in the view.”
There came a beat. “That sounds wonderful.”
“It should be fun. Give me your number and I’ll call you back.” Tamara recited her number, he repeated it to her. “Hang up, Tamara.”
It took Duncan less than ten minutes to book a reservation. A satisfied smile softened his features when he dialed her number. She answered after the first ring. “I’ll pick you up at six-thirty.”
“What time do we board?” Tamara asked.
“Boarding is at seven-thirty and the cruise is from eight-thirty to eleven-thirty.”
“What if I meet you at the pier instead of you coming down to get me?”
“No. I want to pick you up, Tamara.”
“How will you get here?”
“I’ll take a taxi.”
“Don’t. I’ll take a taxi to you. Please give me your address.”
Duncan knew insisting traveling downtown to pick up Tamara, only to have to return to Chelsea and walk three blocks to the pier would result in a verbal exchange, something he sought to avoid. He’d managed to make it through adolescence without a physical altercation because his mother and aunt preached constantly that it was better to walk away than confront.
He gave Tamara his address. “I’ll be downstairs waiting for you.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” Duncan repeated, before ending the call.
He was going to share with Tamara Wolcott something he hadn’t with Kalinda because she was prone to seasickness. Physically, Tamara was as different from his late fiancée as night was from day, but both possessed a quality he found hard to resist—the rare combination of brains and beauty.
Tamara sat at the breakfast bar in the kitchen pondering her decision after she’d hung up the phone with Duncan Gilmore. It had been four days since she’d found herself trapped in an elevator with the most delicious-looking man she’d seen in years. The only man who’d come close to Duncan was a boy in her high-school graduating class. His good looks had proved advantageous when he was picked by a modeling agency to be the poster boy for a men’s cologne. His was the face of the nineties until drugs ravaged his looks and his career.
Although she’d never been turned on by a man’s looks, Tamara found Duncan the exception. She’d considered the possibility that he was gay since he was single and hadn’t fathered any children, then she chided herself for being biased and narrow-minded. If a woman chose not to marry or have children that did not necessarily make her a lesbian. When, she asked herself, had she become her mother? Moselle Wolcott was the most critical and opinionated woman on the planet, and Tamara feared she was no different when it came to Duncan Gilmore.
Resting her bare feet on the other tall high-back chair, she reached for the pen and pad and began making a list of things she had to do before her date. A trip to the hair salon was the first order of business, followed by shopping for an outfit suitable for a dinner cruise. It had been much too long since she’d had a date.
She’d dated a few men she’d met at several conferences, and she’d shared drinks with some of her male colleagues after her divorce, but she didn’t count the latter as actual dates. They usually took place in a group after a particularly stressful shift. Otherwise she’d go over to a local restaurant or bar for late-night dinner, or, if it was the weekend, brunch.
Anytime she found a man getting too close she usually gave some signal that stopped them in their tracks. Duncan was geting too close, but was helpless to repel or discourage him. Perhaps it had something to do with them being trapped together, and not knowing when they’d be freed. Tamara also had told him things about herself that she hadn’t revealed to her ex-husband because she thought she would never see or speak to Duncan Gilmore again. Oh, was she wrong. Not only had she spoken to him but she’d consented to see him again.
Tamara saw movement out of the corner of her eye and turned to find Rodney standing at the entrance to the kitchen. His damp hair was pasted against his scalp. He’d showered but hadn’t shaved. The stubble of his beard was reddish blond. Rodney had moved in Tuesday morning and she’d only caught glimpses of him either when he came in early in the morning or left for his night shift.
She had turned her spare bedroom into a den with a sofa that converted into a queen-size bed. The walls were lined with bookcases, a flat-screen television with a home theater audio system, a mini fridge and a bar. It was a space where she went to relax and entertain. Whenever her parents came into Manhattan to see a Broadway show they had usually stayed overnight at a hotel until Tamara invited them to stay with her. The first time Moselle walked into the two-bedroom apartment she was at a loss for words because the space looked as if it’d been decorated for a design magazine.
Although Tamara spent more time at the hospital than she did at home, the apartment had become her sanctuary—a place where she was able to escape the stress that came with working as an E.R. doctor. She didn’t own the apartment, but it was hers and hers alone. She invited who she wanted to her home and if she wanted solitude then she had the option of ignoring her phone or pager.
Smiling, she lowered her feet. “Good morning.”
Running his hand over his flat belly under a black tank top, Rodney walked slowly into the kitchen and flopped down on the chair. He glanced up and stared at Tamara. “Is it?”
Her eyebrows lifted. “Rough night?” she asked.
Rodney covered his face with his hands. “I wish. I had a fight with Isis.”
“I thought you broke up with her.”
Lowering his hands, his tortured gaze fused with Tamara’s. “She waited around for my shift to ask me if I’d mind if she brought a man back to the co-op.”
“Isis is just jerking your chain, Rodney, because she knows she can get a reaction from you.”
“It’s over, Tamara. I gave her exactly one month to find a place to live, then I’m changing the locks.”
Tamara didn’t recognize the Rodney Fox sitting in her kitchen. His expression was cold and empty. She liked the normally affable doctor—a lot. He loved his patients, and they in turn loved him back. The first time she had worked with Dr. Fox was when a young boy was brought into the E.R. with a broken leg from a hit-and-run. Although the eight-year-old was in excruciating pain, Rodney had managed to make him smile. At that moment she realized he would make an incredible father.
Pushing back from the center island, she stood and went over to the sink. “Would you like coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
“How do you drink it?”
“Black and strong.”
Tamara reached for a cup and coffee disk, inserting it into the well of the coffeemaker. The smell of brewing coffee wafted in the space. “How about some breakfast, Fox?”
“Hanging out with you has its advantages. Perhaps I should’ve hit on you instead of Isis.”
The brewing cycle completed, Tamara took the cup, placed it on a saucer and carried it to the table. “I don’t think so,” she drawled.
“Is it because I’m not your type?”
She patted his back. Baggy scrubs and street clothes had concealed Rodney Fox’s lean, hard body. “I learned a long time ago not to mix business and pleasure. The results can be devastating.”
Rodney took a sip of his coffee, peering at Tamara over the rim of the cup. “Are you speaking from experience?”
“Yes. I vowed not to get involved with anyone I have to work with.”
“You know you’ve become an object of fascination at the hospital.”
Tamara