Man of Fortune

by Rochelle Alers

  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 a
n 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?”