Man of Fortune

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.