Emma
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.
Chapter Nine
Lucas
It was after one a.m. when I let myself into the apartment. I did so quietly, not wanting to take a chance on disturbing Emma.
I told myself that I was just being considerate. She’d had a hell of a day starting with the ride in the dumbwaiter all the way through getting fired, moving out of the dump she’d been living in, and coming to work for me. She’d be exhausted and in need of a decent night’s rest.
But the truth was that I didn’t trust myself to face her, at least not right then. I’d stayed late in the office, putting the time to good use plowing through the endless piles of paperwork that always required my attention. Fucking city bureaucracy. But my mind--and other parts of me--kept wandering back to her.
Having a hot blonde suddenly pop up in my life would have aroused my interest under almost any circumstances, if only temporarily. But this was different.
Even on such short acquaintance, I recognized that Emma Whittaker had intelligence and courage. She’d shown real character in dealing with the shit life had thrown her. The truth was that I couldn’t help but like her. Hell, it was fair to say that I admired how she’d handled circumstances that would have made plenty of other people crumble.
None of which changed the fact that I was willing to use her, if possible, to get to her father. Sitting alone in my office, I’d been forced to admit that, given my priorities, a sexual relationship with her should be out of the question.
Sure, she was hotter than hell, even if she somehow didn’t seem to know it. And she had me tied up in knots for all sorts of reasons that I didn’t even want to consider. But that was no excuse for behaving in a way that would be wrong for both of us.
Having decided that, I almost dragged out my phone to call one of the women I knew would be glad of my company. But that option didn’t hold the appeal that it should have. Not when all I really wanted was to be with a challenging young woman whose fathomless blue eyes were at once vulnerable and defiant.
Even if that meant just being under the same roof with her while she slept alone and chaste in her own bed.
Isaac had checked in to tell me that she was at the apartment. I didn’t know why it bothered me that she had nothing to her name apart from two suitcases. Plenty of newly minted college graduates weren’t loaded down with possessions. But most of them had at least some form of family support. Emma was strictly on her own.
Rather than stand there staring at the staircase that I knew led up to her bedroom, I retreated to the suite on the main floor. The curtains were still open, revealing the spectacular sight of Manhattan south to the harbor, still lit up despite the hour and looking more like fabled Oz than ever. Yuri, or whoever else ended up living here, would have no cause to complain about the view.
To my great relief, the apartment had been in excellent condition when I got my first look at it. Despite being unoccupied for six decades, it had been kept scrupulously clean and in perfect repair. I had a crew come in with fresh linens and other necessities, but otherwise I was enjoying the sensation of staying in what amounted to a huge and very luxurious time capsule of the 1950s.
As I shucked off my clothes in the bedroom, I spared a thought for the mystery that was Margo Stark. From the little that I’d been able to learn so far, the actress had walked out of the Arcadia on a snowy day in December, 1957, taking nothing with her except the clothes on her back. She’d never returned but she had also never sold the a
partment or permitted anyone else to stay in it.
There were all sorts of theories to explain her strange behavior, most of them linked to the tragic death of a young senator she’d been dating. But the bottom line was that no one knew why Margo had become a recluse, living apart from the world until her recent death at the age of ninety-one.
Maybe Emma would discover something that could shed light on the matter.
Realizing that I was back to thinking about her, I groaned. Naked, I walked into the bathroom, turned on the shower and stepped under it before it had time to warm up. The initial rush of cold water was a shock but it did nothing to stem my wayward thoughts.
Neither did jerking off. I tried, really, not to think about Emma but that didn’t last long. Whatever else she was doing to me, she’d claimed a starring role in my X-rated fantasies.
Later, dried off and lying in bed, I stared up at the ceiling as I wondered which guest room she’d chosen. Somehow, I didn’t think she’d opt for a view of New Jersey, as picturesque as that might be. The odds were that she was lying right above me.
Realizing that did absolutely nothing for my state of mind. I slept fitfully, disturbed by dreams of dumbwaiters, blondes, and myself, incongruously behind the wheel of a classic 1950s Chevy Corvette muscle car while a young woman who looked like Emma laughed beside me.
Not too surprisingly, I woke up feeling as though I hadn’t slept. Forgoing a shave, I pulled on sweats and decided that, it being Saturday, I’d hit the gym. But first, I wanted to check on Emma.
The apartment was quiet, too much so. I wandered out into the living room, looking for her there first, then in the dining room, the screening room, and finally on the wrap-around terrace that gave the main floor of the apartment a 360-degree panoramic view of Manhattan and beyond. No Emma, just a few pigeons who ignored me.
I was starting to wonder if she was still asleep when the front door opened and Emma walked in. She was wearing jeans that hugged her exquisite ass and long legs. Her hair was brushed back and held by a couple of tortoise shell clips. So far as I could tell, she didn’t have any make-up on. For sure, the blush that spread over her face when she saw me was entirely natural.
Caress Part One (Arcadia) Page 5