Man of Fantasy

Ivan crossed his arms over his chest. “No.”

“Would you if they asked?”

“I don’t know.”

“At least you didn’t say no. Do you occupy the entire building?” Within seconds she’d changed the topic.

Reaching out, Ivan cradled her elbow. “No. I chose the street level and the second floor for my personal use. Come with me and I’ll show you one of the vacant apartments on the third floor.”

Nayo followed Ivan as he led her to the staircase. “What’s on the top floor?”

“You’ll see,” he said cryptically. “By the way, how did you get here so fast?”

“I live on 127th Street off Madison.”

Ivan released her elbow to take her hand, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze. “We’re practically neighbors.”

“How long have you lived here?” Nayo asked.

“Not too long. I bought this place three years ago. It took about a year and a half to renovate.”

She noted the parquet flooring along the third-floor hallway. “It looks as if you restored it.”

Ivan gave the talented photographer a sidelong glance. “I suppose I should’ve said it took that long to restore it. The architect managed to find photographs of another brownstone similar to this one, and he knew exactly what it looked like before the former owners made changes.”

“What updates did you make?”

“You’ll see when I show you the apartment.”

Ivan led Nayo down the hallway to the rear of the brownstone and opened a door to a vacant apartment. It was at Duncan’s urging that he decided to rent out the apartments. The accountant told him that the rental income would offset the expense of renovating the four-story structure.

He’d bought the abandoned brownstone outright with the proceeds from the sale of his D.C. home. He’d taken out a loan for the renovations, because he hadn’t wanted to exhaust his savings and have a cash-flow problem. Although he hadn’t wanted to be saddled with a mortgage, it was unavoidable when he, Duncan and Kyle purchased another brownstone in the same historic district. He would’ve found it stressful to carry two mortgages on two pieces of property. Luckily he and his friends purchased property when interest rates and house prices were still relatively low, and despite the mortgage-and-housing crisis, he, Kyle and Duncan were in good stead financially.

He couldn’t charge his patients the fees other therapists did, which was why he supplemented his income with teaching and private lectures. One of his ongoing personal projects was writing a couple of books—one a humanistic view of multicultural psychology, the other psychology and African-Americans.

Opening the door, Ivan stepped aside to let Nayo walk in. “This apartment is the same as the one at the front of the building.”

An entryway with gleaming hardwood floors in a herringbone design led to a living room with a trio of floor-to-ceiling windows. A raised area for dining overlooked the expansive living room. Nayo walked through the dining area to a gourmet kitchen with top-of-the line appliances and a black-and-white tile floor.

“Each apartment has a full bath and half bath,” Ivan said behind her.

“This place is beautiful,” she said reverently.

And it was. Nayo didn’t know how much Ivan was charging for rent, but if she’d seen the apartment first, she would’ve paid whatever he’d asked. High ceilings with recessed lighting, exquisite wood floors and natural light coming through the tall windows.

Ivan reached for her hand, cradling it gently in his protective grasp. “The half bath is off the kitchen, and the bedrooms are over here,” he said, leading her across the living room.

Nayo entered the master bedroom with its en suite bath. The bath had a freestanding shower and a Jacuzzi garden bathtub. The smaller bedroom, although spacious, lacked an adjoining bath. Solar shades that let light in without sacrificing privacy covered all the windows, and the bedroom floors were covered in carpeting in an oatmeal shade.

“Now the top floor.”

Ivan led Nayo up the staircase to the fourth floor. He’d thought of putting in an elevator, but changed his mind, because he wasn’t certain what he wanted to do with the top floor. Carved double mahogany doors opened to a yawning space with brick walls, cherry-wood floors, floor-to-ceiling windows and a coffered ceiling.

“What do you plan to put up here?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Nayo tried analyzing the man standing less than a foot away. It was only their second encounter, yet she felt very comfortable with him. It’d been that way when she’d met Geoffrey Magnus for the first time. She hadn’t had a lot of experience with men, with the exception of an intense summer romance the year she graduated from high school. She’d dated, although casually, but had yet to experience a passionate affair.

She knew her reluctance to get involved with a man stemmed from her desire to focus on establishing a career as a professional photographer. Taking pictures wasn’t a frivolous hobby or a passing fancy, but a passion. From the first time she held a camera she was hooked, and the obsession continued unabated.

“What I’ve seen is incredible. I see why a magazine would want to do a photo spread of your home.”

“I owe it all to a very talented architect and interior designer.”

Nayo gave Ivan a sidelong glance. “Don’t be so modest, Ivan. After all, you did have to approve the plans and the furnishings.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“I know I’m right,” she countered. “It’s the same when I take a shot. I know within seconds whether I’ve captured the image I want or I have to reshoot it.”

Resting his hand at the small of Nayo’s back, Ivan steered her toward the staircase. “How many pictures did you take to come up with the 120 in your bridge collection?”

“I have more than 120 photographs in my bridge collection.”

Ivan stopped before stepping off at the second floor landing. “I thought you said the exhibition was a limited collection.”

“I said the photographs in that collection will not be reprinted. I have others that I’ll show probably in a couple of years. If I decide never to exhibit them, then I’ll include them in a coffee-table book.”

“Do you have photos of any of the New York City bridges?”

Nayo nodded. “I have several of the Brooklyn Bridge at different times of the day.”

“Hot damn!” he said under his breath.

The skin around Nayo’s eyes crinkled when she laughed, the soft, sensual sound bubbling up from her throat. Ivan’s deep, rumbling laugh joined hers, and they were still laughing when he opened the door to his apartment to give her a tour of what had become a designer’s show house.

Chapter 3

Reaching into her jacket pocket, Nayo removed a small, handheld video recorder. She hadn’t realized her hand was shaking until she tried to take off her jacket. The rumors she’d heard about Carla Harris’s meteoric rise in the world of interior design were true, as evidenced by the blending of textures and colors. The interior of Ivan Campbell’s duplex was breathtakingly beautiful.

“I’ll take that,” Ivan said, reaching for Nayo’s jacket. “You can either start here or downstairs.”

Nayo stared at the area off the entryway, which contained a leather grouping in front of a minimalist-designed fireplace. “I’d like to see the rooms alone.” Her gaze shifted to Ivan, seeing an expression of confusion on his handsome face. “I like to feel the space, and I can’t do that if there’s someone else there with me. Rooms, if they aren’t empty, are like people, Ivan,” she explained softly. “Each one has a personality based on the color of the walls, flooring, the window treatments and the furnishings. It’s the same when I study a subject or object I plan to photograph. It’s not about looking through a camera lens and snapping the image. It’s seeing beyond that. That’s the difference between an amateur and professional photographer.”

Ivan inclined his head in agreement. He’d had a patient who was an artist, and he was more than familiar with his quirky personality. Despite having a successful career, he never believed in himself. After being commissioned to paint a mural for the lobby of a major corporation, he’d spend months procrastinating. Fear and self-doubt brought on a paralyzing anxiety that made it almost impossible for him to pick up a brush. Following a series of intense therapy sessions, he worked nonstop to make the deadline. If Nayo needed solitude, he’d comply with her request.

“Take your time.”