Читать книгу Man of Fortune - Rochelle Alers, Rochelle Alers - Страница 7

Duncan Gilmore’s head popped up when he heard the two quick taps on the door. A slow smile crinkled around his eyes when he saw a head appear from around the partially opened door.

“Good morning, Kyle. Come on in.”

Kyle Chatham opened the door fully and walked into a sun-filled office with a desk, tables, credenza and bookcases made from rosewood and Jamaican mahogany. Everything in the space, from the furnishings to the occupant’s attire, conveyed good breeding and elegance. He took a chair beside the desk, which was covered with investment portfolios and a batch of tax returns.

“I heard you were looking for me yesterday. What’s up, DG?”

“Are you feeling all right?” Duncan asked.

“Yes. Why?”

“I’ve never known you to take off on a Monday.”

Kyle looped a leg over the opposite knee. “Things have changed now that Jordan Wainwright has joined the firm.”

Duncan smiled, exhibiting perfectly aligned white teeth. “I like your new partner, Kyle. At first I thought he wouldn’t fit in, but after that TV segment where he called his grandfather a slumlord I have a newfound respect for the poor little rich boy.”

Kyle, angling his head, returned his friend’s smile. “I felt the same way before Jordan came on board. Representing clients with deep pockets is very different from fighting for the little guy, but Jordan has proven that he is a man for the people. Even though the plaque out front reads Chatham and Wainwright, P.C., Attorneys at Law, and he’s accepted a partnership, I’m going to wait until after Labor Day to make it official. It’ll give me time to place ads in the local papers and host a reception for a few elected officials and neighborhood residents.”

“That sounds good. Jordan’s elevation to partner and the added staff should level the playing field when you guys compete with other Harlem law firms.”

Kyle ran a hand over his neatly cropped hair. “I don’t want to compete, DG. I had enough of that when I worked eighty-hour weeks for Trilling, Carlyle and Browne. Jordan’s contribution to the firm has allowed me to pay off half of my share of this building’s mortgage and hire additional staff. Taking on a partner has also afforded me a life outside of the office.”

“With Ava?”

“Yes, with Ava,” Kyle confirmed. “She has a lot of comp time coming, so we’ve decided to take long weekends together.”

“I was looking for you yesterday because one of my clients has season tickets to the Yankee home games. I didn’t want to tell him that I’m a Mets fan, so I took them anyway. I know you like the Yankees, and with them playing Boston this weekend it should be quite a series.”

“Talk about bad timing. I’m planning to meet Ava’s folks.”

“Going to meet her parents sounds serious,” Duncan said.

Kyle Chatham stared at Duncan. His friend was a magnet for women. Duncan’s olive skin, chiseled features and close-cropped curly black hair, his beautifully modulated baritone voice and impeccable attire, made him a standout whenever he entered a room. Kyle was always incredulous that Duncan was totally unaware of the impact he had on women.

“It is. I proposed marriage and she accepted.”

Duncan went completely still as he stared at his friend. I proposed marriage and she accepted. Those were the exact words he’d said to Kyle and their buddy Ivan one night when he’d asked the two to join him for drinks so that he could share the news that had given him a fitful night’s sleep. The difference was that he’d proposed marriage to Kalinda Douglas, but the two never became husband and wife. Fate had interceded on September 11, 2001, when his fiancée died in the terror attacks on the World Trade Center.

Duncan, Kyle Chatham and Ivan Campbell had grown up in the same Harlem public-housing development. His two friends had become as close to him as the brothers he’d never had. The year he turned fourteen, Duncan’s single mother had died unexpectedly from a blood clot, and, having never known his father, he went to live with his schoolteacher aunt in an upscale Brooklyn neighborhood.

Kyle was the youngest of the trio by several months, having recently celebrated his thirty-ninth birthday. He was tall, and what women referred to as “fine milk chocolate.” Duncan detected a change in Kyle over the past few months. Now he knew it had something to do with Ava Warrick.

Rising from his seat, he came around the desk to embrace Kyle, who’d also come to his feet. Duncan pounded his back. “Congratulations. When’s the wedding?”

“Not until next year. In fact, Ava wants a winter wedding.”

“She wants to get married in New York in the winter?” Duncan asked, a note of incredulity creeping into the question. He sat on the edge of his desk facing Kyle who had sat down again.

A hint of a smile played at the corners of Kyle’s mouth. “It wouldn’t pose a problem if the wedding were held in Puerto Rico.”

“Damn, Kyle! Now you’re talking.”

Kyle sobered. “I want you to be my best man.”

An expression of sadness flitted over Duncan’s handsome face before he managed to mask it with a plastic grin. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?”

He didn’t want to relive the time when he’d asked Kyle to become his best man. Kalinda used to e-mail him every morning, counting the days before she became Mrs. Duncan Gilmore. The morning of September 11, the anticipated e-mail never came. Duncan didn’t know what was worse—the weeks of waiting or the telephone call from Kalinda’s parents that their daughter’s body had been recovered in the rubble.

“No, I am not, Duncan.”

It wasn’t often Kyle called Duncan by his given name because there had been another boy named Duncan who lived in their building, and to differentiate between the two he’d always called Duncan Gilmore DG.

“I thought you would’ve asked Micah.”

Kyle had met Micah Sanborn when he’d become the NYPD officer’s law-school mentor. Micah, now a Kings County assistant district attorney, had been promoted to lieutenant when he enrolled in Brooklyn Law School. It’d taken him six years, attending part-time, instead of the normal three to complete his degree. During that time, Kyle had mentored Micah, who had juggled his law-enforcement responsibilities with law school. During his down time Micah would occasionally join Ivan and Duncan at sporting events when Kyle invited him along to unwind.

“Micah’s my friend, but you and Ivan are closer to me than my own brother. If you don’t want to—”

“Hold up, Kyle,” Duncan said, cutting him off. “Did I say I didn’t want to be your best man?”

“You didn’t say you would,” Kyle countered.

He’d asked Duncan to become his best man because he felt closer to him than to Ivan, despite Duncan having moved from Harlem to Brooklyn as a teen. It was Duncan who had always called to see how he was doing, and the routine continued to this day with Duncan stopping by his office several times a week to see how Kyle was doing. Kyle suspected his friend’s concern about his well-being had something to do with him losing his mother. Although Duncan said he had noticed signs of distress in his mother, he hadn’t called for a doctor or an ambulance until it was too late. He’d come home from school to find Melanie Gilmore on the kitchen floor. The medical examiner had put her time of death at approximately ten that morning.

Now the lifelong friends stared at each other until Duncan inclined his head, breaking the silence. “I’m honored you’ve asked, and I accept.”

Kyle blew out a breath. “Thank you, DG. You don’t know what this means to me, because I know it’s not going to be easy for you to relive what happened—”

“I’m good, buddy. I’ll never forget Kalinda, but each year it gets a little easier. It was the same when I lost my mother.” Crossing his arms over his chest, Duncan stared at the pattern on the rug under his shoes. “I have a confession to make.” His head came up. “I’ve had a few sessions with Ivan.”

Duncan had been staunchly resistant to seeing a therapist to deal with the grief he felt with the loss of his fiancée. Dr. Ivan Campbell had told Duncan that anytime he wanted to talk—about anything—his door was always open to him. And it had taken Duncan a long time to work up enough nerve to admit that he needed therapy in order to begin dealing with the demons that wouldn’t let him get past the tragedies in his life. He wasn’t completely free of them yet, but he was getting there.

He’d begun dating again, but none of the relationships had lasted more than a few months. Last weekend he’d asked a woman who was a former college classmate to go out with him. She wasn’t his late fiancée, wasn’t even remotely close to her. But he did enjoy her company and had told her that, but he hadn’t promised he would call her again.

“I’d like to throw a little something at my place to celebrate your engagement. It will be a way for your friends and family and hers to get together and become acquainted with one another.”

Leaning forward, Kyle patted Duncan’s arm. “I’m going to speak for Ava when I say we’d really appreciate that.” In the past, there hadn’t been a month when Duncan and Kalinda hadn’t hosted a gathering at his Chelsea loft. The soirées were always elegant and well-attended. “What’s up with all the financials?” Kyle asked, smoothly changing the topic of conversation.

“You’ve got to stay on top of the market, especially with clients who are counting on me for their financial security.”

Kyle whistled softly. “Damn, maybe I need to have you take another look at my investments.”

“Anytime Kyle. Remember, now’s the time to make sure your investment strategy is sound.” Of his many clients, only Kyle, Ivan Campbell, his aunt Viola Gilmore and a select few got free financial advice.

“On that note,” Kyle said, pushing to his feet, “I’ll leave you to your spread sheets.”

“Congratulations again, buddy.”

“Thanks, DG.”

Duncan waited until Kyle left before he went back to his computer, estimating it would take the rest of the morning to complete his work. His client, Mrs. Henderson, had neglected to reinvest insurance proceeds after her husband passed away. Unfortunately, she’d ignored the mounting pile of letters from the insurance company until her daughter had discovered them in a drawer with a number of unpaid bills.

Pressing a button on the telephone console, he called his secretary. “Mia, please refer my calls to Auggie.”

Augustin Russell, a third-year finance student, worked twenty hours a week when classes were in session and full-time during the summer months. Duncan was seriously considering hiring him after he graduated. Not only was he bright, but he was also very ambitious, reminding Duncan of himself when he’d begun his MBA studies. Not only had Duncan earned an MBA, but earlier that spring he’d applied and been accepted into a joint JD/MBA degree program.

His graduate-studies concentration was venture capital financing and asset management. It was as if he had a sixth sense when it came to buying and selling stocks and bonds. He knew intuitively when to sell stocks before they declined, and he knew the MBA coursework with a focus on investment strategies had been crucial to his success in monitoring his own and his clients’ investment portfolios.

Like Kyle, Duncan had tired of working sixteen-hour days to make money for an investment company. Following the advice he’d given his clients, he invested heavily in the tech market, then sold his shares before they bottomed out. The return on his investments was staggering and gave him the impetus to set up his own financial-planning company.

He purchased loft space, renovated it and moved from the apartment in his aunt’s downtown Brooklyn brownstone to a four-bedroom, three-and-a-half-bath condo giving him more than three thousand square feet for living and entertaining.

Now, working on Mrs. Henderson’s problem, Duncan lost track of time and everything going on around him but the figures on the computer program.

He was interrupted once when his secretary brought him a cup of coffee. His smile of gratitude conveyed his appreciation. It was minutes before three in the afternoon when the final spread sheet came out of the printer that sat on a corner of the L-shaped, glass-topped desk.

Gathering up the pages, he put them in his monogrammed leather briefcase that had been a graduation gift from his aunt. A schoolteacher by profession, Viola Gilmore valued education as much as she valued life itself. She had repeatedly emphasized the importance of a good education until Duncan was convinced he’d been brainwashed.

Viola had cried when he’d told her he was moving out of the brownstone, but she’d eventually come around. It took Duncan several months of living completely on his own to realize he’d become the son Viola had never had. What he didn’t and couldn’t explain to his aunt was that, despite having his own apartment in the brownstone, he’d felt uncomfortable bringing his dates home with him. Never one to boast about his sexual conquests, he’d always kept his personal life very, very private. Ivan and Kyle were shocked when he disclosed he’d proposed marriage to Kalinda, because up until that time neither had met her or heard him mention her.

Duncan shut down the computer, straightened up his desk, slipped into his suit jacket, picked up his briefcase and walked out of his office. Mia Humphrey swiveled around in her chair when he strode past her.

“Good afternoon, Duncan.”

He smiled without turning around. “Go home, Mia.”

A rush of blood suffused her olive complexion. “I’m going.”

The year before, Duncan had instituted summer work hours to allow his secretary and accounting clerk more time to enjoy the warmer weather. Office hours during July and August were nine to three Monday through Thursday and nine to one on Friday.

Duncan knew that Mia, a young single mother, had taken a more than friendly interest in his assistant. Even though he didn’t approve of office romances, he had no intention of interfering in the personal lives of his employees. After all, both were consenting adults.

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.

“A feeder cable,” she repeated. “That means there’s no electricity.”

Duncan gestured to the overhead emergency light. “At least we’re not in the dark.”

Tamara reached into an oversized leather tote and took out her cell phone. “I hope I can get a signal in here.” She exhaled a breath. “Thank goodness.” Scrolling through her directory she pushed speed dial. “This is Dr. Wolcott,” she said identifying herself when a clerk answered the phone. “I’m scheduled to cover the six o’clock shift for Dr. Shelton, but right now I’m stuck in an elevator in a building on Park Avenue South. Tell Dr. Killeen I’ll be in once someone gets me out of here.”

“I’ll let—wait a minute, Dr. Wolcott, there’s a special news bulletin coming across the television. The power is out in most of Gramercy Park. Is that where you are?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll let Dr. Killeen know that you’ll be late.”

“Make certain you do.”

Tamara ended the call and looked at the man staring back at her with an amused expression. She didn’t know what was so funny. They were trapped in a space less than six feet wide that was getting hotter with each passing moment.

“What’s so funny?”

Duncan straightened. “Are you usually so brusque, Dr. Wolcott?”

She looked down at the toes of his polished shoes. “No, I’m not. Right now I’m a little stressed out. I’m sorry if I was rude to you, Mr….”

“Duncan.”

Her head came up. “Does Duncan have a last name?”

“It’s Gilmore.” He extended his hand. “Does Dr. Wolcott have a first name?”

She shook his hand, noting the palm was smooth to the touch. “It’s Tamara.”

“Tamara,” he repeated. “What does it mean?”

“It’s Hebrew for palm tree.”

“It’s very pretty.”

Tamara smiled for the first time. “Thank you.” She offered him her cell phone. “I was told that half the neighborhood is without electricity. You can use my phone if you need to make a call.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “Isn’t there someone you would want to know where you are?”

“No.”

Tamara’s eyes narrowed. “Do you live in this building?”

“No,” Duncan repeated. “I was just leaving a client. Do you live here?”

“I wish. I live in an incredibly overpriced East Village walkup.”

“Living in Manhattan is practically prohibitive.”

“You can say that again,” she drawled. “Where do you live, Duncan?”

“Chelsea.” He smiled when Tamara whistled. “It’s not quite Park Avenue or Sutton Place, but it’s getting there.”

“Where in Chelsea do you live?”

“Twenty-First between Tenth and Eleventh.”

“Isn’t that near Chelsea Piers?” she asked.

Duncan nodded. “I can see it from my bedroom window. Have you ever been there?”

“Unfortunately, I haven’t,” Tamara said truthfully.

She’d worked double shifts for the past four years to pay off her student loans and recoup the monies she’d saved before her ex-husband had emptied their joint bank account with the intent of doubling the money at the blackjack table.

“My hectic schedule doesn’t allow for much socializing.”

Duncan glanced at his watch. They’d been in the elevator for ten minutes. He shrugged out of his suit jacket, let it fall to the floor of the elevator car, and then sat down on it. If he was going to spend any more time confined to such a small space then he planned to relax.

Tamara stared at him as if he’d taken leave of his senses. “What do you think you’re doing?”

A pair of clear amber-colored eyes met a pair of coal-black ones. “What does it look like? I’m taking a load off my feet.” He offered his hand. “Come sit down. It’s not as hot down here.”

“That’s because hot air rises,” Tamara countered.

Again, he ignored her quip. “Sit down, Tamara.”

Resting her hands on her hips, she glared down at him. “Are you familiar with the word please?”

Duncan didn’t drop his hand. Baring his teeth, he flashed a facetious smile. “Please, Dr. Wolcott, won’t you sit down?”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m only Dr. Wolcott at the hospital. Otherwise it’s Tamara.”

Half rising, Duncan eased Tamara down to sit beside him on his jacket. He caught the scent of her perfume. They sat silently as the seconds ticked off to minutes. He checked his watch again. Another quarter of an hour had passed. If Genevieve Henderson hadn’t insisted he stay he would’ve been home by now. It took about half an hour to walk from Gramercy Park to where he lived in Chelsea.

A slight smile tilted the corners of his mouth when Tamara rested her head on his shoulder. “How are you holding up?” he asked after a prolonged silence.

“I’m okay.”

Tamara wanted to tell Duncan that she was more than okay. His tailored shirt concealed a lean, hard body. Soft hands, hard body, she mused, wondering what he did for a living. It was the first time in a very long time that she’d felt so comfortable with a man. After a rocky marriage and less-than-amicable divorce she’d sworn off men. She had dated but hadn’t slept with a man since her divorce, and at thirty-two she was more than content not to change her lifestyle or marital status.

Duncan shifted into a more comfortable position. “Why did you decide to become a doctor?”

“It’s a long story, Duncan.”

“We have nothing but time and you have a captive audience. Pardon the pun.”

Tamara laughed. The sultry sound filled the confined space, sending shivers up Duncan’s spine. He suspected the woman pressed to his side was unaware of how sexy her voice, laugh and curvy body were concealed under a man’s shirt and body-hugging jeans.

“I became a doctor to spite my mother.”