Read Caress Part Three (Arcadia Book 3) Online
Authors: Josie Litton
Caress Part Three (Arcadia Book 3)
*****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.
Frozen in place, hardly able to breathe, I stared into the
face of a ghost.
My father. The man who had committed suicide three years ago
in the wake of the massive financial scandal that brought down my world.
The man, who I believed without a shadow of doubt, was dead.
Right up until the moment when his lips shaped my name.
“Emma.”
Through the rush of blood drumming in my ears, I could only
just make out his voice. It sounded as I remembered, low, clear, a little rough
around the edges but with a note of tenderness and regret that went right
through me even as I refused to believe that any of this was real.
Because if it was--
Emotions welled up in me--pain, hurt, anger--all too much
for me to cope with. I jerked my head away, refusing to look at him, just in
time to see the black-and-white police cruiser coming around the corner.
Two uniformed officers were in the front. From their manner,
I couldn’t tell if they were on a routine patrol or were looking for something
in particular but that didn’t make any difference. The ground felt as though it
was opening up beneath me.
The memory of my father being led from the offices of his
investment firm in handcuffs before a wall of cameras and shouting reporters burned
through my mind. The district attorney and the police had reaped a publicity
bonanza with that perp walk but it was only the beginning.
Even after he met bail and was able to come home, the
paparazzi kept us under siege. They hadn’t been alone. The authorities were
outside the Arcadia as well, some to keep the angry crowds at bay, others alert
to any hint that the man responsible for the worst Ponzi scheme since Bernie
Madoff might try to flee.
When he finally did, he got no further than the Hudson River,
scarcely a quarter-mile away. Multiple witnesses used their cell phones to take
video of my father standing on a dilapidated pier, holding a gun to his own
head.
As though in slow motion, I could still see the moment when
he pulled the trigger. A spray of red burst from his skull. His body tumbled
into the dark swirl of currents that swiftly carried it out to sea.
I’d long since lost count of how many copies of that video
had been sent to me, some by people suggesting that I should meet the same end.
Was all that torment about to start up once more?
Panic threatened to consume me. I only just managed to hold
it at bay as I tracked the police car with my eyes. It passed by without even
slowing down and went on across the intersection to the next block.
I stared after it, my heart hammering, until it disappeared
from sight. Finally, when it was gone, I managed to speak.
“What do you--?”
There was no one to hear me. I was alone. My father had vanished
into the vast labyrinth of the city just as completely as he had vanished from
my life three years before.
Or he had never been there to begin with. I had to face the
possibility that some combination of emotion and nostalgia had led me to
imagine the entire encounter.
Distantly, I remembered reading that hallucinations were
more common than people realized. Our minds really do play tricks on us. But
the possibility that mine had done so was terrifying. If I couldn’t trust
myself, who could I trust?
The question haunted me as I made my way back to the
Arcadia. Riding up in the elevator, still clutching the bagels that I’d just
bought, I felt nauseous. I had to pull myself together. If Lucas saw me in such
obvious distress, he wouldn’t stop until he knew the reason why.
And then what could I say?
Oh, by the way, you may have
been right, my father could still be alive. If I haven’t been hallucinating,
that is. In fact, he may be here in the city. Perhaps we could all get together
for dinner?
A hysterical giggle escaped me. The idea of Lucas and my
father in the same room was nothing short of horrifying.
Only the years of practice in concealing my emotions came to
my rescue. As the elevator pinged to a stop, I drew myself upright, took a deep
breath, and resolved that no matter what, I was going to stay in control.
To that end, I went directly to the kitchen and grabbed
items from the refrigerator. Without giving myself any time to think, I sliced
lemons, diced red onion, and spooned capers into a serving dish. Before I was
done, I realized that I was no longer alone.
“What are you doing?” Lucas asked.
He stood at the kitchen door, wearing only pajama bottoms
that rode low on his lean hips and left the broad sweep of his chest bare. His
chocolate brown hair looked deliciously mussed and a night’s growth of scruff
softened the hard line of his jaw. He looked even more enticing than he had when
I had left him, still asleep in what I had come to think of as our bed.
Too clearly, I remembered driving my fingers through the
rough silk of his hair, clasping him to me as my hips arched toward his sinful
mouth. I’d returned the favor, kissing and licking my way down his magnificent
torso to swirl my tongue around his cock and--
I looked away quickly and said, “I thought you were hungry.”
“For you.” He glanced at the food on the counter in front of
me and frowned. “The rest can wait.”
I struggled to ignore the hot surge of longing that he
always inspired. “Did you make coffee? No? I will. It will only take a few
minutes. I got orange juice--”
With just a few steps, he crossed the small space separating
us. I had a moment to think that 1950s-style kitchens weren’t all that big.
Since then they’d grown to be such a major part of a home, the most extravagant
complete with sitting and dining areas, even fireplaces, as though we’d
returned to the Colonial era when the kitchen was where everyone gathered--
“What’s wrong?” Lucas asked, interrupting my rambling train
of thought.
He took the bread knife from my hand and laid it down on the
wooden cutting board. Turning me so that I faced him, he said softly, “Tell
me.”
I stared back at him, absorbing the steel gleam of eyes that
could under other circumstances be smoky with inner fire, the hard set of his
mouth, and the alert stance of his body, as though poised to deal with any
danger.
“Nothing,” I said, my gaze slanting away only to be drawn
back irresistibly to his. Too easily, I knew what he was seeing as he studied
me: Wide blue eyes shadowed by old pain, flushed cheeks, and a mouth on the
verge of trembling.
“Bullshit,” he said. “Something’s spooked you. What
happened?”
I hesitated, torn between the treacherous desire to tell him
and determination to do nothing of the kind. Determination won, if only by the
faintest of margins.
In a flagrant attempt to change the subject, I asked, “Has
it occurred to you that you can be more than a little overwhelming?”
He smiled faintly but his gaze didn’t waiver. “I’m glad to
hear it because that’s exactly how you make me feel. Now tell me what’s
happened.”
I’d never been much good as a liar, not as a kid or even as
a teen. Since my father had done what he had, I’d had even more of a need for
honesty.
But now I opened my mouth and said, “I got light-headed in
the street, a little dizzy. It’s nothing. I’m just hungry.”
At once his expression changed. Instead of fiercely male
with a side of disarming protectiveness, he looked chastened and concerned.
“I knew we were overdoing it last night,” he said, taking a
step back. “I should have stopped--”
Guilt rippled through me. I turned away, unable to look him
in the eye. “We,” I murmured. “We were overdoing, maybe. It’s not all on you.”
After a moment, Lucas wrapped his arms around my waist,
drawing me against his back. Softly, he murmured, “That’s one of the things I
appreciate about you the most, even if it is hard for me to get used to.”
Puzzled, I turned my head. “What is?”
“You take responsibility for your own actions. You never try
to put anything off on someone else. I’m not used to that.”
“What are you used to?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Being the responsible one. It’s what I know,
what I’m comfortable with.”
I could understand that. He’d taken over his family’s firm
when he was barely my age; fought off the predators, my father among them, who
wanted to devour it; and gone on to immense success. Along the way, he’s also
taken care of his mother and younger siblings. I could accept all of that as
good and honorable but that didn’t preclude other motives as well.
Before I could think better of it, I said, “Being
responsible puts you in charge.”
His mouth quirked. “I suppose that’s true.” He moved his
head slightly, enough so that his lips nuzzled the lobe of my ear. “I’d like to
take charge of you.”
I stiffened in his embrace and pulled back staring at him.
“You did not just say that.”
He didn’t even pretend to deny it. “I did, worse yet, I
meant it.”
I shook my head, knowing this was unacceptable yet at the
same time finding it all-too treacherously tempting. That told me that I needed
a reality check as much as he did.
“This is the twenty-first century,” I said. “Men aren’t in
charge of women.”
He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “that’s
too damn bad” and spun me around so that we were facing each other.
His manner was unrelenting and implacable, yet at the same
time strangely comforting.
“Tell me again,” he said, “you’re just hungry? Nothing else
is bothering you?”
I was on the verge of saying ‘yes’ just to get him to stop
asking but the word caught in my throat. I couldn’t bring myself to lie to him
even as I recognized the danger he represented.
Ever since meeting Lucas, I’d been swept up in sensations
and experiences unlike any I had ever known. He’d blown apart the narrow
strictures of my life and filled me with a tremulous sense of what might be
possible.
The net effect of all that was to tempt me to let down the
barriers that I’d constructed so carefully around myself. But they were all
that had kept me safe for the past three years. I both hated and needed them.
Life had taught me to rely strictly on myself. What would
happen if I threw that harsh lesson aside and did as he wanted?
As the silence drew out between us and I felt the tension
mounting in him, an even more urgent question occurred to me: What would happen
if I didn’t?
What exactly was the price of defying Lucas Phelps?