The Man Plan

by Tracy Anne Warren

  “It sounds like trouble waiting to happen. I think you should stay home.”

  “Oh, so I’m supposed to sit home, am I? While you run off and enjoy yourself at some party with”—she broke off, circling a pair of fingers in the air—“whatshername? Palmer?”

  “Parker.”

  “Right.” She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I’m a big girl now, grown up enough to go to parties without getting permission. Three years at college taught me all I need to know about that particular scene. I don’t think Josh and Neil will be throwing any surprises my way.”

  He sat silent and simmering, a hint of color rising beneath his tan.

  They didn’t say a word to each other for the rest of the game or later during the drive home.

  He finally broke his silence when they reached her apartment door. “What time should I come by to pick you up tomorrow night?”

  Six thirty, she thought. Six thirty, so we’ll have time for a quick dinner before the concert.

  But instead of those simple, nonconfrontational words, some devil prompted her to say something else. “You still want to go to the concert, then? I thought maybe you’d decided to pick Parson up at the airport instead and spend the evening entertaining her.”

  His jaw tightened, his blue eyes turning hard. “I wasn’t, but it can always be arranged.”

  She knew she should back down, knew she should do whatever it took to end their fight, to smooth over the angry words and nasty silences. But her feelings were hurt, and damned if she was going to let him treat her like some spoiled child who didn’t enjoy sharing her toys.

  She squared her shoulders and looked him in the eye. “If that’s what you’d rather, it won’t put me out. Fred can use your ticket. He’s been salivating over the concert ever since he heard I was going. He’s a nice guy. You’d like Fred.”

  For a moment James looked ready to explode. Then it passed, a chill sweeping into his eyes. “I sincerely doubt that, but it doesn’t matter. If you don’t want to go to the concert with me, that’s fine. Good night, Ivy.”

  He turned and strode down the hall toward the elevator.

  When he was gone, she closed the door and leaned back against it, tears already sliding down her cheeks.

  God above, what have I done?

  She’d let hurt and resentment drive him away. She’d let pride get in the way where it never had before. Now she was the one who was sorry.

  Tomorrow night he’d be with Parker Manning instead of her. Tomorrow night he’d be in another woman’s arms, and she would have no one to blame but herself.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Ivy set down her paintbrush and stepped back from the canvas to inspect her work.

  It looked good, she decided. Not perfect, but good.

  Best of all, it was nearly finished. Another painting to add to her steadily growing stack of completed canvases.

  Over the past week she’d thrown herself into her art with a vengeance, fueled in great measure by the need to forget her misery over her fight with James. In all the years she’d known him, they’d never fought, not once. But she supposed there had to be a first time for everything.

  She sighed and began to clean up, screwing tops back onto paint tubes, washing her brushes, covering her mixing palette with a damp cloth to keep the unused blobs of paints from turning hard. A glance at her Kit-Cat wall clock, with his cute back-and-forth eyes and swinging tail, showed it was nearly five in the afternoon. Time to grab a quick shower and slip into her party clothes.

  Today was the Fourth of July, and no matter how low she felt, she wasn’t missing Neil and Josh’s party. Certainly not after making such a point of telling James that’s where she’d be.

  She had her doubts about the evening, but perhaps while she was there she’d manage to have a bit of fun—eating and drinking, chatting and watching the fireworks explode into colorful starbursts in the night sky. Perhaps she would also manage to forget James for a little while. Forget how horribly she’d botched their last outing and how desperately she’d missed him since.

  As the week had passed, she’d thought about calling him a dozen times a day, but something always held her back. At first she’d hoped he would change his mind about the concert and come knocking on her door. But as the hours went by and it became increasingly clear he wasn’t going to show up, she’d phoned Fred to ask if he’d like the tickets.

  Without James, she no longer wanted to go to the concert.

  But Fred wasn’t home, so Neil and Josh agreed to take the tickets off her hands, offering massive thanks and pledges of eternal gratitude for the unexpected bounty.

  After that, the days had slipped by with the speed of a sloth climbing a tree. One day became two. Two melted into three, and so forth until she realized the whole week was nearly over.

  This morning she’d decided she would wait until the weekend to contact James. If he didn’t drop over or call by Sunday, she’d pop up to his penthouse and put an end to their rift.

  She may have lost the battle, she reminded herself, but she was a long way from losing the war.

  Forty-five minutes later, attired in a powder blue sundress bedecked with cheery yellow daisies—a dress that made her look a lot perkier than she felt—Ivy set off for Bushwick.

  The party was in full swing by the time she arrived. She took off her sunglasses and tucked them into her purse as she squeezed down the already-crowded corridor toward her friends’ apartment.

  Inside, she paused for a moment to get her bearings, searched for a familiar face. Loud salsa music throbbed like a heartbeat, the floorboards vibrating beneath her sandals. The air smelled of warm bodies, nachos, and Dos Equis.

  This year’s party theme—A Fourth of July Fiesta.

  Neil found her before she found him, pulling her up into a rib-crushing embrace that made her giggle. “Cupcake, you came,” he declared, giving her a quick, smacking kiss on the lips. “I was starting to wonder if you’d had a last-minute change of plans.”

  She shook her head. “Got caught on the train. It was a madhouse.”

  “Well, now that you’re here, you can relax. Grab a beer out of the cooler and settle in. Josh is outside grilling fajitas. Your choice of chicken, beef, or Tex-Mex vegetarian.” He grinned and gestured toward the open window that led to a box-sized fire escape they’d euphemistically dubbed “the patio.”

  “Sides and dessert are across the hall in Lu’s place,” he continued, referring to their neighbor, Lulu Lancaster.

  A leggy bombshell with artfully dyed blond hair, Lulu was a dancer like Fred, though not exactly like Fred since she did chorus work instead of ballet. Ivy had met her only a couple of times in passing, but she seemed nice, with her Queens accent and no-nonsense attitude.

  Neil picked up a trio of empties off a nearby coffee table. “Trying to keep things at a dull roar,” he explained. “Go mingle. Go enjoy. I’ll catch up with you as soon as I can.”

  She gave him a wide smile, watched him thread his way through several boisterous groups of partygoers before he disappeared into the apartment’s tiny kitchen.

  She looked around for another friendly face; her throat tightened as she realized she didn’t know a soul. She’d worked hard over the years to overcome her natural shyness. Still, at moments like this, it crept back over her, urging her to find the closest convenient corner and disappear into it.

  Then she remembered Josh.

  Of course. She’d go perch in the window, watch him cook, and hang out with him for a while.

  She was about to head that way when a hand tapped her shoulder. She turned and looked into a pair of soulful brown eyes. “Fred.”

  “I thought it was you. There’re only so many tall, gorgeous blondes, even in the Big Apple. Especially in this apartment.” He gave her a quick hug. “And remember, it’s Frederick these days. Frederick Picarovsky. I have a professional image to maintain, you know.”

  She lifted an amused eyebrow. She didn’t know him all t
hat well but had heard enough stories to know he’d been a struggling ballet dancer and part-time waiter up until three months ago. Then he’d gotten an audition with one of the premier ballet companies in the city, and to his astonished elation, received an invitation to join.

  That’s when he’d started reinventing himself.

  Everybody knew the greats were from Russia or France, he argued.

  Baryshnikov.

  Nijinsky.

  Now, those were names with staying power, with resilience.

  What hope did plain Fred Pike from even plainer Newark, Ohio, have to go down in the annals of dance history?

  And so, Frederick Picarovsky was born. A mysterious rising star whose heritage could be traced all the way back to Peter the Great, or so said the rumors he’d put out.

  She smothered a smile. “Oops, I forgot. Frederick’s just such a mouthful.”

  “Mouthful or not, it’s starting to get me noticed. World Ballet did an article last week. I got two paragraphs.”

  “That’s wonderful, Fred—erick, I mean.”

  “Thanks. The company’s tough, but I love it.” He glanced down at Ivy’s empty hands. “So why aren’t you eating, drinking? It’s a party, you know. Even I’m breaking my diet for the occasion. Here, let me go get you a beer.”

  Before she could say a word, he was halfway across the room. It didn’t take him long to return, two ice-cold bottles in hand.

  He gave one to her, then tapped his bottle to hers in salute. He took a long drink. “Ahh. Now we need some food. What d’you say we load up one big plate and slip off to a quiet spot where we can share?”

  He grinned, the movement softening the long lines of his face. He had a devilish gleam in his dark eyes and a sensuality in his long, lean dancer’s body. If she hadn’t already given her heart to James, there was every chance she might have found Fred irresistibly attractive.

  She smiled back. “I think it would be better if we each got our own plate and found a nice, noisy spot in the center of the action.”

  He flattened a hand on his chest. “Ouch. You’ve stabbed me straight through.”

  “You’ll recover as soon as the next pretty girl goes by. Besides, I’m already seeing someone.”

  At least, she would be as soon as she could smooth things over with him.

  “Oh, slashed again,” he said, pantomiming the act. “So where is the lucky bastard? Is he here?”

  “No. He couldn’t make it.” Her spirits deflated a bit at the thought.

  Fred eyed her a little too shrewdly. “Doesn’t sound like he appreciates you properly. If you change your mind about him, remember me. Ballet dancers have incredible stamina and amazing flexibility. I’d love to show you sometime.”

  She gasped at his outrageous statement, then laughed, wondering if he might really have a trace of Russian blue in his blood, after all. He was certainly a charming enough rogue, naughty and unpredictable—a little like her brother-in-law, Zack.

  Before she could respond, Neil showed up. “Hey, enough hitting on Ivy. If her cheeks get any redder, we’ll be able to use her as a firework. Go on, now. Shoo.”

  Fred grinned again, then winked at her. “Later, sugar.”

  She giggled, realizing her cheeks really were hot enough to ignite.

  Neil took hold of her elbow, steered her toward the open window and the fire escape beyond. “What d’you think about fajitas?” he asked conversationally. “Personally, I always prefer the beef.”

  * * *

  “Umm, try this. It’s delicious.” Parker held out an hors d’oeuvre skewered on a toothpick.

  After a quick visual check, James dutifully opened his mouth to receive the delicacy.

  “Good?” she asked.

  He chewed. Lobster with a hint of chervil, if he wasn’t mistaken. He swallowed before replying. “Very good.”

  She beamed and selected another hors d’oeuvre for herself.

  Polite chitchat drifted on the air. Soft murmurs that rose and fell, punctuated by an occasional laugh or the clink and tap of silver on china. Background music—airy harmonies by Mozart and Bach—floated past.

  Original works of art graced the walls, and various modern sculptures were arranged at precise angles around the room. Striking as the Belfords’ collection was, James suspected the items had been purchased with more of an eye toward investment potential than a genuine love of the works themselves.

  He treated himself to another lobster canapé as he noticed a particularly hideous clump of twisted black metal squatting in a nearby corner. The artwork—and he used that term loosely—reminded him of an exploded toilet that had lost its lid. He leaned his head to one side to view it from another direction.

  Trendy? Perhaps.

  Appealing? Definitely not.

  He smothered a smile. If Ivy were here, they’d both be laughing.

  His humor fell away.

  The silence from Ivy’s direction had been deafening.

  He’d expected her to call or come up to his penthouse long before now.

  She hadn’t.

  He’d expected her to say she missed him, wanted to forget their foolish spat and be friends again.

  She hadn’t.

  Then again, neither had he.

  He’d thought about calling her, but he’d kept putting it off. After all, she was the one who’d gotten angry and backed out; she should be the one to mend fences.

  But she hadn’t, and before he knew it, the week had passed.

  Maybe the distance between them was for the best, though; they each had their own life to live.

  Still, he wondered what she was doing right now, and more, who she was doing it with. Had she really gone to the concert with that guy like she’d threatened?

  His fists tightened at his sides.

  “I see you’re admiring the Krapfsmear. New artist. Up-and-comer, don’t you agree?”

  Krapfsmear? James turned to his host, Paul Belford, and struggled for something neutral to say.

  Parker stepped into the breach. “It’s very bold. The texture speaks on such a powerfully visceral level. And the color . . . How to describe it? So apocalyptic yet so penetrating. Once you’ve witnessed a piece like this, you’ll never be untouched again.”

  James blinked. Was she kidding? From her expression, he feared she wasn’t.

  “My thoughts precisely.” Belford nodded his balding head and took a sip of vodka from his crystal highball glass. “Portia St. George over at Gallery DuPres turned me on to the artist. Said only a special buyer could appreciate the subtle charm of the work. The lush anger contained in such an elegant, compact form.”

  “Oh, she’s right,” Parker agreed. “It’s incredible.”

  Belford looked James in the eye. “J.J.? We haven’t heard from you. What do you think?”

  For one, that he detested being called J.J. That was his father’s name for him, a diminutive he’d always despised. But telling Belford that, or telling him what an arrogant, small-minded fool he was, wasn’t worth the breath.

  James ate another canapé at his leisure before he replied. “Incredible. It really is the only word to describe it.”

  Satisfied by the answer, Parker and Belford moved on to a discussion of the real estate market.

  James wandered a few feet away, poured himself a glass of cold dry white Riesling. At least his host had good taste in wine, he thought, the aged oak flavor of the alcohol lingering on his tongue.

  What were they serving at Ivy’s party?

  She’d better not be drinking. She wasn’t even legal yet.

  Remembering her age and the unwelcome physical reaction he’d been having to her lately, he refilled his glass.

  * * *

  The party was proceeding at full tilt, the music a loud syncopated backbeat as couples swayed together in the center of the room

  “Why don’t you let me trade in that soda for a margarita? One won’t hurt you.” Fred reached for Ivy’s empty glass.

  S
he shook her head and glanced over at him from her place on Neil’s lumpy plaid sofa. “I already had a beer tonight, remember? One’s my limit.”

  And obviously not his. Fred, she suspected, had imbibed a bit too much.

  “One beer?” he complained. “Come on. Live dangerously. It’s a party.”

  “Really, I can’t.” She checked the clock on the nearby DVR. “Besides, it’s nearly midnight. Time for me to be heading home.”

  “You can’t leave yet; it’s early.” He slid closer and stretched an arm out behind her along the top of the sofa. “We’ve hardly had a chance to get to know each other, not after Neil and then Lulu dragged you away.”

  “She took pity and introduced me around. Lulu’s a dear. She really made me feel welcome.”

  He gestured to himself with his thumb. “And I haven’t?”

  “Sure, but not the same way.”

  He smiled. “Time for a dance!”

  She gasped out a laugh as he yanked her to her feet and pulled her into the crowd.

  * * *

  Hey, can’t talk right now. Leave me your digits. You know the drill.

  James cut off the message with an impatient jab of his finger. One in the morning and Ivy wasn’t answering her cell.

  Where in the hell is she?

  He slipped his ultraslim cell phone into his suit pocket.

  “Who was that, darling?” Parker asked, returning from her visit to the guest bath.

  His head whipped around. “What?”

  “On the phone. Who were you talking to?”

  “No one. Just checking my voice mail.”

  Parker tsked. “Working even on a holiday? You should slow down.”

  He gave a noncommittal grunt. “Are you about ready to leave?”

  “Hmm. Let me thank our hostess; then we’ll go.”

  He waited until she’d crossed to the opposite side of the room and had fallen into conversation with Arlene Belford before he tried Ivy’s number again.

  And got her voice mail again.

  With a muffled curse, he hung up.

  Where is she?

  Was she home and just had her cell on mute? Or had she gone to that party?—the one he’d told her not to attend. The neighborhood where her friends lived might be showing signs of improvement, but it could still be a dangerous place, especially at night.