Man of Fantasy. Rochelle Alers

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 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,”