IN ROOM 33 (10 page)

David stared at him as if he didn't understand—or wouldn't. He exhaled sharply.

Christian watched him. He enjoyed those moments when a man's self-interest collided with his conscience. Such fun.

David stood in the center of the large room, empty brandy glass in hand, his face a map of distaste and loathing. "Did I hear you right? Did you just tell me to
kill Joy
Cole."

"I simply gave you a plan B. I'm certain a man with your looks and charm can convince a 'pretty girl'—if that halfwit man-child's description is to be believed—into doing things your way. You've done so well with the mother."

"A mother who'd kill me if she caught me sniffing around her daughter."

"Afraid of a woman." Christian's thin lips twisted up. "How droll." He took the smile off his face. "But hear this, and hear it well. You'll do what has to be done to get me this hotel. The time is now. This place would have been mine years ago if not for that worthless Stephen's promise to his thieving father to keep the Philip in the family at all costs."
And never sell it to me.
Christian's voice rose and his stomach tensed as it always did when he thought of the injustice done him. "I didn't encourage you to become part of Stephen's—and his harlot wife's—life for your sexual pleasure—"

"'Encourage?'" David echoed with a snort. "That's a good one."

Christian ignored him, went on, "You were there to provide me with information and results. So hear me well—I won't have the Hotel Philip slip through my hands. You will do whatever it takes—copulation or mayhem—to secure it for me. Do you understand?"

David glanced away briefly. "I'll need time."

"Look at me, you fool! Do I look as if I have time?" Christian dug his fingers into the chair arms, stemmed his unhealthy agitation, and lowered his voice. He was displeased with David's reluctance. Very displeased. "Just do your job. Get that girl's signature on the sale agreement."

"Or?"

"Kill her." Impatient with his evasions, his refusal to obey, Christian shifted his gaze to the terrace. "Do we understand one another?"

David crashed his glass down on the top of the liquor cabinet and headed for the door.

Christian saw his chest heave with the effort not to throttle him. Of course, he wouldn't. Christian's mouth contorted to a sneer. Men. So predictable—if you handled them deftly. As he always had.

At the door, David stopped. "You're a viper, Christian. The most cold-blooded son of a bitch I've ever met. It must have been a slow day in Hades when they welded you together, because they did a first-rate job. From hell's point of view, you're fucking perfect." He opened the door wide, held it a moment, and stepped out.

Christian's ancient heart found its rhythm a few minutes after the door closed. David was becoming tiresome, not as malleable as he once was. The thought didn't please him. He hoped he wasn't developing a conscience at this stage in the game. Not that it mattered. The Cole girl must be dealt with quickly.

* * *

The heat of Lana's embarrassment crawled up her neck, flamed in her cheeks. "You're sure?" she asked the sales clerk.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Emerson, but I've tried it three times." The woman's face had to be a mirror image of her own, a pale shade of fuchsia. "I can try again... or you could call. I'm certain there's a mistake."

"Yes, but no matter. I have other cards. I just don't have any with me. Please hold the clothes." She took her hand from the large plastic bag on the counter of the exclusive shop. "I'll come back for them tomorrow."

The woman put the bag behind the counter, smiled. "Happy to. As I said, it's probably a computer mix-up. These things happen all the time."

Not to me.
"I'm sure that's it." Lana took the useless credit card the woman handed her and put it in her bag. "Tomorrow, then." She walked out of the store, careful to walk slowly and keep her head high. A few minutes later, she went into one of the zillion coffee shops that decorated every corner of Seattle. She bought herself bottled water and took a seat.

She was broke. And she was dependent on her daughter to change that. The bill for those summer tees was less than five hundred dollars—
a measly five hundred dollars!-
—and she couldn't afford them. There was David, of course. She could go to him, ask for money; he
had
said he'd take care of her.

She thought about this, but decided it would be a bad move. It was too soon after Stephen's death to appear desperate, and if she handled her money problem badly it could ruin things. She'd appear weak, needy, perhaps even grasping—traits that frightened men off faster than bad sex. No, she had to wait for him to offer the money,
insist
she take it.

Last night, when he'd called, he'd been edgy—angry again—because Joy hadn't committed to selling the Philip. Adding her money problems into the mix would increase his stress level, perhaps turn his anger toward her. The smart thing to do was to be supportive, get in his corner—and start handling her damn daughter.

She glanced out the window, saw the top of the Marriott. The hotel wasn't more than a couple of blocks away. Lana stared at it a long time, slowly sipped her water, and tapped her polished nails on the table. Finally, she rose and picked up her bag.

Stephen had asked Joy to take care of her, and, having considered her other options, Lana had no choice. She would ask Joy for money.

As she walked up the street toward the hotel, Lana's dearest wish was that Stephen were still alive—so she could kill him herself.

Chapter 5

Joy opened her door and stood back, amazed. "Lana... I mean, Mother! What are you doing here?"

"Visiting. May I come in?"

Joy stepped aside, and as usual when she was in the same room with her mother, her stomach muscles tensed. "I just got back from meeting Stephen's lawyer. It seems even wills need to have paperwork and X's in all the right spots."

"It's done, then?"

Joy nodded. "I was just having coffee. Would you like some?"

"No, thanks." Lana walked into the luxurious hotel suite and looked around. "Nice. There must be more money in travel writing than I thought—either that or you're already into that hundred grand."

Joy looked away, clamped down on her temper. "Like I said, it's comped. Sometimes I get lucky."

"Obviously." Lana strolled over to the window, looked out and down onto the busy street below. It was close to noon, and the lunch crowds were already rushing the crosswalks. She turned back to Joy. "I need some money."

Her wide-set eyes rested on Joy like drugged butterflies, bright, pretty, expressionless.

The taut muscles in Joy's stomach eased off. She'd expected this, just not so soon. "How much?"

"You could give me the hundred thousand."

"I could, but I won't."

"It's mine. Stephen meant for you to give it to me."

"He meant for me to
take care
of you—financially. And he left it up to me to decide how best to do it. That's going to take a few days. In the meantime, how much money do you need to get through the next month?"

"Forty thousand."

Joy's breath caught and then she laughed. It was the only logical response. "I said a
month."
She shook her head. Some things—like her mother's spending habits—never changed. "I'll make your mortgage payment and give you ten. That should put a few cans of soup in the cupboard." Joy got her checkbook from her briefcase, wrote out the check, and handed it to Lana.

Lana took it, barely glancing at the numbers on it. "This isn't going to work, you know. Me coming to you for handouts."

"It's going to have to. For now, at least. Trust me, I don't like it any more than you do."

Lana slipped the check into her bag. "You toured the Philip yesterday. What did you think?"

"I think it might have... potential. "Joy hadn't meant to say it aloud, particularly to her mother. She wasn't even sure it was the truth. But after touring the hotel yesterday and listening to David's pitch, she'd decided to keep her options open. Temporarily, at least.

"You're not thinking of keeping it! You can't be." Shock tightened Lana's mouth.

"Relax, will you? I said I was 'thinking.' The place is a dump, you know that, but I'd be stupid not to look at all possibilities."

"I'm stunned. Out of my shoes stunned. You'd consider turning down David's generous offer, so you can run a seedy old hotel in one of the worst parts of Seattle. That's the stupidest thing I ever heard."

Joy's patience thinned dangerously. "And what makes you so sure Grange's offer is all that generous?"

Lana's eyes narrowed. "This isn't entirely about money, is it? What you really want to do is get back at me for your father—" She stopped abruptly.

"The smart thing," Joy said, her words as icy and tight as the coil curving around her heart, "is for us not to go there. The smart thing is for us to get on with our lives—which means me figuring out your financial mess as intelligently as I can, so you and I can call it quits on this pretense of a relationship once and for all."

"You're an unforgiving little bitch, Joy. Did you know that?"

Joy concentrated on breathing, didn't respond.

Lana's gaze rested on her, as still as snow on a mountaintop. "And if ending our 'relationship' is what you truly want, the quickest way to accomplish it is to sell that stupid hotel and give me the money."

"No doubt you're right, but for now, I've decided to be the 'practical person' Stephen expected me to be and take time to think things through." She nodded at the check in Lana's hand. "What you've got there"—Joy nodded toward Lana's bag—"is it for now, so I'd suggest you make it last."

Lana, after giving her a frigid glare, walked toward the door. Once there, she swung back. "I'll have to talk to David, tell him you're taking some time."

"He knows. He called this morning. I told him the same thing I told you—that I'm thinking things through. He wasn't thrilled at the news."

"That property is important to David. He has time constraints, and his partners are getting anxious. He has reason to be disappointed." She raised a brow, the gesture only mildly impatient. "How long will this 'thinking' of yours take?"

"A month?"

"Then you'll come to dinner four weeks from today. I'm asking you not to make a final decision—
or any commitments whatsoever
—until David and I have a chance to present our case. Do we understand one another?"

Trapped, Joy nodded again. "Fair enough."

When the door closed behind Lana, Joy walked to the bedroom, stripped off her clothes, and stepped into the shower. She put having dinner with her mother and David in the same category as a full body peel followed by a salt rubdown.

She lifted her face to the cascade of water coming from the showerhead and wondered, not for the first time, what the hell she was doing.

She had less than an hour before she met Wade at the hotel. Maybe it was just a whim, and maybe she'd learn nothing to help with her decision-making, but a half-hour or so without David's ambition and her mother's greed and impatience would be a blessed relief.

No doubt selling the hotel to David Grange provided her the quickest exit—if she could trust him and his offer. But she didn't. She needed an outside opinion and an independent evaluation. And she intended to get them.

One thing was sadly obvious: the buffer—a solid framework of time and miles—she'd built between her and her mother had crumbled within seconds of their being in the same room.

She stepped out of the shower and toweled off.

But this wasn't
all
about Lana and their miserable relationship. There was something else.

Yesterday in the Philip, when her initial shock at the condition of the hotel had worn off, and after she'd gotten rid of David, she'd spent more time in the lobby.

The images remained.

Scarred oak floors, cracked and broken windows, stained marble too many years from its Italian quarry, decorative plaster moldings, once set so meticulously in the joint between floor and wall, now shrunken and split.