IN ROOM 33 (11 page)

The Philip was a wreck, nothing but a faded, dusty ruin basking in the scent of clean, fresh pine.

On the fourth floor, she'd stopped at a door with a shiny new brass doorknob; it radiated like a small sun in the dark, depressing hall. When she'd run a finger over it, she'd gotten a lump in her throat as big as a lemon.

Why a brass doorknob made her think about her father, she couldn't imagine. But it had. Painfully so. And she'd remembered those times he'd let her come into his garage workshop, helped her build magical, foolish kid things. How they'd laugh together...

Alone in the halls, her heart—territory she'd barricaded off and guarded fiercely for years—had raced, whirred in her chest as if it were one of those windup toys a parent gives a two-year-old for Christmas.

Then there'd been the snippet of overheard conversation, the woman saying, "yours by right, Wade Emerson, your legacy... in your blood."

The words stuck in her mind, sharp pins tipped in regret. Joy Cole, so cool, so quick-lipped and reluctant to connect, and always on the move, had lived thirty years and could honestly say nothing was "in her blood" except the required red and white cells.

By right, the Phil should have gone to Wade, and it angered her that Stephen's insane request had embroiled her as much in his life as it had in Lana's. It made her feel guilty.

She took a few breaths and told herself there was nothing she could do about that. What was...
was.
Her odd reaction to the hotel, to seeing Wade again, her surging memories of her father, her nomadic, chilly life—none of it mattered.

All that mattered was the care and feeding of Lana Emerson—and doing the right thing.

Today she'd inspect every last inch of the decrepit hotel. It was time she and
Phil
really got to know each other, and she couldn't have a better person than Wade to introduce them.

She went to the closet. She'd already laid out a pair of khaki slacks and a silk shirt, but was suddenly indecisive. Maybe jeans and a tee would be more appropriate.

What the hell did a woman wear to tour a dilapidated building with a financial genius? And ex-convict.

* * *

Christian told Mike to sit down. The big man obeyed, folding his hands together between his knees. He looked nervous. Christian liked that.

"Well, Michael, have you thought about my offer?"

Mike nodded.

"You understand what I want."

"Yeah, you want me to do the gardening, like I have been doing, and keep an eye on things, let you know what's goin' on in the Phil." Big Mike nodded his head. "I can do that."

"And keep quiet about it? That's critical."

"Sure, no one here worth talkin' to anyway."

Christian picked up the remote control from his side table, turned down the volume on the sound system. He needed to be heard—and, more important—understood. "You'll have to quit your other job immediately. I need you here, eyes and ears open all the time. You understand that?"

"No problem."

Christian stared at his newest recruit, watched him carefully. He hadn't planned to promote him so early, but his choices were limited. "I'm told there was trouble in Room 33 the other night. Did you have anything to do with that?"

"A couple of kids got in, using the outside fire escape. I rousted 'em."

"Ah." He could see by Mike's proud expression how much he'd enjoyed the incident. A good sign. "You didn't hurt them, did you?"

Mike dropped his eyes as if he weren't sure what Christian wanted to hear. "Not too much," he mumbled.

"Just as well, all things considered." While he would have enjoyed seeing 33 come to life—or death—again, things were unsettled. Police nosing around would be inconvenient.

"Huh?" Mike said, obviously confused by his response.

Christian ignored him. He was big and stupid, which disappointed him. But he was still useful. He went on, "Gordy tells me there was company in the hotel yesterday. A man and a girl. A pretty girl, he said."

"He got that right."

"He said the girl stayed after the man left. Is that so?"

"Yeah, she walked around by herself for a time, then went to Wade's room."

Christian's heart jumped, and he took a second of silence to calm himself. "And what went on there?"

"Not much."

Christian raised a brow. " 'Not much' isn't the type of answer I'm paying for."

Mike frowned, appeared to think a moment. "Wade didn't seem happy about her showing up. That's for sure. Sinnie was, though."

"Sinnie was there?" Unpleasant news.

"She was raggin' on Wade about his grandpa and all. About how he should own the Phil. How he should get off his butt and do something about it. He pretty much ignored her. Like everybody." He shrugged. "Sinnie's always goin' on about somethin'."

"Is she?" To calm himself, Christian turned up the volume for a moment, enjoyed a particularly fine movement in Bach's Concerto in C Minor.
Dear, dear, Sinnie. Will you never learn to do as you're told and mind your own business?

"And the girl?" he asked finally. "What did she want from Mr. Emerson?"

"Wanted him to show her around. Lucky bastard. Said she'd come back tomorrow." He hesitated. "That'd be today, around noon."

"This girl, Michael. Just how pretty is she?"

He rubbed his crotch, grinned broadly. "Prime booty, Mr. Rupert. A man could sink his dick in that and just fuckin' leave it there."

Christian's stomach heaved, but he kept his voice modulated. "There's no need to be tasteless. And you should know I abhor foul language."

The smile dropped off Mike's face.

"Now, if you'll be good enough to sweep off my terrace and water my trees, I'll have an envelope ready for you when you're done."

Mike stood, gaped down at him, but didn't move.

Christian waved a hand, the gesture short and impatient. "The terrace, man. Do my terrace. And be sure and close the door behind you." Christian couldn't wait to get rid of him. Money bought all kinds of things, all kinds of people. The trouble was, they were all of the most repellent ilk.

He watched Mike through the window as he swept, watered, and hand-weeded his planters.

Christian's mind went back to the "prime booty" the man had so grossly described. Women, as a sex, had never held his interest, but Christian understood the dangerous thrust and pull of sexual attraction. Respected its power.

And more than anything, he feared it.

The risk of such an attraction between Wade Emerson and Joy Cole, the current owner of the Hotel Philip—his hotel—was not one he would tolerate.

* * *

Wade stood in the Philip's lobby and glanced at his watch. She was five minutes late; he'd give her ten.

When his watch told him fifteen, he moved to go, but stopped when the hotel's one good door thrust open. The other was nailed shut in the interests of safety. Joy Cole breezed in, wearing jeans and a navy blue tee. She looked hot and hassled as she stepped briskly to him.

"A lot of foot traffic in this town. I misjudged the walking time." Her smile was brief, unapologetic, and she offered him her hand. "Thanks for waiting."

He took the outstretched hand. Small bones. Soft skin. Firm grip. He gave it back and looked down into her keen, bright eyes. Hard to believe the sour-faced twelve-year old had turned out this good. "You look thirsty. It's hot out there. Let's go." He took her arm and walked her back toward the door.

When he pushed the door open, she protested. "I thought we were doing a tour of the hotel, not the neighborhood."

"Good idea to have a look at both."

"I guess." She stepped out in front of him.

Wade closed the door behind them, and he couldn't not pick up the pop can and fast food wrappers someone had stashed in the entranceway. He dropped them in the trash can a few feet from the door.

He knew she watched him, but she didn't say a word.

"Where are we going?"

"There's a coffee shop up the street. I could use one." He looked at her. "And you could use... what? A Perrier. Evian?"

She smiled slightly, pushed a long strand of hair behind her ear. "Something like that."

When they were settled, him with his dark roasted coffee, her with her bottled water, he said, "So, little Joy inherited the Philip." He drank some coffee, studied her.

She didn't flinch. "That's what the will says."

"You happy about that?"

"A Marriott or Ritz would've been better."

He laughed. She didn't.

Her gaze turned curious. "Aren't you angry?"

"About what?"

"About how things worked out. Your dad, my mother. Now this hotel thing." She turned her bottle so the label faced her, then away again, not taking her eyes from his. "You must be bitter."

"Now there's a word." He appeared to consider it. "But no, not bitter."

"What, then?"

"Surprised my father didn't leave it to Lana." Hell, he'd given her everything else she wanted and disposed of what she didn't. Like his mother.

"Not as surprised as I was." She hesitated, looked uneasy. "You didn't go to Stephen's funeral."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Ever try beating around the bush?" It surprised him how comfortable he was with her, which was damn stupid, considering her genes.

Her lips quirked up. "Not my style."

She added nothing, waited for his answer with the patience of a heron dining at the seashore. He took a breath. "I figured your mother would be there." He drew his lips to a tight seal. Enough said. Too much said. Nobody needed to know it, but he had visited his father's grave that day—after everyone had gone. He'd touched the fresh earth, said what passed for a prayer... something about how he wished things hadn't turned out as they did, how he hoped things were okay on the other side. It was the best he could do. He wasn't much good in the forgive and forget department.

"You don't like my mother." Joy's tone was even, the words calmly said.

"As an understatement, that'll work." He drained his coffee. In Wade's opinion, Lana Cole was an A-list predator and the most narcissistic, opportunistic woman he'd ever met. She cared about two things, sex and money. And she'd do anything to get all she could of both. He didn't see the need to share his opinion with her only daughter.

"I guess you've heard about how it takes two to break up a marriage," she said.

"Yeah, I picked up on that."

"But you don't believe it?"

"I believe there are people who know how to capitalize on the weaknesses of others and don't hesitate to do it to get what they want."

"And you think my mother is one of them."

He said nothing, had already said far more than he intended.

For a moment it looked as if she were going to launch a defense, then she said, "Your opinion. Everyone's entitled to one."

He shoved his empty coffee mug away from him. "So how about that tour you were so hot on?" He eyed the full bottle of water in front of her. "You can take that with you." When he started to get up, she put a hand on his arm. The warmth of it stilled him.

"Do I take that as a change of subject?"

"I'm not much for history."

"Fair enough, but there's something you should know before you show me the Philip."

"Go on."

"I've had an offer on it. That man I was with yesterday? He wants to buy it."

"And?"

"Then he wants to bring in a wrecking ball. Take it down. The money's in the land, he says."

It was the inevitable end for the Philip; Wade knew that. What pissed him off was her words slammed into his stomach as if they were the damned wrecking ball she alluded to and left a queer throbbing in its wake. "Probably the smart thing to do," he said, his voice as flat as his gut reaction allowed. "Good bucks for you, I'd figure."

She frowned at him, her expression puzzled. "That's it? That's all you feel?"

"There's not much point in my feeling anything."

She studied him as if he were a science project and she an A+ student. "I don't think I believe you."

He recognized that unwavering gaze. Although deeper and more intense, it was exactly like her mother's, and it irritated the hell out of him. "Look, the jaunt back to yesteryear was fun, but I've got work to do. So, how about we head back to the Phil, I give you your tour, my two bits' worth of opinion, and we part company."

He might as well have not spoken; she didn't move. "Do you remember the last time we saw each other? I was twelve, you were maybe eighteen? Your grandfather had died the year before—I remember you telling me that. I remember how sad it made you look, and how the sadness lifted when you talked about the hotel, how your granddad had built it, how it almost ruined him, but he'd succeeded despite the biggest depression the country had ever seen. You were so proud..." Her voice trailed off. "Anyone could see how much he meant to you, how you felt about his work."