Is James in?” Ivy asked. James’s executive assistant, Tory Harris, looked up from the report she’d been reading, her eyes cool. “Mr. Jordan,” she said pointedly, “is occupied at present. May I help you?” Ivy bounced up, then down, on her tennis shoe–clad feet, a huge canvas carryall slung over one shoulder. “No, thanks. If he’s tied up, I’ll wait.” She paused, then smiled. “You don’t remember me, do you? Though I don’t really expect you to, considering how long it’s been since I was here, and then only a time or two at that. I’m sure I’ve changed quite a bit. You haven’t. You’re every bit as pretty as ever.” The executive assistant lost some of her arctic demeanor. “I’m sorry. . . . I don’t remember you.” “Ivy Grayson.” She gestured toward herself. “It’s Tory, right?” “Yes.” Tory frowned in thought. “Ivy Grayson?”
