IN ROOM 33 (24 page)

"He didn't pay you back?" Wade didn't buy it. His grandfather was a scrupulously ethical businessman—with an intense distaste for debt. This crap from Rupert made no sense.

Christian shot him a look of pure loathing but didn't answer. "Get out and don't come back here, Wade Emerson. I let you in to satisfy my curiosity. I've done that. Now get off my property. Better yet, leave this hotel. You have no rights here. No rights at all!" His breathing flattened to the point of disappearing. Still his ancient eyes were fixed on him, dark with a hatred nurtured for more than half a century.

Wade, the hotshot in a thousand go-for-the-jugular business meetings, recent graduate of Prison U, and a world-class hater himself when it came to the blue-eyed blonde who'd torn his family apart, did not know what to say to this sick old man. Rupert was so small and frail, he'd have a heart attack if he poked him with his finger. "I take it you don't want me to walk your dog."

Christian's head came up at that."You're a cool one, aren't you? Just like Joseph."

"Better like him than you, Rupert." Wade had had enough. "But you'll be disappointed to know I won't be leaving the Phil anytime soon. I intend to buy it."

Rupert looked unfazed, amused. "That takes money, boy. Something you don't have and won't get." He paused. "Most people don't like doing business with jailbirds."

Wade studied him with new respect. "You really keep up on things from this aerie of yours, don't you?"

"I keep advised of what affects my interests, yes."

Did he mean Joy? Wade's mind started to race, a slab of dread laying in across his lungs. "Mind telling me what exactly those 'interests' are?"

"The one most critical to me is that an Emerson never again owns the Hotel Philip." Rupert's face flattened to the dull matte of a cracked plaster mask. "As to the rest, they are no business of yours. Now, I'd appreciate your leaving my home and never coming back. You're the last Emerson I ever want to see."

Wade looked down on him, shook his head. Obviously there was no shelf date on hatred. "Grandfather was right."

"Really—about what?"

"You are a mean old bastard."

Rupert laughed harshly. "It came to that, did it? That's what he thought of me." He said the last to himself, before nodding toward the door with a tired lift of his head. "Good-bye, Mr. Emerson."

Wade took the fire stairs down, but it wasn't until the third floor that it occurred to him—his plan for buying the Philip had been knocked sideways. Whatever happened between Joe and Rupert had obviously been damn bad, fueling hatred powerful enough to last over half a century.

He thought of his own feelings about his father—Lana—grew uncomfortable when he realized how long he'd been carrying his own load of disapproval and loathing.

He tried to force his mind back to his goal, ownership of the Hotel Philip—and money. But his thoughts refused to think of anything or anyone except Joy.

He'd bet she was one of those "interests" Rupert kept his beady eye on. And he'd also bet Christian Rupert was a dangerous man.

No way did he keep that level of malice contained in his penthouse. This was a man who would act on his instincts—or get someone to do it for him.

Wade opened the fire door to the third floor.

But it was unlikely Rupert was behind the threat on Joy's wall. Hell, he had to be elated that someone other than an Emerson owned the hotel.

No, Joy was no threat to Rupert or his "home." The only thing he needed to worry about was a wrecking crew with a load of dynamite, not a woman who wanted to renovate and run the hotel—which meant honoring his right to the penthouse.

Which took him back to the question. Who the hell had written on Joy's wall?

* * *

Joy stripped to her panties and bra and headed for her bathroom. She turned on the water to run a bath and unclipped the clasp of her bra. She wanted a bath badly, desperate to wash away the confusion and pain of the afternoon with her mother.

She stared at the tub, chilled suddenly when another mother came to mind.

Wade's mother had chosen to die in this bathtub. Joy watched the water rise, the steam paint itself on the mirror over the old pedestal sink, felt the humidity thicken in the confined space, and tried to rein in her too-vivid imagination and unsettled emotions.

She reminded herself the suicide was many years ago, that she'd been using the tub for days already; but all her logical thoughts didn't work. Today, knowing what she knew, the idea of taking a bath in it seemed disrespectful, faintly ominous.

She sat on the edge of the tub, bra dangling from her hand, and turned the water off.

She heard a knock on her door, and glad for the interruption, donned her cotton robe and went to answer it.

It was Wade, carrying a box of crackers, cheese, and a bottle of red wine.

He cocked his head. "You want to spoil all my fun?"

"Huh?"

He smiled, reached out, and touched the lacy bra dangling in her hand. "Don't you know how much a man likes taking these things off?"

She was suddenly very glad he was here. And when he leaned down to brush a soft, too-brief kiss across her mouth, she smiled back. "I was going to take a bath, but—" she stopped, not knowing how to finish.

He glanced behind her, and his expression darkened briefly before he smiled again. "Come over to my place. You can use my bathroom"—he lifted the wine and cheese he held in his hands—"while I cook."

"If opening a box of crackers is your idea of cooking, we could be in trouble."

"We can go out for dinner first, if that's what you want. Or we can subsist on wine, cheese, and sex for a couple of hours and then eat. Your choice." A half-smile.

"Let me see... sex first—or romance. Tough call." She joked, while her stomach tightened and her legs quivered. Between those legs, a small pulse throbbed and constricted.

"Not for me, Cole. I've been feeling romantic for days now. I figured you already picked up on that." He kissed her again. With his hands full, it was lips only, mouth to mouth, breath to breath. It was tenuous, so fleeting it made her ache for more. Wade put his mouth to her ear, whispered, "But when a woman dangles a frothy bit of bra in front of a man, he tends to fast-forward things." He walked across the hall, looked back when he got to his door. "When you've decided the order of things, just knock."

Before he disappeared, she called out, "Wade."

He turned.

"Run a bath for me, will you?"

He tilted his head, grinned. "You're my kind of woman, Joy Cole," he said, then disappeared behind his door.

They had a date, to make love, with no preliminaries, no requirements—unless you counted cheese and crackers—and she was happier than she'd been in weeks.

The thought occurred to her that having Wade Emerson to look forward to at the end of a bad day would be like waking up to a Christmas tree every morning.

Joy went back to her own bathroom and drained the tub.

Two minutes later she opened Wade's door.

Chapter 12

When Joy walked in, Wade was leaning against the counter, arms crossed. His gaze slid over her, from naked toes, belted midsection, to uncombed hair. His smile was gorgeous, seductive—and oddly terrifying in the effect it had on her already unsteady nerves.

He made no move toward her.

Anticipation was the only sound in the room.

She closed the door, pressed her back against it, and kept both hands behind her.

Years of being on her own, the constant travel to exotic and not-so-exotic places, and more than the average number of lovers taken for expediency and sexual gratification, had made her self-sufficient, sure of herself, and too damned
liberated
for her own good. Independence was good. So was confidence—but the sexual test runs? She could neither name nor count her gains from them. Unless cynicism and a growing loneliness were defined as bonuses.

She was no timid virgin and had long ago given up the games surrounding sex, concluded its sole value was physical release. You didn't need hearts and flowers to get there. On a cold, forsaken night in Moscow, you didn't even need a man.

But here, now, under Wade's level, burning gaze, she wilted as if untried, sexually naive, as if what was about to happen between them was of... consequence, vital in a way nothing had been before.

As if Wade were her first man—or her last.

He crossed the room and pulled her hand from behind her. What he did next surprised her and set wings aflutter low in her belly. He raised her hand to his mouth and kissed her palm. "I'm glad you're here," he said.

"Me, too," she muttered and meant it with all her befuddled heart, now wild and crazy in her chest.

"This way." He tugged her toward his bathroom. Once there, he let go of her hand, knelt on one knee, and turned on the old chrome taps. To test the water temperature, he let the water pool and flow over his open palm. "Do you like it hot or tepid?" he asked, running his other hand up from her ankle to the back of her knee.

"Hot," she said, and knew neither of them was talking about water temperatures. Her concentration focused on Wade's caressing hand, the strings it pulled as if by magic in the nether recesses of her body.

He stood. "Me, too. The hotter the better." He gave her a potent sideways glance. "I'll leave this for you to finish. Towels are there." He nodded to a shelf over the tub. "Red or white?"

She looked at him, her mind a blank.

"Wine. Merlot or chardonnay?"

"The chardonnay, thanks."

"You got it." He strode to the door, glanced back at her. "And you've got your privacy. Yell if you need anything." Hand on doorknob, he grinned."But you should know I majored in back scrubs." He closed the door behind him.

Joy dropped her robe and stepped into the tub. When it was full enough, she turned off the noisy, complaining taps and sank under the water to drench her hair. Her own temperature was so high, the hot water felt as cool as a morning lagoon. She stayed underwater until she needed air and popped up.

And when she popped up, so did the thought of the two million dollars she had in her First Bank account.

Wade wasn't going to understand. She didn't understand it herself. Why had she taken it? Anger, rebelliousness... greed? Or because her own genes swam in the same pool as her mother's. She went under again, as if the guilt could be washed away by hot water and a promised glass of cool white wine. She'd have to tell Wade, and in an odd way even wanted to, but not tonight. Unpleasant truths were best served whole, in the morning sunlight, when there were no shadows to hide in.

Tonight there was only Wade.

She lathered her body, gave her thoughts to the present; the clean forest scent permeating Wade's bathroom, the liquid seduction of the deep, old tub, and the glide of the soap bar, slick and foamy, over her sensitized skin. Quivery and agitated, she closed her eyes, listened to the soft piano jazz now coming from the next room, and tried to relax. But with her eyes closed, her imagination, all heat and flashing images, heightened every sense until she trembled.

When she ran the soap over the curls of her pubis and along her cleft, the sexual jolt shocked her eyes open. She looked down at her hard-jutting nipples, felt the heavy throb between her thighs—the deep fever of wanting.

And there was no need to wait.

No need to hesitate.

She rested her hands on the sides of the tub, inhaled to calm herself, and looked at the closed bathroom door. She took another breath. "Wade. Are you there?"

A couple of seconds passed. "You need something?"

She knew from his voice he was outside the door.

"I've been thinking about that back scrub," she lied, knowing her real thoughts were X-rated and, for now at least, best kept to herself.

The door opened and Wade stood in the doorway. He wore jeans, a denim shirt with half the buttons undone, and he was carrying a bottle of white wine and two glasses. "Back scrub, huh? Can I take that as code for the beginning of phase one?"