Man of Fortune

“No but—”

Duncan held up a hand, cutting her off. “All I’m asking for is one dinner date.”

She gave him a sidelong glance, finding it hard to understand why a man who looked like Duncan Gilmore would insist she go out with him. She didn’t know what his motive was, but he’d find out soon enough that Tamara Wolcott was nothing like the wide-eyed young woman who’d succumbed to her med school teacher’s influence. Duncan claimed he didn’t have a wife or girlfriend, but he hadn’t said he was into women. Perhaps he was gay, and if that were true then she was in luck. The last thing she needed was a physical relationship with a man, because each time she slept with one it ended badly.

Some women could have an affair and when it ended they were able to move on. But Tamara always found herself getting too emotionally attached and wanting more. And the more was total commitment. In that way she and Edward were alike. He had confessed that he didn’t like sleeping around, and when he did sleep with a woman he usually wanted to marry her. However, what Tamara hadn’t known was that she was the third Mrs. Edward Bennett and probably wouldn’t be the last.

She forced a smile. “All right, Duncan. I’ll go out with you.”

A frown distorted his beautiful male face. “Why do you make it sound as if you’re doing me a favor?”

“Aren’t I?” Tamara drawled.

The seconds ticked off as they stared at each other. A smile replaced Duncan’s scowl. “Yes, you are. And I thank you for accepting.”

“You’re most welcome.” She glanced at the card again. “Which number should I use to call you?”

Duncan held out his hand. “Please give me the card.” Reaching into the pocket of his shirt, he took out a pen and wrote down a number on the back of the card, then returned it to Tamara. “That’s my home number. If I don’t pick up, then leave a number where I can call you back.”

“I…” Her words trailed off with the sudden movement of the elevator. The overhead lights came on as the car descended slowly. Tamara and Duncan shared a smile. “Free at last,” she whispered.

Duncan wasn’t ready to lose Tamara’s company. She looked nothing like the women he was normally attracted to, but something about her was intrinsically feminine despite her overtly tough, in-your-face attitude. She’d been deceived, hurt, was in pain, and it was apparent she had no desire to let go of that pain.

It was also apparent she had no use for men, either, believing all they were out for was to take advantage of her. But Duncan wanted to prove her wrong. There were good men, those who loved their wives and their children, men who’d chosen not to marry, yet who remained faithful and supportive boyfriends.

All she had to do was meet his boyhood friends Ivan Campbell and Kyle Chatham. The three of them had taken an oath when they were young to remain connected always, to stay away from the drugs that plagued Harlem and to one day own one of the stately brownstones along the many tree-lined streets in the historic neighborhood. And to their amazement, their dreams had come true.

Pushing to his feet, he extended his hand and pulled Tamara up with minimal effort. “How long will it take you to get to the hospital?”

She checked her watch. It was six-ten. “Probably about twenty minutes.”

He slipped into his jacket, then leaned over to pick up his case. “May I interest you in sharing a cab?”

“No thank you. I’ll walk.”

Duncan wanted to tell her that she was already late for her shift, but held his tongue. He’d gotten her to agree to have dinner with him, and given her track record with men, he considered himself quite fortunate.

The snail-like movement of the elevator came to a complete stop at the first floor and the doors opened. Several workmen in coveralls were milling in the area, along with the doorman.

“Are you all right, Dr. Wolcott?” the doorman asked, as lines of concern creased his forehead.

Tamara hoisted her tote over her shoulder. “Yes. Thank you for asking.”

Duncan, resting his hand at the small of her back, escorted her across the lobby and out onto the street. Barricades blocked off the street, barring vehicular traffic as emergency personnel from the FDNY, NYPD and Con Ed filled the street and sidewalk.

He walked with Tamara to Twenty-Third Street. Smiling, he stared at her natural beauty in the light of the sun that was sinking lower in the summer sky, casting shadows over the towering buildings that made up the Manhattan skyline.

“This is where I leave you.”

Tamara looked at Duncan—really looked at him for the first time in broad daylight and felt as if something had sucked the air from her lungs. His chiseled face was breathtaking and his eyes mesmerizing. If he was gay, then she felt a profound sadness that he wouldn’t pass on his incredible genes. And although he’d spent more than half an hour in a stuffy elevator he looked as if he were ready to start the day, not end it. He hadn’t bothered to loosen his tie, or undo the French cuffs of his shirt. The only concession he’d made was to take off his custom-tailored jacket to place it on the floor of the elevator, reminding her of a modern-day Sir Walter Raleigh removing his cloak so the queen wouldn’t have to navigate a puddle.

“Thank you for the company, even if it was un-solicited.” A slight lifting of his silky eyebrows was the only reaction to her slight reproach. “And I will call you,” she added, hoping to counter her flippant comment.

Duncan’s impassive expression masked his annoyance. She just wouldn’t let up, and at that moment he chided himself for asking Tamara to go out with him. “Good night, Tamara.” Turning on his heel, he headed west, leaving her staring at his back.

“Good night, Duncan.” She groaned inwardly. Even his walk was unique. There was just a light dip in his stroll to make it sexy. Gay or straight, Duncan Gilmore was fine as hell!

What’s wrong with you girl!

Tamara silently chided herself for her insensitivity. Duncan had been nothing but cordial to her and she’d attacked him as if he’d insulted her. When, she thought, would she ever rid herself of the lingering anger of her failed marriage? She’d been divorced for four years, and now, at the age of thirty-two, she should be more than ready to turn the page and get on with her life.

She walked uptown to Thirty-Fourth and headed east to First Avenue. Tamara found working in the emergency trauma unit of the city’s oldest municipal hospital frenetic yet rewarding. On any given day or night there was a consistent influx of patients. Some were treated and released, while others were taken to a tertiary unit for a higher level of care.

The Bellevue Hospital Center’s efficient state-of-the-art E.R. and level-one trauma center were designed to deliver complete twenty-four-hour, seven-day-a-week medical care. With close to one hundred thousand emergency-room visits a year, Tamara and her colleagues were prepared for psychiatric emergencies as well as neurological, toxicological, cardiac and neonatal emergencies.

She loved everything about medicine from studying to healing. During her interview before being admitted to med school, she’d been asked why she wanted to become a doctor. Her answer was that she had a passion for learning, an intellectual curiosity about medicine and a strong willingness to help others. It must have been the right response because the interview process ended minutes after it’d begun. She knew her MCAT score and undergraduate grades were high enough to get her into most leading medical schools, but Tamara realized it was her unabashed passion for healing that showed through during the interview.

When she received her acceptance letter it swept away all of the insecurities she’d had growing up. It no longer mattered that she wasn’t as cute and petite as her sisters, or that her mother had referred to her as “my ugly duckling.” None of that mattered because she was going to become a doctor.

Reaching into her tote bag, she turned off her cell phone and took out her stethoscope and ID badge, clipping it to the pocket of the shirt she’d borrowed from another doctor. She’d been too exhausted to ride the bus to her apartment. She’d stopped at a CVS to pick up toothpaste, a toothbrush and deodorant, and then went to a clothing store to buy undergarments and a pair of jeans.

She’d managed to get four hours of sleep before she had to get up and start again. Sleep had become a precious commodity for Tamara, as important as breathing. Whenever she put her head on a pillow her intention was to get at least four hours of uninterrupted sleep. And she’d become quite adept at taking power naps. Ten to twenty minutes was all she needed to reenergize herself.

She walked into the E.R. and down a corridor where hospital personnel stored their personal effects. Tamara placed her tote bag in a locker with a combination lock. She went to a storage closet, selected a pair of scrubs and a white lab coat and then clocked in. Ten minutes later she stood over a gunshot victim handcuffed to the gurney while two uniformed police officers waited for her to remove the bullet lodged in the fleshy part of his thigh. Luckily for her patient, the bullet had missed the femoral artery or he would’ve bled out and died.

She lost track of time as she treated a patient in cardiac arrest, one with a knife wound, a woman who’d jumped from a third-story window to escape an abusive boyfriend, a college student with a suspected case of meningitis and an adolescent boy bitten by a venomous snake he’d hidden in a fish tank in his bedroom closet.

She worked nonstop until midnight, then went into the doctor’s lounge to take a break. She flopped down on a saggy sofa and closed her eyes with the intention of taking a quick nap.

“Tamara, are you asleep?”

She opened her eyes to find Rodney Fox hovering over her. “I was,” Tamara drawled sarcastically. “What’s up, Dr. Fox?”

Rodney was perched on the side of the sofa. “I need a place to crash for a while.”

Tamara rose into a sitting position. She stared at the tall, slender pediatric orthopedist with curly red hair. Most of the staff referred to Dr. Rodney Fox as the brother with the red Afro. His soulful-looking brown eyes reminded her of a bloodhound.

“What’s the matter?”

“Isis and I broke up and I need someplace to live until I find an apartment. Someone told me you have an extra bedroom. I’ll pay whatever you want—just please don’t say no, Tamara.”

She closed her eyes again. Rodney and his operating-room-nurse girlfriend had broken up and gotten back together so many times that their relationship mirrored the antics of a TV sitcom. Tamara couldn’t believe the brilliant young doctor just couldn’t seem to get his love life together.

“Okay,” she said, not opening her eyes. “You can stay as long as you want.” Tamara held up a hand when Rodney leaned forward. “Don’t you dare kiss me.” He pulled back. “What time are you getting off?”

“Six.”

She exhaled. “I’m hoping to get out of here at six. We’ll leave together.”

“Thank you, Tamara. You’re an angel.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Tamara wanted to ask Rodney where her angel had been when she’d needed someplace to live after she’d left her husband. She’d checked into a less-than-desirable hotel until a rental agent had found her the two-bedroom apartment on East Seventh Street between Second and Third avenues. Although she only needed one bedroom, Tamara had decided to take it because living at the hotel was not an option.

The second and smaller of the two bedrooms remained empty for more than two years. It took her that long to save enough money to furnish and decorate the entire apartment. Tamara realized her monthly rent was twice what someone would pay for a mortgage for a house in the suburbs, but she had the luxury of not having to commute into the city.

She ran a hand over her hair. Rodney had disturbed her nap. “I’ll see you later.”

“Love you, Wolcott.”

Tamara rolled her eyes at him. “Forget it, Fox. You’re not my type.”

He smiled. “Who is your type?”

“Not you,” she countered.

She walked out of the lounge, replaying Rodney’s query. Who was her type? The only name that came to mind was a man she’d met six hours ago.

Duncan Gilmore was her type. But was she his?

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