Man of Fantasy Page 3

  “It’ll be in New York. Tamara and I decided to have it on one of the yachts that sail along the Hudson River.”

  “I’ll make certain to block out the first week in June. Congratulations and give Tamara my best.”

  “I’ll tell her.”

  “Have you told Kyle you’re getting married?” Ivan asked.

  “I just spoke to him. He said we should set up an MNO at least once a month.”

  Ivan smiled. “Are you certain your woman will allow you a men’s night out?” he teased.

  “You’re talking crazy, brother. Are you equating marriage with being on lockdown? I think you’ve been dating the wrong women.”

  “It’s not about dating the wrong women, DG. It’s just that I don’t want to commit to one woman.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence before Duncan said, “You should try it, Ivan. At least once before you get too old.”

  “On that note, I’m going to hang up on you, Duncan. Are you going into the office tomorrow?”

  “No. Tamara’s off tomorrow, so we’re going to look at rings.”

  “Let me know when you both have the same weekend off, because I’d like to host a party for you.”

  “I know you’re not cooking, Ivan.”

  “Very funny, DG,” he sneered. “Just because I don’t grill that well doesn’t mean I can’t cook.”

  Duncan’s deep chuckle came through the earpiece. “I can’t eat what you grill, and I’ve never eaten anything you’ve cooked.”

  “On that note, I suggest you hang up, DG, or you’ll find yourself looking for another best man.”

  “You wouldn’t!”

  “No, I wouldn’t, DG. No matter what happens, you can count on me to be your best man.” The ring of the doorbell echoed throughout the apartment. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to hang up on you. I’m expecting a visitor.”

  “I’ll see you Tuesday. And thanks, Ivan.”

  “No problem, DG.” Ivan hung up and pressed a button on the intercom. “Yes?”

  “It’s Nayo.”

  “I’ll be right with you.” Pressing another button, he buzzed open the lock to the outer door, and then went up the stairs to the second floor to answer the door. He hadn’t expected Nayo to come so quickly.

  When Ivan opened the door, he didn’t realize he was staring. Nayo Goddard looked nothing like the woman he’d met at the gallery. Her fresh-scrubbed face made her look as if she were a teenage girl. She’d brushed her short hair until there was barely a hint of a curl. A black, hip-length leather jacket, turtleneck sweater, jeans and low-heeled boots had replaced her tailored blouse, skirt and heels. Nayo smiled and the dimple in her left cheek winked at him.

  He returned her smile with a warm one of his own. “I’m forgetting my manners. Please come in.”

  Nayo realized she hadn’t just imagined the sensual, brooding face of the man welcoming her into his home. Ivan Campbell wasn’t what women would call a pretty brother, but he was without a doubt a very attractive man. And the stubble on his lean face served to enhance his masculinity.

  The perfectly proportioned body she’d glimpsed through the cut of his suit was blatantly displayed in a white cotton pullover sweater and jeans. Instead of slip-ons, he had on running shoes.

  As she stepped into the vestibule, a wave of warmth enveloped her. A mahogany staircase with carved newel posts led to the upper floors. Her gaze shifted to what appeared to be a credence table that supported a large Tiffany-style table lamp. A leather chair with decorative walnut trim complemented the furnishings in the space.

  Her fingers traced the surface of the table. “Where did you get this table?”

  Ivan stared openly at Nayo, whose head barely came to his shoulder. “I inherited it.”

  Nayo’s delicate jaw dropped slightly as the notion that the table might not be a reproduction registered. “Do you mind if I ask from whom?”

  “I got it from the grandmother of a former patient who lived in the D.C. area. It’d been in her family for generations.”

  “It’s not a reproduction.” Her question was a statement.

  “No. It’s an original. I believe it was made sometime around 1680.”

  Nayo stared longingly at the semicircular side table that folded out and was supported by a gateleg frame. She knew that similar antique tables were made of either walnut or oak in Britain around the second half of the seventeenth century. The space-saving tables were used in the nineteenth century to prepare the sacraments in English churches, hence the term credence table, which refers to church tables.

  “Have you had it appraised?”

  Ivan nodded. “I had to for insurance purposes.”

  “But why leave it out here when anyone could damage it?”

  “You should’ve seen it before I had it restored. I was shocked when it came back looking almost like new.”

  Nayo traced the molding around the drawer with her fingertips. “This should be in a museum.” Her head came up and she met Ivan’s intense gaze. “Has anyone asked you to loan it to a museum?”

  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 din
ing 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.”

  Nayo exhaled inaudibly. She thought Ivan wouldn’t agree to her going through his home unaccompanied, because the first time she’d made a similar request to a potential client, she’d found herself ushered out of the woman’s Sutton Place penthouse—but not before Nayo told her there wasn’t anything in her apartment worth stealing and going to jail for.

  Smiling, she winked at Ivan. “I’ll be back.”

  “Would you like a café latte or cappuccino?”

  “I’d love a latte, thank you.”

  “Would you like it now or when you’re finished?”

  “I’ll have it when I’m finished.”

  Nayo was anxious to tour the house so she could recommend photographs that would be suitable for the magazine spread. Ivan hadn’t mentioned the name of the magazine, but she knew it was Architectural Digest. When Carla Harris attended the preview showing, she’d babbled incessantly about how the preeminent interior-design magazine wanted to photograph the home of one of her clients.

  Switching on the tape recorder, she spoke quietly into the speaker. “I’ve just passed an alcove with a leather grouping in butter-yellow designed for small, intimate gatherings in front of a minimalist fireplace. There is no fireplace mantel, but a grouping of shadow boxes would break up the starkness of the oyster-white wall.”

  She continued into the living room, where a neutral palette of white, cream and tan provided an elegant backdrop for comfort and elegance. Nayo felt the room was a little too formal with a tufted, brown-leather sofa, chairs and doubled-tiered, beveled-glass coffee table positioned at an angle on the cream-colored plush rug.

  Switching on the recorder again, she said, “There are books, a chess set with full-leaded crystal pieces on the coffee table. There’s a Waterford lamp on a side table, along with a Waterford Crystal 2000 World Series Home Plate New York City Subway Series collectible. Dr. Ivan Campbell likes music, sports and chess.”

  Nayo lost track of time as she entered and left rooms that bore the designer’s distinctive mark. Carla Harris had made her reputation by incorporating the personality of the owner within the space’s function. Unlike Ivan, she wasn’t a psychologist, but what Nayo saw spoke volumes. He was a chameleon, switching flawlessly from formal to informal with a change of attire.

  Friday night he was Dr. Campbell. She’d found him somewhat passive-aggressive when he’d tried to talk her into duplicating the prints h
e wanted. It was only when she stood her ground that he backed off. Sunday afternoon he was Ivan, welcoming, cooperative and amenable to her suggestions.

  It took Nayo less than half an hour to ascertain that Ivan wasn’t married. Everything in his house was as masculine as he, and nowhere was there anything feminine—no intimate products, hairdressing, perfume or deodorant on the dressing tables in any of the bathrooms. His home was the proverbial bachelor pad.

  The master bedroom projected a Zen quality: platform bed with gray, black and white accessories. The minimalist Asian decor was carried over into the bath with two large, pale green bowls doubling as basins and a matching garden tub with enough space for four adults.

  The furnishings in the three guest bedrooms were reminiscent of Caribbean plantation homes under British Colonial rule. The mosquito netting draping the four-poster beds reminded Nayo of her own bed, with its mosquito netting embroidered with tiny yellow pineapples.

  Walking through the formal dining room with a magnificent crystal chandelier over a table with seating for ten, she found herself in a state-of-the-art, gourmet kitchen. Pots, pans and utensils were suspended from a rack over a cooking island. Her gaze swept over a subzero refrigerator, wine cellar and a collection of cookbooks on a shelf near an espresso machine.

  Nayo walked through the kitchen into a well-stocked pantry, then a laundry room, then down a flight of stairs to the street level. She pushed a button on the recorder. “Framed movie prints would work well on the walls of the home theater. I’m leaving the home theater and walking into a home office. There are two photographs of Malcolm X, the only photos in the entire apartment. One is a candid shot and the other a framed print issued by the U.S. Postal Service. Black-and-white landscapes will work well in the home office.” She turned off the recorder.

  The utility kitchen, with its stainless-steel appliances, and a glass-and-porcelain bathroom needed no additional adornment. Nayo smiled when she walked into the gym. Ivan’s toned body was a testament to the fact that he made good use of the workout bench and assorted weights, a rowing machine and a heavy punching bag suspended from the ceiling by a chain.