept with her, but there was no way he was going to reveal that to his future father-in-law.

“Unfortunately the double standard is still alive and kicking,” Tamara drawled, adding an unladylike snort. “I hope you don’t make distinctions between your children whether they’re girls or boys.”

“If I had children, I doubt that I would consciously treat them differently. What I can say for certain is that if some guy decides he’s going to take advantage of my daughter, he’d better make funeral arrangements, because I’d definitely take him out.”

“But you are making a distinction, Duncan,” she argued softly.

“Do you have any children, Tamara?”

“No.”

“Since we’re both childless, then the topic is moot.”

“Because you say so,” she retorted.

Duncan groaned. “Tamara, Tamara, Tamara. Why are you so argumentative?”

Tamara pulled her hands away. “You think I am?”

“Yes.”

She sobered. “Sorry. I didn’t realize I came off sounding that way.”

It was Duncan’s turn to be repentant. “Perhaps I used the wrong word. I should’ve said you appear defensive.”

“Don’t tell me you’re a therapist.”

“Nope.”

The seconds ticked off. “What are you?” Tamara asked when he seemed reluctant to answer her question.

“I’m a financial planner.”

“Are you a financial planner or an accountant?”

“I’m both.”

“Do you practice accounting?”

Duncan shook his head. “Not in the traditional sense.”

“Why did you get an accounting degree if not to practice or teach?”

“It’s a long story.”

Tamara gave him a winning smile. “Didn’t you say we have nothing but time? And besides, you have a captive audience.”

Duncan returned her smile with a dazzling one of his own, unaware of the effect it had on the woman beside him. “I’ll tell you on one condition.”

She gave him a skeptical look. “What’s that?”

“If you snap at me again, then you’ll have to take me out to dinner. Then I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll take you out.”

“What are you going to say to your wife or girlfriend about taking a strange woman to dinner?”

Duncan angled his head as he met Tamara’s eyes. There was amusement shimmering in the black orbs. “I don’t have a wife or girlfriend, so the issue is also moot.”

Tamara gave him a long, penetrating stare. “I should’ve met you years ago before I was going through what became a very contentious divorce.”

“Are you married now?”

“No. And I’ve never been happier.”

“You didn’t like being married?”

“I loved being married,” she admitted. “It was just how it ended. My ex cleaned out our joint bank accounts, and because I wanted to be rid of the bastard I gave him our Upper Eastside co-op. And if that wasn’t enough he also wanted my dog.”

“Did you give up the pooch?”

Tamara’s eyes filled with tears when she remembered the fluffy white bichon frise that had been her constant companion. Edward Bennett had refused to sign off on the divorce papers until she gave up the apartment and the dog, then he promptly sold the co-op and gave her pet to an ex-wife she knew nothing about.

“Yes. It was either give up Snowflake or go to prison for murder.” Her delicate jaw hardened. “I lost many sleepless nights thinking of the different ways I could take him out.”

Duncan winced. “It was that bad?”

“I was at the lowest point in my life and he knew it. I’d just completed my PGY-3. Third-year residency,” Tamara explained when Duncan gave her a confused stare. “I was just recovering from taking the fourth part of the medical boards and my nerves were shot from working thirty-six hours with little or no sleep. I suspected something was wrong because Edward started complaining that we never got to see one another, and when we did, I paid more attention to Snowflake than I did to him.”

“Didn’t he know that when he married a doctor?”

“He knew exactly what it took for me to become a doctor. He’d been through the same course of study. But it was apparent he’d forgotten.”

Duncan went completely still. “He’s also a doctor?”

Tamara nodded. “We met during my first year in medical school. He was my anatomy professor,” she said after a comfortable silence. “I was twenty, impressionable and very, very gullible. Edward was fifty-six, elegant, erudite, and I didn’t know at the time that I was to become his third wife, or that his daughter was also a medical student at Harvard.”

“How did your parents react to your marrying a man more than twice your age?”

“My father was upset because he and Edward were about the same age, but Mother, being the social climber that she is, was thrilled that her daughter had chosen to marry a doctor.”

“How long were you married?”

“Six years, and in the end I walked away with what I’d brought into the marriage—the clothes on my back. The apartment was his and he’d given me Snowflake as a gift.”

“What about alimony, Tamara? You were at least entitled to that.”

“I thought I was until my lawyer told me that Edward was paying alimony to two ex-wives and college tuition for three children.”

Duncan was momentarily speechless in his surprise. It was no wonder she was angry, abrasive. Tamara had married a stranger, a man who’d managed to conceal his past until it had caught up with him. Was her ex that wily, or was Tamara that naive? It was probably the latter. If she was engrossed in med school, studying for the boards and working around the clock as a resident, then delving into her husband’s past was not a priority for her.

“Do you still see your ex?” he asked.

“Thankfully no. He transferred to a small medical school in Rhode Island.”

“Has he remarried?” Duncan teased.

“I hope not,” Tamara countered. “Being married to Edward taught me one thing—never to put all of my eggs in one basket. When he emptied the bank accounts he took the money my grandparents had given me as a gift for my education. I had to take out a loan to get an apartment because I knew I couldn’t continue to live with Edward, and also to have enough to pay a lawyer to handle the divorce. After I got my license, I worked double and triple shifts to pay off the loans.”

“Your lawyer should’ve forced him to return your money.”

Tamara heard the censure in Duncan’s normally melodic tone. He probably believed she’d given up too easily, that she’d permitted a man to take advantage of her. “There was no money for him to return, Duncan. He’d lost every penny in Atlantic City.”

“If he was that broke, then your attorney should’ve insisted he sell the co-op and return your money.”

“Easy, Duncan,” she teased, “you’re snapping at me again.”

His face was a mask of icy anger. “You were screwed twice. Once by your ex and again by your lawyer.”

“Don’t worry. It’s never going to happen again.”

“Because you say so, Tamara?”

“Yes, because I’ll never trust another man as long as I live.”

“Do you think that’s fair?” Duncan asked.

“What?”

“That you lump all men into the same category.”

“It’s not about what’s fair and not fair,” Tamara countered. “It’s about how men have treated me.”

“It’s how you have let men treat you,” Duncan said in a quiet voice.

“Oh, so you’re blaming me for not knowing that my ex hid the fact that he’d been married before? Or that he’d had children from his previous marriages? It didn’t dawn on me to do a background check on him.”

Tamara inhaled and held her breath before letting it out slowly. The heat inside the elevator car was stifling and she was beginning to perspire—something she detested. She’d gone to a colleague’s apartment in the highrise to shower and change her clothes instead of going to her aprtment in the East Village. If she’d known she was going to be stuck in an elevator, then taking the downtown subway several stops would’ve been preferable, even though she avoided riding the subway whenever possible. Her usual mode of transportation was either a bus or a taxi, the latter only in an emergency.

Despite the build-up of heat in the elevator, Duncan draped an arm over Tamara’s shoulders, pulling her closer. “I’m not beating up on you, Tamara. I just want you to realize that all men aren’t like your ex or the lawyer who swindled you out of your money while not bothering to represent you.”

Tilting her chin, Tamara stared into the large, clear brown eyes with the dark centers. “If I’d known you, would you have advocated for me?”

“If I’d been your financial planner, I would’ve told you to keep your money separate from your husband’s, especially if it was money that you’d accumulated before the marriage.”

She closed her eyes for several seconds. “It was only after I’d completed my undergraduate studies when I told my parents that I’d applied to and been accepted into medical school that they changed their minds about me becoming a doctor. Mother and Daddy put up the money for my first two years of medical school and both sets of grandparents covered the last two. My only consolation was that I wasn’t saddled with having to pay back six-figure student loans.”

“You were luckier than most students. I have clients who make more than adequate salaries but they’re still paying off student loans.”

“Who do you work for?”

“I work for myself,” Duncan said smoothly, with no expression on his face.

Tamara was slightly taken aback. She didn’t know why, but she’d expected him to mention one of the major investment companies. “Do you work from a home office?”

He pointed to her left side. “Scoot over a little and reach into the breast pocket of my jacket. There’s a case with my business cards. Take one.”

Seeing the label stitched on the inside of Duncan’s suit jacket and the monogrammed silver card case told Tamara all she needed to know about the man sitting beside her. Duncan Gilmore treated himself very well. She took out a card, smiling. It was made of vellum with raised black lettering.

“DGG Financial Services, LLP,” she read aloud. “Is your office uptown?”

Duncan smiled. “It’s smack dab in good old Harlem, U.S.A.”

Tamara heard the pride in his voice. “I take it you’re a Harlem native?”

“Born and raised. At least until I was fourteen. Then I moved to Brooklyn.”

“If you work in Harlem, then why don’t you live there?” she asked.

“That’s another story for another time.”

A slight frown creased Tamara’s smooth forehead. “What are you talking about?”

“I snapped at you, Tamara, therefore I owe you dinner.”

She waved a hand. “You don’t have—”

“But I’d like to,” he interrupted.

A warning shiver snaked its way up Tamara’s spine. She shuddered visibly despite the heat. There was something in the way Duncan Gilmore was looking at her that made her feel uncomfortable. “I can’t, Duncan.” she whispered.

“Why can’t you, Tamara?”

“I have to work.”

“Do you work twenty-four/seven?”

“No but—”

Duncan held up a hand, cutting her off. “All I’m asking for is one dinner date.”

She gave him a sidelong glance, finding it hard to understand why a man who looked like Duncan Gilmore would insist she go out with him. She didn’t know what his motive was, but he’d find out soon enough that Tamara Wolcott was nothing like the wide-eyed young woman who’d succumbed to her med school teacher’s influence. Duncan claimed he didn’t have a wife or girlfriend, but he hadn’t said he was into women. Perhaps he was gay, and if that were true then she was in luck. The last thing she needed was a physical relationship with a man, because each time she slept with one it ended badly.

Some women could have an affair and when it ended they were able to move on. But Tamara always found herself getting too emotionally attached and wanting more. And the more was total commitment. In that way she and Edward were alike. He had confessed that he didn’t like sleeping around, and when he did sleep with a woman he usually wanted to marry her. However, what Tamara hadn’t known was that she was the third Mrs. Edward Bennett and probably wouldn’t be the last.

She forced a smile. “All right, Duncan. I’ll go out with you.”

A frown distorted his beautiful male face. “Why do you make it sound as if you’re doing me a favor?”

“Aren’t I?” Tamara drawled.

The seconds ticked off as they stared at each other. A smile replaced Duncan’s scowl. “Yes, you are. And I thank you for accepting.”

“You’re most welcome.” She glanced at the card again. “Which number should I use to call you?”

Duncan held out his hand. “Please give me the card.” Reaching into the pocket of his shirt, he took out a pen and wrote down a number on the back of the card, then returned it to Tamara. “That’s my home number. If I don’t pick up, then leave a number where I can call you back.”

“I…” Her words trailed off with the sudden movement of the elevator. The overhead lights came on as the car descended slowly. Tamara and Duncan shared a smile. “Free at last,” she whispered.

Duncan wasn’t ready to lose Tamara’s company. She looked nothing like the women he was normally attracted to, but something about her was intrinsically feminine despite her overtly tough, in-your-face attitude. She’d been deceived, hurt, was in pain, and it was apparent she had no desire to let go of that pain.

It was also apparent she had no use for men, either, believing all they were out for was to take advantage of her. But Duncan wanted to prove her wrong. There were good men, those who loved their wives and their children, men who’d chosen not to marry, yet who remained faithful and supportive boyfriends.

All she had to do was meet his boyhood friends Ivan Campbell and Kyle Chatham. The three of them had taken an oath when they were young to remain connected always, to stay away from the drugs that plagued Harlem and to one day own one of the stately brownstones along the many tree-lined streets in the historic neighborhood. And to their amazement, their dreams had come true.

Pushing to his feet, he extended his hand and pulled Tamara up with minimal effort. “How long will it take you to get to the hospital?”

She checked her watch. It was six-ten. “Probably about twenty minutes.”

He slipped into his jacket, then leaned over to pick up his case. “May I interest you in sharing a cab?”

“No thank you. I’ll walk.”

Duncan wanted to tell her that she was already late for her shift, but held his tongue. He’d gotten her to agree to have dinner with him, and given her track record with men, he considered himself quite fortunate.

The snail-like movement of the elevator came to a complete stop at the first floor and the doors opened. Several workmen in coveralls were milling in the area, along with the doorman.

“Are you all right, Dr. Wolcott?” the doorman asked, as lines of concern creased his forehead.

Tamara hoisted her tote over her shoulder. “Yes. Thank you for asking.”

Duncan, resting his hand at the small of her back, escorted her across the lobby and out onto the street. Barricades blocked off the street, barring vehicular traffic as emergency personnel from the FDNY, NYPD and Con Ed filled the street and sidewalk.

He walked with Tamara to Twenty-Third Street. Smiling, he stared at her natural beauty in the light of the sun that was sinking lower in the summer sky, casting shadows over the towering buildings that made up the Manhattan skyline.

“This is where I leave you.”

Tamara looked at Duncan—really looked at him for the first time in broad daylight and felt as if something had sucked the air from her lungs. His chiseled face was breathtaking and his eyes mesmerizing. If he was gay, then she felt a profound sadness that he wouldn’t pass on his incredible genes. And although he’d spent more than half an hour in a stuffy elevator he looked as if he were ready to start the day, not end it. He hadn’t bothered to loosen his tie, or undo the French cuffs of his shirt. The only concession he’d made was to take off his custom-tailored jacket to place it on the floor of the elevator, reminding her of a modern-day Sir Walter Raleigh removing his cloak so the queen wouldn’t have to navigate a puddle.

“Thank you for the company, even if it was un-solicited.” A slight lifting of his silky eyebrows was the only reaction to her slight reproach. “And I will call you,” she added, hoping to counter her flippant comment.

Duncan’s impassive expression masked his annoyance. She just wouldn’t let up, and at that moment he chided himself for asking Tamara to go out with him. “Good night, Tamara.” Turning on his heel, he headed west, leaving her staring at his back.

“Good night, Duncan.” She groaned inwardly. Even his walk was unique. There was just a light dip in his stroll to make it sexy. Gay or straight, Duncan Gilmore was fine as hell!

What’s wrong with you girl!

Tamara silently chided herself for her insensitivity. Duncan had been nothing but cordial to her and she’d attacked him as if he’d insulted her. When, she thought, would she ever rid herself of the lingering anger of her failed marriage? She’d been divorced for four years, and now, at the age of thirty-two, she should be more than ready to turn the page and get on with her life.

She walked uptown to Thirty-Fourth and headed east to First Avenue. Tamara found working in the emergency trauma unit of the city’s oldest municipal hospital frenetic yet rewarding. On any given day or night there was a consistent influx of patients. Some were treated and released, while others were taken to a tertiary unit for a higher level of care.

The Bellevue Hospital Center’s efficient state-of-the-art E.R. and level-one trauma center were designed to deliver complete twenty-four-hour, seven-day-a-week medical care. With close to one hundred thousand emergency-room visits a year, Tamara and her colleagues were prepared for psychiatric emergencies as well as neurological, toxicological, cardiac and neonatal emergencies.

She loved everything about medicine from studying to healing. During her interview before being admitted to med school, she’d been asked why she wanted to become a doctor. Her answer was that she had a passion for learning, an intellectual curiosity about medicine and a strong willingness to help others. It must have been the right response because the interview process ended minutes after it’d begun. She knew her MCAT score and undergraduate grades were high enough to get her into most leading medical schools, but Tamara realized it was her unabashed passion for healing that showed through during the interview.

When she received her acceptance letter it swept away all of the insecurities she’d had growing up. It no longer mattered that she wasn’t as cute and petite as her sisters, or that her mother had referred to her as “my ugly duckling.” None of that mattered because she was going to become a doctor.

Reaching into her tote bag, she turned off her cell phone and took out her stethoscope and ID badge, clipping it to the pocket of the shirt she’d borrowed from another doctor. She’d been too exhausted to ride the bus to her apartment. She’d stopped at a CVS to pick up toothpaste, a toothbrush and deodorant, and then went to a clothing store to buy undergarments and a pair of jeans.

She’d managed to get four hours of sleep before she had to get up and start again. Sleep had become a precious commodity for Tamara, as important as breathing. Whenever she put her head on a pillow her intention was to get at least four hours of uninterrupted sleep. And she’d become quite adept at taking power naps. Ten to twenty minutes was all she needed to reenergize herself.

She walked into the E.R. and down a corridor where hospital personnel stored their personal effects. Tamara placed her tote bag in a locker with a combination lock. She went to a storage closet, selected a pair of scrubs and a white lab coat and then clocked in. Ten minutes later she stood over a gunshot victim handcuffed to the gurney while two uniformed police officers waited for her to remove the bullet lodged in the fleshy part of his thigh. Luckily for her patient, the bullet had missed the femoral artery or he would’ve bled out and died.

She lost track of time as she treated a patient in cardiac arrest, one with a knife wound, a woman who’d jumped from a third-story window to escape an abusive boyfriend, a college student with a suspected case of meningitis and an adolescent boy bitten by a venomous snake he’d hidden in a fish tank in his bedroom closet.

She worked nonstop until midnight, then went into the doctor’s lounge to take a break. She flopped down on a saggy sofa and closed her eyes with the intention of taking a quick nap.

“Tamara, are you asleep?”

She opened her eyes to find Rodney Fox hovering over her. “I was,” Tamara drawled sarcastically. “What’s up, Dr. Fox?”

Rodney was perched on the side of the sofa. “I need a place to crash for a while.”

Tamara rose into a sitting position. She stared at the tall, slender pediatric orthopedist with curly red hair. Most of the staff referred to Dr. Rodney Fox as the brother with the red Afro. His soulful-looking brown eyes reminded her of a bloodhound.

“What’s the matter?”

“Isis and I broke up and I need someplace to live until I find an apartment. Someone told me you have an extra bedroom. I’ll pay whatever you want—just please don’t say no, Tamara.”

She closed her eyes again. Rodney and his operating-room-nurse girlfriend had broken up and gotten back together so many times that their relationship mirrored the antics of a TV sitcom. Tamara couldn’t believe the brilliant young doctor just couldn’t seem to get his love life together.

“Okay,” she said, not opening her eyes. “You can stay as long as you want.” Tamara held up a hand when Rodney leaned forward. “Don’t you dare kiss me.” He pulled back. “What time are you getting off?”

“Six.”

She exhaled. “I’m hoping to get out of here at six. We’ll leave together.”

“Thank you, Tamara. You’re an angel.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Tamara wanted to ask Rodney where her angel had been when she’d needed someplace to live after she’d left her husband. She’d checked into a less-than-desirable hotel until a rental agent had found her the two-bedroom apartment on East Seventh Street between Second and Third avenues. Although she only needed one bedroom, Tamara had decided to take it because living at the hotel was not an option.

The second and smaller of the two bedrooms remained empty for more than two years. It took her that long to save enough money to furnish and decorate the entire apartment. Tamara realized her monthly rent was twice what someone would pay for a mortgage for a house in the suburbs, but she had the luxury of not having to commute into the city.

She ran a hand over her hair. Rodney had disturbed her nap. “I’ll see you later.”

“Love you, Wolcott.”

Tamara rolled her eyes at him. “Forget it, Fox. You’re not my type.”

He smiled. “Who is your type?”

“Not you,” she countered.

She walked out of the lounge, replaying Rodney’s query. Who was her type? The only name that came to mind was a man she’d met six hours ago.

Duncan Gilmore was her type. But was she his?

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