Man of Fortune. Rochelle Alers

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