Caress Part Three (Arcadia Book 3)

by Litton, Josie

  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.

  Chapter Five

  Emma

  “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 ki
nder 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.

  Chapter Six

  Lucas

  I sagged back in my desk chair and groaned. The usual round of Monday morning staff meetings was over--finally. It had even gone off without a snag, no thanks to me.

  As nearly as I could figure, ninety percent of my brain was taken up with thoughts of Emma. The rest was entirely focused on pumping blood straight to my cock.

  My hard-on got so bad that I considered taking advantage of a few unscheduled minutes to pop into my private washroom and give myself some relief. Only stubborn pride kept me from doing so.

  Not. Pussy. Whipped.

  Nope, not me.

  I was just living proof that you can’t keep a good dick down.

  The fact that I laughed at my own pitiful joke was the clearest possible evidence of how far gone I was.

  My assistant popped his head into the office just then to ask if I wanted lunch. I allowed as to how that would be good while thinking that what I really wanted was a nooner.

  Too bad that wasn’t in the cards. Emma was having lunch with my sister and sister-in-law. She’d been nervous about going, which I thought was adorable. Caroline and Imogene both obviously liked her. I knew they’d put her at ease but I also wouldn’t put it past them to pump her for information about our relationship.

  Maybe not Imogene so much but Caro sure as hell would. I made a mental note to touch base with my sister later and find out if she’d gotten more out of Emma than I could.

  She still hadn’t told me what happened to make her look like she’d seen a ghost. I’d been tempted to press her on it a dozen times and more all through course of the previous day and into the night. But after our session in the kitchen, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

  She’d seemed too fragile, somehow, although that wasn’t a word I’d normally associate with Emma. She was easily one of the bravest and most resilient people I’d ever encountered. But now I had the sense of her drawing a protective shell around herself and curling up inside it.

  As much as I resented that, the last thing I wanted to do was cause her more pain. Especially not when the other option was to stay deep inside her, thrusting hard, savoring her throaty little moans and the way her pussy clenched around me when--

  Damn, this had to stop! I was a grown man, not a kid. I needed to get my head back in the game.

  If some jerk ass with a grudge against her father had approached her, I needed to know about it. It would be a simple enough matter to put security on her, enough to discourage anyone who was inclined to mouth off or worse. Simple, that was, if she agreed. And only a little trickier if she didn’t.

  But one other possibility had occurred to me. Emma had mentioned that the Feds still touched base with her from time to time, letting her know she remained on their radar. Had one of them decided that she was due for another reminder?

  Before I could think better of it, I picked up my phone, scrolled through the list of private contacts, and hit the number for Sean Feeney at the F.B.I. He answered seconds later.

  “You must be psychic,” Feeney said. “I’ve got a note in my email to check in with you.”

  “Oh, yeah? Why would you want to do that?” I thought that I knew but I asked any way.

  Feeney sighed. “Because as much as you and John Whittaker’s daughter make a lovely couple, the two of you popping up together has raised eyebrows.”

  I’d seen the photos taken at the gala. They didn’t bother me in the least; I wanted the world to know that we were together. Feeney and his pals could make whatever they wanted of that.

  “She’s the reason I’m calling,” I said.

  “I’m listening,” Feeney replied.

  I pictured him leaning back in his chair, short-cropped dark blond hair, more tats than I’d expect on a Fed, and a rangy but powerful build like the ace downhi
ll skier that he was. Feeney had silvered in the Olympics a few years back, more power to him.

  “I know you’re still keeping tabs on her,” I said. “Did you or any of your colleagues happen to speak to her yesterday?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because something spooked her. If I can take the F.B.I. off the list, I’ll be that much closer to figuring out who did do it.”

  I could practically hear him smirking. “I’m no relationship expert but have you thought of just asking her?”

  Smart ass.

  “It’s not that simple,” I said. “When I say she was spooked, I mean it. She doesn’t want to talk about it but she looked as though she’d seen a--”

  I stopped abruptly as the full significance of what I’d been about to say hit me.

  As much as I’d pushed Emma about the possibility that her father could still be alive, I’d seen the video of his suicide. It was graphic, horrible, and seemingly irrefutable. Even without a body, John Whittaker’s death should have been a foregone conclusion.

  That it wasn’t could be credited solely to the F.B.I.’s refusal to stop searching for him. Everyone, including myself, figured that they had to have reasons that they weren’t willing to talk about. At least not without sufficient persuasion.

  “A ghost?” Feeney asked, picking up where I’d left off. “Is that what you were going to say?”

  I got the impression he wasn’t so relaxed any more. On the contrary, he sounded razor sharp.

  “Yeah,” I admitted. “But before you jump on that, I want to be clear about something. Is it the F.B.I.’s position that Whittaker is still alive?”

  “We’ve never said so…officially.”

  “But you’re still putting resources into the search for him?”

  Official announcements meant nothing. It was money that mattered. If the Feds were still funding the search for Whittaker, they had to believe that he was out there somewhere.