Stephanie Bond - Naughty or Nice?

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.