Читать книгу Naughty or Nice? - Stephanie Bond, Stephanie Bond - Страница 5

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.”