Читать книгу Naughty or Nice? - Stephanie Bond, Stephanie Bond - Страница 4

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.