Stephanie Bond - Naughty or Nice?

“Just go back to the salon tomorrow and take the advice of the stylist. Their instincts are usually correct.” He gave her a pointed look. “They mess up by trying to satisfy the armchair experts.”

“It looks like I slept with panty hose on my head,” she mumbled.

“Control top,” he agreed.

She stood with resignation. “I have to get back to work—believe it or not, I have more pressing issues at hand than my coiffure.” Like the wad of silk at her back that she still hadn’t had time to take care of.

“Don’t forget to work in some time today for manhunting.”

“With this hair, I’ll need an Uzi to bag a date.”

“Where’s that nice Chanel scarf Mommy dearest sent for your birthday?”

“The yellow one?” Cindy walked over to a bureau and withdrew the filmy strip of silk. “Here. Why?”

“Wrap it around your throat and let the ends hang down your back.” He smiled apologetically. “It’ll draw attention away from your hair.”

She made a face, then followed his advice, checking the result in the mirror. As usual, he was right.

Manny slowly wound the cord of the curling iron. “Cindy,” he said, his voice unusually serious. “You’re worried about this Stanton man coming, aren’t you?”

She caught his gaze, then nodded. “Among other things.”

He sighed. “Just when I was starting to like this crazy place.”

“We’re not out of a job yet,” she assured him. “But I won’t lie to you, Manny—we’re a company stepchild and I suspect Harmon is looking to prune the family tree.”

“This scrutiny could be a good thing,” he pointed out. “Maybe Stanton’s people will see the potential of the old gal and headquarters will throw some improvement funds our way.”

“As long as those funds don’t dictate changing what makes the Chandelier House unique.” She forced a smile. “Just who are you calling an old gal, anyway?”

Manny smiled, his good humor returned. “By the way, since you’re on the make, there was a guy in the lobby this morning who looked like he wouldn’t mind having you in his Christmas stocking.”

She frowned. “Me?”

“Uh-huh. Guy named Quinn.”

Cindy’s pulse kicked up. “Eric Quinn?”

“You’ve already met him?”

Anxious to get it over with, she reached around, stuck her hand down the back of her skirt, and whipped out the pajama pants. “Sort of.”

Manny’s eyes bulged. “You siren, you.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“I think those are the man’s pants.”

“Okay, it is what you think, but I didn’t get them the way you think.”

He crossed his arms. “I guess you expect me to believe you stole them?”

Cindy bit her lower lip.

His jaw dropped. “You stole them?”

She collapsed into a chair. “I don’t believe this day.”

Manny sat too. “Now you’re starting to worry me.”

“I’m starting to worry me. Every time I see Eric Quinn, I end up doing something stupid.”

“Cindy, I’m dying here—what’s up with the silk drawers?”

Just thinking about the incident made the backs of her knees perspire. “I went to his room to handle a simple request. Next thing I know, I’ve cut myself on a freaking clipboard and I’m in his bathroom washing up.”

He made a rolling motion with his hand. “Get to the good part already.”

“His pajamas were hanging on the back of the door. They fell, I picked them up.” She turned the pants around to show him the handprint.

Manny frowned. “So you offered to get them cleaned?”

“Not exactly.” She buried her head in her hands. “I was afraid he’d think I was some kind of pervert stroking his pajamas, so I took them.”

Her friend pursed his lips. “You run this entire hotel, and that was the best plan you could come up with?”

Cindy lifted her head. “It sounded good at the time!”

He took the wrinkled pants by the waistband, then peered closer at the stain, tisk-tisking. “I hate to tell you this, Cindy, but your chances of getting blood out of nonwashable silk are zippo.”

She moaned. “Now what?”

“Beckwith’s,” Manny declared, scrutinizing the label. “It’s a men’s boutique in Pacific Heights that carries this brand.”

Cindy brightened. “Really?”

“Yeah. The man has expensive taste.”

She reached for her purse. “Manny, I don’t suppose you would—”

“Run to Beckwith’s and see if they have a duplicate?”

Steepling her hands, she said, “I’m officially begging you.”

Manny pressed his lips together and adopted a dreamy expression. “Well, I have a few errands to run first, but there is this tie in their window I’ve had my eye on.”

“It’s yours!” she exclaimed, handing over her gold credit card. “But I need those pajama pants before dinner.”

“Now there’s a sentence you don’t hear every day.”

“And—” she lifted a finger in warning. “Not a word of this outside these walls.”

His mouth twitched. “Didn’t you know that concierge is French for ‘keeper of dirty little secrets’?” He stuffed the pants into the toiletry bag, along with the curling iron. “By the way, Amy said to stop by the front desk—she might have a line on our undercover Mr. Stanton.”

Cindy perked up. “No kidding?”

“She wouldn’t tell me a thing. She said she’d only talk to you.”

They rode the elevator to the lobby together, then separated after Manny promised to page her as soon as he returned “with the goods.” Cindy started feeling shaky again as she approached the front desk—she’d hoped that at least the tree would be installed and all the holiday decorations completed before Stanton arrived.

Amy stood with her head back, placing drops in her eyes.

“Allergies?” Cindy asked.

Blinking rapidly, Amy nodded toward the wall behind her. “I think it’s the evergreen wreaths.”

“Christmas is a lousy time of the year to be allergic to evergreen,” Cindy noted.

“It’s almost as bad as Valentine’s Day.”

“Are you allergic to chocolate, too?”

The rooms director frowned. “No, penicillin.”

Cindy squinted. “How does penicillin—never mind.” She leaned close and lowered her voice. “Manny said you might have spotted Stanton posing as a guest?”

“I think so,” Amy reached into her jacket pocket and withdrew a slip of paper. “Here’s his room number—you might want to check it out yourself.”

After reading the scribbling, Cindy gasped. “I spoke to this man about a room change this morning. Why do you suspect he’s Stanton?”

Amy sniffed, then dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “Besides the name similarity and the fact that he’s alone, he’s been all over the hotel asking questions about the furniture and making notes. Plus,” she lowered her voice, “he’s booked in his room through Christmas Eve and instead of using a credit card, he paid cash for his room deposit.”

Cindy nodded, the implications of the man’s identity spinning in her head. “Sounds like he could be our man. I think I’ll drop by his room again to say hello.”

“Um, boss.” Amy leaned over the counter and glanced at Cindy’s sensible navy skirt. “If you’re going to pay him a visit, show some leg, would you?”

Her mouth fell open. “Amy! Do you honestly think I’d resort to feminine wiles to influence the man’s decision?”

Amy looked at her for a full minute.

Cindy sighed, looked around, then opened her jacket to roll down the waistband of her skirt. “How much leg?”

CINDY SMILED BRIGHTLY as the door swung open to reveal the man still dressed in slacks, shirt and loosened tie. “Hello again, Mr. Stark.”