Dreams of Her Own Read online

  When the door opened, he turned to see a petite woman, clearly pregnant, her compact belly resembling a soccer ball.

  “You must be Ian,” she said as she opened the door wider for him to enter. “I’m Darcy. Thanks for coming on such short notice.”

  Pretty, but definitely not the woman he’d spoken with on the phone. Unlike that husky voice, her voice was bright, cheerful. “Sure.”

  Ian stepped into the foyer, surveyed the place, pleased to see that the owner had kept the character of the old building in the little details, like the crown molding, hardwood floors, and plaster ceiling medallions. So many renovated brownstones looked more like cold, empty boxes, all signs of their historic architecture stripped in favor of minimalism with its hard lines and cold surfaces. The eclectic mix of contemporary furnishings and antique accents in this one created a perfect balance of home and style.

  He also searched for someone who could be The Voice, before turning back to Darcy. “Gloria said you wanted to renovate a room for a nursery.”

  “Yes. Right this way.”

  Darcy preceded him up the stairs talking about the previous work she’d done on the place, how long she’d lived there, and her April due date. “I hope you can complete the work by March so I can get the furniture moved in and the room set up.” She entered a bedroom furnished with that same combination of current and past.

  Ian stepped inside, eyeing the space. “Gloria said to spare no expense.” He turned back to Darcy, “So what did you have in mind?”

  “Gloria’s far too generous.”

  Can’t argue with that, Ian thought. Beneath Gloria’s prickly exterior beat the heart of a fairy godmother, someone who thrived on random acts of kindness.

  Stepping over to what should have been a closet, Darcy said, “The previous owner, for reasons that escape me, installed cabinets where the closet used to be, but I’d like the closet back.” She then proceeded to share her ideas for the space, while Ian took notes. She had a good eye for details, and he thought the two of them would get along just fine. “I’d like to take this room from baby to toddler and up through high school without any major renovations.”

  He nodded. “I think I can handle that.”

  “I’d also like to open this wall for an entrance to the bathroom on the other side, and close off the current hall entrance.”

  “Show me.”

  Darcy took him around to the other side.

  “We’ll need to revamp the bathroom. Relocate the major fixtures,” Ian said as he studied the space. If he moved the tub/shower along the far wall, shifted the vanity and toilet a foot or so to the left, it could work.

  “Will that be a problem?”

  “I don’t think so. Do you have blueprints for the home? This would help with my drawings, eliminate any surprises, and consequently, speed up the renovation process.”

  “Sure. I’ll just go get them for you.”

  Ian stepped back into the bedroom, pulled out a tape measure and began by measuring the room’s two windows. Making some notes on his clipboard, he walked over to the cabinets the previous owner had installed. Kneeling on the floor, he opened up a cabinet to see if it had been attached to the wall, or if the cabinets were just a front. Sticking his head inside to look around he heard The Voice, in chastisement mode, right outside the door.

  “Why do you keep going up and down the stairs? Tell me what you need and I’ll get it for you.”

  In his haste to see who spoke, he banged his head on the top of the cabinet. “Ow! Shit,” he muttered, rubbing his head. Stepping out into the hallway, he didn’t see anyone. The Voice had vanished.

  “I’m looking for the blueprints,” Darcy yelled from downstairs. “Where did I put them?”

  Shaking his head, he turned back to the room, measured the square footage then jotted the number down. The sound of footsteps carried up the stairs.

  “Mr. Brand, I’d appreciate it if you’d—”

  The Voice.

  Ian whirled to find another petite woman holding out a roll of blueprints. The same woman he’d saved from becoming New York City roadkill the day before.

  Dressed from head-to-toe in brown, her brown hair pulled back into a bun, brown-rimmed eyeglasses framing brown eyes open wide in surprise, she resembled some prim, uptight spinster from a gothic novel. Her baggy brown sweater covered an equally baggy brown dress, but the biggest libido-killer was the brown orthopedic shoes on her feet. They reminded him of the shoes his aging fifth grade teacher had worn. No wonder he’d thought she was old when he’d rescued her.

  Suffice it to say, her appearance served as a cold shower to douse the erotic visions her voice had evoked.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  The woman in brown nodded, as speechless as she’d been after her near miss.

  “You were saying?” At her continued silence, he prompted, “You’d appreciate it if I didn’t . . . what?”

  She blinked. “Oh, if you didn’t, um, send Dar— I mean, Mrs. Ryan on these errands,” she said.

  He took the blueprints from her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize Mrs. Ryan had to go downstairs.”

  Who was this woman, and what was she to Mrs. Ryan? Were they a couple? he wondered. The woman before him appeared flustered, her chest rising and falling rapidly as if she’d just run up the stairs.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine. Thank you. And thank you . . . for, for saving me,” she stammered.

  “You’re welcome.”

  She continued to stand there, staring at him.

  “Is there something else?” Ian asked, growing uncomfortable.

  “N—No. Nothing.” She turned toward the stairs, muttering over her shoulder, “Um, Mrs. Ryan will be downstairs waiting for you when you’re done.”

  Right. Still in shock maybe? Either that or she had a speech impediment. Not that he could cast any stones.

  He made a few more notes, took some additional measurements, then headed down the stairs. He found Mrs. Ryan in the living room, stretched out on a chaise, reading. No sign of The Voice. She’d so unnerved him that he’d failed to ask her name. “Mrs. Ryan—”

  “Please, call me Darcy.” She set aside her book.

  “Darcy. I’ll take a look at the blueprints and should have some plans drawn up for you by the end of next week.”

  “Oh, but that’s Thanksgiving.”

  “Right. How about next Wednesday, then? Should I give you a call when they’re ready?”

  “That’s terrific! Thanks.” Darcy started to rise.

  “No, please don’t get up.” He walked over, shook her hand.

  “Thank you, again.”

  He nodded. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Millie hid in the kitchen waiting for Ian to leave and attempted to slow her racing heart. With a population of eight-point-four million people in New York City, she attempted to run a quick calculation of the odds of the contractor for the nursery renovation being the same man who’d rescued her yesterday, but she couldn’t get her left brain to function properly. Her right brain seemed to have taken over.

  Ian Brand stole her breath, along with her composure. She must have been too overcome by shock yesterday to notice his utter . . . maleness.

  She’d never met anyone like him. He looked like a thug in his black leather jacket, dark hair all mussed, his face covered in stubble. Tall, a good foot taller than she, he’d been confident. Imposing. Sexy. Not her usual encounter with the male species.

  And he’d also saved her from becoming another pedestrian versus motor vehicle death statistic.

  She placed a hand low on her abdomen. Just the thought of him had something warm and tingly curling low in her belly. Another new sensation that started in her scalp a
nd ended in her toes leaving her hyper-sensitized. Her clothes felt scratchy and cumbersome.

  She’d never experienced this . . . awareness . . . of a man before.

  Of course she’d read about the physical manifestations of attraction—the breathlessness, the racing heart, the sweaty palms—all the result of a flood of norepinephrine to the brain. But she’d never personally experienced them. Until now. Even Kevin Hardy had failed to shake up her insides like this. Add knight-in-shining-armor to the mix, and it was a devastating combination.

  She also knew the body and the brain didn’t always line up when it came to physical attraction, which explained why so many women made bad relationship choices.

  What did it matter, anyway? She’d read the disappointment in his eyes when he’d seen her. She got that a lot.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she admonished. “He’s a thug.” A polite thug, but a thug just the same. Not her type at all.

  She snorted at the absolute absurdity of that thought. Her type. Who was she to have a type?

  Millie shook her head then set her attention to preparing Darcy’s favorite herbal tea. Placing the teakettle on the stove, she opened the cupboard, taking down the box of lemon-ginger tea. Still holding the box, she sighed, gazing into space. If she was completely honest with herself, she did have a type. At least in her fantasies.

  He’s smart, well-read, and loves music and art. He’s also kind, quiet, and thoughtful. If he’s handsome, that’s a bonus, but not a requirement. And above all else, he sees inside her soul and loves what he sees.

  The kettle released a shrill whistle, yanking Millie out of her daydream.

  She heard the front door shut just as she’d loaded the tray with the tea and some sliced fruit. As she entered the living room, her favorite shoes squeaking on the hardwood floor, she found Darcy watching The Thug out the window.

  Setting the tray down, Millie stood behind her, hands on her hips. “Hmph. Of course he rides a motorcycle.” Guilt jabbed her. He’d saved her life after all. Unable to help herself, she, too, watched as he slung a denim-clad leg over the motorcycle before pulling on his helmet, and zipping up his leather jacket. It was a nice leg, too. And of course he had another one to match.

  She shivered. How the man could stand riding that death machine in the cold late-November air was completely beyond her.

  Darcy snickered. “You have something against Ian?”

  Millie started, not realizing Darcy was watching her. Where should she begin? A man like that probably had a different woman every night in some seedy bar in Brownsville. “I can’t believe Gloria recommended him. Why would she send a thug over here to remodel a nursery?”

  “It’s her gift, I guess she can hire whomever she likes,” Darcy said. “I like him. He’s the perfect bad-boy hero, all yummy edginess and gruff appearance.”

  Millie rolled her eyes as Darcy settled back on the chaise. “I think you’ve written too many romance novels.” Millie drew a light blanket over her legs, tucking it in over her belly.

  Shaking her head, Darcy continued, “Millie, I’m pregnant, not sick.”

  Millie stood, hands on her hips. “Even so. You don’t need to catch cold.”

  “Ooh!” Darcy grabbed Millie’s hand and placed it on her stomach. “He kicked. Feel it?”

  She had a habit of doing that now. Any unsuspecting person could suddenly find his or her hand pressed against Darcy’s belly. Millie felt a flutter beneath her palm and her eyes suddenly went damp with emotion. Hard to believe that in a few short months, Darcy would be bringing a baby into the world.

  Blinking, she composed herself, but as she turned to go, Darcy held on to her hand. Her eyebrows winged up in surprise. And discomfort. Displays of affection were not high on any of Millie’s lists.

  “Thank you, Millie.” Darcy patted her hand. “For everything. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, all you have to do is ask. You know that, right?”

  Feeling her chest tighten, she withdrew her hand. “Don’t be silly. What would I ever need?”

  Hearing the motorcycle roar to life, Millie glanced out the window once more just as Ian pulled out onto the street. Hmm. Maybe she’d add ‘death machine ride’ to her GALL.

  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 to
ok 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.