Caress Part One (Arcadia) (2 page)

A hollow sense of longing opened up in me. I felt as though
I had stepped into a lost world. Apart from a few new ficus trees in Chinese
glazed pots, nothing appeared to have changed.

The marble walls and terracotta floor gleamed in the soft
light of bronze chandeliers hanging at intervals from the coffered ceiling. In
the near distance, I could see the elevator doors adorned in brass with
fan-shaped inlays.

Opposite them was the Arcadia’s famous mural created by the
renowned Art Deco artist known simply as Erté. The mural depicted the lovers,
Eros and Psyche, young, beautiful, and seemingly doomed until they managed to
overcome all obstacles and make their love immortal.

It was a lovely tale and more than any other aspect of the
building, it had contributed to the Arcadia’s reputation as a haven for lovers.
But I had little time to think of that. I dragged in a breath and forced myself
to move.

Past the manager’s offices, a discreet, unmarked door led to
the behind-the-scenes Arcadia that residents rarely if ever glimpsed. As a
child with an abundance of curiosity and very little supervision, I was the
exception. There was a good chance that I still knew the building better than
anyone other than long-time employees. At least, I had to hope so.

A narrow hallway took me to the rear of the building near
the trade entrance where all deliveries were made. From there, it was a quick
walk to the utility room that housed the dumbwaiter for the tower. I was
relieved to see that despite being a relic of another age, the box attached to
a cable was still in operation.

But looking at it more closely, I frowned. At about three
feet high and two feet wide, the dumbwaiter was smaller than I remembered.
Considering that the last time I hitched a ride in it I was barely eight years
old, I should have expected that.

I did it on a dare from the son of one of the janitors who
claimed to have done it himself ‘a hundred times’. Once in the metal and wooden
box, traveling up through the narrow, drafty shaft that ran the full height of
the tower, I was terrified. I hadn’t thought of how dark it would be or how, in
the utter absence of light, every sound and smell would be heightened.

To this day, I remember the creaking of the cable, the odor
of old, cold cement, and the smothering sense of darkness pressing in all
around me.

When I discovered after the fact that ‘a hundred times’
actually meant never, I didn’t know whether to be proud of myself or angry at
how easily I’d been tricked.

Eying the centerpiece of my grand plan dubiously, I wondered
how I was going to fit inside the dumbwaiter now. The shelf in the middle
folded up but even with it out of the way, it was going to be a tight squeeze.

I took off my shoes and stowed them carefully on the bottom
along with my small purse, but not before I took out my cell phone. With it
gripped in one hand, I hitched up my skirt, exposing the tops of my
thigh-highs, which I could only hope wouldn’t get snagged.

Taking a deep breath, I climbed up onto the table in front
of the dumb waiter and slowly eased myself in backwards so that I was facing
the front. In that position, I could just barely reach the outside control
panel. As I was about to push the button to send the dumbwaiter to the
penthouse, I glanced down at my cell phone and realized that I had a problem.

I was counting on the phone to summon help if worse came to
worse. But the concrete used to construct the shaft was blocking the signal.

My heart leaped into my throat. If I couldn’t get the doors
open at the top, I’d be in huge trouble. Even back when I was a kid few people
used the dumbwaiter. Hours or longer could pass before someone noticed that it
hadn’t been returned to the ground floor. I’d be trapped, hanging in a shaft
hundreds of feet in the air.

The sensible part of my brain knew that I should get out and
walk away. But go where? Back to Schaffer to tell the only person who would
give me a job that I’d failed? Then what? I dragged in another ragged breath
and forced myself to visualize--stilettos, pole, crotch guys.

 I could do this. I had to.

The trip up the shaft was every bit as stomach churning as I
remembered. With each passing second, my imagination went into higher gear.

All too easily I saw myself trapped in the box for days
slowly dying of thirst, every muscle in my body cramping in agony. Or alternatively,
suffering a sudden death when the cable snapped and hurtled me to the ground
far below. The full weight of how desperate I was to be taking such a risk
became inescapable.

My plan was insane. If I got out of this alive, I needed to
have my head examined. Except…oh, right, no health insurance unless I managed
to keep my job because I had no way to pay for any otherwise. I heard myself
laugh suddenly and wanted to cry. Crap, I even sounded crazy.

Not long after my world collapsed, I’d begun experiencing
panic attacks. They could come without warning but they were usually triggered
by some form of identifiable stress. I’d gotten better at holding them off but
I wasn’t kidding myself, I was still acutely vulnerable.

By the time the dumbwaiter finally creaked to a halt, I was
close to hyperventilating. Faced with the moment of truth, I froze before
forcing myself to beam the light of my cell phone at the back of the double
doors in front of me.

The wood panels were smooth without any visible means of
opening them. Of course they were. No human being was supposed to be on this
side.

Carefully, I set my phone down and pushed my flattened palms
against the doors. They gave but only a little, just enough for a thin crack of
light to appear down the center. Peering through it, I made out a narrow metal
rod across the middle of the wood panels. At a guess, it looked like part of a
simple hook-and-latch.

Forcing myself to take a deep breath, I pushed harder. The
doors opened a little more but sprang shut again the moment I removed my hands.
I pushed again, even harder. I could see a little more light but I still wasn’t
going anywhere.

My patience snapped. I was scared to the point where I was
questioning my own sanity. If I had to stay in that damn box one second longer,
I risked a panic attack that would render me helpless.

Without letting myself think about what I was doing--why
start then?--I slammed my shoulder against the doors. Apparently, I was
stronger than I realized or just more desperate.

As they popped open, I lurched out of the dumbwaiter and
sprawled forward. Instinctively, I put my hands out to stop my face from
hitting the floor. My lower half, from my butt on down, remained slanted across
the counter.

Scrambling, I sucked in air and struggled to right myself.
My heart was pounding and I was having a hard time believing what I’d done but
I’d made it!

The Ice Queen wanted to know the condition of the apartment?
I’d do better than that and show her pictures of every inch of it. I just
needed to grab my phone and I could get started--

I was getting to my feet when out of the corner of my eye I
saw a flicker of movement… something… Someone!

A man was coming straight at me. Big, hard, and if that
wasn’t enough, naked except for a towel tied low on his hips. My mouth fell
open.

I had just a second to register that I was in the presence
of a living, breathing Adonis, perfectly formed with broad shoulders, sculpted
abs and pecs, and taut golden skin lightly dusted with dark hair before he
grabbed hold of me. The expression in his thickly lashed, steel gray eyes was
thunderous.

I tried to scream but the powerful arm pressed against my
throat stopped me from making a sound. As it was, I could barely draw breath.
In an instant, I was pinned to the wall, hold immobile by my attacker.

Shock roared through every cell in my body. The jolt of
adrenaline was so severe that it momentarily paralyzed me. In the next instant,
instinct took over and I began to struggle in earnest.

He had half-a-foot of height and at least sixty heavily
muscled pounds on me but I wasn’t about to go down without a fight. In
desperation, I tried to get a hand free to gouge his eyes. At the same time, I
did my damndest to ram my knee into his balls as I slammed my forehead toward
the bridge of his nose.

I felt his start of surprise as he just managed to jerk out
of the way but his hold on me didn’t weaken.

“Stop it!” he growled.

His other hand moved insolently over my body, between my
breasts, along my sides, into the gap between my thighs, and down each of my
legs. His touch was beyond arrogant. He handled me as though he had every right
to do so.

But that was far from the worst. To my horror, I realized
that despite my fear and shock, I was becoming aroused.

That couldn’t be. Granted my sexual experience in recent
years had been non-existent unless I counted the battery-operated variety and
before then, it hadn’t gone beyond a few fumblings. Where was this dark side of
myself suddenly coming from?

I’d never experienced anything like this. The fact that I
was doing so under such frightening circumstances pushed me over my limits and
well beyond. The panic attack that I’d been struggling to hold off suddenly
overtook me.

My heart was hammering. I couldn’t breathe. The sensation
that I was choking went well beyond the pressure of the man’s arm on my throat.
It came from deep within my own mind.

Blackness swirled at the edge of my vision. I was only
distantly aware of him easing his hold on me in the instant before I collapsed
against him.

My eyes flew open. Shocked back into consciousness by the
sense that something was very wrong, I looked around frantically.

I was lying on a couch in a three-story high living room
that, at a glance, could have come off the set of a 1950s movie. One where
everyone was beautifully dressed, the cars were to die for, and people would
suddenly break into a song while dancing better than anyone ever has since.

It wasn’t until I tried to sit up that I realized my hands
were tied. A sickening bolt of fear went through me, different from what I’d
felt in the shaft. Fear not of what my own actions might result in but that
someone else meant to do me harm. Someone I wasn’t strong enough to stop.

The man who had shoved me up against a wall and held me
there while he touched me so intimately.

The Greek god in the towel, with the epic hard-on.

Oh, crap.

I had to get out of there. Lacking any better alternative, I
sank my teeth into the fabric around my wrists and started trying to work it
loose. I hadn’t gotten very far when I realized I was no longer alone.

The towel was gone but the trousers and business shirt that
he’d changed into didn’t do anything to conceal the jaw-dropping beauty of his
physique. Worse yet, Nature hadn’t stopped there. From his square jaw to his
sculpted mouth, angular cheekbones, and thick, neatly trimmed hair the color of
dark chocolate, he was too damn gorgeous to be legal.

As though he knew exactly what I was thinking, arctic gray
eyes under winged brows flashed with amusement. Lounging against one of the
living room’s decorative columns, he observed my efforts to free myself with a
grin.

“Having any luck there, Miss Whittaker?”

Crap on top of crap. He knew who I was. Even if I got away,
he could identify me to the police.

But before I started worrying about that, I had to wonder
what else he might do. He looked relaxed but the predatory glint in his eye
hinted at darker emotions.

If there was one thing I’d gotten good at in the past three
years, it was reading people. I’d had to simply as a survival mechanism. Most
left me alone, as in completely, but all it took was a few who thought they had
a right to use me as an outlet for their frustrations with capitalism, the
justice system, whatever. Those I’d learned to avoid at all costs.

Except now I couldn’t. I was trapped.

Realizing that, I felt the edges of another panic attack
threatening. It took all my hard-won self-control to remain calm. I sucked in a
breath and lowered my still-bound hands to my lap, hoping he’d take that as a
sign of acquiescence and be placated, at least temporarily.

Ducking my head slightly, I avoided direct eye contact as I
studied him. My earlier impressions were confirmed. He was big, in peak
condition, gorgeous, with an unmistakable aura of confidence, definitely
dangerous in all sorts of ways and--

It took a moment for the penny to drop. With it went
whatever was left of my composure.

“You’re Lucas Phelps.” I blurted the name out, unable to
stop myself.

I’d seen his photograph in “Fortune” and “Forbes”, and I’d
watched him being interviewed on the investment shows that I got hooked on
while completing the business side of my dual major.

I’d just never expected to see him in the flesh, more or
less, or feel him pressed so intimately against me.

“Guilty.” He crossed the broad width of the room with a few
easy strides and came to stand directly in front of me.

I resisted the urge to pull back and forced myself to look
up at him instead.

That was a mistake. At a distance, he was formidable. Close
up, his impact was such that only the burning of my empty lungs reminded me
that I needed to breathe.

My throat went dry. It was all I could do to croak, “Why am
I tied up?”

He crouched down in front of me so that we were more or less
on eye level. I forced myself to stay perfectly still. The thought occurred to
me that I was behaving like a small animal confronted by a fierce predator, not
knowing whether I was to be devoured or merely played with.

I massively resented feeling that way. Life had thrown me
some knocks but I was tougher than that. Tougher than him, if it came down to
that.

He had choices. I didn’t.

“I wanted to make sure that you’d stay put long enough for
us to talk. And,” he added with a slight quirk of his mouth, “I prefer that you
not try to do me any more bodily harm.”

All that time spent in college self-defense classes for
women and he still didn’t look the least bit deterred. That was humbling and it
made me all the warier of him.

Even so, I couldn’t quite contain my anger at the situation.
Holding out my wrists, I said, “Sure thing, Ace. I’ll go easy on you.”

A flicker of surprise softened his mouth but only for an instant.
It vanished as his strong fingers made short work of the knot I hadn’t been
able to budge.

The brush of his skin against mine ignited tingles of
awareness. I averted my eyes, afraid they would reveal the tumult of
conflicting emotions crashing through me.

Phelps was frowning when he straightened up again and looked
at me. “Do you need some water?”

His apparent consideration, coming seemingly out of nowhere,
surprised me. I shook my head. “No, thank you.”

To my relief, he moved a little away and took a chair facing
me. I straightened my shoulders, hoping to just get through whatever was about
to come as best I could and get out of there. After that, I had no idea what
I’d do but first things first.

“What did you want to talk about?” I asked.

“To start with, I’m truly sorry that you passed out. I
didn’t realize I was putting that much pressure on you.”

His expression was suddenly so bleak, even self-condemning,
that I answered without thought.

 “You weren’t. It was the circumstances…” I couldn’t bring
myself to tell him that I was subject to panic attacks so I just shrugged. “You
weren’t responsible.”

He looked at me speculatively, as though unsure whether to
believe me. Our gazes met and held. This time, I refused to back down.

After a moment, he nodded. “All right.”

Any gratitude he might have had for my relieving him of
responsibility didn’t last long. His voice hardened. “Why don’t we start with
your reasons for breaking into this apartment and what you intended to do once
you were here?”

Abruptly, I remembered exactly what I’d done and what the
consequences of that could be. Quickly, I said, “I’m sorry about the damage to
the dumbwaiter doors. Obviously, I’ll pay to repair them.”

The money would have to come from the very small reserve
that I still had left but there was no help for it. If I was very lucky, he’d
be satisfied to let me make restitution without involving the authorities.

“Forget about the doors.” He shrugged off my offer. “The
apartment is going to be renovated so they’ll be replaced anyway. Why are you
here?”

I couldn’t shy away from the truth any longer, especially
not when he could just discover it on his own.

With no other option, I said, “I work for Heather Schaffer.
That is I started working for her today. As my first assignment, she wanted to
know the condition of this apartment and anything else that might help her
secure the listing.”

“She told you to break in?” The look that came over him made
me worry for Schaeffer’s future if he thought her guilty of that.

“No! She wanted me to get information from people who work
here. People I knew when I was living in the Arcadia. Instead, I thought if I
could get her photos--”

“She’d be impressed and you’d keep your job?”

“Something like that. Except you’re here…”

I looked at him closely. Phelps was known for meticulous,
hands-on attention to detail that won the loyalty of his exclusive clientele.
But even so, that didn’t explain why he’d use his own valuable time to inspect
a property unless--

My heart sank. Fearing that the answer was a foregone
conclusion, I asked, “You already have the listing, don’t you?”