Stephanie Bond - Naughty or Nice?

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.