Dreams of Her Own (3 page)

Chapter 3

Rolling his Harley through the steel roll-up door of his Brooklyn warehouse loft, Ian looked forward to a hot meal and an even hotter shower. He brushed off the light rain that had begun to fall a few blocks from home. No worries, a little water wouldn’t hurt the loft’s concrete floors.

He and Caleb had purchased the four-story, ten-thousand-plus square foot Williamsburg warehouse near the Navy Yard as an investment. The spacious old building had good bones—he’d checked them out himself—and would provide ample space for subdivided apartments when he and Caleb were ready to start. They’d been working with an architect on a design to renovate the other three floors, along with the basement, which would serve as storage and laundry facilities for the residents.

For the time-being, the ground floor provided him a place to house all of his passions in one place. The space served as his home, office, and workshop, as well as his garage.

Flipping on lights, he debated what he wanted first: hot food or hot shower. The shower won out, so he climbed the stairs to the loft area he’d built over the last few months in the north corner of the space.

Directly beneath the loft he’d put in an eat-in-kitchen, laundry area, and half bath. The half bath came as an after-thought when he got tired of climbing the stairs every time nature called.

His next downstairs project—a personal library and a killer sound system for his music and audiobooks.

So far, the corner of the loft area held a bedroom, small sitting area, and bathroom. He’d found a twelve-by-nineteen-inch Persian area rug in the house he was remodeling in Westchester County. The owners of the house had discovered it in the attic and were throwing it out. He’d been more than happy to take it off their hands.

Either they didn’t know what they had, or, more likely, just didn’t care. After some phone calls and a fortuitous meeting with an interior designer in an architectural salvage store, he’d traced it back to the late nineteenth century as a Kashan rug signed by the master-weaver Mohtashem.

He removed his boots and socks and padded across the rug barefoot, enjoying the feel of the plush wool beneath his tired feet.

Other than a bed and an antique wardrobe, the rug was the only other furnishing upstairs, unless you counted the sixty-inch flat screen TV hanging on the exposed brick wall, which contrary to popular opinion, wasn’t for sports. No, it was for his favorite shows like
This Old House
or HGTV’s
Rehab Addict
. That Nicole Curtis is one hot contractor. Something about a woman with a tool belt and a nail gun.

After stripping, he flipped on the hot water and stepped into the spray. Being in the construction business, an added bonus was access to high end products at builder’s prices. He groaned in pleasure as the body sprayers pounded his aching muscles into submission.

What a day. It had started in Westchester County where he was renovating an early twentieth century mansion on the Hudson River. The trophy wife had ideas for the house that made his head hurt. Then it was back to the City for a meeting with the foreman of a boutique hotel job he’d started just last week in SoHo. After that, he’d headed back to the loft with the best of intentions—tackling the ever-growing mountain of paperwork on his desk.

He poured some shampoo into his hand and lathered his hair. He really needed to hire a personal assistant. Business was good, but not good enough that he could justify that expense. Not yet. His company currently had no full-time employees, other than himself. He had a bookkeeper to wrangle the accounts payable and receivable, and he preferred to contract with subs for everything construction-related, including his job foremen. Those expenses took a good chunk of change.

Aside from his personal carpentry skills, his greatest skillset lay in orchestrating the work, a team of top tradespeople who worked well together, and truly love and respected the work that they did. That was how he managed to hire the best in the business. His ability to visualize the space in all its historical glory allowed him to stay true to the period.

His thoughts circled back to his latest job—the nursery renovation. Looked easy enough, barring any unforeseen structural problems with revamping the bathroom. He’d sub out the plumbing work, maybe the electrical—to Caleb, of course—but he’d do the rest, as Gloria had requested. Said she had her reasons.

Gloria had been the first to give him a chance when he’d started his business. As a new business owner, Ian had taken just about any renovation that had come his way. She’d started him off with one room of her Gramercy Park townhome, a spare bathroom. He must have impressed her because she’d hired him to do the rest of the place. His first major renovation. And, thanks to her, he’d received even more job referrals. Her referrals alone had kept him in work for over a year. And while he could now focus on what he loved most–major historic renovations–he’d taken the Park Slope job because he owed Gloria the favor.

A vision of The Voice appeared. What woman dressed herself head-to-toe in brown? He wondered what her story was. He recalled her petite little frame against him after he’d hauled her out of the street. Much smaller than her clothes implied.

Shutting off the water, he grabbed a towel, and headed for the ‘closet,’ a battered late nineteenth century wardrobe he’d found in a used furniture store. Once he got around to refinishing it, he’d have a beautiful piece. Until then, it served.

He liked to think he looked beneath the surface of things to see the beauty beneath. Old buildings, ill-used furniture, and his latest completed project, his 1978 Harley SuperGlide. The last bike Harley made called “the Milwaukee vibrator,” because of the way it vibrated everything loose while riding. What appeared to be a rusted hunk of metal to most people, he’d painstakingly restored over the course of the last year to reveal the hidden beauty.

Grabbing sweats and a worn T-shirt, he threw them on, then headed down to the kitchen for that hot meal, and the chore his disability made so difficult. Paperwork.

A week later, the alarm buzzed, waking
Millie from a dream. Ian had pulled the pins from her bun, and was just pressing passionate kisses to her neck, his bad-boy stubble scraping against her skin sending delicious tremors up her spine. She sat up with a start, glancing around her studio apartment.

“Abelard and Heloise!” She hadn’t seen the man in a week, and he still starred in her dreams.

She slapped the button on the clock silencing the alarm. The sounds of her upstairs neighbor, stage-name Chelsea Chandler, already practicing her dance routine for some off-off-off-Broadway performance she’d landed echoed off the walls.

“Thank God it isn’t tap,” Millie muttered as she made her way, all five feet of it, to her kitchen. Putting the kettle on for tea with one hand, she opened the fridge with the other reaching for the cream.

She’d stop by Darcy’s favorite bakery and pick up some Morning Glory muffins for breakfast. Darcy didn’t exactly rise with the sun. Most mornings Millie arrived before Darcy’d ventured downstairs, but she didn’t mind. She enjoyed the quiet time between Josh, Darcy’s husband, leaving for his office at the law firm, and Darcy’s rising. That would end once the baby came along.

Taking her mug of tea with her, she opened the cubby that served as her closet. Should she wear the brown dress, or the brown skirt and sweater? “Take a walk on the wild side.” Closing her eyes, she reached into the back of the closet and grabbed the first thing she touched. “Oh, the brown corduroy dress with the tiny mustard yellow flowers. That’s different.”

After brushing and flossing her teeth, she twisted her long brown hair into a bun and secured it with hairpins. “That should do it.”

Picking up her copy of
What to Expect When Your Expecting
from the nightstand, she tucked the book into her backpack.

She slid on her brown SAS moccasins, and grabbing her heavy coat prepared to bundle up for her eight block walk to the subway.

“Hi, Millie. Bye, Millie,” Josh said as he rushed
out the front door Millie had just unlocked.

“Bye.” Closing the door behind her, she shivered as the warm air inside touched her chilled face. Walking straight to the kitchen she unloaded her bundles. After shucking her coat, hat, scarf and gloves, she headed to what served as her office in the brownstone. Last year, Darcy had remodeled a room on the third floor as her writing space, leaving the one downstairs for Millie’s use.

First up, check Darcy’s calendar to ensure she didn’t need to wake her for any meetings or appointments. Nothing on the schedule until two when she sees . . .
Romeo and Juliet! Ian
. Her hand flitted to her hair of its own volition, as if to check its tidiness.

Embarrassed by the unaccustomed girlie reflex, she cleared her throat and recited the periodic table of elements: “Hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium . . .” The calming effect of the recitation steadied her as always.

“I can handle this.”

Dragging up a seat at the desk, she glanced over the morning’s to-do list. Some social media posts to schedule, the newsletter to draft and send out, a few autographed books to mail out, some phone calls to return, and a list of topics to research for the latest manuscript. Nothing too taxing.

She couldn’t say the same about seeing Ian again that afternoon. That might tax her more then she cared to admit.

Absurd.

She wasn’t that timid, anxiety-ridden teenage girl anymore. The one who didn’t fit in. The one who cared what people thought about her. Not that she fit in now. It just didn’t matter anymore. So what if a man like Ian completely dismissed her?

Only it wasn’t just men like Ian. It was
all
men. Except for Josh, of course. And Darcy’s brother, Brandon, and his life partner, David. But they were gay, so really, did that count? And then there was Nathan, the husband of Darcy’s best friend, Laura. They noticed her. Were kind to her.

Darcy and her family always made Millie feel included.

So really, what did she care if men had no interest in her? She had her few friends, she had her books, and she had her job.

Of course, that made achieving Number Two on her list difficult at best. A naughty thought flitted through her brain. She could pay for sex. Cringing, she dismissed the idea. She didn’t relish the thought of calling Josh to bail her out of jail for solicitation. And what man would want to have sex with her, no matter the payout?

No. She’d have to come up with another plan. But what?

Her boss stirred above, so Millie headed back to the kitchen to make tea and set out the muffins. Since Darcy woke each day with morning sickness, Millie liked to have a cup of lemon-ginger tea waiting when she staggered into the kitchen.

Darcy stumbled in a little while later, her hair in a messy twist, looking pale. “Boy. Whoever said their pregnancy was a breeze never had morning sickness.”

Millie thrust the cup tea into Darcy’s hand. “Sit.” Covering the muffins for later in the morning when Darcy’s appetite usually returned with a vengeance, she made herself a cup of tea and sat with Darcy.

“I heard from Laura last night.” Darcy blew on her cup of tea. “She and Nathan will be home next Thursday.” She took a careful sip, then sighed with pleasure.

Laura, formerly known as Queen of the Booty Calls, had shocked everyone when she and Nathan got engaged. They’d married the beginning of November on board the
Nave dei Sogni,
the ship on which they’d met, in the middle of the Mediterranean.

Millie had been invited—her first trip abroad—and the experience had whetted her appetite. The museums, the cathedrals, the art, and the history of Italy, she couldn’t get enough.

“No broken bones, then?” After their wedding and a week on the ship with their guests, Laura and Nathan had flown off to the Swiss Alps for skiing. She’d rather have headed to the UK, to the Bodleian Library in Oxford, or maybe Trinity College Old Library in Dublin. Or both. If you’re going to dream, might as well dream big.

Darcy cautiously sipped her tea. “No, but I’m guessing they left behind some broken beds.”

“And on that note, I’m off to work,” Millie said. “There are Morning Glory muffins in the basket when you get hungry. Let me know if you need anything.”

With Ian Brand on the brain, the question was whether she’d get anything done.

Chapter 4

Engrossed in her editing, Millie lost track of time until the doorbell rang. “Darcy and Elizabeth! It’s Ian.” Setting aside her work, she drew herself up, and just as she reached up to pat her hair, she snatched her hand away.

Already flustered, she opened the door to find him standing on the porch looking all scruffy and confident. And sexy. She envisioned a thought bubble above her head, and in it read ‘Holy hot guy, Batman.’

“Oh, hi,” Ian said, sounding disappointed. “I have a meeting with Darcy.”

When Millie didn’t respond, he continued, “Today. At two. Which is . . . now.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Millie, is that Ian?” Darcy called down from upstairs.

“Yes. But don’t come down. He’ll come up,” Millie responded. Stepping back from the door, Millie let him in. “She’ll meet you in the nursery.”

“Thanks.”

He breezed past her, the scent of his soap or cologne, she didn’t know which, mixed with the hint of leather from his jacket, making her almost dizzy, he smelled so good. She had to concentrate on not inhaling like she’d just surfaced from the deep end of the pool, the fact that she couldn’t swim making her metaphor a bit absurd.

She watched as he climbed the stairs, fascinated by the way his jacket bunched over the muscles of his back. And then there was the glute area, which his jeans hugged lovingly. Shaking her head at her own fancies, Millie forced herself back to the office to return to her work.

She appreciated beauty, in all its forms. Painting, music, sculpture, and especially the written word. She was just appreciating the beauty of a fine male form, not unlike Michelangelo’s
David
. At least that was what she told herself, as she imagined Ian as naked as that famous statue.
Jane and Rochester!
Is it hot in here?

No sooner had she settled back at the desk when Darcy called her to come up.

Heaving a heavy sigh, Millie set the work aside yet again, and climbed the stairs to the second floor. When she entered the room to be renovated, Ian and Darcy were bent over the blueprints laid out on the bed, the only surface in the room large enough to accommodate them.

“Come see the drawings,” Darcy said, her face beaming with excitement. She reached out and drew Millie between her and Ian.

Ian glanced up at her, making her knees wobble and her heart stutter. This close, she got a good whiff of him, and he smelled like heaven . . . and leather. The heat of a flush engulfed her face. She’d once read that blood travels at about zero-point-seven miles per hour, meaning her flush took all of point five seconds to manifest itself.

“This is where we’ll cut the door to the bathroom,” he was saying, “which will require us to move the shower/bath along this wall.”

She tried to pay attention to the schematics, but all she could think about as she watched his fingers slide over the drawings as he pointed out details were how beautiful his hands were. Strong. Square. Capable. Not the pale hands of a man who spent his time in libraries researching dusty old tomes, like her father. But the hands of a man who clearly made his living with them. In other words, not the kind of man with whom she would have anything in common.

Ian glanced u
p to gauge Darcy’s reaction and instead found himself looking into Millie’s face. She gnawed nervously on her bottom lip, drawing his eyes to her mouth. A mouth that featured a rosy, lush bottom lip.

His eyes slid back to her face, where a faint blush had appeared.
Jesus.
Just a look was enough to make her blush?

“I love it,” Darcy said. “What do you think, Millie?”

“Um, yes. It’s—It will be very functional,” Millie stammered.

“Millie, you okay?” Darcy asked. “You look a little flushed. I hope you’re not coming down with something.”

As Ian gazed at Millie, the flush deepened.

“I’m fine. I, uh, I just remembered, I need to call your publicist.” Millie spun on her heel, almost running into the doorjamb before he heard her practically sprint down the stairs.

“Huh,” Darcy said as she stepped into the hall to watch her progress. “I wonder what’s got into her?”

Besides a whole lot of strange? Ian rolled up the blueprints, securing them with a rubber band. “These are yours.”

“Thank you.” Darcy took the blueprints from him. “When can you start?”

“You don’t want to look them over with . . .?” He wasn’t sure what to say. The relationship between Millie and Darcy remained a mystery. Life partner? Housekeeper? Future nanny? Spinster sister?

“My husband? Definitely. But he’ll defer to whatever I want,” she said with a shrug.

A husband? Well, that solved some of the mystery. Sort of.

“Well, I can start next week.” He’d be wrapping up the remodel on the house in Harlem by then.

“Perfect. Why don’t I give you a key, so you and your men won’t be dependent on me or Millie to let you in?”

He looked into Darcy’s trusting eyes and was overwhelmed by what that meant to him. He knew his appearance didn’t necessarily engender warm and fuzzy, and while his business had an excellent reputation, he appreciated Darcy’s trust in him personally.

Before he could say anything, she continued, clearly seeing something in his eyes. She placed a hand on his arm. “You came with Gloria’s seal of approval, and since Gloria doesn’t give that approval lightly, it’s all I need. Also, I want you to make yourself at home.”

“Thank you. And other than the occasional plumber or electrician, there won’t be anyone else.” At Darcy’s surprised expression, he continued, “Gloria’s one condition.”

The following week, Millie unlocked
Darcy’s front door then bent to pick up the box of books UPS had delivered while she was out running errands. As she entered the townhouse, she was surprised to hear strains of Beethoven pouring down the stairs. The house had been empty when she’d left, and Darcy and Josh were at a prenatal doctor’s appointment. Besides, Darcy didn’t listen to classical music. And neither did Josh.

After closing the door quietly behind her—why, she didn’t know—whoever was in the house wouldn’t hear her over the music, she tiptoed over to the hall closet, opened it, and gingerly withdrew a baseball bat from Josh’s bag. Heart pounding she climbed the stairs.

Emotion told her not to be the girl in the horror movie who was too stupid to live. Logic told her neither a burglar nor a serial killer would play classical music loud enough for the victim, much less the neighbors, to hear.

Halfway up the stairs, she stopped. Unless that was how he lured his victims to their deaths. And covered up the screams. She gasped, then clamped her hand over her mouth. The Classical Music Killer.

Nonsense. She’d been reading too much Donald Wells.

The music clearly came from the soon-to-be nursery. Drawing the bat over her head, ready to strike any would-be murderer, she stepped into the room to find . . . Ian, covered in sweat and dust, his hair thick with it, a stack of what appeared to be cabinet doors leaned against the far wall.
Cathy and Heathcliff!
He looked beyond sexy. He looked downright edible. But then again, she wasn’t a cannibal.

Something must have drawn his attention, because he spun to face her. “Jesus! Give a guy a little warning next time.”

She’d never expected to be so physically drawn to a guy who looked like he belonged in the cast of
Westside Story
. Black T-shirt, a thin layer of white dust over it, worn jeans, a hole just below his left knee, thick unruly hair, and a face that hadn’t met a razor blade in the last two, maybe three, days.

Before the invention of the razor, people used hammered metal, flint, or sharp shells for shaving. No wonder early man wore beards. But what was his excuse?

A leather tool belt hung low on his hips and on his bare right forearm, a tattoo in Roman script read:
Scientia potentia est
. Knowledge is power.

A tattoo. How cliché. What it said, however, was far from it. Heart still pounding like a jackhammer in her chest, she said the first thing that came to mind, “That’s ‘Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.’”

Ian stepped over to the battered, dust-covered boom
box he used for construction jobs and reduced the volume. “Sorry. I thought I was alone.”

He took in the quick rise and fall of Millie’s chest, the Louisville Slugger hanging from her fingers, and felt the corner of his mouth lift. “You planning on using that?”

At Millie’s continued catatonia, he stepped over and slipped the bat from her fingers, leaning it against the wall.

“How-How did you get in?” she finally asked.

“Darcy gave me a key.”

“Of course she did.” Millie glanced around the room.

“I’m pulling out the cabinets today. Tomorrow I’ll start on the bathroom fixtures.”

She walked over to the boom box sitting on the makeshift work table constructed of two saw horses and a piece of plywood. Blueprints held open by a hammer and wrench stretched across the table. She turned back to face him, pointing at the boom box, still not speaking.

Funny. When he’d met her before she hadn’t appeared to be mentally handicapped. Awkward, yes. Disabled, no. Maybe his original theory had been correct: she had a speech impediment.

“You were listening to Beethoven,” she said again.

Feelings from his adolescence bubbled to the surface. The need to defend himself. From his stepfather. His stepbrother. The kids at school. Before he could go on the defensive, Millie spoke.

“I love Beethoven’s ‘Ninth.’ Though many feel that his ‘Eroica Symphony’ was his masterpiece. And of course, when most people hear the name Beethoven, they think of his ‘Fifth.’”

Okay, so maybe not mentally handicapped. He also nixed the speech impediment. Ian picked up a cloth, wiped his hands, then joined her at the boom box. “It surprises you that I listen to Beethoven.”

“Yes.” She took a step back.

“I like music,” he said with a shrug.

Millie nodded.

“I’ll use my iPod and earbuds instead,” he said, as he withdrew the device from his pocket.

“No. It’s okay. As I said, I love Beethoven. And Bach. And Chopin.”

“Well, I don’t want to disturb you.”
At whatever it is that you do.

“Suit yourself. I’ll, um, I’ll just be going,” Millie said, but she still stood rooted to the spot.

“Do you mind if I get back to work? I’m on a tight schedule.”

“Hmm? Oh. No. I’ll just . . .” She left without finishing her sentence.

Ian shook his head at her odd behavior, then got back to work. She was one strange cookie.

“What did the doctor say?” Millie asked when she heard the front door ope
n only moments later.

“Everything is steady as she goes.” Darcy hung her coat in the hall closet.

“What about the morning sickness?”

Darcy sighed. “Some women are just lucky—like me—and they have it their entire pregnancy. But, there’s still a chance I’ll get past it in the last trimester. In the meantime, I’m starved.”

“I made a fruit salad. I’ll get it for you.”

“Millie, you do remember I can cook, right?” Darcy stood, arms akimbo, belly filling her tunic sweater.

“Yes.”

“And that I still have two arms and two legs with which I can wait on myself?” Darcy indicated her arms and legs, imitating Pinocchio.

“Yes.”

“But?” Darcy lifted a brow.

“But nothing. I’ll get the salad.”

“Ian’s here?”

“Yes, upstairs.” Looking far too sexy for his own good. And hers. “I almost brained him with one of Josh’s bats.”

Darcy gasped, hands on her hips. “Why on earth would you do that?”

“Because I didn’t know it was Ian. You didn’t tell me he had free reign over the place.” As Millie headed for the kitchen, a thud from above startled her. “Cheese and crackers.” How was she supposed to have peace of mind with that racket going on? For that matter, how was she supposed to have peace of mind with that man in the house? His very presence gave her the jitters.

She closed her eyes in mortification over her behavior earlier. When she stood next to him, felt the heat rolling off of him, her brain had simply . . . shut down. Like the power grid during a blackout. All synapses ceased.

She just needed to steer clear of him. Like that would be possible over the next several weeks.

Taking a bowl from the cupboard, she turned to the fridge and grabbed the container of fruit salad, placing them both on the counter.

That a man who looked like Ian, who worked in construction, rode a death machine, and had at least one tattoo—that she could see—listened to, and apparently enjoyed, Beethoven shocked her. Putting the two together was like entering one of Asimov’s alternate universes.

How had Ian come to appreciate the music? And what else did the man appreciate? She shivered at the possibilities.