IN ROOM 33 (14 page)

Chapter 7

Wade walked Joy to the front entrance of the Phil. He was stewing. The idea of Joy staying in Room 33 rested in his gut like a leaky tanker in a sea of oil. But nothing either he or Sinnie said had budged her resolve. As he was discovering, Joy Cole was not easily swayed.

Joy stopped abruptly at the door. "You haven't said a thing since this—" She dangled her new room key in front of his face. "What's the problem?"

He took the key from her hand. "
This
is the problem." He copied her, lifted and dangled the key.

She grabbed it back, tossed it in her tote.

"What the hell was wrong with the room beside Mike's on four?" he asked.

She sighed one of those long-suffering, impatient sighs women were so good at. "Let's just say it's a girl thing, Wade," she said and feigned a mild shudder. "I'd rather take a cot in the basement."

"I can arrange that." His tone was caustic.

She laughed, then studied his face. "You can't possibly be afraid of that 'room of doom' thing, can you?"

"Where'd you hear about that?"

"A guy named Lars told me. When I was trying the doors yesterday, I met him outside 33." They'd arrived at the front doors. "Quite a story," she added. "On a par with being swallowed whole by a boa in South Africa or eaten by dingoes in the Australian outback. You don't buy into that kind of stuff, do you?"

Wade didn't bother to answer her. Room 33 and his opinion of it wasn't her business. He was overreacting, and why the hell should he care where the woman slept?

When he opened the door, sun speared through to temporarily blind them both—and stop the questions. Joy dug for sunglasses, put them on, and stepped outside. Wade followed. She took the first step down and turned to face him, her perfect skin sheet-pale in the brilliant sunlight. "Have we stopped talking?"

"One of us has."

She allowed a time lapse, then said, "What about the Phil? The renovations I'm thinking about? Are you going to help me run a few numbers or not?" Her eyes questioned, her chin was high, and her stance was still as stone.

Wade wanted to say no, but today's tour of old halls, shuddering pipes, and cracked plaster walls—and all the obvious potential attached to them—stopped the word behind his clenched teeth. Not that he intended to be involved.

When he didn't answer, she went on, "Then I'll find someone else. They won't have the firsthand knowledge that you have, of course. But I'll manage."

Wade didn't want her to find someone else, and the certainty of his opinion rocked him. "We'll talk tomorrow." He grimaced. "When you move in."

"I won't be moving in until next week sometime. I've got to go back to Victoria, talk to my boss, and make arrangements for some time off."

"Just as well." Wade was relieved. "It'll give me time to think things through."

"Good." She started down the street.

"And, Cole"—she looked back at him—"I hope you've got deep pockets. Any kind of workable plan for the Phil won't be cheap."

She waved, appeared totally unconcerned, and turned the corner.

Wade went back into the Phil's lobby, thoroughly pissed with himself. He hoped to hell he wasn't thinking with his dick again. God knows, Joy Cole had made that long unused part of him stand up and take notice.

But that aside—and aside was where he intended it to stay, he didn't feel good about this idea of hers, didn't feel good about it at all. The woman had no idea what she was in for.

She was dreaming—and more fool him—he was going along for the ride.

* * *

Joy walked the few blocks back to her hotel, enlivened. After studying every nook and cranny of the Philip, after being dumped on by a dust cloud, and after a day with Wade Emerson, she'd fallen in love... oh, not with Wade—despite her attraction to him, she wasn't that much of a fool—but with the Hotel Philip.

After the first hour, she no longer saw the scars and warts, she saw bright new carpets, fresh paint, polished oak, and a front desk with customers lined up to check in. It was an exciting vision and she saw herself—

She cut that line of thinking. This wasn't about her, and growing attached to the Phil or any of its tenants would only make complications. The plan was to get the hotel to generate revenue, then turn it over to a hotel management company so it would provide Lana with a respectable income, although probably not even close to the one required to support her current lifestyle. Lana might not like it, but it was a practical long-term solution. The trouble was, Joy wasn't feeling practical, she was feeling ambitious, turned on, and excited.

She picked up her pace and within minutes she was in the Marriott's smartly appointed lobby.

"Joy, I was hoping to catch you." It was David Grange. His grin was wide and friendly, but his gaze widened when he took in her dusty, disheveled condition.

"David," she said. "What brings you here?"

"I'm meeting your mother a couple of blocks away, so I thought I'd come by. Buy you a drink?"

"As you can see, I'm not in top condition." But David was, thanks to Boss and Armani. She eyed him. "Are you ever casual?"

"In the right circumstances." He reached over and flicked some dust off her shoulder. "Why don't you go up and change. I'll wait."

"Are you going to pitch me on selling you the Philip?"

He laughed. "Do you want me to?"

"No."

"Go freshen up. I'll meet you in the bar."

Joy watched him walk across the lobby. So did a few other women. That would please Lana, Joy thought, stepping into the elevator. She liked trophy males.

She showered, changed into blue slacks and a white silk blouse, knotted her hair at her nape and was downstairs in twenty minutes tops. Her one nod at vanity a brush of lipstick and a pair of gold hoops.

David rose from his seat upon sighting her. When she reached the table he pulled out her chair. "You really are very beautiful," he said from behind her. "I'd love to have met your grandmother."

"She was short, dark, her name was Francetti, and she never shaved her legs."

"You're kidding."

She gave him one of her mother's looks, slow and empty.

He grinned. "Got me."

The waiter appeared, and David raised his brows in Joy's direction. "Scotch, please. Neat," she said.

"Double that," he said.

When he turned his attention back to her, she asked, "Why are you here, David? What is it you want?"

"To get to know you better?" He sat back in his chair, casual and at ease.

"I doubt that. I think you'd like it if I caught the next bus to nowhere."

"I'm sorry if I gave you that impression."

She shrugged, noticed he didn't exactly deny it. The waiter brought their drinks. She sipped. Waited.

He sat forward in his chair, cradled his drink. "There are things you don't know about the Hotel Philip, Joy. Things you'll never know."

His expression was intense and Joy assumed he was about to launch into a list of the Phil's structural sins and shortcomings to dampen her interest in upgrading. She had the urge to quaff her Scotch and head for the exit, but if she did that, she'd fall on her face. She'd tough it out and be courteous... if her patience held. "I don't know about a lot of things, but I'm pretty good at filling in the blanks as I go along."

"Sometimes blanks are best left empty."

Joy's senses sharpened, and the bar, busy with the after-work cocktail crowd, seemed to quiet. She matched his soft tone. "I don't agree with you. Speaking for myself, I've never met an empty space I've liked."

"Your mother told me you were stubborn."

"I prefer 'tenacious' and 'determined.' Traits my mother and I share, by the way." She sipped her Scotch. "Now, what is it I should know about the Phil—in twenty words or less, please. I've had a long day." So much for courtesy.

"That you're going to sell it to me now, or you'll sell it to me later. And now would be the smart time, the safe time. Better for all concerned." He leaned back in his chair, took a drink.

The bluntness of his statement, the implied threat, made Joy pause. His words were clear enough, yet he looked oddly nervous, distinctly uncomfortable. She'd thought him a pretty boy, smooth, a bit too clever, but it seemed he was more than that. "Safe? Interesting word choice. Care to expand on it?"

He looked away for a moment as if to gather his thoughts. "Your mother is on the financial ropes," he said. "Add to that, she's very tense about your involvement in her life. I'm worried about her. Afraid she might do something drastic. If we can finalize things, it will ease her mind and be better for everyone."

Joy burned down the Scotch in one gulp—to avoid spewing it across the table. " 'Drastic?' You're not serious! You actually believe my mother would—" She couldn't finish. The idea was too insane to say aloud.

"You've been away a long time. You don't know her the way I do."

"I know her well enough to know if they gave out survivor ribbons, my mother's would be blue." She set her glass on the table and stood, angry now. "And as an effort to coerce me into selling you the Philip, David, the quiet little drink together idea was a misfire. I've told my mother, and I'll tell you—I'll do what I think best to look after her interests." She put both hands on the back of her now vacant seat and stared him down. "If that means selling the property, I'll do that, but
not
until I've explored all possibilities and done due diligence."

His face was tight. "Are you negotiating with me on price, or are you really thinking of reopening the hotel?"

"Both." She lifted her hands from the chair. "I've got a month to make my decision, and I intend to use every minute of it." She turned to go, then turned back. "Oh, and you should know I'm checking out of here in the morning. I'm going to Victoria for a few days and when I come back I'll be staying at the Philip."

Genuine alarm tightened his handsome features. "That's a bad idea. You have no idea
how
bad."

That made the third person today telling her she shouldn't stay at
her
hotel. She lifted her chin. "We'll talk in a month." She walked out.

* * *

A few days later, Christian put on a pair of white gloves and tottered across the room to his desk, where he opened the second drawer and pulled out an envelope. He went from there to stand before a large oil painting of an isolated and windswept beach. He moved it aside and opened his safe. He took out one of the stacks of bills and carefully removed twenty small bills. He put three of them in the envelope.

He heard the familiar rap on his door. The boy was punctual, he'd say that for him.

Christian let Gordy in through the door he half-opened for the purpose, calmed himself, and bent to pet Melly. "Good girl. Daddy's good girl." He looked at the man-child who was smiling at Melly. "Where did you take her today, Gordy?"

"We went with Sinnie to that clinic place. It was a long way." Gordy's eyes widened with his smile. "Melly was real good." He patted the dog's soft head.

Christian went back to his chair. He was so stiff. He told himself he needed to walk more, but he never did. Even his beloved terrace had become too intimidating. Who knew what the winds would deposit there? "Is Sinnie sick, Gordy? Is that why you went to the clinic?" Christian liked to keep tabs on Sinnie. She'd cleaned his home for years, but she seldom spoke to him. Not that he was bothered by that. He enjoyed her silence, considered it a benefit of her distaste of him.

"No. Not sick. She said she needed a paper to get more medicine for her cranky old joints." He chewed on his upper lip. "A prescr..." He trailed off.

Christian smiled. Gordy was so amusing. "A prescription. She needed a prescription."

"Yeah, that's it."

Christian rested his head back, suddenly tired and bored with Sinnie's cranky joints. "Get your money, boy. It's where it always is."

"Thanks."

Christian heard him rustle around, watched from under hooded eyes until satisfied with the count. "Come back this afternoon at two." He let his eyelids again drift to a close.