IN ROOM 33 (36 page)

At the same time the phone in his room rang. He looked at his watch. "Give me a minute. I'll get that and pick up Melly."

He was back in less, something the size of a medicine ball implanted in his stomach. Joy met him outside her room. "Sinnie's taken a turn for the worse."

"Oh, no."

He touched her arm. "Come with me."

Joy didn't move. "It's you who Sinnie needs right now—not me." She gave him a push. "Call me from the hospital."

"Damn it, I don't like leaving you." He glanced over her shoulder at her door, "Room 33" rutted deep into the oak. She followed his gaze, then rolled her eyes.

"Wade, give me a break, and get out of here."

"I'll get back as fast as I can. Lock up—and keep your friend Smitty handy."

"I will. Now go. It'll take you at least thirty minutes to get there. And that's if traffic's light. Go!"

Wade eyed her, torn.

"I'll be fine."

"Don't even think about visiting Rupert alone. We're in this together, right?"

"I promise. Now quit worrying."

He wouldn't do that he knew, but he also knew during the time it seemed his own sorry life was at an end, Sinnie was there for him. Now it might be her turn. He had to go. And caveman days being a thing of the past, and determined women being what they were, he had no choice.

He had to trust her—and Smitty.

* * *

When Joy went back in her room, she locked up, got out Smitty, and put him within hand's reach under a file on her desk. Safety off.

She thought briefly about keeping the
appointment
with Rupert, but knew it would be a waste of time. Even if she did get in, the chances of his talking to her were less than zero. Then she thought about calling Cherry to tell her about Sinnie, but remembered she and Gordy were at the movies and would be for another hour or so.

It occurred to her that for the first time she was alone in her hotel—she glanced at her ceiling as if to look through the floors between herself and the penthouse—if you didn't count the large black spider in the attic. She shivered at the thought of Christian Rupert, blamed it on the cool night, upped the temperature on her space heater, then went back to the table she'd been sitting at when Wade knocked.

God, she hoped Sinnie was okay. She checked to see if her cell phone was on and put it on the table near her open laptop. With nothing to do but wait, worry a hopeless knot in her chest, she rubbed her hands to warm them and went back to work.

Locked behind the door of Room 33, rapt in her piece on the English countryside, she was soon oblivious to the yawning, creaking silence of the deserted hotel and the soft staccato of the rain against her window.

* * *

It took Wade over forty minutes to get to the hospital. He parked illegally and ran through the rain to the hospital's main entrance. Damn near mowed down the nurse coming out of Sinnie's room.

"Sorry," he said, holding her by the upper arms to steady her. "Is she okay? What happened?"

The nurse stepped back, rattled by the near-collision. "It's much too late for visitors."

"Maybe so, but I'm going in."

"Hey—"

He pushed open the door to Sinnie's room.

Sinnie was propped up in her bed. She'd been dozing, but her eyes blinked open when Wade stalked toward her bedside.

She reached out a frail hand. "Wade. I've been waiting for you. I thought you were mad at me."

"Not a chance." Wade sat on the edge of the bed, as if it were the edge of a pin. He took her hand. "What happened? Are you all right?" Even in the dimly lit room, he could see her color was better, even though she still looked as limp as one of her ten-year-old towels. He didn't care. She'd pulled through whatever the crisis was; that was what mattered.

"Aches and pains in new places. I'm used to those." She shifted her head to look at him. "It was Mike, you know. He's the one who beat on me. He caught me writing—" She closed her eyes again. "I'm sorry, Wade, really. It was stupid, but that girl, she's got to leave the Phil. You've got to tell her."

"You actually wrote that stuff on her wall? Joy said it was you, but I didn't believe her."

As if he hadn't spoken, she went on. "I didn't want to scare her but I... heard things. He wants the hotel—"

"Whoa. Who's
he?"

"Christian." Her face crumpled and she looked away, brushed at her eyes. "I should have told you. He hated your granddad, you know. Tried to ruin him. When Joe bested him, he hated him more. All those things happening in Room 33..." She stopped. "So terrible. They don't come any meaner than Christian." She gave him a guilty look. "My brother."

"I know, Sin. Joy and I found the photograph. We were looking—"

"—doesn't matter now." A tear oozed from the corner of her eye. "I couldn't ever prove anything. I just knew. And I was scared, Wade. I shouldn't have been so scared." She grabbed his hand, squeezed. "He set Mike on me. He wants me dead. My own brother."

"Why, Sin? Why would he do that?"

"Because I know what he wants. What he'll do..." She tightened her grip on his hand. "You've got to take care of the girl. If she won't sell the hotel, he's going to kill her so that mommy of hers inherits. I heard David yell at Chris—"

"Grange?" Wade's heart dropped stone-cold in his chest.

"Christian's very own boy. Always has been. He practically raised him."

"Jesus!"
He'd been set up!
And Grange was nothing more than a front man for Rupert. All his talk of protecting Joy, her safety. Bullshit!

Wade shot to his feet. "You didn't
have a setback
tonight, did you, Sin?"

She looked confused. "Been getting better all afternoon."

Two nurses, one seriously male, pushed open the door."You have to leave, sir. And you have to leave now."

They didn't have to say it twice. He leaned over, planted a quick kiss on Sinnie's papery cheek, pushed past the hospital bouncer crew, and flew out the door. There was a phone down the corridor, he remembered.

He called Joy's cell. No answer, and she hadn't bothered with a land line to the room. No point in calling Cherry's place; Wade had sent them to the movies. Cursing himself nonstop, he took the stairs to the hospital's main entrance two, three at a time. He was outside in seconds.

The rain was heavy, but traffic was lighter now. With luck—and navigation under the radar of Washington's finest—he'd be at the hotel in twenty minutes. He prayed luck would be enough.

Chapter 18

Joy added a couple of notes to the margin of her article and leaned back in the chair. Her stomach told her she hadn't eaten since late morning, and that a sandwich—at least—was required. She was halfway through slathering on the mayo when she heard a rap on her door.

She walked toward it. "Wade?"

"It's David, Joy. I know it's late, but I need to talk to you about your mother and me."

"Not the hotel?"

Silence.

"Okay—that, too. There is something you need to know. It'll only take a minute, but if you're busy, I can come back."

For a few seconds she listened to the sound of rain being driven against her window by the gusting wind, not sure why she hesitated, but she did. The emptiness of the hotel, most likely—or the usual woman-afraid-of-the-dark syndrome. She considered both. Neither was life-threatening, nor was Grange—unless a woman wanted to be bored to death.

She'd been handed an opportunity to dig into the relationship of the slick Mr. Grange and the sick Christian Rupert—she'd be crazy not to take it. She opened the door.

David stepped in smiling, and she closed the door behind him. He scanned the dimly lit room. "I've heard about 33, but I've never been in it. Quite the reputation."

"So they say." Joy went back to the counter and finished making her sandwich. "Like one?" She held it up.

"No, Lana and I ate late. Thanks."

She munched, watched him. "So what's on your mind, David? Another offer on the Phil?"

"Would you be open to one?" He'd been looking around the room; now his attention shot to her.

She drank some milk, but shook her head. "No."

"I didn't think so." He snorted softly. "That would be a stroke of luck—and I seem to be out of the running for those lately. The thing is"—he centered his gaze on her—"you really did bring this on yourself. It's not really my fault." He put a hand in his pocket.

"What are you talking about?" The change in his eyes made her uneasy, made her stomach muscles tighten.

"I'm talking about pressure, Joy. The things we
have
to do, the choices we
don't get
to make."

"Such as?"

"To live or to die. Completely out of our hands, really." He rubbed his forehead, his expression taut, filled with regret. "And unfortunately, you have to die. Tonight. Because that madman who lives in the penthouse says so. And I'd best get on with it before Emerson gets back to play the white knight."

Joy stared, tried to assimilate his words. Only a three-letter one came through.
Die.

Her cell phone rang. David, obviously startled by it and now abreast of the table she'd been working on, immediately picked it up, turned it off. He set it down—right beside Smitty, which she'd stuffed under some papers beside her laptop. Now he was between her and it.
Damn!
"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" Stupid question, but a stall.

"I have to kill you," he said, his tone flat. "I don't want to, but I have to. I like you. I do. You're tough, smart, and determined. Just like Lana." He grimaced on the name Lana as if in pain. "She'll be sad to lose you—and I hate that. Hate the idea of hurting her."

Joy's mind went into overdrive. She listened to him in a state of shock. She had to think, to stall. She steadied her sandwich plate and glass of milk in her hand. As weapons they were zip, but they were time-buyers. And time, the next few minutes, were what it was all about. Milk. A sandwich. And the knife! She'd dropped it into the sink before the knock on her door. But first she needed words. A delay. "I don't understand," she said. "Why kill me?" The words felt rusty, rose from a throat coated in emery.

"Rupert thinks I'm doing it for him, but I'm not." He smiled a tight, malicious smile. "When this is over, the joke's on him."

"What joke? I want to know." She was desperate, brainless, plan-less.
Think!
She sidled toward the sink.

The hand David had in his pocket moved.
A gun?
Every nerve in her body shot to red alert. She froze.

Not a gun.

He drew out a long, silk scarf, slowly, gracefully. It poured out, a brilliant stream of reds, blues, and yellows. Joy moved again, closer to the sink, and put a kitchen chair between them.

She tried to think, but mesmerized, her mind was trapped by David's slow, deliberate advance. The flutter of silken color across his jacket front.

He wrapped a length of scarf in each hand, taping his palms like a boxer readying for a bout.

She watched, frozen, fascinated, sandwich in one hand, milk glass in the other.
Say something. Do something. Delay, delay! Stay calm.
"David. Why are you doing this?" She raised her voice, inched along the counter.

Her brain was alive with fear. Thoughts meshed into a stark, indecipherable muddle. She had a gun, she'd taken self-defense, she'd bested routine trouble more times than she could remember. But there was nothing routine about David's expression; it was grim with horrific purpose. Her gaze flicked from his eyes, fierce and sad, to the lethal silk he flexed between his hands.

He advanced as if she'd hadn't spoken.

She forced herself to take a bite of her sandwich, and chewed, slowly, very slowly, uncertain if she could swallow. Another inch or two and she could reach the knife.
Time, she needed time.
"Tell me about Rupert, David. You were his proxy for the tax lien purchase."

His eyebrows raised. "Very good. It looks as if you've inherited your mother's cool. Checked on the back taxes, did you? I knew you—or Emerson—would get around to that." He snapped the silk, stopped moving forward. "But to set things straight, that viper on the roof is not my client. He's my blackmailer." He took another step toward her. "He's owned me since I was seventeen years old. And the day I get my hands on this hotel is the day he starts dying."