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?”
Chapter Five
Emma
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?
Chapter Six
Lucas
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 th
e 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.”
Caress Part One (Arcadia) Page 3