by EC Sheedy
"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."
"Was there? A woman?"
"A man says he wants to have sex with you and you want his life story. This a new approach?"
"Maybe the woman is interested and wants to know what she's getting into."
His face unreadable, he studied her for a long time. "What she'd be getting into would be a bed, where she'd have sex—as good as it gets, more sex—then a long good-bye kiss. You want that?"
"The word I used was 'interested,' not yes with a capital Y and an exclamation point." She took a giant mental step back, sorry she'd opened her mouth. There was something in the way he kept looking at her that told her to be cautious—with an exclamation point.
Silence, long crazy beats of silence.
His eyes hotly speculative, Wade raised an eyebrow. Trapped in his smooth, knowing gaze, Joy busied herself by flipping the flash drive between her hands, trying to think. Finally, she blew out a breath, and irritated, raised her eyes to meet his directly. She was no ingenue—why act like one? "Okay, I admit it. I've been thinking about it ever since I saw your sweet ass that first day in the Phil."
"The 'it' being sex? With me?"
She rolled her eyes.
He smiled as though he couldn't help himself, but it dropped off his face as fast as it appeared. "There's always a woman."
"And?"
"And she's my business, not yours."
Joy thought about her own past, her own painful mistakes—the responsibility she had for her mother, how much Wade would hate the idea of his efforts being to Lana's advantage. How much she needed his help. She stood. "You're right about that." She retraced her steps to the door. "And you're right about something else. You and I diving under the sheets would be a bad idea." She tossed a smile at him from over her shoulder, determined to lighten—and inject common sense into—what had to be a working relationship. "No matter how interested we are in each other's 'sweet asses'... Good night, Wade."
* * *
Wade's night was anything but good. His bed was a rack, pulling the lower half of his body into a sexual hell and the top half into ambition central. Neither arousal made him happy. His mind went from Joy to the Philip and the neat row of numbers he'd created to prove the viability of Joy's plan. He hadn't been smart; he should have walked away from this place the day the will was read. Who the hell was he kidding? Thinking he could stand by like a damn eunuch and watch the Phil be brought back—and him have no part in it.
For weeks he'd ignored Sinnie's harping, filled his days with mops and buckets, convinced himself he didn't give a damn. Enter Joy Cole with her crazy "possibilities." From there all it had taken was a computer spreadsheet, a bunch of "what if s," and a gust of fresh hope.
He swung his legs bedside, stuffed them into running shorts, and pulled a sleeveless tee over his head. Time to run a thousand miles, clear his head, and do some serious planning. He did his best thinking working up a sweat.
He went to the fridge and drank orange juice from the carton. About to put it back, he heard a thump on his door.
"Wade, you in there?" It was Sinnie.
She poked her head in.
Feeling grim, he forced a smile. "Hey, Sin. You're up early."
She eyed him. "And you look as if you've been run over by a truck. One of those big ones."
He stowed the orange juice. "Didn't sleep."
"Why not?"
"Too much noise in the alley. Must have been a dozen cats out there."
Sinnie made a clicking noise with her teeth. "You should marry the girl, you know. That way, you'd get your hotel back. And everything would be... over."
He blinked."Jesus, Sinnie!"
"Don't curse! And you'll be pleased to know I'm not here about your love life—or lack of it," she went on. "Old Henry's gone and a couple of people from six. The lot of them cleared out without so much as a by-your-leave." She plopped herself down at his table.
"And, you're telling me this because..." Wade ambled over to his coffee pot. Might as well make himself one, because it looked as if Sinnie was going to be here a while.
"Something's fishy. Henry wasn't feeling good, and he had a doctor's appointment tomorrow. I was taking him. He wouldn't have just left."
"I hate to break it to you, Sinnie, but there are a few people in this world who don't clear their decisions through you. Henry's probably gone out for a wa—"
"And I'm telling you, Mr. Wade Emerson, the man is gone." She pulled her chin back, and gave him her teacher look. "And the people from six? Same thing. Poof!"
"Poof?" Wade shook his head. He wanted to laugh—instead he smiled.
Sinnie shook a bony finger at him. "Don't you snicker at me." Her voice lowered and her expression tightened to a worried mask of well-used wrinkles when she added, "Something strange is going on here. Something very strange."
Wade stopped his coffee-making. Hell, why not humor her? He could use the distraction. "Okay, Sin, let's go take a look." Secretly he figured Henry had just got tired of Sinnie being on his back and gone on a bender. The couple on six? Probably skipping on the rent.
He and Sinnie stepped into the hall at the exact moment Joy opened her door. Wade sucked up his irritation, sent one of those male, What the hell did I ever do to you, Lord? prayers heavenward.
The woman looked like gold-plated sin.
She smiled at Sinnie, then said, "Wade, I was just coming to see you." She lifted the papers in her hand. "I have some questions."
"Is that them?" He gestured at the papers.
"Yes, I printed them out."
"Shove it under my door. I'll look at them when I come back."
Her eyes went all fiery. "Back from where?"
Sinnie piped up. "Something funny's going on 'round here. We've got ourselves some missing tenan
ts. We're going to check. You can come along if you want."
"Missing tenants?" She looked alarmed. "What happened?"
"Most likely nothing, but Sinnie here"—Wade attempted to kill her with a look—"has concocted a conspiracy. Aliens, I think."
Sinnie glared. "You'll see."
"I think I will come along," Joy said, and gave him an I-dare-you-to-stop-me kind of look.
It was his turn to glare. "Fine. Let's go."
They went to Henry's room first. The door was unlocked—not unusual for Henry—so they walked in.
"See?" Sinnie said, but her tone was more worried than triumphant. "I told you it was strange."
Wade didn't answer, but he did take a good look around and Sinnie was dead right—it was strange. He bent to pick up a broken lamp and return the table it had sat on to an upright position. He went to the kitchen counter, much like his own. Someone had eaten a sandwich and left all the fixings out. Old Henry was a drunk, and he didn't have much, but what he had was always neat and clean. He kept his room trim. Navy training, he'd told Wade proudly. Wade checked the closet and bureau. Empty.
"What's goin' on?" Big Mike walked in.
Wade glared at him, but kept his curse in lockup. Did this asshole have a goddamn tracking system up his butt, or just a severe case of bad-penny syndrome?
Mike moved close to where Joy stood by the lamp table Wade had just righted and smiled down at her, a big, toothy smile that made Wade want to belt him. Joy quickly moved to the other side of the room.
"Something funny's up, that's what. Old Henry's gone," Sinnie said, her tone apprehensive.
"Yeah, I know. He left last night."
Wade swung around. "You talked to him?"
"Passed him in the hall. He said somethin' about goin' to his sister's place in Portland."
Wade turned to Sinnie. "Does he have a sister in Portland?"
"Yes. Doris." She looked confused. "Don't know her last name. Not sure Henry did. The man couldn't stand the woman. He'd never go there."
