Man of Fortune

by Rochelle Alers

  Jackson’s blue eyes narrowed. “I’ll kick his ass for you.”

  As if on cue, Jackson and Micah reached into the pockets of their jeans for small leather cases with their badges. Micah nodded to Duncan. “You go up and see if he’ll open the door for you. If he doesn’t, then Jack and I will take it from there.”

  Duncan led the way to the second floor. He knocked on the door to Philip Hughes’s apartment, listening for movement. The smell of crack was even more pungent.

  “Who is it?” The query came out slurred.

  “Duncan Gilmore. Open the door, Mr. Hughes. I’d like to talk to you.”

  “Get the hell outta here and leave me alone!”

  Duncan tried the knob. The door was locked. “It’s all yours,” Duncan said to the police officer. He stepped back when Jackson Cleary pounded on the solid-oak door.

  “Mr. Hughes, this is the police. I want you to open the door.”

  “Not without a warrant.”

  Jackson winked at Micah. “I just happen to have one, Mr. Hughes. Now open the door.”

  There came the sound of shuffling feet before the click of the lock opening. The door opened and Duncan stared numbly at the man. He hardly recognized him. He was thin, almost to the point of emaciation. His normally shaved brown pate bore stubble. The haze clouding the room had an acrid smell. Jackson slapped the warrant against the man’s frail chest.

  “Go sit down before you fall down.”

  Duncan stood off to the side as Jackson began his search. A table was littered with dozens of tiny pellets, glassine packets filled with white powder and what appeared to be marijuana. A crack pipe lay nearby.

  “Hey, Sandy, you need to take a look at this.” Jackson was staring at a computer monitor.

  Micah walked over to see what his old police-academy buddy was looking at. He smothered an expletive when he saw the shocking images, they threatened to make him physically ill. “Cuff the freaky bastard and read him his rights. Then call someone from the Sex Crimes Unit to pick up this computer. Make certain they search the apartment for more tapes or disks.”

  Duncan had an idea of what was on Philip Hughes’s computer screen. He motioned to Micah to step out into the hall. “Try to make this as unobtrusive as possible for my aunt.”

  Micah nodded. “I’ll make certain they send an unmarked car. He’s going to be charged with drug possession and child pornography. I’m going to make certain he’ll never set foot in a classroom again. Why don’t you take your aunt over to my place? Give me your keys and I’ll lock up the place. Tell Tessa I may be a little late for dinner.”

  Duncan patted Micah’s back. “Thanks, man.”

  “No problem. Congratulations. Kyle told me you’re going to be his best man.”

  “Thanks. I’m planning to throw a little something at my place for everyone to get together either late September or early October. I hope you and Tessa can come.”

  “I think I can speak for Tessa when I say we wouldn’t miss it.”

  Duncan went downstairs, leaving the ADA and the police officer to deal with the piece of garbage in his aunt’s house. He saw firsthand how easily he’d been duped. An excellent credit score, impeccable letters of reference and a good work history was a mere facade for a man who was a drug abuser and a purveyor of kiddie porn.

  He told Viola they were going to the Sanborns while Micah and Officer Cleary escorted Philip Hughes off the premises. His aunt gave him a look that said she didn’t believe him, but didn’t press the issue.

  They walked the four blocks to where the Sanborns lived and where Tessa had set up her Signature Bridals. Duncan whispered to Tessa why Micah was going to be late, and Viola gave her the box with the cheesecake and several bottles of wine from her prized collection.

  Duncan was reunited with Tessa’s cousin Faith McMillan and her husband Ethan. They’d come to Ivan’s earlier that summer to help celebrate Kyle’s thirty-ninth birthday.

  Tessa introduced him to her older sister Simone and her brother-in-law Raphael Madison. Duncan remembered Kyle telling him about the bride’s beautiful sister, and he had to agree with his friend. Simone Whitfield-Madison was stunning, with deeply tanned tawny skin, curly reddish hair and brilliant hazel eyes. There was no doubt she and her blond-haired, blue-eyed husband would have beautiful, exotic-looking children. The doorbell rang and more Whitfields, ranging from seniors to preteens crowded the sofas, loveseats and chairs in the many rooms of the stately brownstone.

  Duncan found himself cloistered in a room with the men, discussing everything from President Barack Obama to the Yankees. A good-natured argument erupted when Ethan brought up the topic of the pennant race. Only a few percentage points separated the top two teams in each league and division. Although he’d come with his aunt, Duncan felt the lack of female companionship. The elder Whitfield men had their wives, the Whitfield women their husbands.

  He wanted Tamara—he wanted to see her, talk to her, touch her and kiss her. Mixed feelings surged through Duncan as he tried to understand why he was so attracted to Dr. Tamara Wolcott. They’d spent six hours together, but it hadn’t been enough for him.

  Duncan wanted more—a lot more.

  * * *

  Tamara didn’t get out of bed until after noon on Sunday. She showered and pulled on a pair of sweatpants, socks and an oversize T-shirt. Two cups of coffee, a banana and one slice of buttered toast served as brunch. She made her bed, and then crawled back into it to read the stack of magazines that had piled up for months, while music from the radio on the bedside table played softly. She’d just finished reading an article in W when the phone rang.

  Reaching over, she picked up the cordless phone, mumbling a greeting.

  “Tamara, is that you?”

  She put down the magazine. “Who else would it be, Renata?”

  “It didn’t sound like you.”

  “I can assure you that it is me.”

  If her sister was calling her it had to be because she wanted money. Her shopaholic sister regularly exceeded her monthly budget whenever she just had to have a new pair of shoes or that cute little outfit. Tamara constantly reminded her that, as an elementary school teacher, the effect of designer shoes and suits would be lost on her young students. But Renata had always been and would always be a fashionista.

  “I’m calling because Tiffany and I want to host a surprise sixtieth birthday celebration for Daddy.”

  “Where are you going to host it?” Tamara asked.

  “I’m willing to have it at my house, but Tiff hinted that she wanted it at her place because she just added a party room.”

  Tamara knew her sisters were notorious for attempting to upstage each other. “Host it in a private room at a restaurant.”

  “Where, Tamara?”

  “That’s for you and Tiffany to decide. Either you can have it on Long Island or the city.”

  “If you can check out some restaurants in Manhattan I’ll check them out here.”

  “How many people do you expect to invite?”

  “Sixty. That’s going to be the magic number.”

  Tamara smiled. “I like that. What budget are we working with?”

  “Tiff and I figured it would cost about a hundred per person. Add an additional thousand for an open bar.”

  “What if we throw in three thousand each? That should cover everything, including tax and gratuity. Do you want to have it on that day or on the weekend? Try to keep in mind that weekends are more expensive.” This year their father’s birthday fell on a Thursday.

  “I prefer celebrating on his actual birthday.”

  “What about the menu?” Tamara asked.

  “That would depend on the restaurant.”

  Tamara thought of a midtown restaurant overlooking the Hudson River and made a mental note to call the Hudson Terrace. “Are you going to have a problem coming up with your share of the costs?” she asked Renata.

  “I’ll borrow the money from my credit union.”

/>   “What’s up with you, Renata?” Tamara asked in a quiet voice.

  “What are you talking about?” Renata’s tone had hardened, taking on an edge.

  “Are you and Lenny having financial problems?” The sound of weeping came through the earpiece, shocking Tamara. Although her sister always called to ask to borrow money, Renata always repaid her. “Renata, talk to me.”

  “I…I can’t. I have to hang up.”

  Tamara held the receiver until a shrill beeping sound forced her to return the handset to its base. Instinctively, she knew Renata was hiding something—but what? she mused. She would wait until tomorrow, after her brother-in-law left the house to go to work, then call Renata.

  Sinking against the mound of pillows supporting her back, Tamara closed her eyes. She’d never been one to get involved in her sisters’ personal lives, because they seemed to live charmed existences. They had the perfect husbands, homes and children. Both had purchased McMansions in the affluent Wheatley Heights community. Vaulted ceilings, marble floors, massive chandeliers and floor-to-ceiling windows greeted visitors when Renata or Tiffany opened the doors to their homes.

  Whenever her sisters ventured into the city they refused to come to Tamara’s apartment because they didn’t want to walk up five flights of stairs. Not so her parents, who loved Manhattan and preferred staying with their daughter than in a midtown hotel. Tamara always adjusted her schedule to spend time with them. Either she took them out for brunch or prepared their favorite breakfast foods.

  She jumped, startled when someone rang the downstairs bell. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, Tamara went to the door and pressed a button on the intercom. “Who is it?”

  “Trenz Florist. I have a delivery for a Tamara Wolcott.”

  She pushed the button to disengage the lock on the downstairs door, wondering who could’ve sent her flowers. Opening the closet in the foyer, Tamara reached for a small wooden box on the top shelf. In it were a stack of singles, her tip stash for dry cleaning, laundry and groceries deliveries. Carrying bags up five flights of stairs was not something she relished.

  Tamara opened the door when she heard the soft tap. A young man handed her a large bouquet of bloodred and hot-pink roses in a glass vase. She signed the receipt, handing him a tip, and he thanked her profusely. Plucking the card off the cellophane, she read the neat printing: Thank you for a wonderful evening; we must do it again! Duncan.”

  “And we will do it again,” she whispered aloud.

  She removed the cellophane and carried the vase into the living room, where she set it down on a table amongst a collection of Waterford crystal votives. The sweet scent of the flowers wafted into her nostrils.

  Returning to the bedroom, she picked up her cell phone and dialed the number to Duncan’s cell. A smile softened her mouth when she heard his soothing baritone. “I want to thank you.”

  “Thank me for what, Tamara?”

  “For sending me flowers.”

  “I hope you like them.”

  “I love them. They’re beautiful.”

  “So are you.”

  “Easy, Duncan, or you’ll give me a swelled head.”

  “Better your head swelling than mine.” A groan came through the earpiece. “I can’t believe I just said that.”

  “Yeah, you did,” Tamara teased. “Where are you, Duncan?”

  “I’m in Brooklyn visiting my aunt. Why?”

  “I thought maybe I’d treat you to dinner.”

  “I just ate. What about you?”

  “I haven’t eaten yet.”

  “I could stop by and take you out so you can eat.”

  Tamara shook her head although Duncan couldn’t see her. “Don’t bother. I’ll either fix something light or order in.”

  “I’ll take you out.”

  “But you’ve already eaten, Duncan.”

  “I’ll have coffee, or I’ll watch you eat. I’ll be leaving here in about half an hour. Look for me sometime around six.”

  Tamara smiled. “Okay. I’ll be ready at six.”

  “I’m wearing jeans, so it’ll have to be a casual place to eat.”

  “That’s not a problem.”

  “I’ll see you at six.”

  Tamara ended the call, then did a happy dance, twirling around the room. Duncan sending her flowers had given her an excuse to call him. What she was forced to acknowledge was that she’d wanted to see him again.

  What she refused to acknowledge was that she wanted to sleep with Duncan Gilmore.

  CHAPTER 7

  Tamara answered the intercom, pushing the button to unlock the downstairs door when Duncan announced himself. She was standing with the door open when he stepped off the landing carrying two bulging plastic bags.

  Water dripped off the bill of his cap.

  When he raised his head she noticed he was wearing glasses. The spectacles did little to distract from his overall attractiveness. In fact, they made him appear handsomely bookish. “It’s pouring, so I decided to stop and bring in dinner,” he explained, setting the wet bags on the straw mat outside the door.

  “Give me your cap and jacket,” she ordered. “I’ll hang them up in the bathroom.”

  Duncan took them off, shaking out the moisture. “Should I take off my shoes?”

  “You can leave them on the mat under the table in the foyer. I didn’t realize it was raining that hard.”

  “It just started pouring.” He handed Tamara his clothes, then kicked off his running shoes and placed them on the mat.

  Duncan liked rain, but only when he was inside looking out. The days it rained and he didn’t have to go into the office he usually sat on his terrace staring through the raindrops. Those were times when he read, ate and slept there if there was little or no wind.

  His gaze lingered on Tamara as she turned and walked into the apartment with his wet clothes. She looked nothing like the woman from the night before who had been dressed to the nines. Today she wore a pair of loose-fitting sweats and an oversized T-shirt. The baggy attire successfully camouflaged her curvy body. Picking up the bags, he entered the apartment, closing and locking the door behind him.

  Last night he hadn’t gone any farther than the front door, but today he saw the space Tamara called home. Her apartment was small, but exquisitely furnished. Silk throw pillows in a vibrant aubergine completed two facing loveseats in supple dove-gray leather. The color scheme was repeated in the pale-gray walls and the purple-patterned area rug with gray and white accents. Mahogany side tables topped with lead-crystal-based lamps with silk pleated shades matched a table positioned along a wall which bore a collection of crystal votives. The bouquet of roses was a bright splash of color against the wall. The lamps were turned to the lowest setting making the room look soft and romantic.

  He walked into the kitchen, only steps ahead of Tamara. The room functioned as both kitchen and dining room. The work area was designed in a small triangle for optimal ease and efficiency. A dining bar was built into one side of the center island, offering a spot to sit, snack or relax while meals were prepared.

  An antique cupboard in an alcove that was set up as a dining area was filled with china. A rustic table with two long cushioned benches positioned along its length replaced the usual dining set. Mismatched armchairs with quilted cushioned seats faced each other at either end of the table. The design of the pewter hanging-light fixture was in keeping with the dining area’s personality.

  “Very nice,” he said, meeting Tamara’s expectant gaze. “I like your place.” The kitchen work area was ultramodern with the stainless-steel sink and appliances, while the dining area made him feel as if he’d stepped back in time.

  “Thank you.” She pointed to his jeans. “If you want to get out of those pants, I can give you a pair of sweats or scrubs.”

  “Your clothes won’t fit me.”

  “But my roommate’s will.”

  Duncan placed the bags on the butcher-block island to keep from dropping the
m. “You have a roommate?”

  “Just temporarily.”

  “Is your roommate a guy?”

  “Yes, Duncan, he’s a guy.”

  He clenched his teeth so tightly a muscle jumped noticeably in his jaw. “Is he here now?”

  Tamara opened the bags and took out several Chinese-style takeout containers. “No. He’s spending the weekend out east. He’s not going to be back until tomorrow. Rodney’s shifts rotate. He’s usually on days for two weeks, then nights for two weeks.”

  The revelations that Tamara had a roommate—albeit temporary—and that the roommate was a man made Duncan feel as if he’d been blindsided. He wondered if the man he’d seen her with at the diner was the roommate, a man she’d said was her colleague.

  “Is he the one I saw you with at the diner?” Duncan knew he sounded like a jealous lover, but he didn’t care. Although it was unattractive, his possessiveness had surfaced.

  “Yes.” Tamara didn’t offer any more information as she continued emptying the bags.

  “How long will he live with you?”

  Something in Duncan’s voice garnered her rapt attention, and she stopped what she’d been doing to stare at him. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous?”

  There was no way Duncan was going to admit that he was jealous. To do so would make him appear weak, vulnerable—something he didn’t want to be. “No.”

  Tamara winked at him. “Good. I don’t want my friendship with Rodney to jeopardize our friendship.”

  “Do you kiss all of your male friends the way you kissed me last night?”

  “No. Rodney is a friend and colleague, and unfortunately I had to learn the hard way never to combine business and pleasure.”

  Duncan realized Tamara had just served notice she would never become his client or he her patient, a situation that would prove conducive and advantageous for them to take their friendship to another level.

  “I’ll take either the scrubs or sweats.” The rain-soaked jeans felt clammy against his skin.

  “I’ll be right back. Meanwhile, take off your jeans and hang them over the shower rod.”

  He gave her an incredulous stare. “You expect me to strip down here?”