IN ROOM 33 (9 page)

"Well?" She hadn't moved an inch.

"Well, what?"

"If you don't want to talk, how about showing me around?"

He leaned back against the counter. "Can't see why I should, considering you've just had the two-dollar tour, courtesy of the legal beagle."

She shifted away from the door and straightened her bag strap on her shoulder. "I asked him to go. I thought you'd do a better job."

"Absolutely right," Sinnie piped in. "Wade knows everything there is to know about the Philip."

Wade glanced at Sinnie, who for some goddamn reason looked clam happy.

Joy smiled at her. "I know." She looked at Wade again and while the smile drifted from her mouth, it lingered in her eyes when she said, "I remember."

Abruptly caught up in his own memory, Wade stared at her, tried to see the young girl he'd met years before. Instead he saw her mother, leaning over him... wrapping her cool, expert fingers around his cock.

He looked away, back again, not sure what she'd see in his eyes. "I'll show you around," he said. "But not today. Today, I'm busy. Come back tomorrow around noon." He sounded like a moron, but all he wanted right now was for her to leave. And if she were anything like her mother, she wouldn't take a step until she had what she wanted.

Joy looked around the small, seedy, very
unbusy
room, then back at him, her expression wry. "Okay. I'll come back tomorrow. Noon. See you then." Without another word, she turned and left.

"Now isn't that something?" Sinnie let out a breath that could be heard clear to the lobby and stared at the open door. "Can you believe it?"

Wade picked up his juice, downed it."No." He walked to his door, didn't bother to close it, and looked meaningfully at Sinnie. "Haven't you got a rummy game to play... somewhere?"

"Okay, I'll go. We'll talk later. Figure things out."

Wade was losing it and losing it fast. He frowned."Jesus, Sinnie, figure what out?"

She wrinkled her already wrinkled forehead and lifted her thin eyebrows. "Men!" she said in utter disgust."Dumb as bricks, the lot of you." She glared at him. "We've got a chance, don't you see? If that Lana creature had inherited, we'd be out on our ears in no time. But she didn't, her daughter did. So maybe, if we put our heads together, we can come up with a plan. You can talk to her, maybe get this place back. Romance her, then—"

"—Romance her?" Wade couldn't believe his ears.

Sinnie clutched his arm. "If you had the hotel, everything would be all right again." Her voice rose on the last words and her eyes brightened with moisture.

For the first time, Wade saw the fear behind the fire.

Sinnie had arrived at the Phil broke, widowed, and without family sometime in the seventies, and immediately started working for Christian Rupert. She'd been a friend of Wade's grandfather and his mother. As a boy she'd won him over with bags of peanuts, jaw breakers, and more hugs than he'd been comfortable with.

He should have sensed her panic, expected it. She must be terrified by the thought of being tossed out of her home and losing her extra income in one clean sweep of a new broom.

Hell!
He put his arm around her shoulders, walked her toward the door. "Okay, Sin, we'll talk later. Okay?" He tried to soothe her and avoid making any promises, because he had none to make.

She left, tears at the corner of her eyes, too proud to brush them away."Just you don't make that later
too late.
Some people got all the time in the world. I'm not one of them. You hear me?"

"I hear you."

He closed the door behind her and cursed himself into the next century. How the hell had he got himself trapped in this zoo? First a bucket of water and a mop, now an old woman's tears and a load of fresh-laid guilt.

He waited until he was sure Sinnie had cleared the hall before he headed out. He needed to get out of here, take a walk. By the time he was at the front door of the Philip, he'd resigned himself to talking to Joy Cole, finding out what her plans were. He owed Sinnie and the rest of the tenants that at least.

Then he was history. He'd find a new place to nurture his demons and let the hotel and everyone in it go to hell.

* * *

It was close to eleven p.m
.,
and Christian, as was his custom, sat sipping a fine brandy. The night was mild, so he'd left the terrace doors ajar to catch the cool, dark breezes coming from the west. He remembered a time when he would have opened them wide, stood to breathe in the scents from his beloved rooftop garden; there had been roses, verbena, even a potted lilac bush. Its lush blossoms had filled his home with spring.

Back then the open terrace doors caused him no distress at all. He understood no one would come to him through those doors unless they could fly or were ghosts—he grinned flatly—which fortunately he didn't believe in.

Regrettably the panic that lived in the whirls and eddies of his aging mind continued to tighten its grip, miniaturize his world. In due course, his terrace became as much a place of dread as the six floors underneath him. His shudder was involuntary, maddening. From below stairs anything—anybody—was possible. Christian knew he was malfunctioning, that his fears were illogical and chaotic, but the knowledge didn't change anything. He accepted what he'd become years ago. He was old and rich enough for ten lifetimes, so if he chose to coddle his devils, coddle them he would. Then he'd take them to his grave.

The stereo played Bach's
Brandenburg Concerto No. 6,
the strains of the violins in perfect harmony with the soft night winds.

Christian closed his eyes, waltzed his head in time with the soft, vibrant flow of music.

A rap on the door jarred him to a stop. Such intrusions weren't uncommon at this time of night, but they were always planned and expected. This one was not.

And given that Gordy wasn't due back with Melly for another half-hour, it paid to be careful.

Christian slipped his hand down the side of his chair and pulled out the small revolver. His hand was shaky; his spirit was not. He calmed himself, told himself it was probably one of the hotel guests—he always referred to them as guests—coming early to check on him. He paid them well for this service, and organized it on a random basis. These visits formed the basis for his security. He was not without enemies.

He took his time getting to the door, revolver in hand. He didn't look out the peephole; instead, he whispered against the door. "Who is it?"

"David."

Christian was annoyed. David shouldn't be here. He hadn't asked him to come, and it was dangerous, given their plans. Were they seen together, it could ruin everything. "I didn't ask you here." He heard what he thought was a curse from the other side of the door.
Impudent puppy.

"Christian, it's important. Open the fucking door."

"David, you know I don't like that kind of language." Christian put his hand on the bolt, didn't slide it.

For a second there was no sound, then, "Sorry, I forgot."

Christian stifled his anxiety, slid back the bolt, and opened the door enough for David to enter. David took over from there and slid the bolt shut. Christian tottered back to his chair and his brandy. He put the revolver back in its place between the cushion and armrest of his leather chair. When he was settled, he said,"What are you doing here? You know you're not to arrive unbidden."

"Did you know Wade Emerson's living in the Phil?"

"Of course."

"You're not concerned?"

Christian allowed himself a giggle. "Concerned? No. Amused? Definitely." He aligned the lapels on his velvet jacket, smoothed them down. "And at my age, I take amusement where I can get it. Besides, Sinnie tells me he'll be leaving any day."

"It's dangerous."

"I don't believe so. He has no claim on the Phil."

"He could make one."

"Unlikely in the extreme. Add to that his lack of resources. The man lost everything. But in the improbable event he attempts anything, you can be sure I'll be the first to know." Christian lifted a hand, waved it arrogantly. "Within days, thanks to your preparations and my foresightedness, David, this hotel will be mine. At that time, I'll be delighted to show the last Emerson to the nearest exit."

"I don't like it. He could fuck things up."

Christian winced. What was it about that dreadful word that made its use so ubiquitous? "He's insolvent. A ruined man with nowhere to go but down. He's of no consequence, no consequence at all." Christian often mused on what Joseph's reaction would be to the wreckage of his precious family. "Forget Wade Emerson."

"I don't expect I have a choice. I seldom do."

"Smart of you to remember that."

David paced, looked distracted. "Is Mike working out all right?"

"He'll do. Not the gardener you were, of course. But I had more energy then for the necessary training." He eyed David with interest. "Although I doubt you came here to ask about my latest hireling."

David helped himself to a brandy, and Christian shot him a disapproving look. "I don't believe I offered you that. Please wipe the bottle with the cloth when you're done and set your glass on the tray."

David's expression soured. "I know the drill."

"So, again, why are you here? Surely you can't be that concerned about young Emerson. I assure you, I'm not."

David quaffed the brandy, appeared to suck the fire from his throat to his head. He shook it clear. "Lana Emerson has the will."

"I know that." Christian enjoyed the look of surprise on David's face. It pleasured him to think he still had the upper hand with his protégé. "You are not my only source for information. The question is, why did it take you so long to come and tell me such critical information?"

"I've been trying to come up with a solution before bringing you the problem. Isn't that what you taught me?"

Christian ignored the curled lip, the sniping tone."Judging by your use of the word 'trying,' you haven't succeeded. So, tell me, what is the problem? No, let me guess—the Emerson woman wants more money." Christian was prepared to increase his offer, had been all along, even while David continued to assure him the woman was prepared to practically give him the hotel.

"Lana didn't inherit. Stephen left the hotel to Joy Cole, her daughter."

Christian's grip tightened on his glass, and he didn't immediately speak. This did indeed add an unexpected variable to their plan. "There's no mistake?"

"No."

"She was here. Today. Gordy told me he'd met a 'pretty woman' in the hall."

"Yes. She asked me to show her around. Then she said I should go, that she wanted to wander around the hotel by herself."

"And you let her?" Christian took note of his quickened heartbeat. He didn't like new people in the hotel. People he couldn't control. Emerson wasn't a problem in that respect, but this young woman...

"Short of dragging her out the front door by her hair—which I suspect might have brought a crowd—I had no choice. She's a stubborn bitch."

"David!"

"God, Christian, give me a break about the language, will you? Maybe take one small step into the twenty-first century?"

Christian ignored him. "This girl—"

"Hardly a girl. She's thirty, or close to it."

"But she'll go along with her mother's wishes, will she not? And sell you—us—the hotel?"

"I've convinced her there's no value in the building—which in fact there isn't, to anyone other than you," he said, his tone disparaging. "She's also got a serious case of wanderlust—and a job that feeds off it, so, yes, I think she'll sell."

"You 'think' so," Christian echoed, his words laced with disapproval. "My dear David, you'd best soon come to
know so
for both our sakes. I've waited half a century for the chance to own my home." His pulse pounded against the thin skin of his throat; he put his fingers against it, applied pressure. "If it weren't for me, there wouldn't be a Hotel Philip; it's mine by right. And I will not have what may be my last opportunity lost because of a stupid young woman and the even stupider Emerson who willed it to her. This is my home, and I do not intend to
ever
be removed from it." He shifted his gaze to the terrace where the wind rustled the leaves of the trees in the large planters. A handful of leaves skipped and danced over the patio stones. "Such a bore, moving. So many things to dispose of."

In the still, strained atmosphere of the penthouse, the pump of David's lungs could be heard over the soft notes of Bach—over the clink of David's glass when he poured himself more of Christian's fine brandy. "The day I met you was the day I was cursed." David's look was venomous.

"We curse ourselves, David, didn't you know that?" Christian showed his teeth in a full yellow smile, then went back to the business at hand. "This Joy Cole, is she married? Does she have children?"

"No." David tossed back another shot of brandy.

"Other siblings or blood family members?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Then make yourself aware, and in the event she's foolish enough to reject your offer, we shall have a plan B. While this may be a small snag, it is not a catastrophe. Simple, really." Christian stroked one bony finger with another, considered his position, and formulated his instructions. "If the daughter chooses not to sell to us, you dispose of her. Her nearest relative, her mother—who I presume you're still sleeping with—inherits and all will be as it should."