by EC Sheedy
"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.
"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 d
oor 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."
David stared at him as if he didn't understand—or wouldn't. He exhaled sharply.
Christian watched him. He enjoyed those moments when a man's self-interest collided with his conscience. Such fun.
David stood in the center of the large room, empty brandy glass in hand, his face a map of distaste and loathing. "Did I hear you right? Did you just tell me to kill Joy Cole."
"I simply gave you a plan B. I'm certain a man with your looks and charm can convince a 'pretty girl'—if that halfwit man-child's description is to be believed—into doing things your way. You've done so well with the mother."
"A mother who'd kill me if she caught me sniffing around her daughter."
"Afraid of a woman." Christian's thin lips twisted up. "How droll." He took the smile off his face. "But hear this, and hear it well. You'll do what has to be done to get me this hotel. The time is now. This place would have been mine years ago if not for that worthless Stephen's promise to his thieving father to keep the Philip in the family at all costs." And never sell it to me. Christian's voice rose and his stomach tensed as it always did when he thought of the injustice done him. "I didn't encourage you to become part of Stephen's—and his harlot wife's—life for your sexual pleasure—"
"'Encourage?'" David echoed with a snort. "That's a good one."
Christian ignored him, went on, "You were there to provide me with information and results. So hear me well—I won't have the Hotel Philip slip through my hands. You will do whatever it takes—copulation or mayhem—to secure it for me. Do you understand?"
David glanced away briefly. "I'll need time."
"Look at me, you fool! Do I look as if I have time?" Christian dug his fing
ers into the chair arms, stemmed his unhealthy agitation, and lowered his voice. He was displeased with David's reluctance. Very displeased. "Just do your job. Get that girl's signature on the sale agreement."
"Or?"
"Kill her." Impatient with his evasions, his refusal to obey, Christian shifted his gaze to the terrace. "Do we understand one another?"
David crashed his glass down on the top of the liquor cabinet and headed for the door.
Christian saw his chest heave with the effort not to throttle him. Of course, he wouldn't. Christian's mouth contorted to a sneer. Men. So predictable—if you handled them deftly. As he always had.
At the door, David stopped. "You're a viper, Christian. The most cold-blooded son of a bitch I've ever met. It must have been a slow day in Hades when they welded you together, because they did a first-rate job. From hell's point of view, you're fucking perfect." He opened the door wide, held it a moment, and stepped out.
Christian's ancient heart found its rhythm a few minutes after the door closed. David was becoming tiresome, not as malleable as he once was. The thought didn't please him. He hoped he wasn't developing a conscience at this stage in the game. Not that it mattered. The Cole girl must be dealt with quickly.
* * *
The heat of Lana's embarrassment crawled up her neck, flamed in her cheeks. "You're sure?" she asked the sales clerk.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Emerson, but I've tried it three times." The woman's face had to be a mirror image of her own, a pale shade of fuchsia. "I can try again... or you could call. I'm certain there's a mistake."
"Yes, but no matter. I have other cards. I just don't have any with me. Please hold the clothes." She took her hand from the large plastic bag on the counter of the exclusive shop. "I'll come back for them tomorrow."
The woman put the bag behind the counter, smiled. "Happy to. As I said, it's probably a computer mix-up. These things happen all the time."
Not to me. "I'm sure that's it." Lana took the useless credit card the woman handed her and put it in her bag. "Tomorrow, then." She walked out of the store, careful to walk slowly and keep her head high. A few minutes later, she went into one of the zillion coffee shops that decorated every corner of Seattle. She bought herself bottled water and took a seat.
