IN ROOM 33

by EC Sheedy

  "And you blame my mother." Her words sounded dumb, ill-placed, and stupidly accusatory, but she didn't know what else to say, didn't know how she felt, and couldn't hold onto an emotion long enough to identify it.

  "I don't know how else to say this—except to say it. My take on it is that all your mother cared about was money, and she married my father to get it. When I think about it now—which is as little as possible—I see that little show in my bedroom as her way of getting rid of me. I'm not going to lie. I more than blamed her, I hated her—maybe I still do." He lifted her chin, forced her to look at him. "The one thing I did not do was sleep with her. You have to believe that, or you and I don't stand a chance."

  She pulled her face away, got up, and crossed the room to the closet. She started to dress. If she didn't get out of here, the chaos in her brain would close her lungs completely. She needed fresh air, and more than that—she needed to get away from Wade... the image of him and Lana.

  "Joy, don't do this." He started across the room.

  She held up a hand to stop him. "Don't touch me." She put on her robe, gathered up her bag and the dress she'd worn to dinner. A dinner that now seemed like days ago. "And don't say another word."

  She finished gathering up her things. At the door she looked back. "And there's something you should know. I have two million dollars in the bank—the result of a brief but highly profitable marriage. So you could say preying on men and their fortunes is a specialty of the Cole women."

  Not waiting for his reaction, she stepped into the dark corridor and ran across it to her own room.

  Room 33 enclosed her with the harsh, dark purpose of a prison cell, its only light the gray illumination from streetlamps nearly a half-block away down the alley outside her window.

  Her blood pounded and stumbled along her veins, and her heart thumped until she couldn't hear over its thrumming beat. She wanted to run, run and never stop, but even in its overtaxed state, her mind registered it was the middle of the night and a dangerous neighborhood. And she wasn't wearing any shoes. Her shoes were at Wade's, as were most of her clothes, her computer, and her naive heart.

  "Joy." There was a determined pounding on the door.

  She ignored it.

  "I don't want you in that room," he said.

  "I don't care what you want." She looked at the door, Wade had installed new hinges and locks after Sinnie's attack. He could pound all he wanted and he'd stay on the other side unless she wanted it otherwise.

  "If you won't stay with me, I'll drive you back to the Marriot. You can't stay here." He thumped the door again.

  Joy unlocked it and flung it open. "If anyone's going to leave this hotel, it's going to be you. For the last time, this is my hotel, not yours, not my mother's. Mine. And I'll do what I damn well please." She came perilously close to poking him in the chest, but the thought of it was too ludicrous. "Have I made myself clear?"

  "Perfectly."

  "Fine," She started to close the door and he put his foot in it.

  "We haven't finished."

  "We are about as finished as finished gets."

  "I wasn't talking about us. I was talking about the Phil, about finding out what's going on around here." He kept his foot wedged in the door opening.

  "I can do that on my own."

  "You probably can." His look was cold. "But somebody hurt Sinnie, and I don't plan on leaving here until I find out who. We can either work together or alone. Your choice."

  "You do whatever you like. Alone works for me." Alone, always alone—she was used to it, yet the word slid across her tongue like the bitterest of medicine.

  "I did not have sex with your mother, Joy. If you don't hear anything else I say, hear that." He pulled his foot from the door and crossed the hall. "If you're going to sleep in that room, check all the windows and lock your door. I'll leave mine open. If you need me, call." He disappeared into his room.

  When she closed the door behind her, she followed his instructions, took off her robe, and crawled under the covers. The bed was cold and too firm, but her resolve was colder—and harder. She lay awake, stared at the shadowed ceiling, and for the rest of the night fought a winning battle against tears.

  Lana, for all her selfish ways and flagrant indiscretions, was her mother. She couldn't change that. Nor could she shape her into the milk-and-cookies mama she'd dreamed about as a child. But, mysteriously, as if she carried a gene imbued with the immutability of it, she couldn't stop loving her—and hating her at the same time. Lana had taken her from a father she loved, never let her say good-bye—and now she'd taken Wade.

  Wade...

  In the small hours the anger ebbed, and a wretched, deeply resented, fear replaced it. Joy didn't know if she could ever look at Wade again without replaying that scene in his bedroom.

  And she never wanted to see that scene again.

  * * *

  Lana slipped out from under the covers, too warm to sleep, too indecisive to make plans. She looked back at the man in the bed. A man who, a few hours before, she'd agreed to marry. David was everything she wanted and didn't want.

  They were too much alike, she and David. And he'd lied to her, she was sure of it. His deceit left her uncertain, vaguely uneasy.

  Lana knew what she was—selfish, cautious, and controlled. She didn't believe in emotional unraveling—except in bed. She took what good sex had to offer—release in a confined period of time—because risking your body, your physical responses, was such a small thing. Lana adored seeing desire in a man's eyes, the want of her. Only her. She'd seen lust in David's eyes the day they'd met, and she'd responded to it, as she'd done many times before.

  She'd considered herself fortunate to find him when Stephen's interest in the bedroom started to wane—most likely when his health problems began. She'd thought she and David would last a month or two and she'd move on.

  That was a year ago, perhaps more. And tonight she'd agreed to marry him... because she was afraid to lose him. That fear was disconcerting. It should be David who was afraid, not Lana Cole. Never Lana Cole.

  "What are you doing out of bed?" David's deep voice came out of the dark.

  She walked back to the bed and put one knee on it, looked down at him. "Actually, I was thinking about your marriage proposal."

  "Regrets already?" He stroked her bare knee, ran his hand along the back of her thigh.

  She saw his smile, heard the teasing tone. "Some," she said, and enjoyed seeing his brow furrow, the grin drop from his seductive mouth. It wasn't good for a man to feel complacent. "And I was thinking about the Philip."

  He sighed, long and exaggerated. "I told you what I was doing there. You have nothing to worry about. It was business. I'd suggest you drop it."

  Lana leaned over him, close enough to see his eyes in the moonlit room. "I don't care what you were doing there, David. I care about the fact that you haven't bought my hotel. And that I don't have ten million dollars in my bank account." Of course, none of what she said was true; she was unnerved by the time he spent at the Phil, his growing relationship with Joy, but she had no intention of telling him that.

  "Well, you can stop thinking about it. It's taken care of." He pulled himself up, leaned on one elbow.

  "I'm glad to hear that. So tell me this, now that I've taken Wade Emerson out of the picture, when exactly can I expect Joy to write me my check?"

  "Shit, I don't know. Soon." He stopped suddenly to study her. "How about I knock her off, you'll inherit, and we'll be back to where we were supposed to be before Stephen wrote his stupid will." He eyed her, a raised eyebrow in contrast to the deliberation in his expression.

  Silence.

  "Very funny," she said, irritated by his attempt at black humor and the quick jump of her heart.

  David threw himself back on the bed, covered his eyes with a forearm. "Then the answer to the question of when you get your money is, I don't fucking know." The tension in his voice carried through the pale yellow light in
the room.

  It didn't surprise her, because in the weeks since Joy inherited the Philip, David had grown increasingly remote. Something was wrong, but rather than probe—and perhaps become more deeply involved than she already was—she'd treated it with sex. David forgot his troubles when she opened her legs. So much more effective than opening her heart.

  Hearing the tired frustration in his voice, a part of her wanted to pull him into her arms, soothe him. But her heart hadn't ruled her head in years. She wasn't about to let it start now. She headed for the guest room. "Well, darling, when you do 'know,' we'll set a date. Until then, I'll be sleeping alone."

  "Don't play games with me, Lana. Not now." He sat up in bed, his jaw tight his expression deeply serious. "You know how I feel about you. I love you. I've never loved anyone like I love you. You'll get your money. It's all lined up."

  "So you say—ad nauseam. What I'm saying is,—'show me.'" At the door, she turned back, knew she was lit by moonlight."If you don't"—she stroked her pubis, ran her hands over her breasts, then cupped them in offering—"I'll find someone else to take care of me."

  She heard him swear as she walked out of the room.

  * * *

  Between frequent checks of the third-floor hall and Joy's door, Wade had done the toss-and-turn tango most of the night. He felt like road-kill.

  The sun dumped into the room from his open window, an avalanche of light that burned his corneas. His phone rang.

  He sat on the edge of the bed, reached for it."Yeah," he said, rubbing closed eyelids. "Wade? Lars."

  Wade's eyes snapped open. "Where the hell are you? Are you and Rebecca okay?"

  "We're in Bellingham, and, yes, we're okay." Relief swept through Wade. "What happened?"

  "In a minute. How's Sin?"

  "Hanging on. The doctors are neutral about her chances, but every hour she's alive increases them."

  "That's good. We were worried."

  Wade heard him relay the info to Rebecca. "Now, what's the story, Lars? Why did you cut out?"

  "We had a visit from Big Mike. He told us to leave or else."

  "And the else was?"

  Lars breathed heavily into the phone. "If it was just me, Wade, I wouldn't have gone. But he threatened Rebecca." He paused. "Sick bastard has a sewer drain for a mouth. I couldn't risk anything happening to her or the baby, so we split. I feel like shit about it."

  "Don't. You did the right thing. Did he say anything? Give you any reason why he wanted you gone?"

  "No. Just said to get out right away, because the place had to be empty. Said not to ask questions or 'my pretty little woman wouldn't be so pretty anymore.' Said he really liked 'working with women.' Sick bastard."

  Wade rested his head in his hand. "Amen to that." And if he knew where the 'sick bastard' was, he'd amen him, too.

  "There's something else."

  "I'm listening."

  "After Mike did his number on us, I kept an eye on him. He went straight upstairs to the penthouse."

  * * *

  Wade showered, dressed, and headed to his kitchen.

  Rupert and Big Mike. Things were beginning to make a bizarre kind of sense. Rupert had to be behind the evictions. The trick was to prove it. Mike, if he could find him, was the key.

  And he owed it to Joy to let her know about Lars's call.

  He stepped into the hall, holding a steaming mug of coffee, and headed for Room 33. Last night was one hell of a botch. He was in a hole deep enough to stop daylight. He hadn't really expected Joy to understand the thing that happened between him and Lana, so all he could do now was keep his mouth shut and wait.

  He knocked on her door.

  She opened it.

  The look she gave him was lethal. He decided the wait was going to be a long one. He shoved the hot coffee toward her. She eyed it, eyed him. "This a peace offering?"

  "Nope. Coffee." Anger simmered low in his gut. She didn't believe him, and it was damned unjust.

  She took the coffee, drank.

  "You're welcome," he said.

  "What are you doing here anyway?" she asked.

  "I heard from Lars. Thought you should know."

  That got her attention. "And Rebecca? Are they okay?"

  "They're fine." He turned and headed back to his room.

  "Where are you going?"

  "Back to my room."

  "That's it? That's all you intend to tell me?"

  He leaned in his open doorway. "I thought you wanted to work alone."

  "You're being smug. It doesn't suit you."

  "Drink your coffee. And have a nice day. I'm going to drop into the hospital, and then I'm going to do some checking around."

  "What kind of checking?"

  "Lars and Rebecca took off because Mike threatened them. I'm going to try and find him." He pushed away from the door and started to turn.

  "Not without me, you're not. Give me ten minutes." She slammed the door behind her.

  He looked at the closed door, his chest tight, regret a knotted band around his heart. Baby, what I want to do is give you a lifetime.

  * * *

  They met the doctor coming out of Sinnie's room.

  "How is she?" Wade asked without preamble.

  Joy saw the worry lines etched into his high forehead. They appeared every time Sinnie's name came up.

  "She's doing better. Amazing, really, for a woman her age to survive that kind of brutal attack." He went on, "She was awake briefly a while ago, but she's sleeping again now."

  "You're sure she's going to be okay?" Wade asked.

  "I'm never 'sure' of anything. But I'm more positive than I was when they brought her in. Good enough?"

  "Good enough." The lines across Wade's forehead eased. "Okay if we look in on her?"

  "Sure. But let her sleep, will you? She needs the rest."

  Wade nodded and pushed open the door to Sinnie's room.

  She was sleeping deeply, and Joy watched Wade carefully take her hand in his, bend to kiss her gently on the forehead. "Back later, Sin," he whispered.

  Outside the hospital, Wade said, "I don't know how much luck I'm going to have tracing Mike, but I'm sure as hell going to try. After that, I'm going to see Rupert."

  "I'm going with you."

  "This from the woman who last night was going it alone." He looked disgusted, started to walk away.

  Joy tugged on his arm to make him stop. "You're angry." She was amazed. The way she saw it, she was the one entitled to be angry... confused. Not Wade.

  "Damn right, I'm angry." He turned on her, his eyes dark and hot."I said I loved you. You said you loved me. Then you threw it all down the toilet because of that damned mother of yours—and something that happened a thousand years ago. You flew out of my bed like a betrayed wife. Yeah, I'm mad... goddamn mad."

  Joy didn't move. In the bright sunlight under a barrage of his male logic, she faltered. "She's not my damned mother, she's my mother, and she—"

  "—sexually assaulted a seventeen-year-old boy. Unless you missed that part." The words were flat, set like stones in concrete. "Do I think she made a habit of it? No. I think she did it for a reason. To come between me and my father—or, more accurately, me and my father's money. And she was successful. But what she did or didn't do has nothing to do with you and me." He stared at her. "She was not the first or the last woman to wrap a hand around my cock, Joy. She's just one I had to tell you about—before she put her own spin on it." He started walking again.

  In the deepest part of her, Joy wanted to believe him. Did believe him. But she wasn't sure she could rewind the movie in her mind, put it away. Her mother and Wade. It hurt dreadfully. "Wade."

  He stopped.

  "I uh, don't know how to deal with it."

  He didn't say anything for a long time. "Tell me you'll try."

  She nodded. "I'll try. But no promises."

  "Fair enough," he said. His expression rigidly composed, he stood by the car.

  She stepp
ed up to him, edgy and uncertain. "Where are we going first?"

  "The county clerk." He opened her door and she got in.

  "Why there?" Joy buckled up.

  "To check the property's tax record. See if anyone we don't know has an interest in the Phil. Maybe purchased a tax lien."

  "A what?"

  "If a property goes into default, the county sometimes sells tax lien certificates, generally by auction. That way they get the overdue taxes paid—money in the bank. The investor who purchases the lien bets on a good return on investment—and the possibility of claiming the property if the owner doesn't pay up and redeem the certificate in a certain period of time." Wade turned left out of the parking lot. "If there is a lien on the Phil, and I'm betting there is, my guess is Rupert's name is on it."

  "Wouldn't someone have told me? Your father when he wrote me the letter?"

  "Should have, but my father wasn't much for details. The information would catch up with you sooner or later—generally in a nice little notice like pay up or lose the property within X number of days. Or maybe the taxes are paid. I don't know. But it's worth a check."

  "Let's do it," she said, and turned her head to look out the car window. Both she and Wade held to silence in the forty minutes it took to find the right counter in the county clerk's office. An hour later they walked back into what was now a grayed-down morning.

  There was a tax lien against the Philip, and it was held by Christian Rupert. The surprise was the person who had been his proxy in the purchase. David Grange.

  "David ever mention to you that he represented Rupert?" Wade asked when they were back in the car.

  "No, and the connection is hard to figure. David told me from the beginning his plan was to buy the hotel and tear it down. He insisted the real value was in the property, but—"

  "Having the hotel demolished is the last thing Rupert wants."

  She nodded. "And that first day? When David was showing me around the hotel? He talked about 'the old man in the penthouse,' about how he'd have to leave when the hotel was sold." She paused to remember. "He said he'd never met him."