Naughty or Nice?
Stephanie Bond

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

1

THE STYLIST HELD A HANDFUL of dark hair high above Cindy Warren’s head, the scissors poised only inches from her scalp. “Are you sure you want to do this, ma’am?”

Cindy bit her lower lip, wavering. Long hair was easy, uncomplicated. And a security blanket, her mind whispered.

Standing behind another salon chair a few feet away, Jerry cleared his throat meaningfully and pushed the fuzzy Santa hat he wore back on his bald head. An institution at the Chandelier House hotel, the elderly black barber gave trims to male guests, but declined to use his artistry on female heads. His implied subtle comment nettled her. Whose hair was it, anyway?

She looked up once again to the length of hair, then to the woman’s name tag. “Tell me, Bea, how long have you been working in our salon?”

“Counting today? Hmmmm. Three—no, four days. I graduated from beauty school two weeks ago, ma’am.”

Cindy digested the information as Jerry spun his seated customer around to face the action. “Well, I’m due for a change,” she murmured, to no one in particular, sitting erect with new resolve. “Long, straight hair is ridiculous at my age. I need to either have it cut, or become a country music singer.”

Jerry gave her a pointed stare. “Hum a few bars.”

“What’s wrong with long, straight hair?” Jerry’s customer asked.

Cindy’s gaze darted to the man’s reflection and her breath caught in appreciation of his appallingly good looks. “Excuse me?” she squeaked, then warmed with embarrassment.

The visitor, a striking man with pale blue eyes and a prominent nose, sat tall in the chair, his long, trousered legs extending far below the gray cape Jerry had draped over his torso. His dark curly hair lay damp and close to his head, compliments of Jerry, and a mirror trimmed with glittery gold tinsel reflected his crooked smile. “I said, what’s wrong with long, straight hair?”

Squashing a zing of sexual awareness, Cindy bristled. “I-it makes me look like a coed.”

“Most women would be thrilled,” the man offered with a shrug.

“Well, not this woman,” Cindy said, growing increasingly annoyed with her unexpected—and unwanted—physical reaction to him.

Jerry leaned over the man’s shoulder and said in a conspiratorial voice, “She’s trying to impress someone.”

“Jerry,” Cindy warned, narrowing her eyes.

The customer nodded knowingly at Jerry in the mirror. “Figures. Man?”

“Oh, yeah,” Jerry drawled, pulling off the plastic cape to reveal the man’s crisp white collarless dress shirt and burgundy leather suspenders.

“Jerry, that’s enough!”

“Boyfriend?” the man asked Jerry.

“Nah,” the barber said sadly, shaking the cape. “Ms. Cindy doesn’t date much—works day and night.”

“Really? Day and night.” The man made a sympathetic sound. “Then who is she trying to impress?”

“Some corporate fellow,” Jerry said, whipping out a brush and whisking it over the man’s neck and broad shoulders.

“Jerry, I’ve never impressed anyone in my life!” Suddenly, she realized what she’d said. “I mean, I’ve never tried to impress anyone.”

The old barber ignored her. “Headquarters is sending a hatchet man next week to check us out, and to check out Ms. Cindy, too, I reckon.”

“Other than the obvious reason—” the man flicked his glance her way for a split second “—why would this fellow be checking out Ms. Cindy?”

“’Cause,” Jerry said, nodding toward their topic of discussion, “she runs this whole show.”

His customer looked impressed. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” Cindy said, looking daggers at Jerry. “That’s so.”

“Ma’am?” prompted a shaky Bea.

“Don’t do it.” The man leaned forward, resting his elbows on the padded arms of the chair.

With ballooning irritation, Cindy scoffed and waved off the stranger’s opinion. “If men had their way, every woman would have hair down to her knees.”

The man steepled his fingers and glanced up at Jerry. “I would have said ankles. How about you, Jer?”

“Amen.”

“Ma’am,” Bea pleaded, “my arms are about to give out.”

Cindy raised her chin. “Cut it. This will be my early Christmas present to myself.”

“Punishment for being naughty?” the man asked Jerry.

“Punishment for being nice,” Jerry amended.

Fuming, Cindy nodded curtly to the hesitant hairdresser. “Do it.”

“Don’t do it,” the man said, his voice rich with impending doom.

“Whack it off,” Cindy said more forcefully. “Layers all over. Make me a new woman.”

The handsome man’s eyes cut to Jerry. “Is there something wrong with the old woman?”

Jerry pursed his lips. “She’s a little impulsive.”

Cindy set her jaw. “Let’s get this over with.”

Bea swallowed audibly. “I’ll leave the back shoulder length, ma’am.” The woman closed her eyes.

Alarm suddenly gripped Cindy. “Wait!” she cried just as the shears made a slicing sound. Bea opened her eyes and stared.

The man winced, and Jerry grunted painfully when the hairdresser held up more than a foot of severed dark tresses. As the remnants fell back to her shoulders, Cindy tried to squash her own rising panic and painted on a shaky smile, encouraging the new stylist to continue.

Maybe, she thought, keeping her gaze down and dabbing at perspiration along her neck, this woman would stay longer than the seven days their previous hairdressers had averaged. Cindy had urged her staff members to give the salon their patronage, and felt compelled to take the lead. But twenty minutes later, when Bea stood back to absorb the full effect of her latest creation in the mirror, Cindy understood why none of her employees used the unproved stylists.

“Good Lord,” Jerry muttered, shaking his head.

The man whistled low. “Too bad.”

“You hate it, don’t you?” Bea asked Cindy, her face crumbling.

“N-no,” Cindy rushed to assure her. She lifted a hand, but couldn’t bring herself to touch the choppy, lank layers that hugged her head like a long knit cap. “It’ll just take some getting used to, that’s all.” She inhaled and smiled brightly.

“Think he’ll be impressed?” the man asked Jerry, doubt clear in his voice.

“If he can get past the hair,” Jerry said, nodding.

“Do you two mind?” Cindy snapped, feeling a flush scald her cheeks. She tugged the cape off her shoulders and stood, brushing the sleeves of her blouse. Jerry, she could overlook. But this, this…arrogant guest was tap-dancing on her holiday-frazzled nerves.

The infuriating man stood as well, and in her haste to leave, Cindy slipped on a pile of her own hair and skidded across the marble floor, flailing her arms and legs like a windup toy. He halted her imminent fall with one large hand, his fingers curving around her arm. Cindy jerked upright to stare into his dancing blue eyes, then pulled away from his grasp. “Th-thank you,” she murmured, her face burning.

“The haircut must have thrown off your balance,” he observed with a half smile.

Feeling like a complete idiot, Cindy retrieved her green uniform jacket and withdrew a generous tip for the distraught Bea, then strode toward the exit. Her skin tingled with humiliation and her scalp felt drafty, but she refused to crumble. She simply had too much on her mind to dwell on the embarrassing episode with the attractive stranger—the upcoming review, going home for Christmas and now her hair.

Cindy squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. No matter. After all, the unsettling man was simply passing through. And Manny would know what to do with her hair.

“OH, MY,” Manny said when she walked within earshot of the concierge desk. “Cindy, tell me that’s a wig.”

Cindy smiled weakly at her blond friend. “It’s a wig.”

“Liar,” he said smoothly, then emerged from behind his desk to touch her hair, a pained expression on his handsome face.

Hiring Manny Oliver as concierge over a year ago had been one of Cindy’s greatest achievements in her four years managing the Chandelier House. Next to most of the oddball staff members she had inherited, Manny was a breath of fresh air: good-looking, polite, helpful and witty. A true friend, and he could cook. Cindy sighed. Why were all the good ones gay?

“Don’t tell me,” he said, stroking her head as if she were a pet. “You’ve been to see Bea the Butcher.”

“You know about her?”

“I arranged a free dinner to console a lady she hacked yesterday.”

Cindy felt like crying. “Now you tell me.”

“You know I don’t bother you with details. What were you thinking to cut your beautiful hair?”

“I was trying to drum up confidence in the salon among the staff.”

“Now you’re a walking billboard, all right.”

She grimaced. “So can my hair be saved?”

He smiled. “Sure. There’s this great little hat shop down on Knob Hill—”

“Manny!”

“Shh, I get off at one. I’ll meet you in your suite,” he promised. “If you get there first, plug in your curling iron.”

Cindy frowned. “Curling iron?”

Manny pursed his lips and shook his head. “Never mind—I’ll bring the tools.”

She lowered her voice and scanned the lobby. “So, have you seen anyone who looks like they might be undercover?”

He leaned forward and whispered, “Not a trench coat in sight.” When she smirked, he added, “What makes you think this Stanton fellow is going to come early to spy on us?”

“Because I would.”

“It would be nice if we knew what he looked like.”

“My guess is he’s in his fifties, probably white—although I can’t be sure—and walking funny because he’s got his shorts in a knot.” She leaned close. “And he might be in disguise. So be on the lookout for someone we’d least suspect to be on a corporate mission.”

At that moment, Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock look-alikes strolled by in full costume. Manny looked at Cindy. “Could you be more specific?”

“Okay,” she relented. “Spotting a spy will be difficult in this hotel, but keep your eyes peeled. I’ll see you at the staff meeting.”

She cruised by the front desk and smiled at the dozen or so smartly suited reservations handlers, not missing their alarmed glances at her hair. Engineering workers were hanging garland and wreaths on the wall behind the reservations desk and at least a hundred over-coiffed females—guests who’d attended a cosmetics convention—waited in lines fashioned by velvet ropes to check out. Cindy slipped in behind Amy, the rooms director, and asked, “How’s it going?”

“Fine,” the brunette answered, then lifted a hand to her forehead. “Except for a raging headache.”

Cindy tried to conjure up a bit of sympathy for the woman, but while Amy had proved to be very capable on the job, her tendency toward hypochondria remained legendary around the watercooler. “Must be the perfume,” she offered in her most soothing tone, nodding toward the aromatic crowd.

Amy sighed noisily. “Don’t worry—I’ll survive. Once we get the makeup ladies out of here, we’ll have a full two hours before the bulk of the Trekkies arrive.”

“May the Force be with you,” Cindy said solemnly.

Amy laughed. “Wrong flick, Cindy.”

“I have thirty free minutes before the staff meeting. Any problems I can take off your hands?”

Amy gave her a grateful smile, then rummaged under the desk and came up with a clipboard. “Room 620 wants a better view, 916 wants a TV without the adult movie channel and room 1010 wants a smoking room with a king-sized bed.”

“And do we have alternative rooms for them?”

Amy made check marks with her pencil as she moved down the list. “No, no and no.”

“And ‘no’ means a personal visit,” Cindy said wryly, taking the clipboard.

Grinning, Amy said, “Take it up with the GM—it’s one of her policies.”

“Touché.”

“By the way.” Amy squinted and tilted her head. “What happened to your hair?”

Cindy frowned. “I’ll see you at the staff meeting.”

Retracing her steps through the lobby, she noticed every detail. The gray marble floors were polished to a high sheen, the sitting areas populated with antique furniture and overstuffed couches were neat. Christmas was a scant two weeks away, and while everyone else in the world shopped and anticipated holiday gatherings, Cindy knew she and her staff had many grueling hours ahead of them during their busiest time of the year.

Top that with headquarters’ announcement they were sending a man from a third-party downsizing firm to look over her shoulder for the next couple of weeks…And not just any man—Cindy shivered—but a highly touted, much-feared hatchet man named Stanton. Her intercompany contacts informed her he was ruthless, and the fact that he was coming at all did not bode well for the future of the Chandelier House. No uptight corporate stiff would appreciate the nutty flavor of her eccentric staff.

Avoiding the crowded elevator corridor, she headed toward the sweeping three-story staircase in the front of the lobby. The climb up the dark-gold-carpeted stairs gave her an impressive view of her front operation.

The hotel’s signature item, an enormous sparkling chandelier, presided over the lobby. She gave the dazzling piece a fond wink in memory of her grandfather, thinking of his stories of the hotel in its heyday, then turned her attention to the pulsing activity below. Every employee seemed occupied, from the valets to the bellmen to the lobby maids. Greenery, garlands and lights, thanks to engineering, were slowly enveloping the lobby walls and fixtures. Jaunty Christmas Muzak kept everyone moving and lifted Cindy’s spirits as well.

A new beginning lay just around the corner. A clean slate. A promising year for the Chandelier House, a better relationship with her mother, maybe even a man in her life.

Cindy smirked. Why settle for one Christmas miracle?

At the top of the stairs, she paused to catch her breath, then caught an elevator to the sixth floor. An owlish-looking middle-aged man answered her knock to room 620. Wearing suit slacks, dress shirt and tie, he held a pad of paper under his arm and, oddly, the room’s antique desk lamp in one hand. Cindy raised an eyebrow, then quietly introduced herself and explained that a room with a better view of the city was available, but it was a suite, and therefore, considerably more expensive.

The man frowned behind thick glasses and complained loudly, but Cindy remained calm, her eyes meaningfully glued to the lamp. In the end he huffily claimed the room to be adequate and slammed the door. Cindy shook her head, then jotted a reminder to send him a complimentary prune Danish the following morning. The man was obviously constipated.

The robed couple in room 916 cleared up a misunderstanding—they weren’t complaining about having access to the adult channel, they were complaining because they thought the channel should be free. No, Cindy explained, but an evening of pay-per-view was still relatively cheap entertainment in San Francisco.

She was two for three approaching room 1010, thankful the complaints were small compared to what her staff normally dealt with. Wrinkling her nose at the ancient orange carpet bearing a nauseating floral pattern, she pledged to put the case forcefully to headquarters about the need for new hallway floor coverings, then lifted her hand and rapped lightly on the door.

Within seconds, the handsome stranger from the hair salon stood before her, minus his dress shoes. His imposing masculinity washed over Cindy and his smile revealed white teeth and slight crow’s-feet at the corners of his ice-blue eyes. Late thirties, she decided. “We meet again,” he said pleasantly.

“Um, yes,” Cindy murmured, resisting the urge to pull her jacket up over her head. She checked the clipboard. “Er, Mr. Quinn?”

“Eric Quinn,” he said, extending his hand.

She returned his firm and friendly shake. “I’m Cindy Warren, Mr. Quinn, I—”

“—run this whole show…I remember.”

She flushed. “I’m the general manager, and I came to discuss your request for another room.”

He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorjamb, smiling lazily. “Do you personally oversee every guest request, Ms. Warren?”

“No, I—”

“Then I’m flattered.”

He was an extremely handsome man, Cindy decided as she struggled to regain control of the situation. And very full of himself. “No need, Mr. Quinn,” she replied coolly. “My reservations staff is swamped at the moment, so I’m pitching in. If you’re interested, we have a smoking room available, but it doesn’t have a king-sized bed.”

Mr. Quinn frowned and stroked his chin with his left hand.

No ring, she noticed, then chastised herself. The absence of a ring didn’t mean the man was available. And despite her mother’s increasingly urgent pleas for her to find a nice man and settle down, even if he was available, Cindy wasn’t in the market for a relationship with a guest…who rubbed her the wrong way…at the most professionally chaotic and emotionally vulnerable time of the year.

Mr. Quinn shook his head ruefully. “No, a smaller bed will never do. I can afford to go without cigarettes more than I can afford to go without sleep. I’m a big man,” he added unnecessarily.

To her horror, Cindy involuntarily glanced over his figure again, then felt a heat rash scale her neck. She fidgeted with the clipboard, clacking the metal clip faster and faster as her pulse rate climbed.

He shrugged. “I guess I’ll stay put since I need a big, roomy bed.”

Cindy’s hand slipped and the metal clip snapped down on her fingers, sending pain exploding through her hand. “Yeeeeooooow!”

Mr. Quinn grabbed the clipboard and released her pinched fingers in the time it took for Cindy to process the distress signals from her brain.

“You’re bleeding,” he uttered, clasping her fingers.

“It’s nothing,” she gasped, bewildered that such a minor injury could produce so much blood—and agony—and wondering what it was about this man that made her behave like the Fourth Stooge.

“Come in and wash your hands,” he said, tugging gently at her arm.

“Uh, no.” Cindy knew there was a good reason to turn him down, but the rationale escaped her for a few seconds.

“But you need to stop the bleeding.”

Suddenly Cindy’s brain resumed functioning—oh, yeah, she lived here. “I have my own suite,” she explained hurriedly.

“Be reasonable, Ms. Warren. You’ll ruin your clothes.” His mouth curved into a wry smile. “Not to mention this, er, lovely carpet.”

She relented with a laugh, gritting her teeth against the pain. “Maybe I will borrow a wet washcloth, if you don’t mind.”

He stepped back and swept his arm inside the room. “This is your hotel. I’ll wait here.”

“I’ll just be a moment,” she murmured. As he held open the door, she slid past him, their bodies so close she could see the threads on the buttons of his starched white shirt. The proximity set what hair she had left on end.

Keeping her eyes averted from Mr. Quinn’s personal belongings, she stepped over his barge-sized dress shoes in the doorway of the bathroom, squashing down her instantaneous thought of the anatomical implications. She also ignored the masculine scents of soap and aftershave as she turned on the cold-water faucet and grabbed a washcloth.

Glancing into the mirror was a mistake—her hair looked straight out of the seventies and her makeup needed more than a touch-up. Cindy groaned, then gasped when the water hit her fingers. What an idiot I am.

She applied pressure with a white washcloth and looked toward the bedroom. The door he held open cast light into the room from the hallway, sending his long shadow across the carpet. No doubt he was belly-laughing at what must seem like her talent for self-destruction.

Cindy removed the washcloth, relieved the bleeding had slowed.

“You’ll find a couple of bandages in my toiletry bag,” he called out, and for the first time she noticed a slight Southern accent. “It’s on the back of the door. Help yourself.”

She hesitated to go through his personal belongings, but then told herself she was being ridiculous over a couple of lousy bandages. Cindy stepped back and closed the bathroom door, immediately smelling the soft leather of Mr. Quinn’s black toiletry bag. Her hand stopped in midair at the sight of pale blue silk pajama pants barely visible behind the large hanging bag. A picture of the handsome Mr. Quinn in his lounge wear zoomed to mind and the urge to run overwhelmed her.

With jerky hands, she unzipped the left side of the toiletry bag, but to her dismay, a barrage of small foil packets rained down on her sensible pumps. Condoms. At least a dozen in all varieties—colored, textured, flavored.

Oh, good Lord. Cindy dropped to her knees and snatched up the condoms, then stood and crammed them back into the pocket, knocking down Mr. Quinn’s pajama pants in the process. Dammit. She yanked up the flimsy pants, remembering too late the cuts on her hand. And silk was nothing if not absorbent. Cindy watched in abject horror as the pale fabric soaked up her blood. She dropped the garment as if it were on fire.

“Are you all right in there?” he called.

Cindy nearly swallowed her tongue. “Y-yes.”

“Did you find what you were looking for?”

Her heart thrashing, Cindy tore open the right zippered pocket of the toiletry bag and fished out the bandages amongst shaving cream, shampoo and toothpaste. “Got them!” she called. Quickly she rewashed her fingers and slapped on the bandages despite the tremor of her hands. Finally, she turned and carefully picked up the silk pants to assess the damage.

One clear red imprint of her hand embellished the backside, as if she’d grabbed the man’s tush.

Cindy closed her eyes, her mind reeling. Why did things like this happen to her?

“Is everything okay in there?”

She leaned on the sink for support. Should I tell the man I found his stash of rubbers and fondled his pajamas? Then Cindy straightened. She could have the pants cleaned, then slip them back inside his room before tonight—Mr. Quinn would never know. Considerably cheered, she wadded the pants into a ball and shoved them down the back of her skirt. Thankfully, her jacket covered the lump.

Cindy took a deep breath and emerged from the bathroom, nearly faltering when she had to sidle past him again to reach the hall. “Thank you,” she said, as she retrieved the clipboard.

“No problem.”

At the sight of his devilish grin, Cindy remembered the man’s sexual preparedness and told herself he was a lady-killer to be avoided. Recalling her original errand, Cindy cleared her throat. “And I’m sorry about the room, Mr. Quinn. Of course you’re welcome to smoke in the hotel lounge.”

He shrugged. “Perhaps I’ll take this opportunity to rid myself of a nasty vice.”

Backing away on wobbly legs, Cindy nodded curtly. “Well, good luck.” Then she turned and fled, horrifically aware of the man’s pants jammed in her pantyhose.

ERIC STEPPED INTO THE HALL and watched her hurry away. He was at a loss to explain why he’d felt so compelled to tease the woman. In scant days Cindy Warren would see him in an entirely different light, and laying a friendly foundation wouldn’t hurt, he reasoned. He ignored the fact that such a gesture had never seemed necessary in past assignments. Perhaps the thought of her cutting her lovely hair to impress the hatchet man had made the difference.

From the reports concerning the Chandelier House, he had known the general manager was a woman, but nothing had prepared him for her youth or her beauty. Yet after observing her in the salon for only a short time, he understood why Cindy Warren held the top position in the grande dame hotel. She had fire in her beautiful green eyes and a firm set to her chin. And even with the haircut from hell, she was still pretty damn cute.

Eric stepped back into his room, pushing the stiff leather suspenders over his shoulders to fall loosely past his waist. Crossing to the antique desk where he’d abandoned a stack of paperwork, he reclaimed the surprisingly comfortable chair.

Using a pen with the hotel’s name on it, he jotted down notes about the room he’d received as an incognito business traveler. His head pivoted as he surveyed the space.

Although the wood furnishings were far from new, the bed, armoire and desk were charming and smelled pleasantly of lemon furniture polish. The bed linens were a restful combination of taupe checks and plaids, and the worn areas in the carpet had been cleverly concealed by attractive wool rugs. The electrical outlets worked and the spacious bathroom smelled fresh and sunny, although the Sweet Tarts on the pillow struck him as slightly odd.

He scribbled a few more notations, then stopped and dragged his hand over his face, picturing the determined set of Cindy Warren’s shoulders. Frustrated by the attraction he felt for her, he reminded himself of the danger of getting too involved with someone who might suffer from his assignment.

Craving a cigarette, he expelled a noisy breath, then reached for the phone and dialed out. After a few seconds, a familiar voice came on the line.

“Lancaster here.”

“Bill, this is Stanton. I just wanted to let you know I’m on-site.”

“Great. How’s the preliminary—is the place as nutty as we’ve been told?”

Eric fingered the package of Sweet Tarts. “Too early to tell.”

“Well, I spoke to our liaison from Harmon today. If you discover in the next few days that the Chandelier House doesn’t fit the future profile for a corporate property, we won’t even send in the rest of the team.”

Eric frowned. “I’m good, but that hardly seems fair.”

“Sounds like Harmon wants to get rid of this property.”

“If the numbers are that bad, why don’t they just dump it?”

“Because the numbers aren’t that bad. And some old cow on the board of directors has a soft spot for the place, so they need justification. We’re it.”

Eric leaned back in his chair. “Look, Bill, I came here to do a job and I’m not turning in a phony report. Plan on sending the team as scheduled. My reputation aside, there are people here to consider.”

His associate snorted. “People? I’m sorry, I thought I was talking to Eric Stanton. Are the holidays making you soft?”

Cindy Warren’s green-gray eyes flashed through his mind. “No—I guess I’m just tired.”

“Have you met the GM?”

“Yeah.” Oh, yeah.

“Is she on to you yet?”

Eric pinched the bridge of his nose. “Nope, she’s not on to me yet.” But she’s already under my skin.

2

CINDY TRIED TO ERASE Eric Quinn’s image from her mind as she approached the executive meeting room. If ever there was a time not to be distracted by an attractive guest, it was now, when the fate of her staff depended on her. Worry niggled the back of her mind. Working in the close confines of the hotel, co-workers rapidly became like family, and she felt responsible for their future.

In the two years since Harmon Hospitality had purchased the Chandelier House, she and her staff had received countless memos from the home office mandating changes that would force their beloved hotel to fit into a corporate mold. So far, she had resisted. Her employees had no concept of a corporate direction—at any given time, most of them had no idea which direction was up. Yet somehow jobs were done and guests were delighted enough to return time after time.

“Good morning, everyone,” she said, flashing a cheerful smile around the room as she walked to the head of the long table. Six directors and a handful of assorted managers chorused greetings and exchanged barbs while vying for a choice doughnut from the boxes being passed around.

The meeting room reeked of the mingling brews gurgling from appliances in the corner: regular coffee, cappuccino, sassafras tea and something scarlet dripping from the juicer. Cindy wrinkled her nose and refilled her cup with black coffee.

“New haircut, Cindy?” Joel Cutter, the food and beverage director, covered a smile by biting into a powdered doughnut.

Amidst the good-natured chuckling, Cindy threw him her most withering look, which didn’t faze him. A valued employee and personal friend, Joel oversaw the restaurant, the lounge and catering. Hot coffee sloshed over the edge of her happy-face mug as she set it on the table. She tucked herself into an upholstered chair, ignoring the unsettling lump at her back. “Pass the doughnuts. And thanks for the opening, Joel. We’ll begin with the hair salon. Amy?”

All eyes turned to the wincing rooms director, who was shaking white pills from one of the four bottles sitting on the table in front of her. She downed them with a drink of the scarlet liquid. “If it wasn’t for Jerry, I’d say turn the place into an ice-cream parlor. I talked the new stylist into staying through tomorrow, but after that, we’ll be shorthanded again.” Amy smiled sheepishly. “Jerry said she hasn’t stopped crying since you left, boss.” The room erupted into more laughter.

Cindy waved to quiet the melee. “Ha, ha, very funny. Seriously, what seems to be the problem with keeping a qualified stylist?”

Amy leaned forward. “Most hairdressers I’ve interviewed want to keep their skills sharp in areas other than simple cuts, like perming and coloring. In my opinion, we need to offer a full range of services.”

Nodding, Cindy made a few notes on a yellow legal pad. “Fine.”

Amy angled her head. “And it would help if Jerry—”

“—would agree to wait on female customers,” Cindy finished for her. “I know. But Jerry’s good at what he does, and we can’t afford to lose him. He’s a legend.”

“Much like your new hairdo,” Joel mumbled into his napkin, prompting more laughter.

Ignoring him, she shifted her gaze to Samantha Riggs, director of sales. “How’s business, Sam?”

“Never better,” Sam replied, completely at ease in full Klingon war regalia, including the lumpy forehead mask. “If the Trekkies are happy with the way we handle the regional conference, we’re bound to get the business of the Droids and the Fantasms.” She adjusted her chain-metal sash for emphasis.

Cindy hoped her smile wasn’t as shaky as it felt. Although the buying power and loyalty of the role-playing groups was strong, she’d heard the hotel was getting quite a reputation at headquarters as well—as the Final Frontier.

Sam counted off on her black-tipped fingernails as she spoke. “The crystal readers will be here at the end of the week, the vampires are arriving at midnight on Saturday and the adult toy trade show starts next Monday.”

Panic seized Cindy. “Adult toys next Monday?”

“Isn’t that corporate fellow arriving next Monday?” Joel asked casually, reaching for a honey cruller.

Cindy nodded, trying to mask her alarm. She didn’t mind hosting the X-rated trade show, but the timing couldn’t have been any worse.

“Let’s hope he has a sense of humor,” Amy chirped.

“And a sex life,” Manny interjected.

“Don’t worry,” Joel said, “Cindy has cornered the market on celibacy.”

“You’re a laugh a minute, Joel,” Cindy said dryly, ignoring the burst of applause. Joel and his wife were constantly trying to fix her up, but their matchmaking attempts had produced one disaster after another. “Sam, let’s keep the trade show as low-profile as possible, okay?”

Sam nodded convincingly. “You want low-profile, Cindy—you got low-profile.”

“Said the woman in the Klingon costume,” Manny pointed out.

“Hey, whatever makes the customer happy,” Sam said smoothly.

Cindy looked to William Belk, director of engineering, a burly fellow who rarely spoke. Smiling broadly, she asked, “William, how goes the search for the perfect lobby Christmas tree?”

He glanced around uneasily, twisting his cap in his big hands. “The nursery is still looking.”

Cindy’s stomach pitched. “We’re running out of days in the month of December,” she said with mustered good humor. “I’d like to see the tree up and decorated before our visitors arrive next Monday.”

“Uh, yeah.”

She smiled tightly and wrote herself a note to follow up with the nursery. After discussing a few administrative details with the comptroller and the human resources manager, she glanced at Joel and lifted one corner of her mouth. “Would you like to close out the meeting, or is my hair too distracting?”

“I’ll try to be strong,” Joel responded fiercely, then added, “Farrah.”

Cindy rolled her eyes heavenward. “Start with banquets.”

“Booked to 90 percent through New Year’s.”

She blinked. “Great. The restaurant?”

He pushed a newspaper article toward her. “The Chronicle gave us a mediocre review.”

“That beats the flogging they gave us last spring,” she said. “Anything else?”

“I doubt I’m the only one wondering about this axman, Stanton.”

Cindy glanced around the room, which had suddenly grown so quiet she could hear her hair moaning. After a deep breath, she rested her elbows on the table. “The corporate review was next on the agenda, but I’m glad you brought it up, Joel.” She wet her lips. “As most of you know, a third-party firm has been hired to study select properties under the corporate umbrella.” She smiled. “And we’re one of the lucky ones—the Chandelier House is going to be treated to the works.”

Cindy counted on fingers that hadn’t seen a manicure in months. “An audit of our accounting procedures, our reservations process, sales, customer service—if we do it, it’s going to be scrutinized.”

Manny cleared his throat. “Is there a reason we’re being studied so closely?”

Cindy clasped her hands in front of her. “The inspection might be related to the fact that I’ve resisted efforts to change the way the hotel does business.”

“And that you have breasts,” Amy muttered.

“I have no reason to believe this has anything to do with me being a woman,” Cindy said with sincerity, then grinned and pointed her thumb toward the slight curves beneath her jacket. “Besides, your point is debatable.”

Laughter eased the tension in the room.

“They want to turn us into a cookie-cutter corporate operation,” Joel supplied.

Cindy weighed her words. “It would seem that headquarters would like for us to conform more to a corporate profile, yes.” She forced optimism into her voice, then swept her gaze around the room. “A Mr. Stanton is scheduled to arrive next Monday with an examination team. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he arrives a few days early to check us out. Let me know if you notice anyone suspicious.”

“Should we be worried?” Amy asked, massaging her temples. “I think I’m getting a migraine.”

“We should all be aware,” Cindy corrected gently. “Aware that everything we do will be under a microscope. As soon as Mr. Stanton arrives, I’ll call an executive committee meeting and make the proper introductions.” She conjured up an encouraging smile. “Now, if there’s nothing else—”

“Whoa,” Joel said, raising his hand. “Don’t forget about the Christmas party tomorrow night.”

Cindy nearly groaned. Nothing could have been further from her mind. “How could we forget?” she croaked.

“With cutbacks on the horizon, should we bring a bag lunch?” Sam asked.

Everyone laughed, but Cindy shook her head emphatically.

“Forget the lunch,” Joel said, “but feel free to bring a date for Cindy.”

Amid the laughter, Cindy narrowed her eyes at Joel. “You are treading on thin ice.” She smacked her hand on the table. “This meeting is adjourned.”

As everyone filed out of the room, Joel fell in step beside her and she poked him in the shoulder. “What makes you so sure I’m not bringing a date? It just so happens that I might.”

Joel’s look of incredulity made her wish she actually did have a date. And the flash of Eric Quinn’s face in her mind exasperated her further. “You don’t have a date,” Joel scoffed. “Name one eligible bachelor in this town you haven’t neutered with indifference. Your name is on the bathroom wall—for a hard time, call Cindy Warren.”

“You flatter me.”

“Cindy, if you bring a date tomorrow night—” He looked toward the ceiling. “I’ll cover for you all day Wednesday.”

She straightened. Since her home consisted of a small suite near the top of the hotel, excursions outside the walls—especially for an entire day—were rare. This could be her last chance to go Christmas shopping before the hotel descended into seasonal chaos. “You’d cover my office calls?”

“Yep.”

Her last chance to buy a few casual clothes before she headed home to Virginia on Christmas Eve. “My pager?”

“Sure thing.” Then he grinned. “Of course, if you come stag, I get your parking spot for a month.”

And hadn’t the lock on her garment bag jammed the last time she’d traveled to L.A. overnight on business? She definitely needed new luggage. “And all I have to do is produce a man?”

“He has to be straight,” Amy qualified, walking on the other side.

“Right,” Joel agreed sternly. “I expect to see definite heterosexual groping before the night’s over.”

Cindy put her hand over her heart. “I’m wounded—you two honestly think I can’t find a date?”

“Right,” they said in unison.

She squinted at Joel. “You’re on, buster.”

Joel rubbed his hands together and squeezed his eyes shut. “VIP parking—I can hardly wait.”

“Well, I can’t wait to meet this mystery man,” Amy said over her shoulder as she followed Joel toward the stairs.

Cindy stopped and stared after her friends, dread surging in her stomach. “Neither can I.”

ERIC SPENT the next couple of hours touring various areas of the hotel as unobtrusively as possible, occasionally ducking into alcoves to scribble on index cards. If employees stopped to offer assistance, he either manufactured requests for directions or said he was waiting for someone.

The covert stage of his job had always been his least favorite. Eric didn’t have a problem with pointing out deficiencies in an operation, but he much preferred doing it face-to-face with the staff.

He spotted Cindy Warren twice as she practically jogged from one task to another, but he stayed out of her line of vision despite his urge to talk to her again. He typically made his most valuable observations early in the review process and he liked as much done as possible in the first couple of days, since he never knew if or when his cover would be blown. After that, the sucking-up factor set in—an ego trip for some consultants, but merely a hindrance to productivity in his opinion.

After he’d exhausted his many checklists, he made his way to the concierge desk, where a pleasant-looking blond man offered him a professional smile.

“Good afternoon, sir. How can I help you?”

Eric sized him up in seconds—he knew from the man’s demeanor he was an asset to Cindy Warren. “I’m looking for a dinner recommendation.”

“Any particular type of cuisine, sir?”

“Maybe a good steak.”

“Unless you want to see the city, our chef grills a great rib eye.”

Eric inclined his head, silently applauding the man’s response. “Sounds good—I’ll try it. How’s the lounge?”

“Great drinks, but not much action on Monday night.”

Shaking his head slightly, Eric laughed. “Fine with me.”

The concierge extended his hand. “I’m Manny Oliver.”

Eric clasped his hand in a firm grip. “Quinn. Eric Quinn.”

“Glad you chose the Chandelier House for your trip, Mr. Quinn. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to make your stay more enjoyable.”

At that moment, Eric caught sight of Cindy across the lobby. He hadn’t realized he was staring until Manny’s cool voice reached him. “That’s our general manager, Cindy Warren.”

Eric tried to appear casual. “We met briefly in the salon this morning. I was quite impressed with her, um, professionalism.” And her legs. Eric watched her move alongside a barrel-chested man, gesturing from floor to ceiling in the curve of the magnificent staircase.

“She’s first-rate,” the man agreed. “The Chandelier House is lucky to have her.”

“She seems young for so much responsibility,” Eric said, fishing.

“Early thirties,” Manny offered.

“Is she single?” The words came out before Eric could stop them, and he wasn’t sure who was more surprised, himself or the concierge.

Manny straightened, his defenses up, and Eric wondered if the man had romantic feelings for his boss. “Ms. Warren is unmarried,” he said tightly.

Mentally kicking himself, Eric simply nodded. “Thank you for the meal recommendation, Mr. Oliver.” He withdrew a bill from his wallet, but before he could extend it, Manny stopped him with the slightest lift of his hand. “Don’t mention it, Mr. Quinn. It’s my job to take care of everyone in the hotel.”

Manny’s friendly smile didn’t mask the glimmer of warning in his clear blue eyes.

“I’m sure you’re good at your job,” Eric said lightly.

“The best,” Manny assured him as another guest approached his station. “Enjoy that steak, Mr. Quinn.”

Unable to resist another peek in her direction, Eric was treated to an inadvertent display of lower thigh as Cindy stretched her arm high to make a point to the man, presumably in preparation for installing more seasonal decorations.

Feeling Manny’s stare boring into his back, Eric dragged his gaze away from Cindy Warren. Checking his watch and finding he had plenty of time for a drink before dinner, he moved in the direction of the lounge, trying to shake off the undeniable surge of attraction he felt for the general manager. The nostalgia of the season must be getting to him, he decided. Making him sappy. Or horny. Or both.

The name “Sammy’s” stretched over the entrance to the lounge, one of the few areas in the hotel Eric had not yet staked out. He walked down two steps and into the low-lit interior, fully expecting the lounge to resemble the hundreds of other generic hotel bars he’d visited during his fifteen-year stint in the business. Instead, he was pleasantly surprised to find a motif of antique musical instruments. An old upright piano sat abandoned in a far corner. The strains of Burl Ives played over unseen speakers, evoking memories of past Christmases. A bittersweet thought; family gatherings hadn’t been the same since his mother’s death.

The place was practically deserted, with only a handful of customers dotting the perimeter of the room. A knot of Trekkies indulged in a down-to-earth pitcher of beer.

But to his pleasure, Jerry the barber sat on one of the upholstered stools, still wearing the Santa hat. He chatted with a thick-armed bartender and smoked a sweet-smelling cigar.

“Weeeeell, if it isn’t Mr. Quinn.” Jerry grinned and nodded to the stool next to him. “Have a seat. Tony’ll get you a drink.”

Eric slid onto the stool and rested his elbows on the smooth curved edge of the bar. “Bourbon and water,” he directed Tony with a nod. “Taking a break, Jer?” He patted his shirt pocket for a cigarette, then remembered he had left them in the room.

The older man nodded and took a long drag of his cigar. “I’m through for the day—got tired of that woman caterwauling.”

“Excuse me?”

Jerry used the cigar as a pointer while he talked. “That woman who whacked off Ms. Cindy’s hair—she’s been bawling all day.”

“It wasn’t her fault,” Eric said with a laugh. “We warned your boss.”

“You know Cindy?” Tony glared as he slid Eric’s drink toward him.

Another besotted employee, Eric surmised. “Not really,” he said lightly.

Tony sized him up silently, flexing his massive chest beneath his skintight dress shirt. The red jingle bell suspenders did little to soften the man’s looks. Finally Tony walked down the bar to help another customer.

“Don’t mind him,” Jerry said with another puff. “He’s Ms. Cindy’s self-appointed bodyguard.”

“He looks dangerous.”

Jerry glanced around, then leaned toward him. “Just between me and you, he did a stint at San Quentin.”

Eric glanced up from his drink in alarm. “For what?”

“Never asked,” the man admitted. “But he’s fine as long as he stays on his medication. A bit protective of the boss lady, though.”

“Ms. Warren is a popular woman,” Eric observed.

“She’s a good woman,” Jerry amended. “But stubborn.” He shook his head. “Stubborn as the day is long.”

“She’s not a good manager?”

“She’s the best. But a big company bought this place a couple of years ago and has been trying to change it ever since. Ms. Cindy is wearing herself out digging in her heels.”

Eric kept his voice light. “There’s always room for improved efficiency.”

“People don’t come to the Chandelier House for efficiency, Mr. Quinn. You can go down the street and get a bigger room with a better view for less money.”

“So why come here at all?”

The man laughed and nodded toward the Trekkies. “We’re oddballs, Mr. Quinn, and we cater to oddballs. It’s a profitable niche, but Ms. Cindy can’t get anyone up the ladder to listen to her.”

“She confides in you?”

“Nope.” Jerry grinned. “But I know this hotel—been here thirty years, and I know women—been married three times.”

“The last one is a dubious credential,” Eric noted, taking another drink from his glass.

“Women are the most blessed gift the good Lord put on this earth,” the old man said with a ring of satisfaction. “Ever been to the altar, son?”

A short laugh escaped Eric. “No.”

Jerry nodded knowingly. “But Ms. Cindy’s interesting, isn’t she? An attractive woman.”

Eric frowned, alarmed that his interest was apparently so easy to spot. He needed to find a way to spend time with Cindy Warren, but he didn’t want it interpreted as a come-on. “I barely know her.”

Jerry sucked deeply on the cigar, then blew out the smoke in little puffs. “Oh, yeah, you like her all right.”

Feeling warm with a mixture of annoyance and embarrassment, Eric finished his drink. “No comment.”

“Mmm-hmm. Got it bad.” He laughed, a low, hoarse rumble. “How long you planning to stay in San Francisco?”

A bit rankled, Eric shrugged. “My business will be over in a few days, but I’m thinking about hanging around through New Year’s. Maybe visit the wine country.”

Jerry studied the burning end of his cigar. “Spending Christmas alone, are you? No family?”

Eric considered lying, then decided the truth was just as simple. “My father and I aren’t very close since my mother’s passing a few years ago. My younger sister will be with him for the holidays.”

“You and your sister don’t get along either?” Instead of judgmental, Jerry sounded only curious.

“No, that’s not it. Alicia is quite a bit younger than I am, and she has her own family.”

The barber looked sympathetic. “Still, kinfolk should stick together, especially at this time of year.”

Eric shifted on the stool, struck by a pang of longing for Christmases of his childhood. Popcorn garlands on a live tree, homemade cream candy and his father playing the piano. But Gomas Stanton had grown taciturn after his wife died, until finally Eric couldn’t bear to spend holidays at home, God help him.

If this holiday turned out like the last few, Eric would call his father on Christmas Eve, only to be subjected to a diatribe about how Eric’s work contributed to the fall of American capitalism. A master glassblower who had worked in a union factory for thirty-three years, his father believed a man’s contribution to the world came from a hard day’s work to produce a tangible good, something that could be bought and sold and owned. Eric’s chosen field, business consulting, was a mystery to him. “People like you are doing away with mom-and-pop enterprises—the kind of businesses and people who built this country,” his father had once said. And then there was the music, always the music.

The more Eric thought about it, the better Christmas right here on the West Coast sounded. Especially if he could manage to maintain an amicable relation with one Cindy Warren. Some GMs stayed close to their hotels for Christmas. Perhaps they could ring in the New Year together. He smiled wryly. If the accident-prone woman lived that long.

“Course, you’ll feel different about Christmas when you settle down with a lady,” Jerry pressed on, blowing a slow stream of smoke straight up in the air. “Love’s got a way of makin’ holidays special, yessir.”

Eric laughed. “There’s no danger of me falling in love, my man, Christmas or no.”

The man squinted at him. “Famous last words. I saw you two this morning, bouncing off each other like a couple of magnets turned the wrong way. I’m old, but I ain’t blind.”

Shaking his head, Eric set his glass on the counter and pushed away from the bar. “You’re imagining things, Jer.” He stood and gave the man a curt nod. “But thanks for the company anyway.”

“You’d better watch your step around her,” Jerry warned without looking up.

“Don’t worry,” Eric said dryly. “I’m not going to give Tony a reason to violate parole.”

Jerry laughed. “Mr. Quinn, don’t you know a pretty woman is ten times more dangerous than a hardened criminal?” He took a last puff on his cigar, then set it down with finality. “You’re a goner, son. Merry Christmas.”

3

“SO, WHO’S THE LUCKY GUY?” Manny asked as he rolled a section of Cindy’s hair with a fat curling iron.

Concentrating on his technique for later reference, she glanced at him in the mirror of her dressing table. “Lucky guy?”

“Amy told me you had a hot date for the party tomorrow night—who is he?”

“Is nothing sacred in this hotel?”

“I think we still have a bottle of holy water from a baptismal lying around somewhere.”

She sighed. “I don’t have a date…yet.”

“I can make a few calls.”

“He has to be straight.”

Indignant, Manny scoffed. “I know some straight guys—two, in fact.” Then he frowned. “Oh, but they’re married, and one is Joel.”

Cindy sniffed. “I smell smoke.”

Manny jumped and released the lock of hair, which fell limply back in place, perhaps straighter than before. “No harm done,” he assured her, then clucked. “Your hair is thin.”

“Thanks.” She lifted her bandaged hand. “Would you like to pour alcohol on my cuts, too?”

“What the heck did you do to your hand, anyway?”

Cindy hesitated. “I’ll tell you later. Maybe. Fix my hair—and hurry.”

“The hairdresser should have known better than to give you all these layers,” he grumbled.

“I told her to.”

“Then she should have exercised her right to a professional veto.”

“Maybe you should be our new stylist.”

“Cindy, contrary to popular belief, all gay men cannot cut hair and we don’t have track lighting in our refrigerators.”

“So tell me again why I’m submitting to your ministrations.”

Manny shrugged. “I’m simply trying to make the best of this tragedy.” He released another dark lock of hair that stubbornly refused to curl. “But I’m failing miserably—your hair won’t even bend.”

“Never mind.” She groaned and held up her hands in defeat. “I’ll borrow a nun’s habit.”

“You jest, but I think there’s one in the lost and found.”

“What am I going to do? My mother will have a stroke when I go home for Christmas.”

He scoffed. “You’ll be there for what—three days? You’ll live and so will she.”

“I’m glad you’re coming home with me,” Cindy said earnestly. “She’ll believe you if you tell her my haircut is in style.”

“Oh, no. I’m going home with you for baked ham and pecan pie, not to play referee for Joan and Christina Crawford.”

“We’re not that bad,” she retorted, laughing. “Just the normal mother-daughter, tug-of-war relationship. She’ll think you and I are sleeping together, you know.”

His forehead wrinkled. “Is that a compliment?”

“Yes!” She punched him. “And thanks in advance for saving me from the usual harangue about settling down.”

“So, what’s up with that?” he asked, fluffing and spraying her hair.

“My mother?”

“No—you not settling down. Got a bad suit in the old relationship closet?”

Cindy gnawed on the inside of her cheek for a few seconds, pondering the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. “I can’t recall any particularly traumatic experiences. On the other hand, I can’t recall any particularly noteworthy ones either.” She shrugged. “I’ve never met a man who appreciates the more unusual things in life. You know, a guy who uses words like ‘happenstance’ and ‘supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.’”

Manny stared.

“Okay, maybe I’m expecting too much.”

But he merely shook his head, tucked her hair behind her ears, and studied the effect. “Nope. Don’t settle, because if you’re like most of my friends—male and female—falling in love will be an agonizing event with a man who represents everything you hate.”

She laughed. “Don’t hold back.”

“I’m serious. Oh, yeah, now they’re giddy with newly-weditis, but right here is the shoulder most of them cried on during the courtship.” He tapped his collarbone. “And frankly, I’m not sure it was worth the trouble.”

Cindy held up one hand. “You’re preaching to the choir. But I am in desperate need of a day off, so I’ve got to find a date for the party even if I have to hire a man.”

He nodded. “Now that’s the ticket—retail romance.” Exhaling noisily, he shook his head at her reflection. “Sorry, Cindy, that’s the best I can do. I must say, though, without all that hair, your eyes really come alive.”

She stared at the bottom layers hanging limply around her shoulders, the top layers hugging her ears. “Thanks, but I simply can’t go around looking like this.” Cindy told herself she was not trying to look good in case she bumped into the man from room 1010 again.

“Just go back to the salon tomorrow and take the advice of the stylist. Their instincts are usually correct.” He gave her a pointed look. “They mess up by trying to satisfy the armchair experts.”

“It looks like I slept with panty hose on my head,” she mumbled.

“Control top,” he agreed.

She stood with resignation. “I have to get back to work—believe it or not, I have more pressing issues at hand than my coiffure.” Like the wad of silk at her back that she still hadn’t had time to take care of.

“Don’t forget to work in some time today for manhunting.”

“With this hair, I’ll need an Uzi to bag a date.”

“Where’s that nice Chanel scarf Mommy dearest sent for your birthday?”

“The yellow one?” Cindy walked over to a bureau and withdrew the filmy strip of silk. “Here. Why?”

“Wrap it around your throat and let the ends hang down your back.” He smiled apologetically. “It’ll draw attention away from your hair.”

She made a face, then followed his advice, checking the result in the mirror. As usual, he was right.

Manny slowly wound the cord of the curling iron. “Cindy,” he said, his voice unusually serious. “You’re worried about this Stanton man coming, aren’t you?”

She caught his gaze, then nodded. “Among other things.”

He sighed. “Just when I was starting to like this crazy place.”

“We’re not out of a job yet,” she assured him. “But I won’t lie to you, Manny—we’re a company stepchild and I suspect Harmon is looking to prune the family tree.”

“This scrutiny could be a good thing,” he pointed out. “Maybe Stanton’s people will see the potential of the old gal and headquarters will throw some improvement funds our way.”

“As long as those funds don’t dictate changing what makes the Chandelier House unique.” She forced a smile. “Just who are you calling an old gal, anyway?”

Manny smiled, his good humor returned. “By the way, since you’re on the make, there was a guy in the lobby this morning who looked like he wouldn’t mind having you in his Christmas stocking.”

She frowned. “Me?”

“Uh-huh. Guy named Quinn.”

Cindy’s pulse kicked up. “Eric Quinn?”

“You’ve already met him?”

Anxious to get it over with, she reached around, stuck her hand down the back of her skirt, and whipped out the pajama pants. “Sort of.”

Manny’s eyes bulged. “You siren, you.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“I think those are the man’s pants.”

“Okay, it is what you think, but I didn’t get them the way you think.”

He crossed his arms. “I guess you expect me to believe you stole them?”

Cindy bit her lower lip.

His jaw dropped. “You stole them?”

She collapsed into a chair. “I don’t believe this day.”

Manny sat too. “Now you’re starting to worry me.”

“I’m starting to worry me. Every time I see Eric Quinn, I end up doing something stupid.”

“Cindy, I’m dying here—what’s up with the silk drawers?”

Just thinking about the incident made the backs of her knees perspire. “I went to his room to handle a simple request. Next thing I know, I’ve cut myself on a freaking clipboard and I’m in his bathroom washing up.”

He made a rolling motion with his hand. “Get to the good part already.”

“His pajamas were hanging on the back of the door. They fell, I picked them up.” She turned the pants around to show him the handprint.

Manny frowned. “So you offered to get them cleaned?”

“Not exactly.” She buried her head in her hands. “I was afraid he’d think I was some kind of pervert stroking his pajamas, so I took them.”

Her friend pursed his lips. “You run this entire hotel, and that was the best plan you could come up with?”

Cindy lifted her head. “It sounded good at the time!”

He took the wrinkled pants by the waistband, then peered closer at the stain, tisk-tisking. “I hate to tell you this, Cindy, but your chances of getting blood out of nonwashable silk are zippo.”

She moaned. “Now what?”

“Beckwith’s,” Manny declared, scrutinizing the label. “It’s a men’s boutique in Pacific Heights that carries this brand.”

Cindy brightened. “Really?”

“Yeah. The man has expensive taste.”

She reached for her purse. “Manny, I don’t suppose you would—”

“Run to Beckwith’s and see if they have a duplicate?”

Steepling her hands, she said, “I’m officially begging you.”

Manny pressed his lips together and adopted a dreamy expression. “Well, I have a few errands to run first, but there is this tie in their window I’ve had my eye on.”

“It’s yours!” she exclaimed, handing over her gold credit card. “But I need those pajama pants before dinner.”

“Now there’s a sentence you don’t hear every day.”

“And—” she lifted a finger in warning. “Not a word of this outside these walls.”

His mouth twitched. “Didn’t you know that concierge is French for ‘keeper of dirty little secrets’?” He stuffed the pants into the toiletry bag, along with the curling iron. “By the way, Amy said to stop by the front desk—she might have a line on our undercover Mr. Stanton.”

Cindy perked up. “No kidding?”

“She wouldn’t tell me a thing. She said she’d only talk to you.”

They rode the elevator to the lobby together, then separated after Manny promised to page her as soon as he returned “with the goods.” Cindy started feeling shaky again as she approached the front desk—she’d hoped that at least the tree would be installed and all the holiday decorations completed before Stanton arrived.

Amy stood with her head back, placing drops in her eyes.

“Allergies?” Cindy asked.

Blinking rapidly, Amy nodded toward the wall behind her. “I think it’s the evergreen wreaths.”

“Christmas is a lousy time of the year to be allergic to evergreen,” Cindy noted.

“It’s almost as bad as Valentine’s Day.”

“Are you allergic to chocolate, too?”

The rooms director frowned. “No, penicillin.”

Cindy squinted. “How does penicillin—never mind.” She leaned close and lowered her voice. “Manny said you might have spotted Stanton posing as a guest?”

“I think so,” Amy reached into her jacket pocket and withdrew a slip of paper. “Here’s his room number—you might want to check it out yourself.”

After reading the scribbling, Cindy gasped. “I spoke to this man about a room change this morning. Why do you suspect he’s Stanton?”

Amy sniffed, then dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “Besides the name similarity and the fact that he’s alone, he’s been all over the hotel asking questions about the furniture and making notes. Plus,” she lowered her voice, “he’s booked in his room through Christmas Eve and instead of using a credit card, he paid cash for his room deposit.”

Cindy nodded, the implications of the man’s identity spinning in her head. “Sounds like he could be our man. I think I’ll drop by his room again to say hello.”

“Um, boss.” Amy leaned over the counter and glanced at Cindy’s sensible navy skirt. “If you’re going to pay him a visit, show some leg, would you?”

Her mouth fell open. “Amy! Do you honestly think I’d resort to feminine wiles to influence the man’s decision?”

Amy looked at her for a full minute.

Cindy sighed, looked around, then opened her jacket to roll down the waistband of her skirt. “How much leg?”

CINDY SMILED BRIGHTLY as the door swung open to reveal the man still dressed in slacks, shirt and loosened tie. “Hello again, Mr. Stark.”

Holding the same pad of paper as earlier, the graying man’s eyes swam behind wavy lenses. “Yes?”

“I’m Cindy Warren, the general manager. I spoke to you this morning about changing rooms?”

“Oh, right,” he said tartly. “I don’t want a better view now since I’m already settled in.”

“Fine,” she said quickly, deciding not to mention they had already booked the room she’d offered him earlier. “I wanted to express our regret once again, and let you know if there’s anything we can do to make your stay more enjoyable, don’t hesitate to contact me or someone on my staff.”

“A couple of free meals would be nice,” he said bluntly.

She cleared her throat mildly. “I’ve already arranged for a complimentary breakfast to be delivered in the morning, sir.”

He glanced over the top of his glasses. “More than coffee and a doughnut, I hope?”

She bit her tongue. “Yes, sir. Enjoy your stay.”

After the door closed behind her, none too gently, she backed away and frowned. If that sour man had their fate in his hands, they were all in trouble. Waiting for the elevator, she got an unwanted view of her hair in the mirrored doors and groaned. When she remembered her foolish bet with Joel, she groaned again. The doors opened and she stepped inside, lost in thought.

“Hello,” a deep voice said.

She glanced up to find Eric Quinn smiling at her. For a few seconds, she could only absorb his good looks. She noticed a high dimple on his left cheek she’d missed before. He had changed into gray sweatpants, a loose white T-shirt and athletic shoes. She prayed he hadn’t yet missed his jammies.

“Uh-oh,” he said. “Problems?”

“No,” she assured him hurriedly, then smiled. “Well, no more than usual.”

“No more injuries, I hope.”

Her cheeks warmed. “No, no more injuries.” She cleared her throat, searching for a new topic. “How is your stay so far, Mr. Quinn?”

“Productive,” he said smoothly, glancing at her shortened skirt, his gaze lingering on her legs before making eye contact again. “And I’m Eric.”

Oh, those eyes. Her fingers tingled slightly—the clipboard had probably severed a few nerves. She scrutinized the numbers panel, trying to remember where she’d been headed. “What’s your line of work…Eric?”

“Sales.”

“What kind of sales?” she asked, for the sake of conversation.

“Oh, trinkets and…things.”

She puzzled at his vagueness, then remembered the adult toy show the following week. “Are you here in preparation for the trade show next week?”

He shifted uneasily. “As a matter of fact, I am preparing for next week.”

Which explained the condom smorgasbord in his toiletry bag. She nodded and averted her gaze, hoping she hadn’t turned as pink as she felt. She was liberal, she was hip. She’d even gone to a men’s nude dancing club once with Manny. So why should the thought of this man selling dildos and fringed pasties unnerve her?

“Are you going to the basement, too?” he asked, nodding to the only lit button.

“Er, no,” she said, stabbing the button for the lobby. The door slid open almost immediately, and she practically fell out in her haste to flee.

Cindy didn’t look back as the doors closed, but was brought up short by a sudden yank to her neck. She stumbled backward and swung around, horrified at the sight of her scarf caught in the elevator door and being dragged down the shaft. She stood frozen as the bit of silk whipped off her neck with a swish and disappeared into the floor.

Thankful she hadn’t knotted the noose, Cindy closed her eyes and hit the palm of her hand against her forehead.

“Was it him?”

At the sound of Amy’s voice, Cindy turned to find her employee walking toward the elevator, scratching her arms.

“Rash,” Amy explained. “Do you think Stark is the man we’re looking for?”

Nodding, Cindy murmured, “Could be. He’s a bit contrary.”

The rooms director’s forehead creased. “Maybe he’s not a leg man.” Then she grinned. “Or maybe he’s a man’s man—perhaps we should have sent Manny.”

Cindy shook her head, smiling wryly. “Just let the staff know they need to be on their toes around our grumpy Mr. Stark.”

Amy snapped her fingers. “Why don’t you invite him to the Christmas party tomorrow night?”

She stared. “Are you insane?”

“Why not? Show him a good time.”

“Let him see the staff at their most drunken, uninhibited selves?”

“Oh.” Amy frowned. “You have a point, but you also need a date.”

“Well, it won’t be the man who has come to make mincemeat out of us,” she insisted. “Besides, I don’t mind playing nicey-nicey, but I certainly don’t want the staff thinking I’m kissing up to this man to save my own job.”

“You’re right,” Amy said, scratching at her neck. “I’d better get back to the desk.”

“See you later.” Sighing, Cindy jogged down the stairs to the basement in the unlikely event her scarf had escaped the moving parts of the shaft and had somehow floated out intact onto the floor. Nothing. Her mother’s gift was probably wrapped around some critical gear, damaging the working parts of the elevator even as she stood wringing her hands.

She glanced at her watch. Three o’clock—Manny should be back within the next hour. Then she’d easily be able to replace the pajamas while Eric Quinn worked out in the health club, a vision that conjured up a sweat on her own body. Cindy called engineering again about a Christmas tree, but the nursery had not yet located a candidate.

She dropped by the crowded Trekkie trade show and skimmed the many rows of tables to make sure the spring show’s bestseller, a stun gun capable of administering a dizzying shock, was nowhere to be found. The public swarmed over the trading card tables. Costumes and masks were also enjoying a brisk trade. All in all, the show had successfully attracted a sizable family crowd.

Cindy fast-forwarded to next week’s adult toy show. Picturing Eric Quinn surrounded by erotic paraphernalia was enough to convince her to skip that particular exhibition.

At seven o’clock, still without a word from Manny, Cindy decided to have dinner while she waited. She descended the service stairs to the restaurant and walked through the kitchen to say hello to the staff. After a few minutes of small talk with the chef, she chose a bad table near the rest rooms and slipped off her shoes. What a day.

“Surely you don’t intend to eat alone,” Eric Quinn said behind her.

She turned to see him seated at a table a few feet away, half hidden by a silk tree. Her pulse picked up. “I don’t mind.”

“It’s kind of silly for both of us to dine alone, don’t you think?” His voice was empty of innuendo. “May I join you, Ms. Warren?”

Say yes, she told herself. He was simply a nice sex-toy salesman, looking for light dinner conversation. Besides, this way she’d be able to keep track of him until Manny paged her. “Please.” He stood and carried his wineglass to her table, then gave her a tired little smile. She nodded toward the vacant chair across from her. “And call me Cindy.”

“All right, Cindy.” He had changed into casual brown slacks and a pale blue button-down. He settled into the chair with athletic grace, his movements triggering an awareness in her limbs.

“What do you recommend?” he asked.

A married girlfriend had once diagrammed a position she’d always wanted to try on a napkin. “The rib eye,” Cindy said, her heart thumping wildly. Not that she hadn’t had her chances with men.

He nodded. “Rib eye is what the concierge suggested.”

“You talked to Manny?” It was just that none of those guys she dated had particularly lit her fire.

“Yeah—seems like a nice fellow.”

“He’s my right-hand man.” Oh, the restaurateur from Oakland showed the spark of a promise, but she’d been mired in hotel problems at the time and…oh, well.

“Good help is hard to find,” he agreed.

“Especially in the hospitality industry.” But this man—this man was one big mass of flammable substance.

“Cindy, before we go any further,” he said, his eyes merry, “there’s something we need to discuss.”

A sense of doom flooded her. He knew about the pajamas. He’d discovered them missing and deduced that she’d taken them. “Wh-what do you mean?” she asked, reaching for her water glass.

His smile sent a chill up her spine. “I mean a certain piece of clothing.”

She gulped down a mouthful of water, choking in her haste, her mind racing. “Oh, that. Well, I can explain—”

“It’s not necessary,” he said, shaking his head, his smile never wavering. “You were a little embarrassed—I understand.”

“Um, yes, I was, but—”

“Actually, I think your little mishaps are funny.”

Irritated, Cindy squirmed. “I’m glad, but—”

“And I hope you don’t mind that I consulted the cleaners around the corner,” he said, reaching inside his jacket.

“Well, as a matter of fact,” she said, “I’ve already made arrangements for a replacement, so you don’t have to worry about the bloodstain.” Then she stopped. Cleaners? He knew the pants were gone, but how would he know about a stain?

He frowned as he withdrew a small paper bag. “Bloodstain? You were injured when your scarf came off?”

“My scarf?” she croaked.

“Yes, your scarf.” Laughing, he withdrew her yellow Chanel scarf, folded neatly. “What did you think I was talking about?”

“I thought you were talking about…my scarf, of course,” she replied lamely. “The cuts on my hand—I was afraid I had gotten blood on my scarf when I tried to grab it.”

“I was able to pull it inside the elevator,” he explained. “But the silk was soiled, so I thought I’d have it cleaned for you.” He smiled again. “I had to drop off a few shirts anyway—I hope you don’t think it was too forward.”

Not when I have your PJs. “Not at all,” she said. “Thank you. This was a gift from my mother.”

“Ah. And where is she?”

“Virginia. Along with my father and older brother.”

He blinked. “Really? I’m from Virginia, too.”

Her surprise was interrupted by the sound of her beeper. “I’m sorry, I’m still on call.” She glanced at the number, then withdrew a small radio from her pocket and punched a button. “Yes, Amy?”

“Sorry to bother you, Cindy, but our special guest in room 620 is complaining about the room temperature.”

Suspecting Mr. Stark was still testing them, Cindy asked, “Too hot or too cold?”

“Too hot.”

“Check the air-conditioning personally, Amy. And take a fan with you just in case.”

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