IN ROOM 33 (16 page)

"Yes, but I'd rather you do it quietly. Now, listen carefully. I have tasks for you to perform. For now at least, you are not to trouble the 'owner-broad.' What I want you to do is this—in precisely the following order. First, you..."

* * *

Lana took a sip of her cool Chardonnay. "You're not kidding. She did that? Moved out of the Marriott and into Hotel Horrible, one star and falling?" She gave her bikini top a tug to settle it in place—and get David's flagging attention. The man was obsessed with the doings of her daughter. Such a bore.

David's eyes dutifully followed her languid reorganization of her breasts within the strip of silver ribbon that formed her bikini bra. "She moved in today. Two suitcases. Wade helped her."

Lana frowned. "Wade?" She lifted her head, then her sunglasses to better see David's face. "You can't mean Wade Emerson."

"He moved in two, three weeks ago."

"You didn't tell me."

"Should I have?"

Lana merely raised a brow to look mildly chastising. She wasn't happy, but she didn't let it show. Joy's independent thinking neither surprised nor frightened her. In fact, she'd expected it. But the last person she'd expected to show up was Stephen's son. This created a completely new scenario.

When she didn't answer, David rested his head back on the navy linen-covered double lounge chair they shared. Lana knew he was trying to look relaxed, but he wasn't doing a good job of it. This morning, for the first time, his lovemaking had lacked his usual attention to detail. And there was no better place than bed to observe a man distracted.

She sat up on her side of the lounge, spread her legs, and assumed a lotus position she knew would get his attention. She rested her hands on her knees. "How does Wade look? He was quite young when he left, but I remember him as quite... delicious."

"I tell you there's an Emerson loose in the Hotel Philip and you use the word 'delicious?'" A twist of a smile turned up his lips. "Then you'll be happy to know he looks just like his father. Taller, maybe. Maybe more—"

"More what?" she prodded, but it was as if he'd seen something in her face that made him stop.

He pulled her hair loose from the artful topknot she'd created after their swim. "More 'delicious' than you remember. All filled out. Probably has a cock a mile long." He looked at her crotch, the wisp of strap barely covering her sex. "Not that you're going to have a taste anytime soon." He shoved the strap aside and penetrated her with a playful finger. "You're mine. Don't forget that."

Lana, accustomed to men being possessive, let him play for a time, then moved his finger aside and got up. "I'm not in the mood," she lied.

David gave her a disbelieving look, a slow smile. "You're always in the mood, baby. Come here."

She ignored him. Fear had taken hold, troubled her.

Stephen's son had been
delicious.

Lana knew that from Wade's last visit to Stephen, not long after their marriage and the night of the final father and son blowout. At eighteen, Wade was strikingly handsome, intrinsically sexual, and completely unaware of his appeal. So tempting. Too tempting.

She supposed it had been a mistake—her wee hours trip to his bed. Although it certainly worked out well enough.

Wade Emerson...

Tall, lean, with thick, coffee-colored hair. Smoky jade eyes and the walk of a restless panther. Long legs wrapped in denim... and between his legs a fullness the denim showed to advantage. A fullness she'd ached to discover.

At seventeen he'd been intriguing; she could imagine him as a mature male, experienced, his potential realized, his sexual prowess at its peak.

She turned back to David.

"I think you should have told me he was back."

David put an arm under his head, looked up at her. "Forget about Emerson. Stephen sure as hell did. Not only is the man fresh out of prison, he's broke. I don't think he has a dime to his name. He's not a player."

"Perhaps. But he could become one very quickly, my darling—if he starts fucking my daughter."

Chapter 8

Joy crossed the hall and put her ear to the door of Room 36, Wade's door. Since she'd moved in three days ago, she hadn't heard a sound from this damn room. And he sure as heck didn't respond to her whacking on his door.

But he was in there now; that muffled curse she'd just heard proved it. She had him treed.

He'd been avoiding her and she was fed up with it.

Come to think of it, the whole hotel population was avoiding her. Why should he be any different? Other than an ugly leer from Mike as she sidestepped him in the hall, the only one who'd spoken to Joy since her arrival was Sinnie. She'd come around the first day and offered to clean her room. Figuring the elderly woman wanted the money, she said yes, and Sinnie had shown up every day at ten o'clock since.

But it wasn't Sinnie on her mind now, it was Wade Emerson. She was going to roust him if she had to stand here all night.

When he didn't answer her polite knock, she gave the door a good bang and yelled, "I know you're there, Wade. That four-letter word was a dead giveaway." They'd agreed to work together, and she had a limited amount of time. He knew that. Maybe she should have gone elsewhere for her advice. Maybe she still should. But if nothing else, she'd find out what was going on. She banged the door again.

Finally, a mumble. "It's open."

She opened the door and stood in the doorway. He waved her in, but didn't look up from the papers strewn over his pockmarked red Formica table.

He'd pulled a lamp close to its edge, and the cord, six inches above the floor, formed a trap line between him and the kitchen. He was keying intently into a new laptop—the open box was at his feet. The computer's bright screen contrasted sharply with the paltry light seeping onto the table from under a fringed lampshade. Abruptly, he sat back, finger-combed his hair. He studied the screen silently until it morphed into an aquarium with brilliantly colored fish swimming in a too-blue ocean.

He stood then, but neither looked at her nor smiled. "Your timing's perfect. Do you want coffee, or are you one of those no-caffeine-at-night types?" He headed for the kitchen area, remembered the lamp cord just in time, and stepped over it. He looked as if he were shaking loose from a fog.

"I'll take the coffee," she said. "But what makes now so perfect? It's after midnight. Most sane people are in bed."

He glanced at the clock over the sink, frowned, shoved his hair back again. Obviously, when Wade concentrated, his hair took a serious thrashing.

"You've been avoiding me," Joy said. "Why?"

"Take a look." He nodded toward the laptop.

She strolled over to the computer, hit a key to bring the working screen back. When she saw what he'd been working on, the columns of numbers, intricate calculations, her heart added extra beats.

"That," he gestured at the computer again, "took time. I didn't want to be interrupted." He poured coffee into two mismatched mugs and gave her the one proclaiming the wonders of Eddie's Plumbing. She sipped; the coffee was hot and strong. Just like the man who handed it to her. She swallowed the errant thought along with a deep draft of caffeine.

"I thought we were going to work on the hotel figures together. I do know how to add and subtract, you know. Very good at it, as a matter of fact."

"No doubt. But I'm better." He was leaning against the kitchen counter, but he shoved himself away from it and went back to the table. "What I've done here is a couple of worst case scenarios. If you're as good at dealing with city hall and the trades—and the moneymen—as you claim to be with numbers, you should be able to come in under budget." He picked up a flash drive, connected it. "The Hotel Philip can be a viable operation—and a profitable one—but it will take work and smarts—
and
investment." He again started messing with keys.

He was quick and able with the system, and in seconds Joy saw the copying graph stream across the screen. "I've given you two scenarios," he said. "The first is the cost to restore the Philip, bring it back, give it the full thirties treatment. The second outlines a different approach, a renovation for the purpose of producing a workable economy hotel. Less risky, obviously."

He popped the tiny drive out of the side of the machine and handed it to her. "There are two big problem areas. One is the state of the roof—you'll need a professional to price that out—and the air conditioning, also on the roof. I've assumed—to be conservative—it needs replacing. But again, you'll need a professional opinion."

"Any recommendations?" she asked. She'd never heard him string this many words together at one time. It was as if he were impatient to get it over with, get her out of his room.

"There's a couple of names in the notes section. I know you brought a computer with you," he went on, his voice businesslike but without inflection. He handed her the drive. "This is a copy of everything I've done. Take it back to your room, give the numbers a going-over. If you've got questions, suggestions, whatever, I'll be around tomorrow. Keep in mind most of it is educated guesswork. You'll want a second opinion."

When she took the drive from his hand, he stepped back to lean against the counter. He stood there, still and silent, as if he couldn't wait for her to leave. Joy put the disk on the table, followed it with her coffee mug. "What's going on here?" she asked, genuinely curious.

He picked up his abandoned coffee, drank, and over its rim settled his gaze on her, his eyes dark, guarded. "Budgets, cash projections, rough construction estimates. What else is there?" He tossed the dregs of his coffee into the sink.

"You're playing dumb. And not well."

"Actually, you're wrong. I'm not playing dumb. I am dumb—about as dumb as a guy can get." He gave her a look so scorching, her knees weakened.

"Care to explain?"

She saw his jaw shift and tighten, and his eyes glittered, then dimmed to a sensual glow. "I want you, sweetheart. And there's nothing smart about a man letting his goddamn cock do his thinking, especially when it hasn't thought of anything else since you hauled your sweet ass into the Phil."

He made no move toward her. Joy sensed his words were intended to repel her; instead they attracted, tugged slender, sensitive strings anchored deep in her body. She could barely draw in air. "I figured that might be it," she said, and knew she sounded stupid and vain. And she wondered about her choice of words. If she were honest she'd replace the word "figured" with... "hoped."

He looked disgusted. "That obvious, huh? Just another guy, in a stream of guys, lusting after a Cole woman."

"No! That's not it. And I resent that 'Cole' woman' remark." This was not the time she needed to be reminded about his hostility toward her mother.

"Resent whatever the hell you like, but the best thing right now is for you to go back to your room and leave me to mine." He gestured to the disk. "Take it and go."

She picked it up, took the few steps to the doorway, and opened the door a couple of inches.

Wade glared at her from across the room, his face tight and drawn, the barest of tics enlivening his jaw.

"What if I don't want to go?" she said and raised her head to meet his stark gaze directly. She was testing, she knew that, and it was foolish. Dangerous, perhaps.

Music from somewhere along the Phil's darkened hallways filtered into the room. A guitar, Joy registered, being played badly. She closed the door, kept her hand on the knob, and waited for him to answer.

"You want to go, all right, you just don't know it." His words were low and clipped.

She considered his words, the chill in his eyes. "The jail thing, right?"

He averted his eyes briefly, brought them back to her, colder than before. Pride and anger each seeking a place in them. "According to records in the great state of New York, I've defrauded a bank and obstructed justice."

"Did you?"

His laugh was harsher than his expression. "Everybody who goes to jail is innocent, don't you know that?"

She ignored his non-answer. "Sinnie said there was a woman—"

"The day that woman's mouth closes someone ought to raise a flag."