Caress Part One (Arcadia) (3 page)

Phelps nodded. There was a glint in his eye that I couldn’t
mistake, any more than I misunderstood the faint smile curving his chiseled
mouth. The bastard was enjoying himself. At my expense.

 “I do,” he confirmed.

Pride stiffened my spine. After all I’d been through, there
was no way I was going to let him intimidate me. Instead, I asked, “That’s why
you’re here, to look the place over?”

It didn’t quite explain why he’d been doing that while
wearing only a towel but I supposed that I should be grateful that he’d had
that much on.

 “I find that staying in a property for a few days before
deciding how to market it gives me a better perspective,” he said.

His eyes moved over me as his smile deepened. “And as it
happens, a pipe burst in the building where I live. It’ll be a few weeks before
I can get back into my loft.”

I swallowed with some difficulty and looked away from him
with what I hoped he’d take as casual disregard.

Focusing on my surroundings wasn’t all that hard. Truthfully,
I said, “You could certainly pick worse places to stay. This all looks
amazing.”

That was an understatement. The sense of 1950s glamour was
just the beginning. Structurally, the apartment itself was astonishing. The
main floor was triple-height, enclosed by soaring glass panels alternating with
graceful stone columns. A wrap-around terrace provided views for miles in all
directions.

The second floor was almost as spectacular, with more modest
ceilings but its own terrace set with cornices capped by the carved images of
Eros and Psyche. The overall effect was of being in an aerie. Nothing else like
it existed in the city.

Schaffer was going to be upset that the listing was gone but
she could still earn a seven-figure commission if one of her clients bought the
apartment.

Unless, of course, Lucas already had a buyer lined up.

“Do you have someone in mind for this place?” I asked, not
at all sure that I wanted to know the answer.

He shrugged again. “Possibly. Tell me, Miss Whittaker, what
made you decide to pursue a career in real estate?”

The question threw me. I’d gone from feeling his body
against the whole length of mine to being tied up by him to… What exactly? He
almost sounded as though he was interviewing me.

Fortunately, I had enough experience with that--however
unsuccessful--to be able to answer by rote.

“I know the city well. I grew up here and I still think that
it’s the most exciting city in the world. I did a dual major in college
including business with an emphasis on marketing and I minored in graphic arts.
Together, I think that makes me well suited to present properties to potential
clients. In addition, I’m hardworking and well-organized. I was able to get
through college in three years instead of four because of that.”

I don’t see any reason to explain that I did so in a
desperate bid to save money after I realized that I couldn’t even get a job
working part-time or in the summers. My hopes of that changing as more time
passed had proven to be sadly misplaced.

Lucas remained silent. Reluctantly, I went on, “Also, I
speak French and Spanish, and I’m used to dealing with people with money. I
understand their attitudes and their expectations.”

I flushed a little at that last part. The last thing I
wanted to do was remind him of how I came by that experience.

To my relief, he didn’t comment on that. Instead, he said,
“Fluency in Russian or Mandarin would be more useful but that isn’t bad. Still,
all you’ve told me is why you’re qualified, not why out of every potential
field, you’ve chosen real estate.”

“It’s more like it chose me,” I replied softly. “Jobs aren’t
exactly easy to come by.”

“Really? You’re intelligent, well educated, and frankly,
your appearance works for you. Yet you’re having trouble finding a job?”

I looked down at my hands. It was either that or glare at
him. I could hardly bring myself to state the obvious. “You know who I am.”

“I know who your father was,” he said. I wondered why--or
even if--he was making a distinction.

He went on, “John Whittaker stole billions from investors
who ranged from ordinary middleclass people to some of the wealthiest and most
powerful individuals on the planet. What he did wrecked marriages, tore
families apart, shattered futures, and led to at least half-a-dozen suicides,
including a guy I went to school with. By all rights, your father should be
rotting in prison. But instead he got off scot free.”

My head jerked up. Huskily, I said, “That’s a strange way to
put it. My father is dead. He was one of the suicides.”

At that moment, I came close to hating Lucas Phelps. Not
because he’d spelled out the effects of my father’s crimes in such stark terms.
I’d long since acknowledged the harm that had been done. But because he could
suggest that the death that had shattered me was a victory of some twisted
kind.

 “His body has never been found,” Phelps said implacably.
“If it had been, there might have been some kind of closure on the whole sorry
business. People might not be so inclined to taint you with it by association.”

I looked away, refusing to point out the obvious. My
father’s suicide could hardly have been more public. Dozens of people had
witnessed it. Many of them had captured the moment of his death on their cell
phones. The video had gone viral. The fact that his remains hadn’t been
recovered was irrelevant.

Phelps’ refusal to accept that left me more determined than
ever not to expose how raw and wounded I felt. I had to get out of there but
how? What would it take to convince him to let me go?

 “Just one other question, Miss Whittaker. You said that you
did a dual major, business and--?”

The abrupt change of topic caught me by surprise. I dragged
in a breath and fought to pull myself together.

 “Fine arts. I realize that it wasn’t the most practical
choice but--” What could I say? That I’d needed something that I truly cared
about and could connect with to keep me sane? I wasn’t about to reveal so much
of myself to this man who disturbed me in ways that I could barely begin to
fathom.

Instead, I gave him my stock explanation. “New York is a
center for the arts of all kinds. That being the case, I think having a fine
arts background is an asset.”

“It’s still an unusual choice for someone who has to be
focused on earning a living.”

I was bristling at the implication that I was a spoiled
little rich girl who hadn’t yet woken up to reality when he added, “Of course,
I speak as someone who did a dual major in business and astronomy.”

I stared at him in surprise. “You wanted to be an
astronomer?”

He seemed amused by the thought. “No, I just like looking at
the stars.”

Still studying me, he stood, a proud, formidable presence
completely at ease with himself and the situation. His eyes flicked down the
length of my body. I stiffened against a sensation of intimacy so acute that it
felt as though I had actually been touched.

“You can go now, Miss Whittaker.”

I rose, all too aware that my legs were shaking. Absurdly, I
felt a sudden spurt of disappointment.

“You’re sure about the doors?” It was a foolish question.
He’d made it clear that he didn’t care about the damage that I’d done. But I
was so taken aback by my sudden reprieve and my strange reaction to it that I
couldn’t think of anything else to say.

He nodded, not taking his eyes from me. “I’m sure.”

Before I could reply, he handed me my flats, purse, and
phone. I took them and quickly slipped my feet into the shoes. As I did, he
reached into his back pocket for a small leather folder and removed a card from
it.

“My private phone number is on here,” he said as he held it
out to me. “After you’ve reported back to Heather, give me a call.” A faint
smile lifted the edges of his mouth. “I have a proposition for you.”

I stared at him as heat crept up over my throat and face. He
was so damned sure of himself, so smug. I remembered how it had felt when he
touched me and had no doubt that he knew the effect that he had.

I’d been in situations like this before. Not the touching
part, he was the only one who had gotten close enough to do that. But I’d
encountered men who took the wreckage of my life as an invitation to exploit
me. A family attorney had been the first, a professor at college the second,
and there had been others.

Thanks to them, I’d learned to bury my feelings under a
veneer of cool disdain but I couldn’t manage that with Phelps. He provoked an
even stronger response. The thought that he assumed I was so needy, so
vulnerable in all regards that I could be bought filled me with disgust.

Stiffly, I said, “No, thank you, Mr. Phelps.”

He didn’t bother to argue. Instead, he took my purse before
I could stop him and tucked the card into it. Handing it back to me, he said,
“Give Heather my regards.”

My first instinct was to pull the card out, tear it into
pieces, and throw them at him. But I refused to give him the satisfaction.
Besides, the smartest thing I could do was get out of there as quickly as
possible.

I felt his eyes on me as I walked just slowly enough not to
be running across the width of the living room to the front doors of the
apartment. At least he didn’t insist that I leave the same way I arrived.

Resisting the urge to glance back over my shoulder, I opened
the door and stepped out into a private foyer walled in mirrors and furnished
with a round pedestal table holding a large Chinese bowl filled with white
peonies.

I barely had time to take it all in before I realized that
he was right behind me.

Reaching around me, he pushed the button to summon the
elevator. As we waited together in silence, our eyes met. His looked
thoughtful, even a little puzzled.

I couldn’t begin to imagine why. Fortunately, my throat was
much too tight for me even to try to speak. Otherwise, who knows what nonsense
I might have blurted out.

The arrival of the elevator made me start. I stepped into it
quickly and fumbled for the lobby button. As the doors slid shut, Lucas was
still gazing at me, his gray eyes impenetrable shields concealing his thoughts.

I told myself that the pang I felt deep inside was nothing
more than hunger pains. I’d skipped breakfast but the thought of lunch made me
nauseous.

It would be better for me to face Heather first and get the
worst over. She wasn’t going to be pleased but I was brand new at this and if
nothing else, I’d shown determination and ingenuity. She’d give me another
chance. Wouldn’t she?

As soon as Emma left, I moved fast. At most, I figured that
I had an hour or so, not longer. While the thought of waiting for her to come
to me was tempting, I wasn’t quite that much of a bastard.

I made a quick call to alert my driver, finished dressing,
and left the apartment. In the mirrored foyer, waiting for the elevator, I
fancied that I could still detect a faint whiff of Miss Whittaker’s perfume. It
was probably my imagination but…

My cock stirred again as an image of her staring at me
defiantly flashed through my head. Shit, I was really going to have to do
something about the effect she had. Definitely get it under control before
going any further.

But going where exactly? At the very least, I had mixed
motives when it came to the daughter of the infamous John Whittaker.

On the one hand, I wanted to fuck her. Damn did I ever. I
wanted that gorgeous, long-limbed body under me, her soft, throaty voice crying
my name, that luscious mouth open for my tongue, my cock. I wanted her begging,
sobbing for release, and I wanted to be deep inside her when she came.

That much at least was crystal clear and I wasn’t going to
pretend otherwise, at least not to myself. The mere memory of her made me rock
hard.

After that, everything got a whole lot more complicated.

She’d held her own when I brought up her father; I had to
give her that. But I also had to wonder: Was she simply a courageous and decent
person forced to deal with a really shitty situation or—door number two—was she
still trying to defend and maybe even cover up for John Whittaker?

The best investigators in the world hadn’t been able to find
all of the scumbag’s ill-gotten gains. Was it possible that the daughter who
had stood up for him so determinedly might know something about what he’d done
with them?

If she did, I had my own reasons for wanting that
information. The only question was how to go about getting it.

To start with, I had to convince her to accept my
proposition. That should have been easy given the circumstances but I already
sensed that Miss Emma Whittaker would be anything but.

Oddly enough, that didn’t bother me. On the contrary, I
found myself relishing the thought of persuading her to see things my way.

Isaac was bringing the car around to the front as I left the
building. I nodded and asked if he’d caught the Yankees game the night before.
He sighed with the stoicism of the long-time fan accustomed to the quirks of
owners, managers, and Lady Luck herself. We shared a moment of mutual
commiseration.

Settled in the back seat, I got busy. First up was Yuri
Volkov. I was on the short list of people who had the Russian oligarch’s
private number, a privilege I’m invariably afforded by my clients who then do
their utmost to get mine. Only a few succeed. That I’d handed it to Emma
without a second thought made me frown for a moment but I moved on quickly.

Yuri had long since decamped from Moscow to the far more
genteel atmosphere of his London residence and the estate that he’d purchased
in nearby Kent, both acquired through my European subsidiary. With his fondness
for fox hunting, his genuine affection for the Queen, and his devotion to
several Savile Row tailors, he was doing his damndest to uphold the traditions
of his adopted country. In return, Great Britain had rewarded him with a
coveted British passport to add to his collection of nationalities.

Naturally, he was fluent in English and had even acquired a
touch of a Mayfair accent.

“Lucas, so good to hear from you,” he said with an
undercurrent of amusement. Bastard knew I’d be in touch. “How are things in New
York?”

I matched his tone. “They’re great, Yuri. Couldn’t be
better. I had dinner last night with a mutual acquaintance of ours--Chase
Hollis. You remember him?”

“Chase, of course. How’s that little investment firm of his
doing?”

I knew damn well that Yuri was well aware of how well
Hollis’ brilliant investment strategies were paying off because Yuri was one of
his clients. So was I. In addition, Chase and I were friends, the real kind.

Still, I was willing to play along. “Beating all the
averages by a mile. But here’s the thing. Chase mentioned that you’re still
unhappy about that Qatari prince snapping up the property you wanted.”

As in unhappy enough to be royally pissed off at me for
refusing to undercut the deal. According to Chase, who was one of few people I
trusted explicitly, Yuri had taken to wondering out loud if no one would rid
him of my troublesome self.

We both got, as Yuri undoubtedly intended, the reference to
Henry II’s bemoaning of his problems with the Archbishop of Canterbury back in
the 12th century. Shortly thereafter, several knights eager to curry the king’s
favor had taken it upon themselves to slaughter the archbishop, hacking him to
death in front of the altar of Canterbury Cathedral. As professional
relationships went, that one could be said to have ended badly.

The problem was that there were men--and women, Yuri was a
true equal opportunity employer--in the Russian’s circle with a mentality no
different from that of Henry’s ambitious knights. Yuri knew that better than
anyone because he’d made use of them in the past to deal with various
annoyances.

“Oh, yes,” he said as though he’d only just remembered. “The
Qatari. More money than taste, if you ask me. Are you calling to tell me that
Prince Rashid has changed his mind?”

“No, Yuri, I’m not. I’m calling to say that I get it, you’re
pissed. No one likes to be disappointed. But this is New York and something
better will come along.”

I wasn’t entirely sure why Yuri wanted yet another property
in the city. He already owned several, all spectacular. But he’d made it clear
that he was in the market for something truly special and he wanted it pronto.

Sounding slightly mollified, he asked, “Then I’m assured of
your best efforts?”

“Absolutely. In fact, I’m working on something right now
that makes what Rashid got look like a walk-up in the Bronx.”

That was a bit of an exaggeration. Prince Rashid had
purchased all four of the penthouse apartments available in a building
currently under construction on Central Park South and was planning to turn
them into single blow-out residence. He’d paid an obscene amount for that coup,
something I knew because I’d handled the deal on both ends.

Nonetheless, the Russian chuckled. He and the Qatari owned
rival European football teams, which made losing out to the prince all the
harder to take. I should have realized that without needing death threats,
however obscure, to get my attention.

“I knew I could count on you,” Yuri said.

Apparently, he’d decided to let bygones be bygones.
Assuming, of course, that I delivered for him. But then everything in my world
was conditional on that, all the time. I accepted it as a simple fact of the
reality I lived in.

We chatted a little longer, him trying to tease out details
of the property and me being coy. I did drop him one little hint.

“You ever watch old movies, Yuri? Say from the 1950s?”

I knew perfectly well that he did and more, that he was a
particular fan of Margo Stark, the actress who had owned the tower apartment in
the Arcadia.

He hesitated a moment, then said, “On occasion I do.”

“I thought I might kick back this weekend and watch a
couple.”

“While you’re working on finding me the right property,” he
admonished.

“Absolutely.”

By the time I got off the call with him, I was reasonably
certain that Yuri was over his Henry II snit. Now I just had to hope he let his
henchmen and henchwomen know that I was back in his good graces.

 With that little matter taken care of, I was free to turn
my thoughts once again to Emma. Given what she’d done, I had to conclude that
she wasn’t short of either courage or initiative. That was just as well given
what life had handed her.

I also appreciated that she hadn’t let me think I was
responsible for her passing out. Plenty of people I knew would have laid that
guilt trip on me without hesitation and looked to benefit from it. Instead she
showed every sign of being a genuinely decent person, just one in a really
shitty situation.

Maybe.

I couldn’t dismiss my lingering suspicions about her father
and whatever connection she might still have to him. Not to mention my
willingness to use her, if I could, to get to him.

All of which made my physical reaction to her short-sighted
at best. Granted, I was a healthy guy in good condition and at twenty-eight, my
libido didn’t require much encouragement. But even so--

What was it about Miss Emma Whittaker that had my cock
twitching at the mere thought of tying her up again and having my wicked way
with her?

To distract myself, I made a few more calls. By the time I
was done, Isaac was pulling the car up in front of the address I’d given him.
Schaffer Realty had offices in a building just off Fifth Avenue. Heather
Schaffer had earned that, clawing her way up from a storefront in Rego Park,
Queens. She was as tough, savvy, and ruthless as anyone in the business.

I respected that but I sure as hell didn’t like what she’d
pulled with Emma. Giving a desperate young woman hope when the sole intention
was to exploit her was low even by New York standards.

But maybe I was wrong. Maybe Heather had been keeping her
warm, nurturing side under wraps all this time and was genuinely committed to
mentoring Miss Whittaker.

I resisted the urge to look up on the chance that a pig
might be flying by.

As it turned out, I had the timing down almost to the
minute. Just over an hour after she’d walked out of the apartment, Emma
stumbled out of the building housing Schaffer Realty.