IN ROOM 33 (8 page)

When she was here last, she was twelve, had felt nothing but idle curiosity; today she felt sadness.

It may be clean. It may smell good. But it was still a mess. So depressing to see how a building once grand and handsome could fall so low.

David pointed to an elevator at the far end of the lobby. "We might as well start at the top and work our way down." He tilted his head. "Unless, of course, you've seen enough already."

"No. I'd like to see it all." Threat of a wrecking crew arriving imminently couldn't drag her out of here. "Every floor."

"This way, then."

In the elevator, David pushed the large black button that said 6, the last in the series. As the elevator cage clattered and jerked its way to the sixth floor, Joy said, "I thought there were seven floors."

"There are. But the seventh is the penthouse. You have to get off at six and walk up. It's not legally a part of the hotel. Held in perpetuity by a man named Christian Rupert. He'll be there until they take him out in a pine box—"

"You're a lawyer."

"Gave myself away, did I?"

" 'Perpetuity' will do it every time."

He laughed.

"What will happen to him if I agree to sell you the hotel?"

"If
", he repeated. "That slum-landlord thing starting to appeal to you?" He smiled down at her. One of those megawatt smiles artfully executed to melt female hearts at one hundred paces.

"Not likely." She gave the barest shrug. "Just curious."

"Rupert will have to go." His expression darkened.

"Can you do that? What about the 'perpetuity' thing?"

"Look." He faced her, his expression sober. "We should get things straight. There's two ways this hotel can go. Spend a few million to renovate and bring it up to code which
might
provide a minimal return at best—or sell and bring in the wrecking ball. The clock is ticking either way. Stephen received a court order over two years ago to make basic safety improvements, mainly electrical and structural. He ignored it. Didn't want to be bothered, I guess. That order will shift to the new owner. You. If you don't comply, the city will step in and
comply
for you—which will cost a fortune.

"Believe me, Joy, the smart thing to do is take my offer and get out now—before the city gets even more cranky." He stopped and his mouth firmed. "As for the old man upstairs, he should have been in a home years ago. Now, he'll be forced to it. Unfortunate, but that's the way it is."

Joy loathed the idea of shoving a helpless senior into a home he didn't want, but the idea didn't seem to bother David. "How does he feel about that?"

"No idea. I've never met the man. I'll deal with him when I have to."

Joy didn't comment, but neither did she miss his presumption. In his mind the Hotel Philip was already his.

He went on. "The thing you need to understand is that unless you have a few million stashed away you're willing to risk on engineers, architects, and a building crew, the only way you can give your mother the cash she needs is to sell to me. It keeps coming back to economic realities—the real value in the Philip is in the land."

"So you keep telling me, but I do have the hundred thousand."

"When it comes to the Hotel Philip? A drop in a
very
empty bucket."

"I see," she said, not sure she saw anything other than a man determined to get his hands on her—and her mother's—property. And while it bothered her, after what she'd seen so far, he might be right. The place was a wreck. Selling was the smart way out. All she had to do was get someone to confirm that Grange's offer was fair, take it—and walk away.

"I hope you're not too disappointed, that you weren't hoping for more," he said.

She didn't have time to answer because just then the elevator jerked to a clanging halt—at the third floor. David pushed button 6 again, and again, to no avail. It didn't work, nor did any of the other numbers. The elevator refused to move, and the grated accordion door, easily seen through, was not so easily opened. After several more futile tries, David yelled into the empty hall. "Anyone there?"

Nothing but a faint, bouncing echo.

David rattled the cage bars, swore under his breath.

Joy studied the brass roof of the ancient elevator, envisioned frayed hoist cables anchored by rusty bolts. Her stomach kicked. They were only three floors up, but the ceilings were very high. It was a long way down.

David rattled harder. Called out again.

With an abruptness that shocked them both, a man carrying a bucket and a mop stepped in front of them. He must have come from the stairs beside the elevator.

"Thank God," David said and loosened his grip on the cage struts. "Get us out of here, would you?"

Joy, from where she stood behind David, saw the man reach into the cage and lift a narrow bar, then pull the accordion-style door open. The elevator hadn't aligned with the floor properly, so David chose common sense over courtesy and stepped out of the elevator before her, then offered his hand to help her with the step up.

He glared at the man with the mop. "If you're responsible for maintenance around here, you should have that thing"—he gestured back at the elevator—"seen to immediately."

The man, looking amused, slid his gaze from David to Joy. When it settled on her, the amusement vanished and every line in his face drew to hostile.

Joy stared at him, couldn't believe her eyes. "Wade. Wade Emerson?"

He said nothing, and if possible, his gaze grew even colder; he visibly straightened.

When he turned as if to walk away, she touched his arm. "It's Joy Cole. Do you remember me?"

He cocked his head, and a look of confusion displaced the hostility. "Little Joy?"

"Not so little anymore." She looked at him, his damp-kneed denims, ratty, sleeveless shirt—the dark green eyes, studying her as thoroughly as hers studied him. Past him, down the empty hall, she noticed the still-wet floor. None of it made sense. "You work here?" she finally mumbled, unaccountably reddening.

"Live here, for now at least."

Wade Emerson living in this rundown heap? Baffled, she had no idea where to take the conversation from here. "Oh, I see."

He gave her a half smile, without a trace of embarrassment. "I doubt it."

Then, thank God, David piped up. "You're Stephen's son?"

Wade's attention, until now fixed on Joy, shifted to David. She knew he'd taken in the salon haircut, expensive suit, high-gloss wingtips, and made some uniquely man-on-man judgment, although he gave no hint of it. "The one and only," he said, his tone even. "And you?"

David thrust out his hand. "David Grange. Friend of the family." He looked at Joy as if for confirmation.

Joy didn't see it that way but let it go. The two men shook hands.

"Been here long, Emerson?" David asked.

"The name's Wade. And I've been here a time."

The two men locked gazes, and while Wade's eyes were unreadable, David's were openly speculative. "Sorry about your father," he said. "Good man. Unfortunate you couldn't make the funeral."

"Yeah." Wade picked up his mop and pail, his gaze again settling on Joy. He didn't seem to like what he saw. "I'll be on my way. Watch the floors, they're slippery in spots."

Joy, still so stunned to find him here—like he was—watched him go without a word. He opened a door a few feet down the hall and walked in, leaving the hall empty, except for patches of dampness on the floor and the faint scent of pine.

"The higher they fly..." David shook his head, his expression openly amazed.

"I don't understand."

"I just mean that Wade was up there,
way
up there. A financial genius, Stephen called him. Apparently he made a serious name for himself in the mergers and acquisitions field."

"They kept in touch, then? Stephen and Wade?" This surprised Joy, who'd thought the rift between them complete and permanent.

"No. Stephen tracked him when he could, through the financial pages, old friends, that sort of thing. But he made no effort to reconcile, nor did Wade. Not sure what happened between them, but it was obviously damn bad." David frowned, a flash of concern in his eyes. Then irritation. "I had no idea he was here."

"Did you know him ... from before?"

"No." He stared down the hall, his expression reflective. "Strange," he said. "And sad, of course."

"Sad?" Joy echoed, intrigued. "Why sad?"

"Stephen's heart started to fail the day they sent Wade Emerson to prison."

Chapter 4

Wade walked to his window, opened it, and did deep breathing.

Life really had a way of broadsiding a guy. For a minute there, he'd have sworn the woman was Lana Cole. Talk about like mother, like daughter. He'd never seen such a resemblance.

He took another full breath and went to pour himself half a cup of leftover coffee. He took a drink and immediately threw the rest of it in the sink. Tasted like liquid soot. He rubbed his temples, eased himself into a chair stationed by his Formica-topped table.

Joy Cole. He'd met her a couple of times before his final blowout with Stephen and her mother. The last time was right here, in the Hotel Philip. She was twelve or so then, which would make her around thirty now—and a real stunner. Just like her mother.

If she was lucky, the resemblance stopped at the physical.

But what the hell was she doing here? Checking out Mommy's inheritance to see what kind of good fortune had befallen the Cole women? If so, she must be one disappointed lady. He smiled grimly. The guy with her had the cut of a lawyer—shiny shoes, firm handshake, calculator eyes. The executor, maybe, showing her around. Maybe Mommy wanted her opinion on what to do with the hotel.

Tear it down, most likely.

He ignored the pain in his gut and looked at the ceiling. "Well, Joe, it looks like the day of the dame. Not too sure how you'd feel about that." He took his tool belt off, emptied the bucket of water into his sink. Nothing to do now but lay low. Let the lawyer show the lady around—and stay as far away from her as possible.

A half-hour later, he heard Sinnie hissing against his door. "Wade? You in there?"

He didn't feel like Sinnie right now, but he knew there'd be no avoiding her. "I'm here."

She marched in, not bothering to close the door.

"Ever see the like?" she asked without preamble, looking wasp-mean. "More damn crust than a bread roll."

"You've met our guests," he said. "I just poured myself an orange juice. Want some?" He took a deep drink, felt the cold orange rip down his arid throat.

"I don't want any juice. I want you to do something." Her voice rose.

"And that would be?"

"Get that woman out of here. Get them all out of here. This place is yours by right, Wade Emerson. It was in your grandpa's blood, and it's in yours."

Wade held his words in for a second. "Sinnie, I'll say it again, one more time and slowly. This place does not belong to me. I have no claim on it. Whether you like it or not, the Phil belongs to Lana Cole."

"Actually, it doesn't. It belongs to me." The voice was low, the words bell clear.

Joy Cole leaned against his open door, her head tilted to one side, her gaze arcing between him and Sinnie.

"Say that again," he instructed, certain he hadn't heard right.

"I said the hotel doesn't belong to my mother, it belongs to me." She didn't move, and her gaze fixed to his, leaving Sinnie gape-mouthed at his side.

Wade put his unfinished orange juice on the scarred counter and scratched his forehead with his index finger. "You're telling me Stephen Emerson left this hotel to you?"

"To put it briefly, yup."

"You're the daughter!" Sinnie popped to life.

"Yup again. Joy Cole, daughter of Lana." She looked at Wade. "What do you think it means, you and I opting for Stephen and Lana instead of good old Mom and Dad?"

Wade had no answer to that or anything else at the moment. He struggled to get a grip on the situation, an angle on the woman lounging confidently against his door. Whatever shock she'd registered at seeing him in the hall a half-hour ago was gone; in its place was total composure. God, the woman looked like her mother, except for the eyes. Lana's were still, kind of a dreamy Caribbean blue; her daughter's were blue steel.