Caress Part One (Arcadia) (4 page)

My chest tightened with an emotion I didn’t care to
identify.

Emma was pale and her lips were pressed together like she
was struggling not to cry.

Damn.

I love New York but there are times when I really don’t like
what the city can do to people.

All the same, I didn’t think Miss Emma Whittaker would react
well if she caught me feeling sorry for her. Stepping out of the car, I put on
my best shark smile and waited until she saw me.

When she did, she stopped, glared at me, and said, “If
you’re here to gloat, don’t bother. Nothing you say or do can make today worse
than it already is.”

I straightened away from the side of the car that I’d been
leaning against and opened the door to the rear seat, hoping she’d take the
hint and get in.

So softly that I surprised myself, I said, “Then how about I
see what I can do to make it better instead?”

“You and your proposition?” She all but spit the last word.

I ignored the dangerous gleam in her stunning blue eyes, and
said, “Sheath your claws, wildcat. All I’m asking is that you hear what I have
to say.” For good measure and because she still wasn’t budging, I added, “It’s
not what you think.”

What I’d let her think because it amused me to do so. It
didn’t any more. She looked like she was holding onto her self-control by only
the thinnest thread.

Before it snapped, I said, “Please, Emma. At least let me
give you a lift to wherever you want to go. If I haven’t convinced you to take
my offer by the time we get there, no harm done.”

She hesitated long enough to make me think that she really
was going to turn me down. When she finally nodded and moved toward the car, I
felt like I’d won a victory.

I got in beside her, mindful that she put as much distance
between us as she could in the confines of the backseat.

Ignoring that, I asked, “Where would you like to go?”

She gave me an address in Brooklyn that made me frown. Much
of the borough east of Manhattan had been gentrified but areas of it were still
gritty and potentially dangerous. If she was living in one of them, the sooner
I convinced her to take my offer, the better.

We were crossing the Brooklyn Bridge when my phone rang.
Glancing at the caller I.D., I sighed.

“Caroline,” I said, “what a surprise.”

My sister heard the note of resignation in my voice and
laughed. “I kind of think it’s not, big bro. If what I just heard about Margo
Stark’s apartment finally going on the market is true, you had to know that I’d
be calling. You got the listing, right?”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. With her formidable
tech skills and her talent for spotting opportunities to monetize social media,
Caroline should have been busy 24/7 running her successful consulting firm. But
she insisted on balancing work with a personal life.

If that wasn’t a crazy enough idea, she’d developed a
fascination with true crime back when she was a teenager--not very many years
ago--that she still pursued. I worried that one of these days, it could lead
her in a dangerous direction.

Cutting to the chase, I said, “As usual, your information
sources are impeccable. Someday, I’d really like to know what they are. But in
the meantime, on the remote chance that I come across anything you’d be
interested in, I’ll let you know.”

My prompt surrender was greeted with silence, followed by a
snort. “Jeez, that was too easy. I have an hour’s worth of argument ready to
go.”

I chuckled. “Save it. I’m sure something else will come up.
You can torment me then.”

Glancing across the backseat, I saw that Emma’s hands were
folded in her lap. She had her head down and was staring at them with a look in
her eyes that made it clear that she wasn’t listening to my conversation. On
the contrary, her thoughts were far away.

I mentally cursed Heather Schaffer as I said goodbye to
Caroline and got off the phone.

When I’d done so, I asked, “Are you all right?”

That came out more gently than I’d intended. I frowned,
wondering at the need I felt to go easy on her. Why should I? She was obviously
used to taking care of herself.

She looked up and met my gaze. Softly, she said, “You knew I
was going to be fired.”

 “I had a pretty good idea,” I admitted. “I’ve known Heather
long enough to be aware of how she operates.”

Emma managed a faint, sad laugh. “I actually thought that
she was giving me a chance. But after what she said just now, it’s clear that
even if I had helped her get the listing, she wouldn’t have had any further use
for me.”

I’d come to the same conclusion myself but it didn’t make me
feel good to be right. To the contrary, I was surprised by how affected I was
by Emma’s unhappiness.

Firmly, I said, “She did you a favor. Now you can do something
that you’re really interested in.”

The look she threw me was cautious but I thought I saw at
least a faint stirring of curiosity. Maybe she’d stopped thinking of me as a
total bastard and was willing at least to consider that I might not be all bad.
The sudden sense of pleasure that I felt at that thought was startling, not to
mention unnerving.

“How so?” she asked.

Briskly, I said, “I need someone to curate the contents of
Margo Stark’s apartment. That person has to have an appreciation of artistic
value as well as good business sense, and be extremely well-organized. From
what you told me, you’re a perfect fit.”

Before she could respond, I added, “Plus I need someone who
is available immediately and who will put in whatever hours it takes to get the
job done both well and fast.”

Her eyes widened as she listened to me but her mood didn’t
lift.

“There must be people better qualified than me,” she said. “Specialists
in 1950s memorabilia at the major auction houses, for instance.”

I nodded. “That’s undoubtedly true but they’d be working in
the interest of the auction house, not mine. I want someone with no other
agenda except to give me the best possible sense of what I’m dealing with.”

 “I see…” She tilted her head a little to one side and
studied me. Her gaze was direct and, I thought, a  little too perceptive for
comfort.

“When did it occur to you to offer me this job?” she asked.

“I knew that I needed someone yesterday, after I got my
first real look at the apartment. When you described your background, I
realized that you were more than qualified.”

That was all true as far as it went but it didn’t begin to
address the elephant in the car, so to speak. I understood why she was
suspicious. Neither of us could pretend to be unaware of our physical reaction
to each other. Or how it complicated the situation.

Ordinarily, I would have never considered becoming involved
in a relationship with someone who worked for me, much less someone I had
reason to be suspicious of. The fact that I was actively imagining it in Emma’s
case told me more than I wanted to know about how she affected me.

Still, I could put a fig leaf on it.

“You’d be working as a private contractor, not an employee
of Phelps Properties. Do you have any problem with that?”

“No, I don’t suppose so--”

“Good. And, of course, given the time constraints, it would
be best for you to live on the premises.”

She gapped at me. I couldn’t tell if she was more surprised
or appalled.

“In the apartment…? Didn’t you say that you were staying
there?”

“Only until my place is habitable again. I’m using the
master bedroom suite on the main floor. You can have one of the guestrooms
upstairs.”

Playing my last card, I added, “There’s a separate entrance
on that level. You can come and go as you please. All I ask is that the work
gets done in a timely manner.”

I should have asked Isaac to turn the AC on. The air in the
car felt very close. I was acutely conscious of the warmth of her skin and the
faint, tantalizing scent of her perfume. If that’s what it was. I was beginning
to think that the fragrance zapping my brain on the way straight to my groin
was pure Emma herself.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked softly. “The truth,
please.”

The implication that I wasn’t being completely up-front with
her rankled, if for no other reason than it was justified. Still, the job was
real and so were her qualifications. Her living in the apartment only made
sense for exactly the reasons I’d said; I needed the work done fast and right.

As far as the attraction between us was concerned, we were
both adults and we’d deal with it. Or at least I would once I was sure of her
true motives when it came to her father.

If she was still connected to him, that would be it. Once
she realized what I intended, she’d never want anything to do with me again.

I bit back the regret that rose in me and gave her a partial
version of the truth.

“My father died suddenly seven years ago, when I was just
about the age you are now. His competitors wasted no time circling. They saw me
as unprepared and unqualified for the challenges that I faced as his heir.”

That was putting it mildly. Up until then, I’d lived life
strictly for my own benefit. Backed by family money and with a god given
ability to charm almost anyone, I did what I wanted and let the rest slide.

Until I realized that everything my father had spent his
life building was in danger of being lost. And worse yet to a pack of wolves
who would tear it--and me--to shreds.

Far from being dismayed, something in me that I’d never
acknowledged before woke up, stretched, bared its fangs, and smiled.

I didn’t see any reason to tell Emma that. All I said was,
“They were right but even so, I managed to fight and in the end I won. When I
did, people who had bet against me lost money. In your father’s case, a lot.”

“He was one of those who bet against you?” She sounded not
so much surprised as resigned.

I nodded. “The scale of his losses was so great that he was
faced with two choices, both bad. He either had to find a way to conceal what
had happened or confess to his investors. If he’d done the latter, he would
certainly have lost his business and seen his way of life destroyed. He
couldn’t accept that so instead, he crossed the line into what ultimately
became one of the biggest financial frauds in history.”

Emma paled. Softly, she said, “I always wondered how it
started. But what does this have to do with your willingness to hire me?”

I wasn’t used to discussing my motives for anything I did,
except in the most impersonal terms. And I sure as hell wasn’t about to reveal
all of them in her case. But the way she was looking at me spurred me to tell
her more than I’d intended.

 “When the fraud was exposed,” I said, “and the impact on
the investors became clear, I asked myself if I could have done something to
prevent it.”

“I think I understand what you’re saying,” Emma replied
softly. “You feel some degree of responsibility, but you must realize how
misplaced that is. My father chose his own course; only he was responsible for
what happened.”

She paused. I waited, silently urging her to go on. After a
few moments, my patience was rewarded.

“Unlike you,” Emma said, “I still have to live with the fact
that I benefited materially from what my father did, at least until it all
collapsed. And even when I should have faced up to the truth, I defended him in
front of the world.”

Her voice dropped. As though she was confessing a great sin,
she said, “I’ve long since accepted that he really was guilty but I still can’t
bring myself to regret speaking up for him.”

My throat tightened. If she was telling the truth, I
couldn’t help but be struck by her loyalty to a man who had done nothing to
deserve it. What would it be like to actually earn her faith and trust?

As soon as the question occurred to me, I dismissed it. I was
dealing with enough confusion when it came to Miss Whittaker as it was without
adding more. Was I a nice guy who wanted to help her? Was I a horny guy who
wanted to fuck her? Was I a ruthless s.o.b. willing to use her to get to her
father?

Yes, to all of the above.

For the moment, I took refuge in what I really understood
and was good at. I kept the focus on business.

“Do the job I’m offering you,” I said, “and people will have
something to associate you with other than the past. Once that happens, I think
you’ll find that doors will open a lot more readily.”

She lifted her head and looked at me long and hard. Doubt
lingered in her eyes. I waited, hardly breathing until finally she managed a
tentative smile.

Softly, she said, “All right.”

The long, black town car was waiting at the curb when I came
out of the two-family house where I’d been renting a room. After dropping me
off, and frowning when he saw where I lived, Phelps had gone on to his office.
But not before informing me that the car would return in an hour sharp to pick
me up.

His tone had suggested that he wouldn’t be happy if I
lingered any longer in a place that he clearly did not approve of.

A part of me chaffed at that. I’d been taking care of myself
for three years and if I hadn’t managed as well as he thought I should have,
that was too bad. I’d done the best that I could under the circumstances.

Which didn’t mean that I was anything other than relieved to
be moving on. An hour had been more than enough time to pack my belongings, all
of which fit into two suitcases, and settle up with the landlord.

The driver, a gentle-faced man named Isaac, jumped out of
the car as I emerged, wheeling them behind me.

“I’ll take those, miss,” he said as he opened the rear door
for me to get in.

I’d barely gotten into the backseat before the full enormity
of what I was doing swept over me. The realization was so powerful that I
started to tremble.

For the love of god, what had I just agreed to?

A job. Okay, that was good. No better than that, it was
great. Even more amazing, it was a job that I was genuinely excited about
doing.

But to move into the apartment? Live under the same roof
with Lucas Phelps, however temporarily? I had to be out of my mind.

He was... Confronted by the sheer force of my reaction to
him, all I could think of was what he wasn’t. Ordinary. Predictable. Safe.

Phelps was none of those things. Especially not safe. As
much as he’d seemed to be forthright in his reasons for hiring me, I sensed
that he was holding something back.

One thing I was sure of, I’d have to be the world’s worst
fool to think that I could trust myself around him. He made me want, yearn,
desire, dream. All that and more.

I had been so careful. I’d kept my distance so scrupulously
rather than risk yet more contempt and hurt. It wasn’t a natural way for a
young woman to live and I’d realized that fully even as I didn’t see any
alternative.

All through college, as I studied night and day to keep up
my GPA and graduate early, I told myself that I was just postponing the normal
experiences of sex and hopefully love. All that would come in time.

I’d even managed to believe it, if only because I didn’t
have any other choice. But now…

Oh, sweet heaven! The way his body felt against mine…His
heat and scent…The flick of his eyes over me, the quirk of his mouth.

He made me burn.

I couldn’t take the job. I needed to walk away right now
and--

Do what? Figure out some other way to put a roof over my
head and food on the table? Yes, I could do that.

People did it all the time. People who had experienced far
fewer advantages than I had, for all that my life had veered off course. They
didn’t feel sorry for themselves; they just got on with what they had to do.

I could leave New York, move to a smaller city where just
maybe people wouldn’t care who my father had been. I could have a life.

But that was running away and I’d never done that, not even
in the darkest times. I couldn’t see myself doing it now especially when the
alternative was so obvious.

I could stay and deal with the reality that I wanted Lucas
Phelps to a degree that scared the daylights out of me even as it made me feel
more alive than I had in far too long.

We were over the bridge and back in Manhattan before I
managed to tear myself away from thoughts of what being in bed with him would
be like. I’d read a handful of
those
books but my imagination really
didn’t need any encouragement, at least not when it came to the Greek god in
the towel.

But in all fairness, he was more than that. I was struck
especially by what he’d told me about the role that he’d inadvertently played
in the origins of my father’s fraud. Of course, Lucas had no responsibility
whatsoever for that yet his reaction had been to feel as though he did.

Clearly, he had a conscience and was able to empathize with
other people. Perhaps that was at least part of why he was so good with his
clients. But what role, if any, did it play in his personal relationships?

Women must flock to him. At the thought of them, something
small and green that I hadn’t known was inside me stirred.

I was still trying to deny its existence when the car pulled
up in front of the Arcadia and Isaac got out. As he held open the rear door, he
reached into his pocket for a key.

Handing it to me, he said, “Mr. Phelps asked me to give you
this and to tell you that he won’t be back until late tonight. Please make
yourself comfortable. The kitchen has been stocked but if there is anything
else you would like, just let me know and I’ll see to it.”

I thanked him while resolving not to wonder where Lucas was
or what he was doing. Instead, I concentrated on George, who hurried forward to
help with the bags. What could he be thinking after the way I’d disappeared
that morning, leaving him to the furious Yorkie?

Before I could apologize, the doorman smiled and said,
“Welcome back to the Arcadia, Miss Emma. It’s a pleasure to have you in
residence again.”

I was surprised but only until I remembered how readily
money and authority could ease the path through life. The right call from the
right person and suddenly doors were quite literally opened for me.

Stepping into the lobby, I realized that unlike a few hours
ago, this time I wasn’t an interloper. There had been a time when I took my
right to such a privileged existence for granted. I’d been young and I’d never
known anything else. As hard as the past three years had been, I was no longer
that person and for that I was truly grateful.

Isaac insisted on helping me with my bags as far as the
entrance to the second floor of the apartment before leaving me with another
encouraging smile. I stepped inside, shut the door behind me, and took a long
look around. The view stole my breath.

A half-wall looked out over the triple-story living room and
beyond across Central Park to the East Side of Manhattan. Even in mid-afternoon
of a cloudy day, the vista was astounding. I could only imagine what it looked
like at sunrise or at night. Belatedly, it occurred to me that I’d be able to
find out for myself in a matter of hours.

The second floor of the apartment included three fully
equipped guest suites complete with their own sitting areas and baths. Two
looked westward toward the gleaming ribbon of the Hudson River and the
palisades of New Jersey.

I chose the third, facing south with a view of Manhattan all
the way down the vibrant, bustling spine of the island to the harbor where Lady
Liberty reigned. Even as I did so, I grinned, wondering how I’d resist the
temptation to spend the night in one of the window seats drinking in the sight
of the city.

I unpacked quickly, noticing as I did so that the guest
suite was impeccably clean. There were even fresh linens on the bed. Lucas must
have had a crew come in to assure that the apartment was habitable before he
arrived. That would also explain how the kitchen was fully stocked.

Thinking about him, I stood, holding the last item from my
suitcases as I tried to decide where to put it. Away in a drawer would probably
be best but the top of the dresser beckoned.

Slowly, I set the inlaid wood-and-ivory music box down where
I would be able to see it but I resisted the temptation to lift the lid. I’d
done so only a handful of times in recent years and each time I’d regretted it.
Watching the little ballerina spin and listening to the tinny notes of
“Twinkle, twinkle, little star” invariably brought me to tears.

Too vividly, I remembered my father giving me the box on my
sixteenth birthday. At the time, I’d thought that the gift was a bit immature
for my exalted age but I’d loved it all the same.

Especially when he kissed my forehead gently and said,
“You’re my star, Emma. You always will be. I want you to have this, for
always.”

My throat tightened at the memory. For perhaps the
thousandth time, I wondered how, if my father had truly loved me, he could have
done what he did? Not only the fraud but all that followed. In committing
suicide, he had abandoned me to deal with everything alone. I could forgive him
for a great deal but not for that, at least not so far.

Determined to distract myself, I left the room quickly. A
gracefully curved staircase connected the upper floor to the living room below.
On the way to it was a gallery of photographs hanging immediately opposite the
half-wall. Pausing to glance at them, I quickly became fascinated.

Together, they formed a record of Margo Stark’s life in
Hollywood and beyond. I had no trouble recognizing the actress. Her image was
as iconic as Marilyn Monroe or Grace Kelly’s. Blond, beautiful, with patrician
looks softened by a warm, engaging manner, Margo had filled the niche between
those two. America had adored her. Even after she withdrew from public view in
the aftermath of tragedy, she never faded from memory.

Staring at the woman in the photographs, I could understand the
fascination. She really was lovely but I thought that I saw, or perhaps
imagined, a tinge of sadness in her smiles. If that was true or not, the
possibility of getting to know her in at least some way through the belongings
she had left behind was even more interesting.

I was tempted to plunge in immediately but I hadn’t eaten
all day and I knew that I’d do better if I put something in my stomach first.
Standing in front of the quaint 1950s-style refrigerator, I had to laugh.

Fully stocked? If I wanted beer, wine, or bottled water, I
was in luck. Same for cheese, fruit, or coffee beans. There was even a partly
used tub of cream cheese, although no sign of bagels. But anything that could
actually be transformed into a meal? Afraid not.

 My cooking was strictly of the serviceable variety but I
appreciated the usefulness of eggs not to mention pasta. A quick rummage
through the cupboards confirmed that even the latter was missing. However, I
did find a whole sheaf of restaurant menus in a drawer.

For a moment, I was actually thinking of splurging and
ordering in. But then I noticed that the menus were yellow and curling around
the edges. They were for restaurants that for all their legendary names, no
longer existed.

I made a mental note to give a short grocery list to Isaac
and grabbed a piece of Gouda, a handful of crackers, and an orange.

As I ate, I went through the menus, trying to envision the
world of glamorous night spots and cabarets that Margo had frequented in New
York. I imagined her in an evening gown and fur stole, smiling for the cameras
outside of the Copacabana off Fifth Avenue or the grittier Jimmy Ryan’s a
little farther downtown.

There were photographs of her doing exactly that in the
gallery upstairs. After I ate, I went back and looked at them again. In more
than a few, she was shown on the arm of a tall, handsome man who looked vaguely
familiar. It took me several minutes to put a name to the face.

Senator John Prentice. The son of a wealthy and powerful
Boston family, a World War II hero, who many had expected would run for
president.

Instead, he had died. I couldn’t remember the circumstances
but I could find out easily enough.

Back downstairs, I got out my phone and quickly opened the
browser. About to type in the senator’s name, I hesitated.

I shouldn’t care that my new employer wouldn’t be back until
late. It was more than enough that I had a job. That was where my focus needed
to be. Yes, there was intense chemistry between us but he undoubtedly
experienced that with many women.

None of which explained why I found myself typing ‘Lucas
Phelps’ into the browser instead of ‘Senator Prentice’. A moment later I wished
that I hadn’t. Image after image appeared, every one of them making my body
stir.

Damn, the man was hot! Addressing a business group, shaking
hands with a politician, merely getting out of a car, he looked better than any
man had a right to.

Not that he was alone in all the pictures. Far from it. I
couldn’t help noticing that he seemed to prefer brunettes but apart from that,
his tastes were varied.

The best I could conclude was that there were enough women
to indicate that he wasn’t serious about any. Something that I had better keep
in mind if I had any sense at all.

I set my phone aside. The handsome, long-dead senator could
wait. For now, I needed to get busy and stay that way. The sooner I finished
this job to Lucas Phelps’ satisfaction, the sooner I could move on, away from
the man who made me feel too much and yearn for what I had every reason to know
could never be.