IN ROOM 33 (41 page)

She hesitated, then said, "And my mother? Her support from the Phil? Nothing's changed there."

"Everything's changed there, Joy. First, she saved your life and she has my eternal gratitude for that"—he smiled thinly—"although I'd prefer you didn't advise her of that fact."

"I agree." She smiled back, hers eyes soft, but accompanied by a raised brow and knowing look. "And the second thing?"

Wade's stomach tightened, then released. "Rupert is the second thing. That man carried a load of hate through life that crippled him, destroyed everyone around him." He took her hand in his, squeezed it. "I saw a lot of myself in him, and it wasn't pretty.

"And there's one other thing." He lifted her hand to his mouth. "No more Room 33. No more room anything unless I'm in it. Do we understand each other?" He kissed her knuckles, watched her face.

"Sounds like an order to me."

"Yes, it is."

She smiled then, the darkness leaving her eyes. "But as orders go? One I can definitely live with."

Epilogue

Eight months later

Joy cupped her hands over her ears, sighed out the last of her patience. The racket from the floor below made her head hurt and the floor tremble. "How much longer, Wade?"

"Two weeks max. We'll open on schedule." He kept his attention on the penthouse window he'd struggled to open for the last ten minutes. He cursed. "This thing must have seized up fifty years ago. I need a crowbar—probably break the damn thing."

The saws—or whatever weapons the construction crew was using to assault the Phil—stopped abruptly.

The silence was magnificent. And Joy immediately found a better use for her hands.

She wrapped her arms around Wade's waist, nuzzled the warm spot between his shoulder blades, and tucked her fingertips under the front of his tool belt. "You don't have to do that, you know. You could ask one of the carpenters to come up." She massaged him under the belt, slipped a hand lower.

He caught it and turned to look down at her. "I don't want anyone up here but us." He kissed her palm, pulled her as close as his tool belt allowed. "Then I can have my way with you any time it looks... convenient." He brushed his lips across her forehead, her cheek, finally taking her mouth, deeply, sensuously.

When he lifted his head to smile at her, she sighed again. But this sigh had nothing to do with patience and everything to do with either releasing some of the happiness ballooning inside her or bursting from it.

"Can I finish fixing our window now?" His lips quirked.

She laughed. "Go for it, tool man."

She hesitated then, not wanting to change the mood, but knew it was unavoidable. "I saw my mother yesterday to give her the monthly check. She was on her way to see David. She says his trial starts in three weeks."

Wade looked over his shoulder, frowned. "You know, I don't get it. The guy tried to kill you—her only daughter. That, plus the fact he planted a body"—he turned, pointed to the terrace—"out there, means he's going away for a very long time. And she's sticking by him..." He shook his head.

"When he's sentenced, she wants to buy a condo near whatever prison they send him to." Lana, obsessed with David's situation, had accepted his story. He'd never intended to kill the girl. It had been a horrible, tragic mistake that he'd paid for every day since. He'd been drunk, she'd led him on; then, when she wanted to stop, he'd gotten mad. Too mad. His memories stopped there, started again with him banging on Rupert's door, then his taking charge, telling David what to do. Everything, Lana rationalized, was Christian Rupert's fault, including David's botched attempt to kill Joy. Her mother was as confounding as ever.

"You're kidding."

"She asked me for the money, Wade." Joy held her breath. "It's extra, I know, and it might be hard right now with all the renovation expenses."

"We'll do it, if it's what you want." Wade put his arms around her.

She nodded.

"Done." He kissed her, tightened his grip.

She never wanted to leave the circle of his arms, wanted him to hold her forever. "But what I really want is to live happily ever after in this beautiful penthouse with you."

"Happily ever after, huh?"

"Uh-huh."

He thought a second, then smiled. "Done."

The End

Page forward for an excerpt from EC Sheedy's

A Perfect Evil

Excerpt from

A Perfect Evil

by

E.C. Sheedy

It was past four in the morning when Hannah heard him, his voice a cracked whisper, his words labored, urgent Heart pounding, she abandoned her book, threw back the covers, and reached for her robe in one reflexive motion.

The bedside lamp cast a garish pool of light over a chrome hospital bed sitting stage center in the luxurious room. The man in the bed lay sprawled over its bunched linens as if the effort to reach the intercom had been his last. His hand still rested on the call button. Pungent antiseptic clashed with the lingering fragrance of the sandalwood he'd burned every evening for as long as she'd lived with him. A task that in the past six months had become hers.

Hannah hurried toward him, her bare feet stepping from hardwood to carpet without registering the difference.

"Milo, what is it?" She lifted his hand, rested it on his chest and caressed his sunken cheek.
Not cold. Not yet.
"It's Hannah, Milo. Can you hear me?"

His eyelids slid open, and his eyes slowly focused on her. Relief flooded through her, but ebbed quickly when she saw the depth of his suffering.

"Hannah," he mumbled. "I'm going."

"No." She shook her head, held his dull gaze, willed him to hang on. No, you can't go. I won't let you. Not now. Not ever. "No," she said again, with more conviction than she felt. She would hold him here. She had to. He was her life—her linchpin.

"You're in pain," she said. "I'll get you something." She righted his bedding, smoothing the linens with trembling hands before reaching for his pills.

He grasped her arm with surprising strength, dug his nails into her flesh. "No. No pills," he said, his lips compressing against the pain. "The drawer. Open the drawer." He made a weak gesture with his head toward the opposite wall, where a George III bureau sat beside a window draped in blue velvet. His grip slackened.

She knew the drawer he wanted open. Years ago she'd sold him the bureau when—

Not now. Don't think of that now.

"Please," he urged. "There's no more time. I should have done this sooner, but I was...weak." The words rattled in his throat. The last coins in the bank, few and precious.

"I'll do it, Milo. Rest now." She stroked the hair back from his forehead, then crossed the room to the bureau.

The eighteenth-century piece had a base comprised of three drawers, a drop-front desk area with a series of cubbyholes, and a glass-fronted bookcase on top. She pressed her index finger on a rose carved into the molding at the base of the bookcase, then tugged to open a narrow drawer. Inside were three sealed and numbered envelopes, one thicker than the others. She'd never seen them before. She carried them back to his bedside. Closer to the light, she saw that two of the envelopes had her name on them. The other was unmarked; Milo gave her no time to wonder about any of them.

On sight of the envelopes, he drew in a ragged breath and fixed his gaze on them. The pain in his eyes deepened to beyond the physical, gave way to fear when he took the letters from her hand to crush them against his chest.

"Water, please," he murmured.

A water glass with a bent straw sat by his bedside. She put the straw to his lips and held his head as he sipped. "I'm calling the doctor."

"Too late." He inhaled as deeply as his ruined lungs allowed and stroked the envelopes, as though to ensure himself they were still there. "You know I... love you, Hannah," he whispered.

She didn't answer, didn't know what to say. Was love their bond? Or was it merely an accommodation—two isolated souls sharing the same shadowy, secluded place giving small comfort to one another. But when she thought of his leaving, her brittle spirit quivered with hurt. Yes. She did love him as much as her shriveled heart allowed. He was her protector, her guardian angel, and she'd entrusted him with what was left of her life. She wouldn't know how to live without him.