by EC Sheedy
Duly chastised, or as chastised as an over six-foot-tall man could be by someone three times his age and half his height, Wade nodded amiably. "About Melly. Would you like me to walk her?" The dog was snuffling at the lower part of the door, whining and pawing.
"Are you alone, Mr. Emerson?"
"Yes, and the name's Wade."
"Wade Philip Emerson. I know. You were named after this hotel. I knew your grandfather. I'm sure he mentioned me."
The last was said with force and maybe a touch of wistfulness. "Yes, sir, he did." He didn't bother to mention in what way he'd been mentioned. And as to the "mean old bastard" label, Wade would form his own opinion.
Rupert stared at him as if the fate of the free world depended on his decision to open the door or close it in his face. Wade had the sensation of being x-rayed without a radiation guard. A full minute passed before the man closed the door, slipped the chain, and opened it again. Not much wider than the first time.
"Use as little of the opening as you can to come through, please. I don't want the hall breeze in here. All the dust. Germs, etcetera."
"Sure," Wade turned sideways, inched his way into the room while the old man pressed the door against his chest. Wade heard the shallow, erratic rasp in his lungs as he slid past him and stepped into the room. The poor guy was terrified.
In a second, Melly was all over him, and Wade's attention was diverted to the excited dog.
When Melly settled down, Wade offered Rupert his hand. He stared at it in apparent confusion.
"Oh, yes, the handshake custom. You'll have to excuse me, I don't do that." Rupert tottered back to an automated recliner chair that sat nearly dead center of the large room. When he sat in it, it dwarfed him.
Wade idly rubbed his rejected hand on the side of his jeans and looked around, intensely curious. As far as he knew he was the first Emerson ever to be in here. When he'd been a kid, his grandfather had ordered him to stay as far away from the penthouse as possible. But even now, he was stunned by the size of it. It had to be five thousand square feet. And it was so damned... thirties. Except for the recliner Rupert sat in, the place was like a museum.
"This is quite the place," Wade said.
"Yes, I like it. Look around, if you like."
Wade did, couldn't have resisted if he wanted to. The ceilings, as in the rest of the Phil, were very high, but here the walls held a series of soaring, arched windows with stained glass inserts at their tops. Tonight, despite the show the sun made, sinking slowly into the west, only one window—matching the others but serving as double doors leading to the terrace—had its draperies partially pulled back. He moved to the window, curious to look outside.
The terrace was spacious, encompassing most of the hotel roof. A brick wall on one side hid the air conditioning unit and a roof access door, installed in the seventies sometime, and sealed a few years later. To Wade's knowledge, that door hadn't been opened since. Two deep rectangular containers, lushly planted, formed the other two sides.
Unlike the rest of the decaying hotel, everything was in top condition. He was impressed. "You've lived here a long time."
"Most of my life. It suits my needs."
Wade nodded, abruptly aware of something else going on in the room, something other than a look-around and words of superficial hospitality. The room was warm, charged. Strangely uncomfortable.
Except for the pool of light cast by the lamp burning beside Rupert's chair and the finger of sunset that made it through the half-opened drapes, the cavernous room was deep in shadow. Christian Rupert sat ramrod stiff in his over-large recliner, his intense study of Wade overt and unblinking.
"Step into the light where I can see you," he instructed.
Wade decided to humor him, walked to the window and stood in the light from the lowering sun.
"Oh, yes..." Rupert took a deep, noisy breath and closed his eyes; he seemed transported. When he opened them, he said in a hushed voice, "You are very much like him. Very, very beautiful."
Wade frowned. This was a first, a man calling him beautiful. He put it down to the man's age. "I assume you mean my grandfather. Gordy told me you had a picture of him."
"There." He pointed to a grand piano, draped with a fringed green cover, beside the terrace doors.
Wade saw it immediately, picked it up, and carried it toward the light. "This is him, all right. Although I've never seen this exact picture before." He studied it a moment longer and set it back on the piano.
"No, you wouldn't have." He gestured at the picture. "A little farther back, please. Where it was before you picked it up."
Wade did the best he could with the picture. "Exactly how long have you lived here?"
"I stopped counting the years sometime back—made the passing of them easier to bear." The barest smile crossed his face. "But I moved in not long after the hotel was built."
"That's over sixty years."
"I expect it is, Mr. Emerson."
"Wade, please."
"Of course, things are so much more informal now. And you may call me Christian." He gestured to a liquor cabinet. A glass tray and a decanter sat on its top. "I have brandy, very good brandy. May I offer you one and prevail upon you to serve one to an old man who now hoards his strength with a miser's concern?"
"Happy to." Wade poured the brandy. Christian was right. It was very good, two-hundred-dollars-a-bottle good. He handed him the glass, noticed that while he'd been getting the drinks, Christian had donned a pair of white gloves. Weird old duck, definitely obsessive/compulsive, but so far not the "mean old bastard" his grandfather described.
"Thank you," he said, taking the brandy from Wade. "Now, sit down, Wade Philip Emerson—in the light where I can look at you... such memories you bring back." He stopped. "Then tell me, what brings you to the Philip? And more to the point, what brings you to me? You wanted to talk, you said."
Christian was sharp. Wade admired that, and he admired people who got to the point and skipped the subtlety. He sipped the brandy but ignored the chair Christian gestured to. "What brought me to the Philip originally was curiosity. I wanted to see how the old fellow had stood up through the years." More of a truth than he'd admitted when he arrived at the Phil's front door. "What brings me to see you is a business proposition."
"A need for money, you mean."
Wade smiled at the man's directness. "My need for money, your need to retain your home as the sanctuary it's always been for you. As I said, a business proposition. One that will benefit both of us."
Christian sat back in his chair and started to laugh. The laugh became a cough, then a series of harsh, painful-looking wheezes. Rupert clutched his chest, seemed to fight for his breath, tears streaming over the thin skin of his cheeks.
Christ, he was turning blue. Wade moved toward him, no idea in hell what to do, but Christian raised a hand, rasped out, "Don't! Don't touch me. I'm fine."
Relieved, Wade saw color return to his face and heard his breathing steady. "Are you sure?" Wade eyed him, still uncertain whether or not to call 911.
"Yes. Perfectly fine." Christian sipped his brandy, used a tissue from the table beside his chair to wipe moisture from his runny eyes. "I thank you for that. It's been a long time since I was so highly amused."
"What was so funny?"
Christian set his pale eyes on him, repeated, " 'A business proposition. One that will benefit both of us.' Your grandfather said those same words to me over sixty years ago." His mouth quivered before forming a nasty twist of a smile. "And young, arrogant fool that I was, I went along with it." He wagged his head, raised cold, rheumy eyes to Wade's. "And I've cursed him and his grasping, selfish spawn every day of my life since. And you are that spawn."
Silence, thick and dark, filled the room.
When the shock of his words wore off, Wade put down his brandy glass. This was what he sensed earlier.
Hatred. Frigid and unadulterated. Wade had firsthand experience with hatred, but usually going out,
not coming back at him. "Obviously there's a story behind that. One I don't know. I'd like to hear it."
"I don't think so. But I'll tell you this. I saved this hotel for your grandfather. If it weren't for me, he'd have lost it right after that grand opening of his." He looked around with the distaste you'd show an unclean sty. "I financed him, got him and this hotel out of debt, and all I received for my efforts was this prison."
"He didn't pay you back?" Wade didn't buy it. His grandfather was a scrupulously ethical businessman—with an intense distaste for debt. This crap from Rupert made no sense.
Christian shot him a look of pure loathing but didn't answer. "Get out and don't come back here, Wade Emerson. I let you in to satisfy my curiosity. I've done that. Now get off my property. Better yet, leave this hotel. You have no rights here. No rights at all!" His breathing flattened to the point of disappearing. Still his ancient eyes were fixed on him, dark with a hatred nurtured for more than half a century.
Wade, the hotshot in a thousand go-for-the-jugular business meetings, recent graduate of Prison U, and a world-class hater himself when it came to the blue-eyed blonde who'd torn his family apart, did not know what to say to this sick old man. Rupert was so small and frail, he'd have a heart attack if he poked him with his finger. "I take it you don't want me to walk your dog."
Christian's head came up at that."You're a cool one, aren't you? Just like Joseph."
"Better like him than you, Rupert." Wade had had enough. "But you'll be disappointed to know I won't be leaving the Phil anytime soon. I intend to buy it."
Rupert looked unfazed, amused. "That takes money, boy. Something you don't have and won't get." He paused. "Most people don't like doing business with jailbirds."
Wade studied him with new respect. "You really keep up on things from this aerie of yours, don't you?"
"I keep advised of what affects my interests, yes."
Did he mean Joy? Wade's mind started to race, a slab of dread laying in across his lungs. "Mind telling me what exactly those 'interests' are?"
"The one most critical to me is that an Emerson never again owns the Hotel Philip." Rupert's face flattened to the dull matte of a cracked plaster mask. "As to the rest, they are no business of yours. Now, I'd appreciate your leaving my home and never coming back. You're the last Emerson I ever want to see."
Wade looked down on him, shook his head. Obviously there was no shelf date on hatred. "Grandfather was right."
"Really—about what?"
"You are a mean old bastard."
Rupert laughed harshly. "It came to that, did it? That's what he thought of me." He said the last to himself, before nodding toward the door with a tired lift of his head. "Good-bye, Mr. Emerson."
Wade took the fire stairs down, but it wasn't until the third floor that it occurred to him—his plan for buying the Philip had been knocked sideways. Whatever happened between Joe and Rupert had obviously been damn bad, fueling hatred powerful enough to last over half a century.
He thought of his own feelings about his father—Lana—grew uncomfortable when he realized how long he'd been carrying his own load of disapproval and loathing.
He tried to force his mind back to his goal, ownership of the Hotel Philip—and money. But his thoughts refused to think of anything or anyone except Joy.
He'd bet she was one of those "interests" Rupert kept his beady eye on. And he'd also bet Christian Rupert was a dangerous man.
No way did he keep that level of malice contained in his penthouse. This was a man who would act on his instincts—or get someone to do it for him.
Wade opened the fire door to the third floor.
But it was unlikely Rupert was behind the threat on Joy's wall. Hell, he had to be elated that someone other than an Emerson owned the hotel.
No, Joy was no threat to Rupert or his "home." The only thing he needed to worry about was a wrecking crew with a load of dynamite, not a woman who wanted to renovate and run the hotel—which meant honoring his right to the penthouse.
Which took him back to the question. Who the hell had written on Joy's wall?
* * *
Joy stripped to her panties and bra and headed for her bathroom. She turned on the water to run a bath and unclipped the clasp of her bra. She wanted a bath badly, desperate to wash away the confusion and pain of the afternoon with her mother.
She stared at the tub, chilled suddenly when another mother came to mind.
Wade's mother had chosen to die in this bathtub. Joy watched the water rise, the steam paint itself on the mirror over the old pedestal sink, felt the humidity thicken in the confined space, and tried to rein in her too-vivid imagination and unsettled emotions.
She reminded herself the suicide was many years ago, that she'd been using the tub for days already; but all her logical thoughts didn't work. Today, knowing what she knew, the idea of taking a bath in it seemed disrespectful, faintly ominous.
She sat on the edge of the tub, bra dangling from her hand, and turned the water off.
She heard a knock on her door, and glad for the interruption, donned her cotton robe and went to answer it.
It was Wade, carrying a box of crackers, cheese, and a bottle of red wine.
He cocked his head. "You want to spoil all my fun?"
"Huh?"
He smiled, reached out, and touched the lacy bra dangling in her hand. "Don't you know how much a man likes taking these things off?"
She was suddenly very glad he was here. And when he leaned down to brush a soft, too-brief kiss across her mouth, she smiled back. "I was going to take a bath, but—" she stopped, not knowing how to finish.
He glanced behind her, and his expression darkened briefly before he smiled again. "Come over to my place. You can use my bathroom"—he lifted the wine and cheese he held in his hands—"while I cook."
"If opening a box of crackers is your idea of cooking, we could be in trouble."
"We can go out for dinner first, if that's what you want. Or we can subsist on wine, cheese, and sex for a couple of hours and then eat. Your choice." A half-smile.
"Let me see... sex first—or romance. Tough call." She joked, while her stomach tightened and her legs quivered. Between those legs, a small pulse throbbed and constricted.
"Not for me, Cole. I've been feeling romantic for days now. I figured you already picked up on that." He kissed her again. With his hands full, it was lips only, mouth to mouth, breath to breath. It was tenuous, so fleeting it made her ache for more. Wade put his mouth to her ear, whispered, "But when a woman dangles a frothy bit of bra in front of a man, he tends to fast-forward things." He walked across the hall, looked back when he got to his door. "When you've decided the order of things, just knock."
Before he disappeared, she called out, "Wade."
He turned.
"Run a bath for me, will you?"
He tilted his head, grinned. "You're my kind of woman, Joy Cole," he said, then disappeared behind his door.
They had a date, to make love, with no preliminaries, no requirements—unless you counted cheese and crackers—and she was happier than she'd been in weeks.
The thought occurred to her that having Wade Emerson to look forward to at the end of a bad day would be like waking up to a Christmas tree every morning.
Joy went back to her own bathroom and drained the tub.
Two minutes later she opened Wade's door.
Chapter 12
When Joy walked in, Wade was leaning against the counter, arms crossed. His gaze slid over her, from naked toes, belted midsection, to uncombed hair. His smile was gorgeous, seductive—and oddly terrifying in the effect it had on her already unsteady nerves.
He made no move toward her.
Anticipation was the only sound in the room.
She closed the door, pressed her back against it, and kept both hands behind her.
Years of being on her own, the constant travel to exotic and not-so-exotic places, and more than the average number of lovers
taken for expediency and sexual gratification, had made her self-sufficient, sure of herself, and too damned liberated for her own good. Independence was good. So was confidence—but the sexual test runs? She could neither name nor count her gains from them. Unless cynicism and a growing loneliness were defined as bonuses.
She was no timid virgin and had long ago given up the games surrounding sex, concluded its sole value was physical release. You didn't need hearts and flowers to get there. On a cold, forsaken night in Moscow, you didn't even need a man.
But here, now, under Wade's level, burning gaze, she wilted as if untried, sexually naive, as if what was about to happen between them was of... consequence, vital in a way nothing had been before.
As if Wade were her first man—or her last.
He crossed the room and pulled her hand from behind her. What he did next surprised her and set wings aflutter low in her belly. He raised her hand to his mouth and kissed her palm. "I'm glad you're here," he said.
"Me, too," she muttered and meant it with all her befuddled heart, now wild and crazy in her chest.
"This way." He tugged her toward his bathroom. Once there, he let go of her hand, knelt on one knee, and turned on the old chrome taps. To test the water temperature, he let the water pool and flow over his open palm. "Do you like it hot or tepid?" he asked, running his other hand up from her ankle to the back of her knee.
"Hot," she said, and knew neither of them was talking about water temperatures. Her concentration focused on Wade's caressing hand, the strings it pulled as if by magic in the nether recesses of her body.
He stood. "Me, too. The hotter the better." He gave her a potent sideways glance. "I'll leave this for you to finish. Towels are there." He nodded to a shelf over the tub. "Red or white?"
She looked at him, her mind a blank.
"Wine. Merlot or chardonnay?"
"The chardonnay, thanks."
"You got it." He strode to the door, glanced back at her. "And you've got your privacy. Yell if you need anything." Hand on doorknob, he grinned."But you should know I majored in back scrubs." He closed the door behind him.