by EC Sheedy
Joy burned down the Scotch in one gulp—to avoid spewing it across the table. " 'Drastic?' You're not serious! You actually believe my mother would—" She couldn't finish. The idea was too insane to say aloud.
"You've been away a long time. You don't know her the way I do."
"I know her well enough to know if they gave out survivor ribbons, my mother's would be blue." She set her glass on the table and stood, angry now. "And as an effort to coerce me into selling you the Philip, David, the quiet little drink together idea was a misfire. I've told my mother, and I'll tell you—I'll do what I think best to look after her interests." She put both hands on the back of her now vacant seat and stared him down. "If that means selling the property, I'll do that, but not until I've explored all possibilities and done due diligence."
His face was tight. "Are you negotiating with me on price, or are you really thinking of reopening the hotel?"
"Both." She lifted her hands from the chair. "I've got a month to make my decision, and I intend to use every minute of it." She turned to go, then turned back. "Oh, and you should know I'm checking out of here in the morning. I'm going to Victoria for a few days and when I come back I'll be staying at the Philip."
Genuine alarm tightened his handsome features. "That's a bad idea. You have no idea how bad."
That made the third person today telling her she shouldn't stay at her hotel. She lifted her chin. "We'll talk in a month." She walked out.
* * *
A few days later, Christian put on a pair of white gloves and tottered across the room to his desk, where he opened the second drawer and pulled out an envelope. He went from there to stand before a large oil painting of an isolated and windswept beach. He moved it aside and opened his safe. He took out one of the stacks of bills and carefully removed twenty small bills. He put three of them in the envelope.
He heard the familiar rap on his door. The boy was punctual, he'd say that for him.
Christian let Gordy in through the door he half-opened for the purpose, calmed himself, and bent to pet Melly. "Good girl. Daddy's good girl." He looked at the man-child who was smiling at Melly. "Where did you take her today, Gordy?"
"We went with Sinnie to that clinic place. It was a long way." Gordy's eyes widened with his smile. "Melly was real good." He patted the dog's soft head.
Christian went back to his chair. He was so stiff. He told himself he needed to walk more, but he never did. Even his beloved terrace had become too intimidating. Who knew what the winds would deposit there? "Is Sinnie sick, Gordy? Is that why you went to the clinic?" Christian liked to keep tabs on Sinnie. She'd cleaned his home for years, but she seldom spoke to him. Not that he was bothered by that. He enjoyed her silence, considered it a benefit of her distaste of him.
"No. Not sick. She said she needed a paper to get more medicine for her cranky old joints." He chewed on his upper lip. "A prescr..." He trailed off.
Christian smiled. Gordy was so amusing. "A prescription. She needed a prescription."
"Yeah, that's it."
Christian rested his head back, suddenly tired and bored with Sinnie's cranky joints. "Get your money, boy. It's where it always is."
"Thanks."
Christian heard him rustle around, watched from under hooded eyes until satisfied with the count. "Come back this afternoon at two." He let his eyelids again drift to a close.
"Can't, Mr. Rupert. I'm working for Wade today."
"Doing what?" He hoped this wasn't the boy's day for idle chatter.
"He's cleaning up for the new tenant. I'm helping," he added proudly.
"New tenant?" Christian's head came up. He'd heard nothing about a new tenant.
"Yeah, the pretty lady who was here last week? She's moving in."
Christian stared at Gordy, at first unable to identify the emotion roiling through his body. Surprise? Indeed. Anger that he hadn't been informed? Certainly that! But his next feeling was glee. The stupid girl was playing into his hands. Here, he could watch her, be more in control. And it made it so much easier to prepare the stage for David to do what in the end Christian knew must be done. There must be no mistakes, no backtracking—and no witnesses.
"What room is the pretty lady taking, Gordy?"
"Thirty-three."
Christian's laugh quickly became a series of shallow wheezes. The boy looked alarmed, until Christian pressed a lace handkerchief to his mouth. His bent, spidery fingers held it there until he'd regained his composure enough to say, "Get along with you, boy, and tell Mike to come up. I need him... to water the terrace planters."
* * *
Wade didn't hesitate outside the door to 33, just jammed in the key, turned it, and strode to the room's center. Gordy followed him in, bucket and sponge in hand.
"Start with the bathroom, Gordy, and do a good job. Women tend to be fastidious about bathrooms."
"What's that 'fast' word mean?"
"Super clean. Real fussy."
"Like my mom."
"Probably," Wade answered absently, and walked to the window to look at the latch he'd fixed last time he was here. Like he figured. Not good enough. He'd have to reset the screws.
"Wade."
"Uh-huh."
"Could you come here? There's something in the tub."
"What?" Wade swallowed, kept at the latch, sank the new screws deep.
"I dunno. It's sort of red. Come look."
Wade took a breath and walked toward the bathroom.
He stopped in the doorway to see Gordy puzzling over the bathtub."Yeah?"
Gordy pointed. "What do I do about that stuff?"
Wade ignored the white storm gathering behind his eyes, the hair standing upright on his forearms, and peered into the tub.
"It's rust." He relaxed, told himself he was ten times a fool. "Shake some of that white powder on it. Let it sit a bit, then scrub it. It'll come away." Maybe. If it doesn't, the woman's going to have an orange ass. Serve her right. She had to pick this room. Well, good for her. He'd do what he had to do and get the hell out of here.
He went back to work on the window, tied his mind up with insetting screws, and didn't hear Mike step in through the open door. "She comin' in today?" he said.
Wade tossed him a look, kept working. "So the lady says."
Mike went to stand over Wade, managed to block the light from the window. "Handy for you." He gestured at the room's open door, gave Wade an obnoxious grin. "Being across the hall and all."
"You mean something by that?" Wade gave the screw a final turn, didn't bother to look up until it was set deep.
"I mean she's one damn fine bitch. I was hoping she'd take the room on four." The man looked as if he were salivating. "But I guess one floor don't make much difference when a man's dick is thick."
It's a girl thing, Wade. Joy's words echoed. "Well, she didn't go on four, Mike. She's on three. My floor." Wade straightened, but even at six-foot-one, his gaze didn't level with the big man who had it over him by at least three inches and forty pounds. "And if you want to keep that square head of yours on your shoulders, you'd be smart to leave her the hell alone."
Mike didn't move a muscle, just grinned as if all that muscle and fat he was encased in would stop a bull at a full run and he damn well knew it."Sure. Anything you say, Wade." He looked at the newly installed window lock. "Good job. That'll keep the bogeyman out." He grinned again and rolled himself out of the room.
Wade watched him go, restrained aggression a tight twist in his stomach. Son of a bitch! It looked as if Joy Cole was a better judge of character than he was. He'd been around Mike for weeks, but they'd never exchanged more than hallway salutes. Wade thought of him as big, harmless, and none too bright. Time to rethink the harmless bit. If he hadn't been wallowing in his own damned misery, he'd have picked up on the brute, the slime of him, those dull photocopier eyes of his—as if he were imprinting events on his brain for review later when he had time to figure them out. Well, he'd picked up on him now, and he was
suddenly damn glad Joy—if the obstinate woman had to be in the Phil—was directly across the hall.
Gordy came out of the bathroom. "All done. What's next?" He looked at the door. "That Mike?"
Wade nodded.
Gordy dropped his bucket, ran to the door, and yelled, "Mike!"
Wade heard a "Yeah" from down the hall.
"Mr. Rupert wants you to go up and see him."
Another "Yeah" and the sound of a door banging.
Wade looked at Gordy. "Why does Mr. Rupert want to see Mike, Gordy? Did he say?"
Gordy came back in the room, picked up the abandoned bucket."Wants his trees watered or some sweeping done." He shrugged. "Something. I don't know."
"Hmm." Wade tried to picture Mike with a broom or a hose. Had real trouble. "You see Mr. Rupert a lot don't you?" He eyed Gordy. "Walk his dog, stuff like that."
He nodded.
"Is he nice to you? A good guy?"
His face brightened. "Oh, yeah, he gives me money... shows me stuff."
"What kind of stuff?"
"He showed me a picture of your grandpa once. It was kind of brown, though."
"He's got a picture of my grandfather? You sure?"
"Uh-huh. It's on his piano."
Wade found that strange. Through the years Rupert's name would come up in the Emerson family—when there'd been a family—as the weird eccentric who owned the hotel penthouse. The man who, as far as anyone knew, had stopped going out sometime back in the seventies. But every time his name came up, his grandfather would growl something about him being a mean old bastard and kill the subject. He'd never indicated there was any kind of shared history between the two of them other than a legal document giving the "mean old bastard" title to the penthouse. Wade knew Joseph Emerson saw hard times in his early years, particularly while he was building the Phil, so he assumed the title to the penthouse was a financial arrangement, one Joe had come to regret later on. Pure speculation, of course, because when it came to Christian Rupert, his grandfather had absolutely nothing to say.
"What ya want me to do now, Wade?" Gordy asked.
"Nothing. Finish what you're doing in the bathroom and head home. Your mom told me you've got a dentist appointment."
Gordy made a face. "Okay." When Wade headed for the door, he asked, "Where're you going?"
"Be right back," he said, stepping into the hall. "I'm going to get the vacuum cleaner."
"Real men don't vacuum," Joy said when they collided outside the door. "Didn't you know that?" She had a suitcase in one hand, a computer case strap over her shoulder, and was towing another bag behind her. She wasn't laughing, but she was smiling, and Wade had the sense her smiles were rare.
He held her by the shoulders, his big hands folding over straight bones and trim muscle. He didn't want to let go. "I said I was getting it, didn't say I was doing it," he said. "I figured I'd leave that to you." She'd steadied under his hands, so he reluctantly dropped them to his sides. He was adolescently glad to see her. "Although I could be bribed..."
"I think I've heard that one before."
"Just wanted to be sure the message got through." He should have stopped himself, but he didn't. He ran his knuckles along her jaw and wondered if the rest of her was this intriguing mixture of soft and firm.
"You're anything but subtle, Wade."
"And here I thought I was being Mr. Smooth."
She tilted her head, gave him a speculative look. "You're smooth enough, all right. Maybe too smooth."
He let that go, and took her bags from her hand. "The place is as ready as it's going to get. You won't change your mind, take another room?"
"Nope."
He shook his head, stepped aside to let her pass, and followed her into the room. He set her bags down near the bed. "Okay. Real men know when they're beat." But you can bet I'll be keeping an eye on you. He took her hand, led her back to the open door. "That's my room across the hall. Anything, anyone, bothers you, shout."
She stood beside him and peeked out. "I will."
"And did you know my door is never locked?"
"I do now," she said in a tone husky enough to rattle his male cage and lay down hope as hot as melting gold.
They looked at each other. Wade heard Gordy banging around in the room behind them, but like that day when Joy came out of Sinnie's bathroom, streaked and grimy, he couldn't take his eyes off her. And everything male in him told him she had the same problem.
He knew his voice was dark when he said, "Something's going on here. Between us. Are you getting it?"
The slightest hesitation. "Yes, I'm getting it"—she shook her head, and her smooth forehead creased into a frown—"but I'm not sure it's smart to do anything about it."
The elevator door clanged shut down the hall; metal slammed against metal. Like a cell door closing, like a hundred cell doors he'd heard every night for eighteen months. And it reminded him of what he was. What he'd done. He pulled his gaze from hers.
What the hell was he thinking, playing with this woman? He turned away."You're right. It's not smart," he said and headed down the hall. "I'll get you that vacuum. If you need anything, ask Gordy—he's the guy cleaning your bathroom. He'll be happy to help."
He knew she didn't move, knew she watched him go with a big question mark in her eyes, but he didn't look back.
He'd been out of jail for less than three months. His life was a fucking mess. He might need sex, but this sure as hell wasn't the time to start messing with a woman like Joy Cole—a keeper if he ever saw one. He wasn't in the market for one of those.
Maybe she did look like a gift from the gods, and maybe she was. If so, the gods' timing was brutal.
She was a complication he didn't need—and she came with a mother who made his damn stomach turn.
* * *
Christian was frustrated that his illness forced him to rely on fools and cretins. He settled his ancient eyes on his latest recruit. "Michael, you've let me down. You didn't tell me the woman was moving in. I had to hear it from Gordy. Pure chance. I don't like chance. Do you understand me?"
Mike shrugged, a flash of brutish anger heating his dull gaze.
Christian prodded him. "Say, yes, Mr. Rupert. Anything you say, Mr. Rupert."
The big man looked as if he'd explode and Christian restrained a snicker. So much aggression, quite enticing in a sick kind of way.
When he didn't comply with his suggestion, Christian went on, his voice flat and hard. "I'm your lifeline, Michael. If you forget that for a second, I'll not hesitate to toss you to those nasty creditors of yours—or make a short phone call to the proper authorities. I don't think you'd care for either option, would you?"
"No." The word shot out like a dry, acrid nut.
"I take that to mean you'd like another chance?"
Mike glared but nodded.
"Very well, then." When he'd told David he needed added security, he'd found the perfect candidate, a man who had three choices: go back to prison for parole violation, get a knife in his back from a local drug ring he'd been stupid enough to steal from, or do whatever Christian Rupert told him to do in order to stay alive on this side of prison bars. He detested Michael, of course, but right now, he needed him. There were preparations to make.
"I want you to do something for me." Christian slapped the envelope against his thigh. "And to show there's no hard feelings, there's something extra in it—if you do it well."
Mike said nothing, but Christian knew he had his attention. He went on, "How many guests are in the hotel? Right now. This moment."
Mike looked at the ceiling, started to count on his fingers. "Old Henry, them Millars down the hall from me, Sinnie, Lars, and Rebecca... Cherry and Gordy, Wade, me... the owner-broad. Then there's four or five on six, a couple on five and on two, I think." He stopped, looked confused. "I don't know, maybe twenty, twenty-five in maybe twelve or thirteen rooms."
"That's all?" Christian hadn't realized his below stairs flock was so depleted. He
grew momentarily uneasy, not sure how he'd cope if all the space below him were empty. When the hotel was finally under his control, he'd have to think on this. David would help. But right now he had instructions to give.
He handed Mike a set of master keys for the hotel. Mike tossed them in his hand. "Don't need these, ya know. I can get in anywhere."
"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."
