Caress Part Three (Arcadia Book 3) (3 page)

How did my butt manage to look so innocent? Twisting around
to peer at it over my shoulder, I couldn’t see a mark on it. That was amazing
considering that I could still feel each and every imprint of Lucas’ hand right
where it had landed, if only in my mind.

It was a day later and I still couldn’t believe what I’d let
him do to me.
Spanking!
Seriously?

Worse yet, I hadn’t just let him. I’d loved it. I wanted
more. Wanted him. Oh, god, so much!

I told myself that I was relieved to see no evidence of those
firm, confident slaps that had sent my blood soaring and skyrocketed me into a
shattering orgasm. But I was also weirdly disappointed, which in and of itself
was disturbing.

What was wrong with me? I hadn’t just come harder than I
ever had, I’d then cried all over him. Way to go, independent, mature woman
standing on her own two feet and taking care of herself.

As though that weren’t bad enough, Lucas had been incredibly
understanding. A shiver rippled through me as I recalled him carrying me into
the shower, holding me upright as the hot, soothing water pelted over us both.

I’d kept my face burrowed into his chest and my arms wrapped
around his waist until I finally ran out of tears. When I dared to look up at
him at last, his gaze was at once tender and filled with concern, a far cry
from the dominant, demanding lover of just a short time before.

He’d washed me with such care, starting with his thumbs
gently brushing over my cheeks. By the time he was done, and had washed himself
as well, I was trembling once again with need.

My skin prickled at the remembered touch of the soft
terrycloth bath sheet he’d used to dry me before he carried me to our bed.

He hadn’t said another word about what had happened while I
was out. He’d just made love to me, sweetly, passionately, overwhelmingly until
I was mindless with pleasure, drugged by the scent and taste and touch of Lucas
Phelps.

Heaven help me, he’d even fixed the bagels, brought them
back to bed, and cajoled me into eating.

The jury was in and the verdict couldn’t have been clearer;
he was officially the Perfect Man. At least for me. And, if I was honest,
probably for a big chunk of womanhood.

Gorgeous, smart, thoughtful, successful and a sex god in the
bargain. All he wanted was for me to trust him. He was even giving me some time
and space to come to terms with that. Whereas I…

I was going to be late.

Rather than dwell on the thorny topic of my own trust
issues, I finished dressing quickly and left the apartment.

Outside, I paused for a moment to chat with George and
inhale the gorgeous day. The sky was a cloudless blue, the scent of freshly
mown grass wafted from the Park, and I could hear pigeons cooing.

If I’d had more time, I would have gladly walked but as it
was, the taxi dropped me off in front of the fashionable West Side café with
scant minutes to spare.

Caroline and Imogene were already inside, seated at a table
in the inner courtyard. Both smiled as I approached.

“Here she is!” Caroline exclaimed. “The toast of the town!”

I shot her a quizzical look as I took the seat that the
maître d’ held out for me.

Lucas’ sister smiled back. Her gray eyes were bright with
amusement. The sleek fall of her dark hair bobbed against her shoulders as she
tilted her head and regarded me even more closely.

In contrast, Imogene, the wife of Lucas’ half-brother, Adam
looked calmer and more self-possessed. But even her lovely cocoa-hued skin was
tinted with a warm flush of excitement and her gaze, though more circumspect,
appeared to miss nothing.

“The charity gala was wonderful,” I said cautiously. “I had
an amazing time.”

The two women exchanged an amused look before Imogene said,
“I take it you didn’t have a chance to read the Sunday papers.”

Considering that I’d spent the previous day in a multi-orgasm-induced
daze scarcely interrupted by the call from Caroline inviting me to lunch, I
could hardly deny it.

“Afraid not,” I murmured, hoping that my blush would go
unnoticed.

It didn’t but the two women were too polite to mention it,
or simply too amused.

“Then we’ll fill you in,” Caroline said.

She raised her mimosa in a salute to me. “The
Post
’s
Page Six said you were ‘stunning’. The
Daily News
called you ‘radiant’.
The
Times
said, and I quote, “The lovely Miss Whittaker appeared to be very
much in her element”. But my favorite is
Gawker
. They called you ‘glam-gorgeous’.”

I stared at her in confusion. She couldn’t possibly be
talking about me.

Slowly, I said, “I’m sorry, I’m not following you.”

Imogene took pity on me. With a smile, she said, “The
charity gala always gets a lot of media attention. Your presence there was
bound to be noticed.”

As both the daughter of the infamous John Whittaker and his
most vocal, if misguided, supporter, I was no stranger to such attention. But
this was so different that I could scarcely wrap my head around it.

The media had said nice things about me. Superficial things,
to be sure, focused on my appearance. But still as far from the venomous
attacks that I’d experienced in the past as night from day. The reversal was
dizzying.

“You’re really surprised,” Caroline observed. “But you
shouldn’t be. People love a good comeback story.”

She exchanged another glance with her sister-in-law and
grinned. “The only kind of story that they like better is a romance. The
pictures of you and Lucas at the gala…”

She made a show of fanning herself. “I have to give my
brother credit. He’s got the whole blazing hot,
baby-I’m-about-to-rock-your-world look down pat, at least where you’re
concerned.”

Fortunately, the waiter chose that moment to offer a menu. I
opened it quickly and hid my face as I scrambled to get my bearings.

Lucas and I hadn’t merely gone out in public, we’d
gone
public
. Displaying our relationship not just to his social circle but to
the world. He must have known that would happen. Yet he’d still been willing to
do it.

What did I dare to make of that?

The routine of ordering gained me a little time to pull
myself together. But even so, I was scarcely prepared when, scant moments after
the waiter left us, Caroline asked, “So now that the repairs on Lucas’
apartment are almost done, will you to be moving in with him?”

I stared at her as my stomach somersaulted.

Lucas had relocated to the tower apartment in the Arcadia
temporarily after a water pipe burst in his downtown loft. So far as I was
aware, the latter was still being renovated. He hadn’t mentioned that the work
was almost finished.

Any more than he’d mentioned anything about the future ever
since I insisted that we couldn’t be anything other than temporary.

I’d done that to protect myself. Even now, I could scarcely
let myself think of any other possibility. No matter how tempting that was.

 “Are they?” I asked, well aware that my voice came out
several notches higher than normal. “We haven’t…that is… Do you know when
they’ll be done?”

“Soon, I presume. Any contractor in the city is going to
throw everything he has at that job in order to impress Lucas. I’m actually
surprised that it’s not finished already.”

She shot me an assessing look. “Apparently, my brother threw
the schedule off by suddenly deciding that he wanted to make some structural
changes. That’s held everything up.”

Her expression made it clear that she thought I had
something to do with the delay. Could she possibly be right? Was Lucas seeking
to give me more time to come to terms with what was happening between us and
learn to trust him?

My throat tightened at the thought. It would be like him to
do that. He was perceptive, clever, and very, very determined. When he focused
on something he wanted, he didn’t give up easily, if at all.

If I had truly become the focus of his desire to such an
extent--

A shiver ran through me. Beneath the soft cashmere sweater
that I’d borrowed from Margo’s closet, I could feel my nipples tightening.

Lucas and I had made love that morning, waking in the dusky
pre-light already reaching for each other. But I wanted him again, urgently. He
had become a madness in my blood, driving out all reason.

Mercifully, Imogene intervened, drawing me back into the
moment with a sympathetic look.

“Surely, the subject of their living arrangements is best
left to Emma and Lucas. What I’d like to know is what else you found in Margo
Stark’s closet. If that dress you were wearing at the gala is anything to go
by, it must be a treasure trove.”

Grateful for the reprieve, I took a quick breath and nodded.
“Her wardrobe is incredible. She had exquisite taste. The shoes alone…”

“Shoes?” Caroline echoed. Her gaze turned avid. The future
of my relationship with her brother was put on hold, if only for the moment.

To my great relief, we settled into a discussion of kitten
heels, baby doll pumps, and peep toe sandals.

“Clothes were so much more feminine in the 1950s,” Imogene
said a little while later after our entrees had arrived. “Women had a sense of
style.”

Caroline look doubtful. “The bras were torture devices and
the girdles might as well have been chastity belts.” She shuddered. “Not to
mention that women went around looking like little girls half the time and
sexpots the rest. There was nothing in between.”

“Not true,” Imogene insisted. “There were lovely suits for
day, fabulous cocktail dresses for evening, charming leisure wear, even
gorgeous lingerie for the woman daring enough to wear it.”

She looked to me. “Just what Emma has been finding in
Margo’s dressing room.”

“You can’t go by that,” Caroline insisted. “Margo was the
exception in virtually every way. She was very much her own woman, with a
successful career on both sides of the camera. She even ran her own production
company at a time when that was extremely rare.”

“Then why did she live in New York?” Imogene asked.
“Wouldn’t it have made more sense for her to be in Hollywood full time?”

“She loved Broadway,” Caroline said. “That’s where she got
her start and she never entirely left it. She bought the tower apartment in the
Arcadia before she met Senator Prentice. But I don’t think she ever intended to
live in it as much as she ended up doing.”

“She did that for his sake?” I asked. My new appreciation
for the overwhelming power of passion made me think that must be the
explanation.

Caroline nodded. “I suspect so. Friends of the couple
remembered him saying that he wanted Margo in New York. It was convenient to
both Washington and Boston, plus, the city offered greater anonymity than
anywhere else. He could come and go--and do--as he pleased.”

Imogene frowned as she toyed with her fork. “I realize that
people were held to a different standard in the 1950s, at least publicly. But
Margo and Prentice were both single, weren’t they? No adultery was involved and
anyway, wasn’t the media far more inclined to keep the secrets of powerful
people than they are now?”

A thought popped into my mind. I had no idea where to came
from but I went with it anyway.

 “Perhaps he had a particular reason for wanting anonymity,”
I suggested. “Some dark secret far worse than a mere affair.”

I expected Caroline to jump on that but she just sighed. “If
only. For decades, people have gone over Prentice’s life with the proverbial
fine-toothed comb. No one has ever turned up anything to explain why someone
would put a bullet in him. There are plenty of theories, of course, but none of
them has ever led anywhere.”

Given her fascination with the senator’s murder, I had to assume
that she was right. Even so, I couldn’t shake the thought that some aspect of
the senator’s seemingly charmed life must have been behind its sudden and
violent end.

That he could have hidden a part of himself from the world
so thoroughly that it remained unknown even decades later didn’t strike me as
impossible. Not given my own experience.

I understood all too well that secrets could take on a life
of their own, bestowing a sense of power and superiority on those who kept them.
Until they suddenly shattered and rained down destruction on everyone in their
path.

The conversation moved on to other, lighter topics. As I
took a last bite of my Thai Salad, I finally admitted to myself how nervous I’d
been about getting together with Lucas’ sister and sister-in-law. Foolishly so
since they couldn’t be kinder or nicer.

I was basking in the relief of that when Caroline chose the
moment to throw me yet another curve.

“By the way,” she said, touching her napkin to her lips, “you
might want to know. Mother’s coming home from London next week. She’s eager to
meet you.”

I took a quick sip of water, doubly glad that I’d decided to
forego the mimosas at the beginning of the meal, and said, “Me? How does she
even know that I exist?”

Before Caroline could reply, Imogene narrowed her eyes at
her sister-in-law. “I wouldn’t put it past this one to have mentioned you to
her.”

“Me?” Caroline affected a pose of doe-like innocence. “At
most, I might have said that Lucas looks happier than I’ve ever seen him. How
was I to know that she’d make a big deal out of that?”

“Indeed, who could possibly predict such a reaction from a
mother?” Imogene teased. To me, she said, “Don’t be concerned. Katherine Phelps
is a lovely woman. I’m sure the two of you will get along famously.”

Because what mother wouldn’t want her son involved with the
daughter of an infamous felon who was herself prone to panic attacks and
possibly hallucinations?

And who was looking forward to being spanked. Again.

As much as I truly liked Caroline and Imogene, I had to get
out of there. Fortunately, they both had places to be. We parted on the street
in front of the café with air kisses, genuine hugs, and promises to get
together again soon.

I couldn’t let myself think that what that might involve,
especially if Lucas’ mother decided to tag along. Instead, I started walking.

A few more clouds had gathered overhead but the day remained
bright and inviting. I headed in the general direction of the Arcadia, up Fifth
Avenue and across Central Park South.

That part of Manhattan had always delighted me but now I was
hardly aware of it. The idea of secrets--keeping them, carrying the burden of
them, waiting for them to blow up--kept swirling through my mind.

If Prentice had been hiding something, surely the cost of
letting it come out would have been far less than the price he ultimately paid.

The same could be said for my father. If he’d called a halt
to his investment fraud before it collapsed, in all likelihood he still would
have been exposed and gone to jail. But at least he’d be alive.

He couldn’t be, of course. I knew that. I’d seen the
video--too many times until I’d finally managed to stop torturing myself with
it. I hadn’t looked at it in years but it replayed right then in my mind.

The pier beside the Hudson River, the gun raised to his
head, the sudden spray of red and the body toppling into the dark water.

His remains had never been found but there still could
hardly be more definitive proof of John Whittaker’s end.

My father was dead. What I thought I’d seen the previous day
was nothing more than a hallucination.

It had to be. Didn’t it?

I was hardly aware that I’d changed course until I found
myself in front of the bagel shop once again. Even on a Monday afternoon,
people were streaming in and out. I stood for a few minutes, watching them,
before I noticed the alley nearby.

A sudden memory flashed through my mind: I was not more than
six years old, on one of our regular excursions to the bagel shop with my
father. For some reason, I broke away from him and raced into the alley.

He followed, retrieving me, and had a few firm words to say
about the foolishness of doing such a thing. With my hand once again snugly in
his, we’d gone on about our business, my child self comforted by the knowledge
that he would always come after me and keep me safe.

The sun was slanting westward, casting shadows into the
depths of the alley. As I stared through the haze of memory, something stirred
within it.

A shape. Emerging only part way from the darkness, as though
hesitant to dare the light.

Taking form, becoming familiar.

My breath caught and my heart slammed against my ribs. A
voice screamed in my head:
This can’t be. Go! Run! To Lucas, to sanity, to
the future!

But I stayed, frozen in place, unable to take a step until,
with a faint smile, my father raised a hand and beckoned to me.