Caress Part One (Arcadia) Read online

  About this Book

  *****CARESS is an erotic romance that includes explicit sexual scenes. Also warm toasted bagels spread with gooey cream cheese, banana splits dripping with extra cherries, and a panty-dropping alpha male who’s good enough to eat all by himself. Side effects may include naughty thoughts, secret smiles, and friends asking what on earth you’re reading. Proceed at your own risk. XXXOOO Josie*****

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  Welcome to the Arcadia, Manhattan’s most seductive address.

  For almost a century, the exclusive Art Deco apartment building overlooking Central Park has been home to passionate, star-crossed lovers. Now a new generation is about to discover the obsession and mystery hidden within its luxurious walls.

  When smart, gutsy Emma Whittaker returns to the building where she grew up, she’s only hoping to gain a foot-hold in a city that has turned cold and hostile since the exposure of her father’s multi-billion dollar financial fraud. Instead, she meets the one man who can make her forget all the hard-learned lessons that life has taught her and tempt her to risk everything, even her heart.

  Lucas Phelps is New York’s premiere realtor, the confidant of stars, tech moguls, and oligarchs, gatekeeper to the city’s most sought after properties, none more so than the Arcadia itself. At ease in the world of the wealthiest and most powerful, Lucas has long since hidden his true nature behind steely resolve. But his deepest yearnings will return to haunt him when he crosses paths with the one woman capable of shattering his hard-won control and unleashing his darkest desires.

  As the betrayals of the past and the dangers of the present collide within the Arcadia, Emma and Lucas will struggle to overcome both before they can make the future their own.

  Table of Contents

  About this Book

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sneak Peek

  Chapter One

  Lucas

  I was in the kitchen, spreading cream cheese on a bagel, when I heard an odd sound. At first, I didn’t pay much attention. There are a lot of strange sounds in any building. You get used to them after a while. I’d only been here since yesterday and I was still adjusting to the place. I’d even admit to being a little jumpy but whatever I heard was just wrong somehow. It sounded almost like…

  Metal tearing loose from wood.

  I turned and looked through the kitchen into the adjacent pantry just in time to see the latch fly off the double doors of the dumbwaiter in there. That quaint little invention still found in some older buildings amounts to a miniature elevator handy for hauling groceries and other small items up to individual apartments. But it seemed that someone had found another use for it.

  The doors banged open and a woman came hurtling through them. My brain registered a quick impression--blonde, endless legs, violet suit or dress, whatever. Mostly, my reaction was straightforward: What the hell?

  Her momentum was so great that she ended up sprawled half-on the counter in front of the dumbwaiter with the rest of her angling down toward the floor. As entrances went, hers was ungainly, startling, and quite likely illegal. Unless she had a damn good reason for being in the dumbwaiter--not much chance of that--she’d just broken into the apartment where I was staying.

  On occasion, women have done crazy things to get my attention--shown up at my door in nothing but stilettos and a smile, for example. Not unusual for a guy with my wealth and public profile who was also--I would modestly admit--not hard to look at. But none of them had ever gone this far. At once, I dismissed the possibility that the blonde had seduction in mind.

  Best case scenario, she was a thief expecting to find the place empty and clever enough to exploit a weakness in the security system that no one had thought to fix. That was bad enough but the fact that her appearance came hours after I’d been warned that someone might be gunning for me limited my options.

  I had no idea how seriously to take the threat. Granted, New York real estate is a high stakes game and people with more money than morals can end up disappointed. They still don’t generally put out a contract on the guy who told them ‘no’. All the same, if there was a time to err on the side of caution, this was it.

  With that in mind, I didn’t hesitate. Before the woman could get to her feet, I got to her, slamming her up against the wall with my arm at her throat. My intent was to control her long enough to find out what she was doing here while providing just enough physical intimidation to get her to tell me.

  But Blondie had other ideas. Her head reared back, then quickly slammed forward in a move intended to jam the cartilage of my nose up into my brain. I barely managed to avoid the blow while also fending off what she was trying to do to my balls and the rest of me.

  Any lingering doubt I had about how to deal with her vanished. So far as I was concerned, she was clearly the person in the wrong. All I was doing was defending myself. If she wanted to fight dirty, fine by me.

  To that end, I pressed my arm harder against her throat to let her know that I was serious and snarled, “Stop it!”

  I was using my chest to keep her trapped up against the wall. One of my thighs was wedged between hers. Bastard that I am, I couldn’t help noticing that she was all long legs, full breasts, and willowy curves.

  That was distracting but I still had enough sense to know that my first priority had to be securing whatever weapon she might be carrying. Still, as I moved my hand over her, feeling for a gun or knife, I may have lingered a little longer than was strictly necessary.

  Her breath started coming in shallow little pants that I associate with a different kind of physical activity. That definitely didn’t help the situation. Nor did the fact that she was still struggling, so much so that the softness of her flat, smooth abdomen kept rubbing against my groin.

  After the shower I’d just taken, I wasn’t wearing anything other than a towel around my hips and it wasn’t much of a barrier between us. It sure as hell didn’t conceal the fact that I was suddenly getting hard.

  That was just downright disturbing. I like my women compliant, purring under my hand and begging for more. Trying to crush my balls and rip my eyes out doesn’t do it for me. Still, the truth was that I was becoming aroused for reasons I didn’t care to examine--caveman stuff on the level of controlling the furious wildcat in my arms and bending her to my will, definitely not my usual style.

  I was trying to sort that out while coming to terms with the fact that she wasn’t armed when a shudder ran through her, her eyes rolled back and she suddenly went limp.

  Shit!

  I yanked my arm from her throat and caught her as she started to slide to the ground. Holding her, I stared down at her in shock. I didn’t think that I’d put so much pressure on her throat that she could pass out from it. I sure as hell hadn’t intended to no matter how she was trying to hurt me but the evidence was there all the same.

  For a moment, all I could feel was disgust at what I’d done. In an instant, I confirmed that she was breathing, thank god, but out for the count. Scooping her up, I carried her into the living room and laid her down on the couch.

  As I did so, I couldn’t help noticing that my earlier impression that she was a damn attractive woman wasn’t mistaken. It just fell far short of the mark. From the top of the silky blond hair tumbling loos
e from a twist at the back of her head to the bottom of her long legs, she was the stuff of dreams, the wet kind. Her face was oval, a little softer than the angular look a lot of women strive for, with a gently rounded chin and a mouth…

  Sweet lord, that mouth. Luscious didn’t begin to describe it. Full, moist, soft, a perfect shade of pink ripening toward rose that looked entirely natural. All too easily, I could imagine it wrapped around my cock while she--

  It was official; I was a sick bastard. She was lying there unconscious and all I could think of was--

  That I had a good opportunity to figure out who she was before she came to. But first, I didn’t want to take the chance that she’d wake up suddenly and try to leave. Or do me some serious bodily harm, which by now I might just possibly deserve. That she wasn’t armed didn’t matter. There were plenty of items within easy reach that could be turned into a weapon.

  At least that’s how I justified in my own mind what I did next. Yanking a fancy tie-back off one of drapes hanging to either side of an arch at the entrance to the living room, I hesitated only a second before using it to lash her wrists together.

  Looking down at the dark fabric against her smooth, pale skin, I was shocked--yet again--when my hard-on went to a whole new level. I’d played with bondage with partners who were inclined that way, and I’d enjoyed the sense of dominance but this was different. It didn’t feel like a game. It was real.

  And I was responding to it in a way that I’d never suspected I was capable of.

  Later, when this was all over, I could figure out what had come over me or better yet just forget it had ever happened. But for now, I checked her breathing again. It was slower and deeper, a lot closer to normal.

  Reassured that she’d be fine--at least until she woke up and realized what I’d done--I headed back to the pantry. Sure enough, several items were still in the dumbwaiter, including a pair of slim, flat shoes, a cell phone, and a small purse.

  I went for the purse first. The wallet tucked into it yielded a driver’s license from the State of New York. The picture confirmed that it was hers.

  So who exactly had taken a ride up a pitch black shaft, crammed into a space just big enough for a few grocery bags, in order to break into the apartment where I was staying?

  I held the license up and read the name on it.

  Emma Whittaker.

  She was twenty-one, at least for another month, didn’t need corrective lenses, had O positive blood, was willing to be an organ donor, living at--

  Emma Whittaker?

  As in the Emma Whittaker?

  The young woman who just a few years back was at the center of the fire storm that rocked the financial world and for a while at least made her the top target of every bottom feeding paparazzi and internet troll on the planet?

  That Emma Whittaker?

  Well, shit, this was starting to get interesting.

  A hard and, I’m sure, not particularly pleasant smile curved my mouth as I wondered why exactly the woman America loved to hate had suddenly walked--or better yet hurtled--into my life.

  Chapter Two

  Emma

  Earlier that day…

  “The past is another land.”

  Elton John said that or wrote it or something. I was trying to remember as I stood in the corner office belonging to Heather Schaffer, head of Schaffer Realty, and waited for my brand-new boss to notice me.

  She’d been letting me cool my heels while she stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows south down Fifth Avenue toward the financial district. From what I could see of her expression reflected in the glass, she was enjoying contemplating the money her clients were making that would allow them to afford her services.

  When she finally swung her executive chair around, she was smiling. “You’re looking well, Emma. That color suits you.”

  The violet two-piece skirt and jacket that I was wearing were part of a L’Agence collection from a few years ago. I’d been lucky enough to find them at an East Side consignment store but Heather didn’t need to know that.

  “Thank you,” I said, refusing to be put off by her scrutiny.

  One advantage to growing up the way I had was that I was used to dealing with people like Schaffer, alphas who thrive on competition and aren’t above using intimidation to gain any advantage. Although to be fair, I respected that she had worked her way up from selling two-family houses in Queens to becoming the Queen of Manhattan’s premiere properties.

  Only one real estate firm was bigger, by many orders of magnitude--Phelps Properties, Inc., run by Lucas Phelps, the man to whom international stars, tech moguls, and oligarchs of all stripes were most likely to turn when they wanted to call one of the hottest property markets on the planet home.

  His control of access to the city’s premiere residential listings was just the tip of the iceberg. Rumor had it that in the years since he’d taken over the company following his father’s death, he’d pursued a brilliant investment strategy that produced a portfolio of commercial properties valued in ten figures. In all regards, he was a power to be reckoned with.

  Schaffer was far too savvy to take him on. At least not directly. But that didn’t stop her from dreaming.

  “A little bird told me that the tower apartment at the Arcadia is going on the market at long last.”

  My stomach clenched even as I managed to smile. “You don’t say?”

  She smoothed the sleek helmet of her short, perfectly coiffed ebony hair and nodded. “I don’t have to tell you how exciting this is. The property has everything--a fabulous prestige building, immense square footage, breathtaking views, and a history that positively reeks glamour. Not to mention the decades-long mystery surrounding it. But then you must have heard all about that when you were growing up in the Arcadia.”

  I took a breath and let it out slowly. Focused as I was on moving forward with my life, the last thing that I wanted to discuss was the past. But the truth that I’ve had to accept is that there’s no escape from it. All we can hope to do is learn from it and become stronger.

  “You’re referring to the legend that the 1950s movie star who owned the apartment moved out over sixty years ago,” I said, “taking nothing with her except the clothes on her back, and that no one has set foot in the place since?”

  My boss arched an elegantly shaped eyebrow. “Legend? Are you suggesting it’s not true?”

  “I don’t know what happened,” I admitted. “I’m not sure that anyone nowadays does. But I am certain that the management of the Arcadia would never allow any part of the building to remain off limits for very long, let alone for decades. Someone has to have been in there over the years, if only to make sure that there weren’t any leaks, cracked windows, or other damage.”

  “That’s a good point,” the Ice Queen said. Her sudden cordiality rang a warning bell in my head.

  “You must still know people who work in the building.” She flecked an imaginary speck of dust from her silver gray Prado suit. “Go make nice with them, ask a few questions, and see what you can get them to tell you. I especially want to know the condition of the apartment. We’d take it on under any circumstances, of course, but it’s best to be prepared. Bonus points if you find out who’s got authority to give the listing and who’s in the running to get it.”

  I could have said that I wasn’t sure anyone I’d known still worked at the Arcadia. I should have said that even if anyone did, I wasn’t about to risk that person’s job by pumping them for information. But every survival instinct that I had stopped me.

  I’d been pounding the pavement since graduating from college three months ago. Everywhere I went, I got the same response. After a few friendly or at worse neutral minutes of chit-chat, the person I was talking with gradually realized that I looked familiar, they’d seen me somewhere before, my name rang a bell, and …Oh, my good, she’s--

  And that was it, I was done. All that was left was the ‘No’, unsoftened by any suggestion that my resume would b
e kept on file or that I might want to try again another time. They couldn’t get rid of me fast enough.

  I didn’t even really blame them. In the firestorm of publicity that followed the uncovering three years ago of a massive financial fraud involving billions of dollars and thousands of scammed investors, my eighteen-year-old self refused to believe what my father had done.

  While the other members of my family scattered to the winds--my mother into a new marriage and my older brother into a Buddhist monastery--I alone spoke up publicly in my father’s defense, not once but repeatedly, passionately, angrily and toward the end, in tears.

  The videos of me doing so were still on YouTube followed by thousands of comments, the kindest of which called me a bitch and hoped that I’d die.

  When all was said and done, the position at Schaffer Realty was my first and quite possibly only shot at a job that didn’t involve a pole, stilettos, and a bunch of drunk guys leering at my crotch.

  With that image to inspire me, I swallowed my doubts long enough to be dismissed by a wave of a well-manicured hand and a final instruction.

  “Don’t disappoint me, Emma. Taking you on was a risk. This is your chance to prove that you’re worth it.”

  An hour later, I was standing across the street from my childhood home, the Arcadia on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. Built almost a century ago at the height of the Art Deco movement, the forty story apartment building boasted graceful copulas, spires, and arched windows. But its most distinctive feature was the slender tower that comprised the top third of the building. Housing floor-through apartments with 360 degree views of the city, the tower was topped by a columned dome that resembled an ancient Greek temple.

  All in all, the Arcadia was one of the most exclusive and sought-after residences in the city. But staring at it, I couldn’t help remembering all the reasons why I should walk away rather than venture back into the world that I fled from three years ago.