Man of Fortune

by Rochelle Alers

  A mysterious smile parted his lips. “What about yesterday?”

  Her professionally waxed eyebrows lifted. “What about yesterday?” she asked, answering his question with her own.

  “I know you recognized me at the Empire Diner yesterday.”

  “And you recognized me. Why didn’t you come over and say something?”

  “I didn’t want to interrupt you and your friend.”

  Tamara smiled. “Why do you make friend sound like it’s a bad word?”

  Duncan inclined his head. “I didn’t mean for it to sound like that.”

  “Rodney is a colleague.”

  “I’m glad I didn’t interrupt you because you were probably discussing patients.”

  “I never talk about medicine or patients outside of the hospital. Once I end my shift, I divorce myself completely from whatever goes on in the E.R. It’s the only way I know to avoid burnout and maintain some distance from the patients who don’t survive. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to calling a patient’s TOD.”

  “You mean time of death?” Duncan asked.

  “Yes.”

  “If that’s the case, then we won’t talk shop. I should’ve told you to come at seven, because it’s going to be another hour before boarding begins. Would you mind hanging out at my place until it’s time to leave?”

  Tamara tilted her chin despite standing eye-toeye with Duncan. “Of course I wouldn’t mind.” She glanced down the street. “This is really a charming neighborhood.”

  Releasing her elbow, he reached for her hand and led her to the entrance of a redbrick, four-story townhouse. “One of these days I’ll show you the houses around the corner. Twenty to Twenty-First streets between Ninth and Tenth avenues have been designated a historic district. Do you know who Clement Clarke Moore was?”

  “Didn’t he write ‘A Visit from St. Nicholas’?”

  Duncan gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “Well, well, well. Bright and beautiful,” he crooned. “What a rare find.”

  Tamara ignored his compliment. “What about Clement Moore?”

  “We have a park around the corner named for him.”

  She noticed Duncan said we. “He lived in Chelsea?”

  “He gave the neighborhood its name. During the eighteenth century, the Moore house was considered a country estate. The family called it Chelsea. Professor Moore was also opposed to the abolition of slavery and owned several slaves during his lifetime.”

  “There’s so much history in this city,” Tamara remarked as she followed Duncan up the steps to the front door with stained-glass insets. Her eyes widened in amazement when he led her into a vestibule with exquisite nineteenth-century reproduction furniture.

  “We’ll take the elevator instead of the stairs.”

  Tamara smiled. “Are you certain you want to be in an elevator with me?”

  Duncan dropped Tamara’s hand, placing his in the small of her back and escorting her into the elevator. He slipped a key into the slot for the third floor. “I don’t know about you, but I enjoyed being trapped in an elevator with you.”

  Tamara stared at the man standing several feet from her. He’d paired a claret-red silk tie and matching pocket square with a stark white shirt and a navy blue suit with a faint pinstripe. His black shoes were shiny enough for her to see her reflection.

  “I have a confession to make.”

  Duncan held his breath, wondering whether Tamara was going to tell him something he didn’t want to hear. “What is it?”

  “I’m claustrophobic. If you hadn’t been in that elevator with me I probably would’ve succumbed to a panic attack. You kept me from losing it completely.”

  “Is that why you told me your life story?”

  Pinpoints of heat stung Tamara’s cheeks. “Easy, Duncan,” she warned softly.

  Throwing back his head, he laughed loudly. “I’m sorry about teasing you.”

  She rolled her eyes at him. “No, you’re not.”

  “Yes, I am. Really,” he added when she gave him a skeptical look.

  The elevator door opened and the scene that greeted Tamara left her speechless. A spacious living room with a vaulted ceiling rising fifteen feet high was softly lit with recessed lights that reflected off bleached pine floors and a curving staircase leading to a loft. Six huge windows provided expansive views of the Hudson River and New Jersey.

  Moving in a stiff, robotic motion, Tamara followed Duncan across the room, taking in the Venetian plastered walls and the leather-and-suede seating arrangement in neutral colors. A rectangular table with seating for eight, a matching sideboard and a beveled-glass breakfront in Honduran mahogany and inlaid rosewood were lit by a star-burst designed chandelier. A magnificent gleaming black piano drew her attention.

  “Do you play?” she asked Duncan who was staring at her with an amused expression.

  “Yes. Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  He angled his head. “One of these days we must play together.”

  Tamara wanted to tell him that he was getting ahead of himself. She’d only committed to one date and he was already talking about a second. “Do you mind if I try it? It’s been years since I’ve played.”

  “Of course not,” Duncan said, steering her over to the piano and pulling out the bench for her to sit.

  Tamara placed her small evening bag on the bench and then rested her fingers on the keys to play a chord. A slow smile parted her lips when the harmonious notes floated upward and lingered. The acoustics were perfect.

  She ran through the scales, her fingers moving at lightning speed. There had been a time when she had hated taking lessons and the endless hours of practice because the only music that interested her were the songs played on the radio or in music videos. Her Saturdays were filled with piano lessons, dance lessons and charm-school instructions. Her fingers stilled before she began playing a moving étude. Her hands never faltered when Duncan sat down beside her. She was lost in the music of her favorite composer, Chopin, the exquisite sound of a well-tuned instrument, the comfortably air-cooled space and the warmth she felt as the notes came back to her. Tamara lost track of time as she played the composition she’d memorized for her last musical recital. At fifteen she’d wanted to hang out at the mall with her friends, but Moselle had insisted she practice, practice and practice some more until she began dreaming that notes were attacking her. It was the first, but not the last, time she’d challenged her mother. She promised to practice, but the recital was to be her last. And it was.

  Minutes passed as she finished the first and second movements, then she stopped, giving Duncan a sidelong glance. “I guess I got carried away. It’s a beautiful instrument.”

  He angled his head and pressed a kiss to her thick fragrant hair. “That’s because you play beautifully. I’ve never heard Chopin’s Etudes de la Méthodes in F Minor played with such passion.”

  Tamara stared at him, complete surprise on her face. “You recognized the composer?”

  “Yes, Tamara. Chopin is a favorite of mine.”

  She closed her eyes for several seconds. “I adore his work.”

  Duncan curbed the urge to kiss her hair again. “And it shows. Will you come back again so we can play together?”

  “Of course I will. Where did you learn to play?”

  His aunt had sacrificed a lot to give him piano lessons because she claimed playing an instrument would make him well-rounded. Even today, Duncan practiced the piano and continued his lessons with a retired professional virtuoso who’d played with several philharmonic orchestras and who lived around the corner.

  A sad smile flitted across Duncan’s face. “I’ll tell you over dinner.” Sliding off the bench, he held out his hand. “Come and I’ll show you the rest of the house.”

  Tamara placed her hand in his, permitting him to ease her to her feet. Walking beside Duncan made her aware that wearing four-inch heels put her at eye-level with him, but he didn’t seem to mind it. She’d known men who�
��d come onto her until she stood up. Standing five-ten in her bare feet, she knew she could be intimidating to some of them.

  “How long have you lived here?” she asked Duncan when she walked into an ultra-modern, white-and-black kitchen.

  A beat passed. “Almost ten years.”

  “How old were you when you moved in?”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “You’re thirty-nine?”

  Duncan hesitated before he said, “Yes. Why?”

  Tamara smiled. “You look younger than that.”

  “How old do I look?”

  “I thought you were in your early thirties. You must take good care of yourself.”

  “I try,” Duncan said modestly. “You should see my aunt. She just turned sixty-five and she could pass for someone fifteen years younger.”

  “There’s no doubt you inherited good genes.”

  His expression changed as if someone had pulled down a shade to shut out the light behind his eyes. “I don’t know about that. My mother died before her thirty-fifth birthday.”

  Tamara chided herself for the remark. “I’m sorry, Duncan.”

  “It’s okay.”

  She wanted to tell him that it wasn’t okay. Losing his mother at an early age probably had impacted his relationship with women. Tamara wondered about his father, but she already had asked him too many personal questions. Duncan was thirty-nine and he hadn’t married or fathered children, and for Tamara that made him an ideal candidate for a relationship. He probably didn’t want to marry, and neither did she.

  However, she was ambivalent about motherhood. A part of her wanted to experience pregnancy, carrying a child to term, while another part of her was anxious and uncertain about whether she wanted to put her career on hold to be a stay-at-home mom until her child reached school age. Her sisters had delivered their children, then taken maternity leave and handed their infants over to live-in nannies.

  Taking Tamara’s hand, Duncan gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “Do you think I’m too young for you?” he teased, smiling.

  “No, you didn’t go there,” Tamara whispered. “The only reason I married a man old enough to be my father was because I was dealing with a few childhood issues.”

  He took a step, bringing them only inches apart. “What about now, Tamara?”

  “I’ve resolved most of them. And the few that remain aren’t worth agonizing over. If I’ve learned anything in thirty-two years it’s that there are things I can’t control.”

  Tamara watched Duncan with a critical squint, wondering what was going on behind his golden orbs. Had she said something that had stirred up memories relegated to the recesses of his mind? The last thing she wanted was for the conversation to become uncomfortable. When she’d awakened earlier that morning, it was to a shiver of excitement she hadn’t felt since she’d walked across the stage to receive her medical degree. Even when she’d exchanged vows with Edward she hadn’t felt the nervous exuberance of a young bride. And later that night, after they’d consummated their marriage, she’d gotten out of bed and locked herself in the bathroom. She’d cried until she was spent, then washed her face and slipped into bed beside her snoring husband. Tamara had known then that she’d made a mistake, but she was resigned to making the best of it.

  “Are you all right?” she asked him softly.

  He flashed a practiced grin. “I’m wonderful, Tamara.”

  Duncan wanted to tell Tamara he’d spent more than half his life agonizing over what he couldn’t control: losing his mother and his fiancée. The pain and grief had gnawed at him until he’d wanted to die, but his aunt’s dedication to carrying out Melanie Gilmore’s wish that her son make something of himself was stronger than his recurring bouts of guilt and self-pity.

  He’d confessed to Ivan that he was ready to end one chapter in his life in order to begin another, and going out with Tamara Wolcott signaled that beginning. There was something about her that was special. She had a little extra something, different from the other women he’d known. The reason he’d asked her to have dinner with him was to figure out what it was.

  Tamara turned her attention back to the white cabinetry, gleaming black appliances and granite counters. The black-and-white color scheme was repeated in the squares of the floor tiles. An assortment of pots, pans and utensils hung from a rack over a cooking island with double stainless-steel sinks.

  “Did you do this kitchen over?”

  “I had the entire loft renovated. The previous owner was an internationally known photographer who moved to London. What I like about this space is that it is a legal combination of three apartments. It still has two entries and two kitchens.”

  “Where’s the other kitchen?”

  “It’s upstairs. There are two bedrooms on this floor, the living and dining room, a full bath off the kitchen and one in the larger of the bedrooms. I use the smaller room, which had been a maid’s room, as my home office.”

  Tamara thought about her miniuscule two-bedroom apartment with a living room, eat-in kitchen and bathroom. “How many bedrooms are upstairs?”

  “Two. Come upstairs with me.”

  She followed Duncan up the winding staircase to a catwalk running the width of the loft. “Are you a neat freak?”

  He smiled. “No. Why?

  “Everything is so clean.”

  “I have someone come in once a week. There was a time when I tried cleaning it myself, but I could never find the time to go through every room. By the time I dusted upstairs it was time to dust downstairs. After a while I just gave up and called a maid service.”

  “How dirty can it get if you live here alone?”

  He gave her a sheepish grin. “I don’t know. I guess I never mastered the knack of housecleaning.”

  The black-and-white color scheme of the main-floor kitchen was repeated in the en suite bath upstairs. A claw-foot black tub sat on checkerboard tiles; placed on a diagonal, they enlarged the space. Large blocks of frosted glass provided a modicum of privacy for a corner shower stall.

  Tamara was shocked at the size of the master bedroom. Both her bedrooms could easily fit into it. She averted her gaze from the California-king bed with chocolate-brown-leather head-and foot-boards. Everything in the room, from the massive armoire to the side tables, triple dresser and the small round table with two matching pull-up chairs was masculine.

  Duncan drew back the wall-to-wall drapes to reveal a terrace spanning the width of the upstairs bedrooms. “This is where I hang out when I come home at night.”

  Tamara walked out onto the terrace. From where she stood she could see crowds coming and going at Chelsea Piers. “Even with the heat, there’s still a breeze coming off the river.”

  Duncan found himself staring quietly as he gazed at the perfection of Tamara’s long legs in heels and sheer black stockings. He hadn’t lied to her when he’d told her that he didn’t believe she could improve on perfection. Everything about her, from her curly hairdo to the soles of her designer pumps screamed sexiness personified. Now he knew why an older man would be attracted to someone less than half his age. Her ex-husband had seen something most men probably overlooked at first glance.

  “The view is awesome.”

  He smiled. “That it is.” Duncan wasn’t talking about the view of the river. Taking several steps, he stood behind Tamara. “You’re welcome to come back and enjoy the view whenever you want.”

  Glancing over her shoulder, Tamara met Duncan’s eyes. He was serious. Duncan Gilmore wanted her to come back to his house and sit on the terrace outside his bedroom when he didn’t even know how their first date would turn out.

  “That would mean a second date.”

  “I know that, Tamara.”

  “Are you that certain there will be a second date?”

  His impassive expression did not change. “I’m very certain.”

  She dropped her eyes before his steady gaze. “Are you always so confident, Duncan?” Her gaze returned to meet his.


  “Confidence and success usually go hand-in-hand.”

  “I take it you’re successful.”

  “I’m successful enough to get most of what I want.”

  Tamara couldn’t believe his arrogance when she saw the direction of his gaze. He was looking at her breasts. But that gave her her answer about his sexual proclivity: Duncan Gilmore definitely wasn’t gay.

  “Careful,” she warned in a soft voice. “Pride is a deadly sin.”

  “I don’t think so,” Duncan countered. “I was taught that pride is a belief in one’s own ability. Perhaps you’re confusing pride with vanity, which I’m not.”

  Tamara wanted to tell Duncan he was deluding himself. He was vain. Even when trapped in an elevator with the temperature reaching dangerous levels he was still buttoned up to the throat.

  Turning around to face him, she placed her hands on his shoulders, giving him air kisses on both cheeks. “Thanks for the offer.” She smiled when his hands cradled her waist.

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Yes, it’s a yes. Whenever I work a double shift I can come here to change my clothes and walk up three flights of stairs instead of getting stuck in an elevator in a highrise.”

  “Is that what you were doing when I saw you buttoning your shirt?”

  “Yes, Duncan. One of my colleagues let me use his place to shower and change my clothes when I had to fill in for another doctor. You probably thought I was having an affair.”

  “The thought did cross my mind.” When he’d walked into the elevator to find Tamara buttoning a man’s shirt he’d thought she’d fled a lover’s apartment to avoid a confrontation with the man’s wife or girlfriend. Now that she’d explained the situation he was glad he was wrong. Duncan pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Let’s head on over to the pier. By the time we get there it will be time to board.”

  They retraced their steps, and when Tamara walked out into the warm evening air holding hands with Duncan, she felt as if she’d known him forever.

  CHAPTER 5

  Tamara had accused Duncan of being proud and he’d denied it. But walking with Tamara and having men turn around to stare at her filled him with pride, pleasure and smugness that she was his—at least for four to five hours. To say she was stunning was an understatement. Her luxurious hair, beautiful face and statuesque body in the simple dress and designer stilettos were eyepopping and head-turning. He knew if he’d seen Tamara walking down the street she would’ve garnered his rapacious stare. He looped an arm around her waist when they stood in line waiting to board.