IN ROOM 33 (20 page)

"But your Mom died in—"

"Years later. You're right." He nodded, walked to the window. His back to her, he said, "She was always fascinated with Room 33, talked about writing a book on it. No one in the family was surprised she chose it." He looked back at her. "She had a sense of humor, my mother, about everything except Lana Cole taking her husband. That, she couldn't handle."

"With all the other... ugly things that happened here, was there ever any doubt it was—" She stopped, somehow unable to say the word.

"It was suicide, all right. Her note made that clear. She said she didn't want to wake up anymore, didn't want to go on pretending she was stronger than she was."

"So she came here and—"

"Ran a tub of warm water, stepped in, and cut her wrists open." His eyes were stark. "She was missing for two days before we found her."

Joy got up from the old sofa and crossed the room to stand in front of him. She held herself very still. "And she blamed my mother?"

The pain in Wade's eyes morphed to anger. "I don't know who she blamed. There was nothing in the note, no one named specifically, just what she saw as her own failure to make my father happy. But I know that if human hearts actually do break, hers did. And she chose this room, and Stephen and Lana's first anniversary, to kill herself." Wade narrowed his gaze on her. "How I see it? When my father's weakness—coupled with his then-substantial fortune—collided with your mother's greed and selfishness, my mother didn't stand a chance. Lana played Dad with the touch of a master. If I could even once believe she gave a damn about him, maybe..." He shrugged.

"It takes two, Wade. He must have wanted it, too." It was a small defense, but all she had.

Wade jerked his head in reluctant agreement. "My mother spoke to yours once, did you know that?"

Joy's stomach lurched. "No."

"She asked Lana to leave her husband alone. Your mother laughed, said she 'never left a man alone if she could help it.' She suggested my mother get rid of the 'pig fat' she had around her middle, learn to give a decent blow job, and find herself another man."

Joy went to stand at the foot of the bed, clutched one of its tall foot posts, and held on. She didn't want to think about her mother's acid tongue and cold heart, afraid she'd retch. The bold letters spit at her. GET OUT AND STAY OUT!!! She had the fleeting notion that Wade's mother had scrawled the words from the other side.

He came up behind her, put his hands on her shoulders. "I don't usually talk about any of this. Too damn hard, I guess." He nodded to the words on the wall and his voice firmed. "If you insist on staying here, will you at least look around the hotel, take another room?"

"I could, but I don't think it would make any difference. Every one of them has walls to write on. And at least here I'm just across the hall from you. I don't feel I should cut and run. If I do that, Room 33—"

"Room 33, what?"

"Wins. Room 33 and all its rumors and old secrets wins." She took a breath. "Everything you've talked about? It's in the past. I think it should stay there."

"I can't change your mind?"

The word "yes" trembled on her lips, but she shook her head to indicate a negative, too aware of the weight and heat of his big hands sliding to the base of her neck, resting there, before massaging her nape with his thumbs.

"Then you can bet I'll keep my eye on you, Joy Cole. That okay with you?"

"Okay." She smiled, turned to look at him.

"Good." He paused. "And for what it's worth, I don't confuse you with your mother. Not anymore." He squeezed her shoulders and streams of warmth traveled down to pool in her chest. "You're much more beautiful—and honest."

She gave him as direct a look as possible, given his nearness and the disparity in their heights. "You should know that you and this room aren't the only ones with secrets. There are things you don't know about me, and like it or not, I
am
my mother's daughter. Nothing will change that." Through the gathering sensual mist in her brain, she saw that dark light—the money. He'd know then how much like her mother she was. She should tell him but... later.

She'd tell him later.

He stroked her lower lip with his thumb, studied her mouth. "Nothing will change this, either." His head came down and his lips, firm and slightly open, moved over hers. "You believe in fate, Cole?"

She couldn't breathe, let alone talk. She was suspended, waiting for his mouth to center, find hers, claim it. "Fate..." She let the word out on a slow exhale. "Never thought much about it." She shifted closer, until her breasts pressed into his chest. He was hard, taut muscle, above and below. He parted his legs to hold ground, receive her flush against him. Enfold her.

The heat—

Too sudden, and with it the reflex to hesitate, pull back, the sense she was going into perilous territory. But to say no against Wade's mouth was impossible.

She wanted him, every female sinew and nerve in her body shouted it at her with sure sexual conviction. She found her voice again. "What about you? Do you believe in fate?"

Wade caressed her skin, brushed kisses along her cheek, her jaw, her parted lips. "I do now. There's something about us together. Something inevitable." He lifted his head and his dark eyes poured heat into hers. "I like the taste of you, Miss Cole, the feel of you in my arms. And I've been wanting more of both since you"—he smiled—"hauled that sweet ass of yours into the Phil."

He took her mouth in a kiss so scorching it seared her mind, her heart—the soles of her feet.

Joy forked her fingers through his heavy hair, her heart stammering, her mouth taken—conquered—by its first contact with his tasting, probing tongue.

"Jesus..." he muttered and released his hold to look down at her. "You're like a mainline aphrodisiac." For a moment there was something close to fear in his eyes, then his gaze, heavy with desire, dropped to her lips. He shook his head, half in resignation, half in wonderment. "I think I'm fucked." A slow smile turned his lips. "In the best possible way, of course."

Lana met his eyes, tried to smile back through the sexual mist adrift in her mind. "Not yet, you're not. But hold that thought." She pulled his mouth back to where it belonged. When they parted, breathless, she said, "This—us thing—it has to happen. I want it to happen, but no promises, no illusions. Okay?"

"Sweetheart, I gave up on promises and illusions the day I went to prison." He kissed her again, a kiss of heady sensual potential. Then he lifted his head and leaned his forehead against hers. "But there's no chance I'll make love to you in this room." He stepped back. "And, much as I want it to be, it isn't going to be now."

"Places to go and people to meet?"

"Something like that."

She traced his ear with her finger. "If this is your idea of foreplay, I'm not impressed." She stood on tiptoe to kiss his ear, nibble his lobe.

"Hmm... if you want to settle for a quickie and a pat on the rump as I hustle you out of my room, it can be arranged."

She cocked her head and stepped back. "Enticing as that sounds, I'd prefer something more substantial. And I—" She hesitated, defensive but compelled to be honest with him, even though her name in this room seemed sacrilegious. "My mother called. She wants to see me. I'd only come back to make myself a quick lunch and... pick up some papers. I'm due at her house in an hour."

His eyes stilled, then he nodded. "Later, then?"

"Later." She frowned when a thought came.

"What?" He traced a line on her forehead, smoothed it with his thumb.

"I was just thinking. I've never made a date for sex before. Coffee. Lunch. Dinner and a movie. But never specifically for sex. I'm not sure how I feel about it."

"I'll buy a bottle of cheap hooch and roll out the cheese and crackers—will that help?" He tilted his head.

"More intriguing foreplay. I've found myself a master."

"Nope." He brushed a soft kiss across her lips, grinned. "More of an accomplished amateur who takes his sport very seriously."

"Ah, and modest, too. I can't wait."

They were still smiling at each other when her door, which had been ajar since Wade came in, was opened wide.

"You in there, Wade—? "Mike leered at them. Keeping one hand on the doorknob, his gaze jumped from her to Wade. He looked pleased. Joy had the feeling he'd been standing outside that door longer than he'd admit.

Joy stepped back, trapped in a kid feeling of being caught playing with something she shouldn't be. Wade didn't move at all, briefly tightened his grip on her shoulders and released her. "You know those things at the end of your arms, Mike? They're called hands. Most people use them for knocking."

When Mike continued to stare, Wade added, "What the hell do you want?"

"Sinnie sent me. She wants you to take a look at Gordy, maybe take him and Cherry to the ER. Somebody cut him in the park."

* * *

Three hours later, Wade brought Cherry and Gordy back to their room, and helped settle the wounded boy on the couch. At the hospital they'd filled out a report and talked to the police. Wade hadn't gotten the impression they planned to do much about it. The fact Gordy was cut protecting Rupert's dog from a fried-eyed crazy who wanted to use him as a football, because the dog barked at him, didn't rank high on their priority list.

"You okay, partner?" Wade asked, helping the big guy get settled on the ratty sofa in their room. The wound was a deep slash across his upper thigh, and judging from Gordy's crabby expression, the stitches hurt like hell. "Can I get you something? A soda, maybe?"

"No sugary pop," Cherry said. "I'll make him soup."

Wade figured hot soup in this weather was overkill, but he left that decision to Cherry, who bustled to the counter and started banging around with pots. "I've got to go, Gordy. You take care, okay?"

"Okay." He moved his leg, the bandages bulging under his shorts. "Melly's okay, huh? Really?"

He'd asked this same question a dozen times since the incident in the park, and every time his brow scrunched with concern. "Melly's fine. You looked after her real good. Mike took her back to Mr. Rupert."

"Melly doesn't like Mike. Who's going to walk him tonight?"

"Mike, maybe?"

Gordy's scowl deepened. "Melly doesn't like Mike," he repeated, then looked up. "You do it, Wade. You walk Melly. She likes you. Please... please."

"Okay, Gordy. I'll take care of Melly." Fate at work again. This was his chance to meet Rupert—he'd be a fool not to take it.

"You gotta be there at eight. Mr. Rupert doesn't like late people."

"Eight it is. Now rest that leg," Wade said. "You're going to have one hell of scar to show off."

Gordy smiled at that, then turned his attention to his ever-on television screen.

Wade strolled to where Cherry was stirring soup into a pan. He kissed her on the cheek, spoke quietly. "Keep your door locked tonight, sweetheart. Will you do that?"

She stopped stirring, nodded. "Yes, I will." She glanced at her son, lowered her voice. "What do you think is going on around here, Wade? Why do you think everyone is leaving?"

"I'm not sure yet. Probably just a pile of coincidences, people skipping rather than giving notice, but in the meantime, better safe than—"

"—sorry." She nodded. "I agree totally. Will you tell the others? Or do you want me to?"

"I'll make the rounds. You stay with Gordy."

"I will, thanks."

* * *

Wade walked the shadowy fifth floor hall after checking on Sinnie. He'd filled her in on Gordy's condition and gave her the same advice he'd given Cherry. For once she'd given him no argument.

In the stairwell heading to the third floor, he was obliquely aware of a lot of lights burnt out. Something else to check into.

But the thought didn't stick. The idea of fate did, and it was coming at him hard and fast. A dog, a boy, and his birthright had converged. Tonight he'd meet Christian Rupert. He had other options for raising the money, but it was possible that Rupert—if he was interested—would be the best—and quickest. It was worth a shot.

As was Joy Cole.

The thought of her wouldn't leave him alone. When he'd gone to her room earlier to tell her more tenants were gone and seen that ugly scrawl above her bed, he'd damn near lost his breakfast. Fear had clawed his guts ever since. And he was damn glad she'd left the hotel when he did—even if it was to visit her mother.

He opened the fire door to the third floor. A single light burned at the far end of the hall. The rest were black.

Lights out. Henry gone. Other rooms vacated without notice. He hated to admit it, but Sinnie was right. Something was going on around here. Someone wanted everyone out of the Phil. And those ugly words smeared across Joy's wall said she might be next on the list.

Tonight—if Wade had his way—she definitely wouldn't be sleeping in Room 33. If common sense wouldn't work, maybe sex would. And if that failed, he'd damn well chain her to his bed until he figured out what the hell was going on around here.

* * *