IN ROOM 33

by EC Sheedy

  "Damned if I know," he said, then, "Bingo."

  She turned. "I told you people put things up there. What have you got?"

  "A photo album."

  He sat on Sinnie's bed and adjusted the bedside lamp. Joy sat beside him. The album was old, and well-organized, every picture tucked into slots provided by gold corner stickers.

  On the third page, Wade stopped, pointed. "That's my grandfather. Old Joe himself." His finger trailed off the page.

  "Is this your mother?" Joy pointed to a picture of Stephen with his arm around a small, pretty woman.

  "Yes. In better times."

  "She's lovely."

  Wade nodded, touched the picture, and turned the page. "But what have we here?"

  "Sinnie. I think." Joy looked closer at the picture. It showed a young girl of maybe fourteen and a boy, older but shorter. Both smiling for the camera. Behind them was a grand house and beyond it what looked like the ocean.

  Joy slipped her nail under the photo and carefully lifted it out of its golden corners. She turned it over, read, My brother Christian and I. Montauk, N.Y. I was fourteen.

  Wade sat back, shook his head. "Whoa! This is news. Sinnie and that nightmare in the penthouse related. And she never said a word."

  "Why, do you suppose?"

  "I don't know." He looked baffled. "I always had the impression she didn't like him very much."

  Still holding the picture, Joy turned to the next page. And the next... There was nothing more of interest until the last one. Here, Sinnie had constructed a pocket using heavy paper and clear tape, and judging by the tears and yellowing, she'd done it a very long time ago. Inside the makeshift pocket were newspaper clippings. All of them about Room 33, including the "room of doom" article.

  Wade pulled one of the magazine clippings from her hand. It had a picture of his grandfather—much older than the picture in the album. "I remember this," Wade said. "It was a few years before he died. The Philip was a mess and he was pouring money into it to keep it going, hanging on by his bloodied fingernails. This guy—the writer—was doing a piece on ghosts or some damn thing. He'd latched on to the 'room of doom' article and came to interview Joe." He paused as if to remember. "Joe never talked about that stuff, never believed a word of it. To him it was always a run of bad luck. But this time he wanted to explain things. Make a point about how irresponsible reporting had damaged his hotel's reputation."

  "And did he? Make his point?"

  "No." He stopped. "Truth is, the press wasn't the problem. It was that 'run of bad luck' Joe talked about. It destroyed the Philip and when it failed, the neighborhood failed."

  "Look at this." She handed him a list in Sinnie's handwriting of all the tragic events that had taken place in Room 33.

  Wade studied it. "There's some here even I didn't know about." He pointed to one. "Joe never mentioned this."

  "Family of three murdered in the 'room of doom.'" Joy read and shuddered at the image. "I can see why. I wouldn't tell my grandson either." She looked at Wade. "But I don't think all this"—she ran a finger down the list—"had anything to do with bad luck. This smells like a plan." Uneasiness burrowed into her stomach. David's warnings lit up in her mind.

  "A plan that goes back a long way. A very long way." Wade rose abruptly.

  She started to put the album back together, but when it came time to put the list and the photograph back, Wade said, "Hang on to those."

  She knew what was on his mind, "You think we should ask"—she pointed toward the ceiling—"Rupert—Sinnie's brother, about her list, right?"

  Wade's face was closed, angry. "We sure as hell can't ask Sinnie. And that man either knows something, or worse yet, he's had a hand in things around this place for more years than I like to think about."

  "He's not going to be thrilled to see us. If he even lets us in." She remembered the size of the chain on his door. It would keep out a SWAT team.

  "I know a way." Wade glanced at his watch. "But it won't work tonight. So let's go. We'll get some sleep and think about this in the morning."

  The events of the evening, her mother's sexual intimation, rushed back. Her throat tightened. "That's all we're going to do. Sleep. Until things are sorted out. Do we understand each other?"

  He nodded, but he didn't smile.

  * * *

  Lana sat in her car, craned her neck to look up at the hotel. There were only three lights on in the whole place that she could see, an outside light on the rooftop, one in the lobby, and another on the third floor. Other than that, the Philip was shrouded in black.

  It was one-thirty in the morning, and David still hadn't come out. She could imagine what he was doing in there, but Lana didn't go in for imagination—she preferred facts. Tonight, on the way to dinner, he'd proposed to her and she'd accepted; then, after the scene with Joy and Wade in the restaurant, he'd turned to stone. She'd never seen him so angry. Of course she'd left him to stew—until it came time for his late meeting that wouldn't wait.

  Curiosity made her follow him; fascination that the meeting was held in the Philip at this time of night held her in place.

  Joy was in there.

  She thought about her daughter, her strikingly beautiful, very young daughter—as a potential rival. It didn't seem possible. But she needed to know, and sitting here accomplished nothing. She opened her Mercedes door and got out. The street, deserted except for a couple down the block who'd reeled out of a tavern, was dark. A chilly breeze kicked trash along the gutter, and she pulled her silk sweater tight to her shoulders as she walked toward the hotel.

  She reached the main door as David came out of it. "Lana, what in hell are you doing here?" He clutched her upper arms, didn't look pleased.

  "I could ask you the same thing," she said.

  "Business. I told you that." As if pulling down a blind, he covered his initial shock at seeing her there with a frustrated glare.

  "Care to tell me what kind of business brings you to this awful place in the middle of the night?"

  "No." He took her arm.

  "I thought not."

  When she pulled away from him, his smile was cool, taunting. "But I can tell you I bumped into Joy. We had a very nice talk. Beautiful girl, your daughter."

  Shock was such a rare sensation for Lana, she barely recognized it. Jealousy—rarer still—made her stomach curl. "And what exactly did you two talk about?" Lana knew her voice was level, prided herself on it.

  He took her arm, none too gently, and led her away from the hotel doors and across the darkened street."After your performance in the restaurant, I thought I'd best plead my own case." His eyes were cold. "What the hell did you think I'd do, with you mouthing off that Wade's money was as good as mine."

  "It is. But there isn't a chance I'd ever see a dime of it. Which is exactly why I said that."

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "Wade detests me, David. Always has. Blames me for the death of his mother... among other things. Now that he knows the Philip money will bleed through to me, he'll withdraw his offer—and probably get out of my daughter's pants—at the speed of light."

  David looked suspicious. "You're sure?"

  "Trust me on this. I'm absolutely sure. After tonight, Wade is out of the running."

  "Why didn't you tell me this earlier?"

  She smiled. "Because you were angry, miserable, unreachable, and you annoyed me."

  "I had reason to be angry. Still am. And you'd better be right about Emerson, because if there's one thing my investors won't tolerate, it's more delay."

  He opened her car door, his expression still sour. "I told Joy about us, by the way."

  "Don't you think that was my job?"

  He lifted one of his expensively clad shoulders and dropped it. "Maybe, but it's done. Believe it or not, I was actually excited about it." He swung her to face him, gripped her upper arms. "I love you, Lana. I'll do anything for you—anything—but I have to get that hotel. No matter what it takes
. Do you get that?"

  She'd never seen him so strong, so forceful. "I get it, my darling." She stood on her toes to kiss him, ran her tongue along the tense line of his mouth. "And all I'm trying to do is help. Believe me, after tonight, you have nothing to worry about."

  His mouth softened and he took hers in a deep kiss. "You drive me crazy, you know that."

  "I certainly hope so."

  "Are you going to tell me why you followed me tonight?"

  "I doubt it." She lifted her wide blue eyes to his, filled them with sexual promise. "But you're welcome to come home with me and do your best to make me talk."

  He smiled, and opened the car door wide. "Get in. I'll follow you home." He leaned in and kissed her again. "And believe it or not, I'm glad you came."

  "Me, too," she said. You lying bastard!

  * * *

  Joy came out of Wade's bathroom. She wore his robe again and with the light and steam of the bathroom behind her, she looked like an emerging dream.

  He stuffed a pillow behind his head and shifted up to lean against the headboard.

  She slid into bed beside him, warm and soft from his bathtub—and wearing pajamas. Damn!

  They needed to straighten things out—before pajamas became steel armor. And it wasn't going to be pretty. "I think we should get this over with." Lousy introduction, but all he could come up with. She visibly tensed.

  "The 'this' you're referring to being Lana's involvement in the Philip?" she said.

  "Uh-huh."

  "All right. But tit for tat."

  "Sure." He knew she was referring to his and Lana's relationship. Big, fucking, deep hole there. He wasn't sure he could climb out of it. He also knew he couldn't avoid it. "But you first."

  She seemed to consider this, then pushed herself up to sit beside him. "Why not?" They looked like a pair of seventies sitcom characters. Except he sensed there'd be nothing comedic about their conversation."You've probably figured it out already. Your father left me the Hotel Philip and a hundred thousand dollars—and lots of strings." She smoothed the blanket over her knees, and started to talk. He left her to it for the next ten minutes.

  When Joy finished explaining how Stephen intended Lana to benefit from Joy's ownership of the Philip, Wade's breath had cratered in his lungs. And one searing conclusion occupied his brain. If he bought the hotel from Joy, the last of his cash would flow through to Lana, the woman who destroyed his family and humiliated his mother.

  He had trouble getting his words out. "That letter. It's not binding, you know. It's not attached to the probated will."

  She didn't look at him. "I know that."

  Unable to stay still, he got up, shoved his legs into jeans, and turned to look down at her. "But you don't care."

  "It's not about caring. It's about obligation. It's what your father wanted." She moved to sit on the edge of the bed, her back to him.

  "That doesn't make it right."

  She propped a knee on the bed, looked at him. "Maybe it is right. They were married for eighteen years, Wade."

  "Eighteen years and over forty million dollars." His snort was derisive, disgust and anger a hard lump under his ribcage. "Let's see... that's a burn rate of two million a year, give or take."

  "Forty million." Joy's wide-eyed gaze shot to his. "That much?"

  "And every cent of it made by my grandfather."

  "I didn't know." She rose, walked to where he stood by the window. They both looked down into the shadowy street. "But it doesn't change anything. I can't ignore your father's request." She ran her hands through her long, blond hair, then leaned against the windowsill. "But I can interpret it in my own way."

  "Which means?"

  "I don't intend to sell the Phil and hand the money to my mother. I want to reopen it, make it profitable, and pay my mother a monthly dividend from the proceeds."

  "What's in it for you?"

  "A home. A goal... a solid place to live my life. Some kind of foundation. It's difficult to explain."

  She didn't have to. Wade understood perfectly. It was the same reason he'd wanted the Phil, but unlike her, he knew what he was in for. "The Phil is a seedy old hotel in a lousy part of town. It might take years to get it back to where it should be. Not to mention a hefty budget. It's a hell of a way to get a life, Joy." He prodded her resolve, didn't know why. None of it mattered now that he knew Lana's stake in it.

  "Maybe." She stood, crossed her arms under her breasts. "But it's the life I want. I'll take care of Lana, and I'll take care of myself. And I won't sell to David Grange." She lifted a brow, studied him. "I take it your offer is off the table?"

  "Every last nickel of it. Your mother's financial wellbeing might be your concern. It sure as hell isn't mine. I don't care if she—" He stopped. Enough said.

  "I think the normal finish to that sentence is 'rots in hell?'"

  He said nothing, and she fixed those wide, truth-seeking eyes on him—and honed in on a dark spot he'd hoped never to visit again.

  "Which leads us to your story," she said. "Tell me. What did she mean when she said you must be 'better in bed than you used to be?'"

  "Maybe you should ask her." He was stalling and knew it.

  "Do you really want me to do that?"

  "No." He didn't, but neither could he make his damn mouth work.

  Silence filled the room, heavy and bleak—accusatory.

  Finally, Joy closed her eyes against it, against him. Her words came out on a chilled whisper. "You did sleep with her, didn't you?" She licked her lips as if they were dry, and her gaze met his—not with the anger he'd have been comfortable with, but a bone-deep, terrible misery.

  "I did not sleep with her." That much was true. He couldn't describe what they'd done, but he knew one thing—it had nothing to do with sleeping.

  Chapter 16

  Joy's blood coursed through her veins, a river of ice.

  Wade was lying and she knew it. He looked angry, guilty, and frustrated. No doubt he was all of them. Just as she was sickened, disappointed, and strangely panicked. She had the insane—or smart—urge to grab her clothes and run. But before she could be sure that her brain still controlled her legs, Wade stepped up to her.

  "Sit down," he said. "I might as well get this over with." His expression was forbidding, his mouth a thin seam.

  He exerted light pressure on her shoulders to make her sit on the edge of the bed. With the anger and pain in her head blocking a sane decision process, she sat. He stood over her. They both took some deep breaths.

  "I was seventeen when your mother married my dad." He stopped. "This isn't going to be pretty, and I'm not going to watch my words. Can you handle that?"

  "Oh, I can handle it, all right. The truth is, I'm fascinated. It's not every day a girl sleeps with the same man who's slept with her mother."

  "It wasn't—" He stopped again, looked at the ceiling as if it would offer him the excuses he needed. "I did not sleep with your mother. At least, not in the sense you're thinking of it."

  "I'm thinking of it in the sense of fucking." She managed to lace her tone in sugar and add a smile. It felt like a tear across her lower face. "How are you thinking of it... fondly?"

  He glared at her. "If you'll shut up, I'll tell you."

  She put a hand behind her ear, ignored the building pressure in her lungs. "Go for it."

  "I was seventeen—"

  "—you said that." When his glare hardened, she didn't care. Anger, cold and vicious, had staked its claim. She turned away from his eyes, afraid of what truth she'd see there.

  "It happened the same day you and I met at the Phil. I'd met Dad there that afternoon to go home with him for his birthday dinner the same night. I hadn't wanted to go, but my mother insisted... That woman didn't have a mean bone in her body." He paused as if to gather his thoughts. "Before dinner, I hit Stephen's liquor supply, figured I needed liquid courage. I was okay until Lana came in and sat in my mother's chair. Cool as... hell, cool as it's possible to
be."

  "I get the picture."

  "I doubt it. Anyway, that cool—and the Jack Daniel's—made me a little nuts, I guess. I mouthed off, said something rude—and probably crude—to your mother. I can't remember, but whatever it was started a fight with my father." He glanced down at her. "You remember that? You were asked to leave the room and you weren't happy about it."

  She gave a slight nod. "You broke a glass against the wall."

  "Yeah." He pulled his earlobe. "After that, I got out of there and went to bed." He started to pace, then just as suddenly stopped. "I fell asleep pretty much right away. I guess 'passed out' would be more accurate. It was maybe three o'clock when I woke up." He took a breath. "I thought I was having a wet dream, and maybe I was, at first. But then I felt hands... working me. I woke up hard as stone with your mother straddling me, trying to—hell. You can guess."

  Silence bloated the room, as if there'd been a sudden, shocking death. Even the air thinned.

  Wade looked as if he'd been beaten by ghosts—no visible scars but haggard, weak, and exhausted from the battle.

  Joy put her head, suddenly too heavy to hold upright, in her two hands. She did not want to know this. Didn't know what to do with the information.

  "There's more," Wade said.

  She lifted her face to his, her mind blanked by overload.

  "When my brain kicked in, I shoved her off me, cursed her with all the colorful vocabulary at my seventeen-year-old disposal—you got a taste of it earlier that night at dinner—and that brought my father to the scene." His expression altered subtly, at once pained and hard, and he ran a hand through his hair. "And what a view he got. A naked kid with a hard-on, railing at his beautiful wife, who was flat out on the floor." His mouth flattened. "She told him I'd come on to her. That she'd come into my room to check on me, and I'd been all over her."

  Nauseous, Joy had to ask, "And Stephen? What did he do?"

  "He believed Lana and tossed me out of the house." He dragged a chair to face her and sat, trapping her knees between his. He reached for her hands, and she didn't have the strength to pull them away. "My guess is he went to his grave believing I was some kind of pervert." Pain clouded his gaze. She saw him straighten to refuse it entry, work to contain the bitter memory, shove it into the ugly past where it belonged.