IN ROOM 33 (29 page)

Christian shut the door, took his calming breaths, and bent stiffly to pet Melly. She enjoyed her walks with Gordy. Quite liked the boy, he was sure. But Gordy, like everyone else in the hotel, had to go. And when Christian filled it again—with people of his own choosing—he'd make sure one of them was right for Melly.

He walked unsteadily back to his chair. The man-child followed him. "Gordy, my boy," he said, once he was settled in his chair, "would you like to earn a little more money?"

His eyes brightened. "You want extra walking for Melly?"

"That, yes." He shifted in his chair, leaned forward. "But there's something else I'd like you to do, and it might take a bit of muscle." He smiled to engage the boy's attention. "More than I have, in any event."

"I got muscles." Gordy flexed an arm, weight lifter style, and grinned.

"Yes, you have, which is why I'm asking for your help." Christian pointed a bony finger at his terrace where, through a narrow opening between drapes, the sun was beginning its descent. "Out there, behind the planter with the biggest trees, there's a large storage box." He opened the drawer in the lamp table beside his chair and dug out the key. "Take this—you do know how to use a key, don't you?"

Gordy looked insulted. "Yes, sir. You think I'm stupid?"

It was the first time the boy had been anything but agreeable. So droll, his getting angry when his intelligence was threatened, considering he had none. Ah, human nature. "No, no, my boy," he said, softening his tone. "I apologize if it sounded like that. You're bright as a shiny nickel, and Melly and I couldn't do without you." He offered him the key. "Now, please, go out to the storage box, open it, and inside you'll find a large tarpaulin. I'd like you to bring it here."

Gordy took the key, turned it over in his hand, and headed for the terrace.

"Close the door after you, boy! Don't forget."

Gordy came back a minute or two later with a bundle of blue plastic and, thank God, he'd been obedient about closing the doors. How odd that a few days ago, Christian could tolerate the terrace doors being open, and now he feared the very air they unleashed, even though the night was far too warm. He wondered idly if he were sinking further into decline, or simply ridding himself of another threat to his life and health.

"This what you want?" Gordy held the tarpaulin in both hands.

"Yes. Now if you'd be kind enough to open the ties and spread it directly in front of me. So it covers my carpet completely. Nice and flat now," he added, "with the edges straight."

Christian watched the boy work, insisted he get on his knees to smooth the last of the wrinkles from the tarp. "That's fine. A very good job." He surveyed the tarp, perhaps twelve feet by twelve feet. Big enough. He told himself not to be bothered by its uneven, puckered surface. "On the bureau, as usual, there's your pay for walking Melly. And another five whole dollars for the work you just did." Christian smiled at the boy.

"You going to paint something, Mr. Rupert?" he asked, heading for the bureau.

"A little touching up."

And garbage removal, he added to himself.

* * *

Joy and Wade were lucky—at least Joy thought so. They'd been given a table in the corner with a window giving them a clear view of the waters of Lake Washington—and hope of catching a spectacular sunset.

Wade didn't seem to notice. They'd dropped in to visit Sinnie in the hospital before dinner, and he'd been as quiet as a tomb since. It had been two days since the attack, and Sinnie was no better. Add to that the fact that neither Wade nor she had made any headway on finding out what was going on at the Phil. They'd covered the hotel from top to bottom. And people were still disappearing, without notice, and leaving no forwarding addresses—including the loathsome Mike. No loss, but Joy would have relished the chance to get rid of him personally. Still, with so many rooms empty, the place was eerie. Wade had insisted they go out tonight—to get away from it.

The only good thing about the Philip in the last two days was sleeping with Wade each night—not sleeping with him was even better, because Wade Emerson was the best lover Joy ever had. There were times when simply looking at him made her mind go blank. It probably wasn't a good thing, long-term, but even if she tried, she couldn't think beyond the now—the strange happenings at the Phil, and Wade's slow, expert hand in bed.

She shifted in her chair, drank some ice water. "Sinnie's going to be okay, Wade. I'm sure of it," she finally said, wanting to break the silence, reassure him. "If she's made it this far, she's bound to improve."

"I hope you're right."

"You've known her for a long time, haven't you?"

"Forever. She was a friend of my grandfather—and my mother. And mine." He smiled slightly. "After my mother died, she took me on as her pet project."

Joy tilted her head, waited.

"She wrote me every week I was in South Woods—that's where I served my time. New Jersey. She never missed. Of course, most of the letters were to give me hell, but... every week." He looked out the window to where the sun was lowering in the west. "She's the main reason I ended up at the Phil. I'd been out for a couple of months. And with no place to go and nothing to hold me where I was, one day I got in my car and ended up in Seattle." He looked away again before turning back to face her, his eyes unreadable. "I never intended to stay."

"Why did you?"

"You showed up, for one thing." He reached across the table and took her hand. He smiled fully then, a tease of a smile she knew was intended to change the subject.

"Flattering, Emerson, but you'd been there weeks before I arrived on the scene." She stopped. "It was the hotel, wasn't it? It was the Phil that held you."
Like it held me.
A prickle of unease followed. Sinnie said the Phil was in Wade's blood. His legacy, she insisted on calling it. If that were true, he might not be as amenable to her ownership as he appeared.

"The place needed help. Still does. Hell of an opportunity for occupational therapy."

"Did it work?"

He considered her words a moment. "Yeah, I think it did."

The server came to refill their water glasses.

When he'd gone, Wade said, "I've been doing a lot of thinking about the Phil." He paused, rubbed his chin. "Hell, I guess this is as good a time as any."

"Good time for what?" Again that prickly sensation at her nape.

Only the barest hesitation, then, "I want to buy the Philip from you, Joy. And I want to know if you'll entertain my offer."

Joy's jaw slackened, and she pulled her hand from his. She hadn't known what to expect, but it hadn't been this. "I don't know what to say."

"'Yes' would be good."

"But I thought you were..."

"Broke?"

"Yes."

"Not quite. I have enough to give you a substantial deposit, and I can raise the rest." His expression turned cynical. "If there's one thing you learn in my business, it's that there's always money around. It's just a matter of finding it and structuring the right deal with the right people. I'll work it out. I wouldn't expect you to take a cent less than the property is worth."

"But your—" She hesitated, her mind stumbling over what this meant: her own emotional connection to the Phil, the sense of home it gave her, how for the first time, walking those neglected halls and counting broken windows, she'd found a purpose in life. "You have a prison record... for fraud. Won't that make things difficult?"

"Difficult, not impossible. No one lost any money dealing with me. I saw to that. Actually, I already approached Rupert about the deal. Big mistake. Turns out there was bad blood between him and my grandfather, and the last thing he wants is an Emerson owning his 'home,' as he calls it." He reached for her hand. "Or maybe he thinks you make a prettier landlord. In which case, he'd be right." He turned her hand in his and ran a finger slowly across her palm.

She quivered at his touch but said nothing.

"I take it from all your questions you're open to a proposal?" His eyes turned sober, oddly speculative, and they left no doubt he was dead serious.

"I, uh, don't know." She stalled, tried to clear her head. "And I did promise David Grange the chance to outbid any other offers." It would be easy to say no to David, but to Wade? The man who should have inherited the property in the first place. Still she needed time to think, hadn't realized until this moment the strength of her connection to the Philip, how much it figured in her future.

"Fair enough. I'm not looking for special consideration or a special price."

She fidgeted with her napkin. "There are things you don't know about the will." Like how the proceeds, either by sale or operation, were intended to support a stepmother he detested.

"I'm listening," he said.

Joy looked for a way to start, the right words, but before she could find them...

"Well, well, look who's here." Lana's voice slid into their conversation like a playful ferret. Joy almost knocked over her glass. Wade's grip on her hand tightened to near-painful before he released it.

When he looked up at Lana, his expression went from light to dark in a blink. He did not stand. Joy knew this wasn't going to be good. "Mother," she said, giving the barest of nods to acknowledge David.

Lana stared openly at Wade. "It's been a long time."

"Not long enough."

"Ah, I see I'm still the mean stepmother."

Wade looked at her in contempt."I don't know what you are, Lana, but I'm sure 'mean' doesn't cover it."

"Oh, dear," Lana purred. "And I always speak so highly of you, Wade." She paused, lowered her lashes. "All of you."

It looked as if Wade exerted all his control to stay in his seat, but he said nothing.

"So what brings you two together, monkey business or business... business?" Lana's steady, avidly curious, gaze held Joy's.

"Nothing that concerns you, Mother," she lied, and glancing at David, she added, "And David looks hungry. Why don't you go to your table?"

David nodded. "Good idea. Let's go, darling." He tried to take her arm, but Lana refused to move, her attention seemingly glued to Wade.

"If you must know," Wade said smoothly, "I'm planning on taking back the Hotel Philip. I just made an offer to buy it from your daughter."

"What the hell is going on here?" David's voice rose.

"I see," Lana said, her response as subtle as David's was blunt.

Joy knew from her mother's terse reply, her shuttered gaze, she was stunned—as was Joy.

Wade had overstepped himself. Joy had agreed to nothing. She looked at him. His face was fixed into stubborn lines, his gaze locked with Lana's. A slow, dangerous simmer churned in her stomach. Before she could speak, David leaned over the table, loomed above her.

"What you're doing. It's stupid," he said. "If Stephen had wanted Wade to have the hotel, he'd have left it to him, not you and Lana."

Wade's eyes shot to David. "What?"

David started to answer him, but Lana interrupted. "I warned you, David." She gave him a sly look. "Although in the end, I suppose Wade's money is as good as yours. No harm in a small bidding war, is there?"

Grange looked shell-shocked, gaped openly at Lana, and didn't say a word.

Lana stared at Joy, her expression blandly malevolent. "For things to have gone this far so fast, all I can say is he must be even better in bed than he used to be."

Joy, who'd been about to state that she wasn't selling anything to anyone, closed her mouth with a snap. She'd heard her mother's words and, snakelike, they coiled in her throat until she couldn't breathe, couldn't make sense of them.

She stood abruptly.

She'd had enough of her mother, David, and Wade—all of their self-serving maneuverings to gain control of the Phil. "Excuse me," she said. She picked up her coat and bag and strode double-time across the crowded restaurant. In seconds, she was outside, hailing a cab.

A second after that, Wade grabbed her arm and swung her around to face him. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Let go of me." She yanked her arm from his grasp, raised it again.

He took her arm down, held it this time. "Where are you going?"

"Home."

"The Philip?" He gave her a dark look.

"Yes, the damn Philip. Although I'm beginning to wish I'd never set eyes on the place." She tugged her arm. "I said, let go of me. Or I'll damn well scream my head off."

He didn't let go; instead he lifted her chin and forced her eyes to meet his. "Scream at me when we get home. And considering I deserve it, I promise to take it like a man."

"Was that the soft echo of an apology I heard?"
Not enough, Wade. Not nearly enough.

"It was."

She shook her head to release his grip on her chin. "And now I'm supposed to forget you were arrogant and presumptuous in there."

"Do or don't. Your call. I was wrong and I'm sorry."

"The Philip is mine, Wade. Not yours, not David's, not my mother's. Mine. I'll be the one making the decisions, and it would be best if you"—she cocked her head toward the restaurant door—"and everyone else would get that straight."