by EC Sheedy
She was broke. And she was dependent on her daughter to change that. The bill for those summer tees was less than five hundred dollars—a measly five hundred dollars!-—and she couldn't afford them. There was David, of course. She could go to him, ask for money; he had said he'd take care of her.
She thought about this, but decided it would be a bad move. It was too soon after Stephen's death to appear desperate, and if she handled her money problem badly it could ruin things. She'd appear weak, needy, perhaps even grasping—traits that frightened men off faster than bad sex. No, she had to wait for him to offer the money, insist she take it.
Last night, when he'd called, he'd been edgy—angry again—because Joy hadn't committed to selling the Philip. Adding her money problems into the mix would increase his stress level, perhaps turn his anger toward her. The smart thing to do was to be supportive, get in his corner—and start handling her damn daughter.
She glanced out the window, saw the top of the Marriott. The hotel wasn't more than a couple of blocks away. Lana stared at it a long time, slowly sipped her water, and tapped her polished nails on the table. Finally, she rose and picked up her bag.
Stephen had asked Joy to take care of her, and, having considered her other options, Lana had no choice. She would ask Joy for money.
As she walked up the street toward the hotel, Lana's dearest wish was that Stephen were still alive—so she could kill him herself.
Chapter 5
Joy opened her door and stood back, amazed. "Lana... I mean, Mother! What are you doing here?"
"Visiting. May I come in?"
Joy stepped aside, and as usual when she was in the same room with her mother, her stomach muscles tensed. "I just got back from meeting Stephen's lawyer. It seems even wills need to have paperwork and X's in all the right spots."
"It's done, then?"
Joy nodded. "I was just having coffee. Would you like some?"
"No, thanks." Lana walked into the luxurious hotel suite and looked around. "Nice. There must be more money in travel writing than I thought—either that or you're already into that hundred grand."
Joy looked away, clamped down on her temper. "Like I said, it's comped. Sometimes I get lucky."
"Obviously." Lana strolled over to the window, looked out and down onto the busy street below. It was close to noon, and the lunch crowds were already rushing the crosswalks. She turned back to Joy. "I need some money."
Her wide-set eyes rested on Joy like drugged butterflies, bright, pretty, expressionless.
The taut muscles in Joy's stomach eased off. She'd expected this, just not so soon. "How much?"
"You could give me the hundred thousand."
"I could, but I won't."
"It's mine. Stephen meant for you to give it to me."
"He meant for me to take care of you—financially. And he left it up to me to decide how best to do it. That's going to take a few days. In the meantime, how much money do you need to get through the next month?"
"Forty thousand."
Joy's breath caught and then she laughed. It was the only logical response. "I said a month." She shook her head. Some things—like her mother's spending habits—never changed. "I'll make your mortgage payment and give you ten. That should put a few cans of soup in the cupboard." Joy got her checkbook from her briefcase, wrote out the check, and handed it to Lana.
Lana took it, barely glancing at the numbers on it. "This isn't going to work, you know. Me coming to you for handouts."
"It's going to have to. For now, at least. Trust me, I don't like it any more than you do."
Lana slipped the check into her bag. "You toured the Philip yesterday. What did you think?"
"I think it might have... potential. "Joy hadn't meant to say it aloud, particularly to her mother. She wasn't even sure it was the truth. But after touring the hotel yesterday and listening to David's pitch, she'd decided to keep her options open. Temporarily, at least.
"You're not thinking of keeping it! You can't be." Shock tightened Lana's mouth.
"Relax, will you? I said I was 'thinking.' The place is a dump, you know that, but I'd be stupid not to look at all possibilities."
"I'm stunned. Out of my shoes stunned. You'd consider turning down David's generous offer, so you can run a seedy old hotel in one of the worst parts of Seattle. That's the stupidest thing I ever heard."
Joy's patience thinned dangerously. "And what makes you so sure Grange's offer is all that generous?"
Lana's eyes narrowed. "This isn't entirely about money, is it? What you really want to do is get back at me for your father—" She stopped abruptly.
"The smart thing," Joy said, her words as icy and tight as the coil curving around her heart, "is for us not to go there. The smart thing is for us to get on with our lives—which means me figuring out your financial mess as intelligently as I can, so you and I can call it quits on this pretense of a relationship once and for all."
"You're an unforgiving little bitch, Joy. Did you know that?"
Joy concentrated on breathing, didn't respond.
Lana's gaze rested on her, as still as snow on a mountaintop. "And if ending our 'relationship' is what you truly want, the quickest way to accomplish it is to sell that stupid hotel and give me the money."
"No doubt you're right, but for now, I've decided to be the 'practical person' Stephen expected me to be and take time to think things through." She nodded at the check in Lana's hand. "What you've got there"—Joy nodded toward Lana's bag—"is it for now, so I'd suggest you make it last."
Lana, after giving her a frigid glare, walked toward the door. Once there, she swung back. "I'll have to talk to David, tell him you're taking some time."
"He knows. He called this morning. I told him the same thing I told you—that I'm thinking things through. He wasn't thrilled at the news."
"That property is important to David. He has time constraints, and his partners are getting anxious. He has reason to be disappointed." She raised a brow, the gesture only mildly impatient. "How long will this 'thinking' of yours take?"
"A month?"
"Then you'll come to dinner four weeks from today. I'm asking you not to make a final decision—or any commitments whatsoever—until David and I have a chance to present our case. Do we understand one another?"
Trapped, Joy nodded again. "Fair enough."
When the door closed behind Lana, Joy walked to the bedroom, stripped off her clothes, and stepped into the shower. She put having dinner with her mother and David in the same category as a full body peel followed by a salt rubdown.
She lifted her face to the cascade of water coming from the showerhead and wondered, not for the first time, what the hell she was doing.
She had less than an hour before she met Wade at the hotel. Maybe it was just a whim, and maybe she'd learn nothing to help with her decision-making, but a half-hour or so without David's ambition and her mother's greed and impatience would be a blessed relief.
No doubt selling the hotel to David Grange provided her the quickest exit—if she could trust him and his offer. But she didn't. She needed an outside opinion and an independent evaluation. And she intended to get them.
One thing was sadly obvious: the buffer—a solid framework of time and miles—she'd built between her and her mother had crumbled within seconds of their being in the same room.
She stepped out of the shower and toweled off.
But this wasn't all about Lana and their miserable relationship. There was something else.
Yesterday in the Philip, when her initial shock at the condition of the hotel had worn off, and after she'd gotten rid of David, she'd spent more time in the lobby.
The images remained.
Scarred oak floors, cracked and broken windows, stained marble too many years from its Italian quarry, decorative plaster moldings, once set so meticulously in the joint between floor and wall, now shrunken and split.
The Philip was a wreck, nothing but a faded, dusty r
uin basking in the scent of clean, fresh pine.
On the fourth floor, she'd stopped at a door with a shiny new brass doorknob; it radiated like a small sun in the dark, depressing hall. When she'd run a finger over it, she'd gotten a lump in her throat as big as a lemon.
Why a brass doorknob made her think about her father, she couldn't imagine. But it had. Painfully so. And she'd remembered those times he'd let her come into his garage workshop, helped her build magical, foolish kid things. How they'd laugh together...
Alone in the halls, her heart—territory she'd barricaded off and guarded fiercely for years—had raced, whirred in her chest as if it were one of those windup toys a parent gives a two-year-old for Christmas.
Then there'd been the snippet of overheard conversation, the woman saying, "yours by right, Wade Emerson, your legacy... in your blood."
The words stuck in her mind, sharp pins tipped in regret. Joy Cole, so cool, so quick-lipped and reluctant to connect, and always on the move, had lived thirty years and could honestly say nothing was "in her blood" except the required red and white cells.
By right, the Phil should have gone to Wade, and it angered her that Stephen's insane request had embroiled her as much in his life as it had in Lana's. It made her feel guilty.
She took a few breaths and told herself there was nothing she could do about that. What was... was. Her odd reaction to the hotel, to seeing Wade again, her surging memories of her father, her nomadic, chilly life—none of it mattered.
All that mattered was the care and feeding of Lana Emerson—and doing the right thing.
Today she'd inspect every last inch of the decrepit hotel. It was time she and Phil really got to know each other, and she couldn't have a better person than Wade to introduce them.
She went to the closet. She'd already laid out a pair of khaki slacks and a silk shirt, but was suddenly indecisive. Maybe jeans and a tee would be more appropriate.
What the hell did a woman wear to tour a dilapidated building with a financial genius? And ex-convict.
* * *
Christian told Mike to sit down. The big man obeyed, folding his hands together between his knees. He looked nervous. Christian liked that.
"Well, Michael, have you thought about my offer?"
Mike nodded.
"You understand what I want."
"Yeah, you want me to do the gardening, like I have been doing, and keep an eye on things, let you know what's goin' on in the Phil." Big Mike nodded his head. "I can do that."
"And keep quiet about it? That's critical."
"Sure, no one here worth talkin' to anyway."
Christian picked up the remote control from his side table, turned down the volume on the sound system. He needed to be heard—and, more important—understood. "You'll have to quit your other job immediately. I need you here, eyes and ears open all the time. You understand that?"
"No problem."
Christian stared at his newest recruit, watched him carefully. He hadn't planned to promote him so early, but his choices were limited. "I'm told there was trouble in Room 33 the other night. Did you have anything to do with that?"
"A couple of kids got in, using the outside fire escape. I rousted 'em."
"Ah." He could see by Mike's proud expression how much he'd enjoyed the incident. A good sign. "You didn't hurt them, did you?"
Mike dropped his eyes as if he weren't sure what Christian wanted to hear. "Not too much," he mumbled.
"Just as well, all things considered." While he would have enjoyed seeing 33 come to life—or death—again, things were unsettled. Police nosing around would be inconvenient.
"Huh?" Mike said, obviously confused by his response.
Christian ignored him. He was big and stupid, which disappointed him. But he was still useful. He went on, "Gordy tells me there was company in the hotel yesterday. A man and a girl. A pretty girl, he said."
"He got that right."
"He said the girl stayed after the man left. Is that so?"
"Yeah, she walked around by herself for a time, then went to Wade's room."
Christian's heart jumped, and he took a second of silence to calm himself. "And what went on there?"
"Not much."
Christian raised a brow. " 'Not much' isn't the type of answer I'm paying for."
Mike frowned, appeared to think a moment. "Wade didn't seem happy about her showing up. That's for sure. Sinnie was, though."
"Sinnie was there?" Unpleasant news.
"She was raggin' on Wade about his grandpa and all. About how he should own the Phil. How he should get off his butt and do something about it. He pretty much ignored her. Like everybody." He shrugged. "Sinnie's always goin' on about somethin'."
"Is she?" To calm himself, Christian turned up the volume for a moment, enjoyed a particularly fine movement in Bach's Concerto in C Minor. Dear, dear, Sinnie. Will you never learn to do as you're told and mind your own business?
"And the girl?" he asked finally. "What did she want from Mr. Emerson?"
"Wanted him to show her around. Lucky bastard. Said she'd come back tomorrow." He hesitated. "That'd be today, around noon."
"This girl, Michael. Just how pretty is she?"
He rubbed his crotch, grinned broadly. "Prime booty, Mr. Rupert. A man could sink his dick in that and just fuckin' leave it there."
Christian's stomach heaved, but he kept his voice modulated. "There's no need to be tasteless. And you should know I abhor foul language."
The smile dropped off Mike's face.
"Now, if you'll be good enough to sweep off my terrace and water my trees, I'll have an envelope ready for you when you're done."
Mike stood, gaped down at him, but didn't move.
Christian waved a hand, the gesture short and impatient. "The terrace, man. Do my terrace. And be sure and close the door behind you." Christian couldn't wait to get rid of him. Money bought all kinds of things, all kinds of people. The trouble was, they were all of the most repellent ilk.
He watched Mike through the window as he swept, watered, and hand-weeded his planters.
Christian's mind went back to the "prime booty" the man had so grossly described. Women, as a sex, had never held his interest, but Christian understood the dangerous thrust and pull of sexual attraction. Respected its power.
And more than anything, he feared it.
The risk of such an attraction between Wade Emerson and Joy Cole, the current owner of the Hotel Philip—his hotel—was not one he would tolerate.
* * *
Wade stood in the Philip's lobby and glanced at his watch. She was five minutes late; he'd give her ten.
When his watch told him fifteen, he moved to go, but stopped when the hotel's one good door thrust open. The other was nailed shut in the interests of safety. Joy Cole breezed in, wearing jeans and a navy blue tee. She looked hot and hassled as she stepped briskly to him.
"A lot of foot traffic in this town. I misjudged the walking time." Her smile was brief, unapologetic, and she offered him her hand. "Thanks for waiting."
He took the outstretched hand. Small bones. Soft skin. Firm grip. He gave it back and looked down into her keen, bright eyes. Hard to believe the sour-faced twelve-year old had turned out this good. "You look thirsty. It's hot out there. Let's go." He took her arm and walked her back toward the door.
When he pushed the door open, she protested. "I thought we were doing a tour of the hotel, not the neighborhood."
"Good idea to have a look at both."
"I guess." She stepped out in front of him.
Wade closed the door behind them, and he couldn't not pick up the pop can and fast food wrappers someone had stashed in the entranceway. He dropped them in the trash can a few feet from the door.
He knew she watched him, but she didn't say a word.
"Where are we going?"
"There's a coffee shop up the street. I could use one." He looked at her. "And you could use... what? A Perrier. Evian?"
She smiled slightly, pushed a long strand of hair behind her ear. "Something like that."
When they were settled, him with his dark roasted coffee, her with her bottled water, he said, "So, little Joy inherited the Philip." He drank some coffee, studied her.
She didn't flinch. "That's what the will says."
"You happy about that?"
"A Marriott or Ritz would've been better."
He laughed. She didn't.
Her gaze turned curious. "Aren't you angry?"
"About what?"
"About how things worked out. Your dad, my mother. Now this hotel thing." She turned her bottle so the label faced her, then away again, not taking her eyes from his. "You must be bitter."
"Now there's a word." He appeared to consider it. "But no, not bitter."
"What, then?"
"Surprised my father didn't leave it to Lana." Hell, he'd given her everything else she wanted and disposed of what she didn't. Like his mother.
"Not as surprised as I was." She hesitated, looked uneasy. "You didn't go to Stephen's funeral."
"No."
"Why not?"
"Ever try beating around the bush?" It surprised him how comfortable he was with her, which was damn stupid, considering her genes.
Her lips quirked up. "Not my style."
She added nothing, waited for his answer with the patience of a heron dining at the seashore. He took a breath. "I figured your mother would be there." He drew his lips to a tight seal. Enough said. Too much said. Nobody needed to know it, but he had visited his father's grave that day—after everyone had gone. He'd touched the fresh earth, said what passed for a prayer... something about how he wished things hadn't turned out as they did, how he hoped things were okay on the other side. It was the best he could do. He wasn't much good in the forgive and forget department.
"You don't like my mother." Joy's tone was even, the words calmly said.
"As an understatement, that'll work." He drained his coffee. In Wade's opinion, Lana Cole was an A-list predator and the most narcissistic, opportunistic woman he'd ever met. She cared about two things, sex and money. And she'd do anything to get all she could of both. He didn't see the need to share his opinion with her only daughter.