Stephanie Bond - Naughty or Nice?

“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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