Stephanie Bond - Naughty or Nice?

Holding the same pad of paper as earlier, the graying man’s eyes swam behind wavy lenses. “Yes?”

“I’m Cindy Warren, the general manager. I spoke to you this morning about changing rooms?”

“Oh, right,” he said tartly. “I don’t want a better view now since I’m already settled in.”

“Fine,” she said quickly, deciding not to mention they had already booked the room she’d offered him earlier. “I wanted to express our regret once again, and let you know if there’s anything we can do to make your stay more enjoyable, don’t hesitate to contact me or someone on my staff.”

“A couple of free meals would be nice,” he said bluntly.

She cleared her throat mildly. “I’ve already arranged for a complimentary breakfast to be delivered in the morning, sir.”

He glanced over the top of his glasses. “More than coffee and a doughnut, I hope?”

She bit her tongue. “Yes, sir. Enjoy your stay.”

After the door closed behind her, none too gently, she backed away and frowned. If that sour man had their fate in his hands, they were all in trouble. Waiting for the elevator, she got an unwanted view of her hair in the mirrored doors and groaned. When she remembered her foolish bet with Joel, she groaned again. The doors opened and she stepped inside, lost in thought.

“Hello,” a deep voice said.

She glanced up to find Eric Quinn smiling at her. For a few seconds, she could only absorb his good looks. She noticed a high dimple on his left cheek she’d missed before. He had changed into gray sweatpants, a loose white T-shirt and athletic shoes. She prayed he hadn’t yet missed his jammies.

“Uh-oh,” he said. “Problems?”

“No,” she assured him hurriedly, then smiled. “Well, no more than usual.”

“No more injuries, I hope.”

Her cheeks warmed. “No, no more injuries.” She cleared her throat, searching for a new topic. “How is your stay so far, Mr. Quinn?”

“Productive,” he said smoothly, glancing at her shortened skirt, his gaze lingering on her legs before making eye contact again. “And I’m Eric.”

Oh, those eyes. Her fingers tingled slightly—the clipboard had probably severed a few nerves. She scrutinized the numbers panel, trying to remember where she’d been headed. “What’s your line of work…Eric?”

“Sales.”

“What kind of sales?” she asked, for the sake of conversation.

“Oh, trinkets and…things.”

She puzzled at his vagueness, then remembered the adult toy show the following week. “Are you here in preparation for the trade show next week?”

He shifted uneasily. “As a matter of fact, I am preparing for next week.”

Which explained the condom smorgasbord in his toiletry bag. She nodded and averted her gaze, hoping she hadn’t turned as pink as she felt. She was liberal, she was hip. She’d even gone to a men’s nude dancing club once with Manny. So why should the thought of this man selling dildos and fringed pasties unnerve her?

“Are you going to the basement, too?” he asked, nodding to the only lit button.

“Er, no,” she said, stabbing the button for the lobby. The door slid open almost immediately, and she practically fell out in her haste to flee.

Cindy didn’t look back as the doors closed, but was brought up short by a sudden yank to her neck. She stumbled backward and swung around, horrified at the sight of her scarf caught in the elevator door and being dragged down the shaft. She stood frozen as the bit of silk whipped off her neck with a swish and disappeared into the floor.

Thankful she hadn’t knotted the noose, Cindy closed her eyes and hit the palm of her hand against her forehead.

“Was it him?”

At the sound of Amy’s voice, Cindy turned to find her employee walking toward the elevator, scratching her arms.

“Rash,” Amy explained. “Do you think Stark is the man we’re looking for?”

Nodding, Cindy murmured, “Could be. He’s a bit contrary.”

The rooms director’s forehead creased. “Maybe he’s not a leg man.” Then she grinned. “Or maybe he’s a man’s man—perhaps we should have sent Manny.”

Cindy shook her head, smiling wryly. “Just let the staff know they need to be on their toes around our grumpy Mr. Stark.”

Amy snapped her fingers. “Why don’t you invite him to the Christmas party tomorrow night?”

She stared. “Are you insane?”

“Why not? Show him a good time.”

“Let him see the staff at their most drunken, uninhibited selves?”

“Oh.” Amy frowned. “You have a point, but you also need a date.”

“Well, it won’t be the man who has come to make mincemeat out of us,” she insisted. “Besides, I don’t mind playing nicey-nicey, but I certainly don’t want the staff thinking I’m kissing up to this man to save my own job.”

“You’re right,” Amy said, scratching at her neck. “I’d better get back to the desk.”

“See you later.” Sighing, Cindy jogged down the stairs to the basement in the unlikely event her scarf had escaped the moving parts of the shaft and had somehow floated out intact onto the floor. Nothing. Her mother’s gift was probably wrapped around some critical gear, damaging the working parts of the elevator even as she stood wringing her hands.

She glanced at her watch. Three o’clock—Manny should be back within the next hour. Then she’d easily be able to replace the pajamas while Eric Quinn worked out in the health club, a vision that conjured up a sweat on her own body. Cindy called engineering again about a Christmas tree, but the nursery had not yet located a candidate.

She dropped by the crowded Trekkie trade show and skimmed the many rows of tables to make sure the spring show’s bestseller, a stun gun capable of administering a dizzying shock, was nowhere to be found. The public swarmed over the trading card tables. Costumes and masks were also enjoying a brisk trade. All in all, the show had successfully attracted a sizable family crowd.

Cindy fast-forwarded to next week’s adult toy show. Picturing Eric Quinn surrounded by erotic paraphernalia was enough to convince her to skip that particular exhibition.

At seven o’clock, still without a word from Manny, Cindy decided to have dinner while she waited. She descended the service stairs to the restaurant and walked through the kitchen to say hello to the staff. After a few minutes of small talk with the chef, she chose a bad table near the rest rooms and slipped off her shoes. What a day.

“Surely you don’t intend to eat alone,” Eric Quinn said behind her.

She turned to see him seated at a table a few feet away, half hidden by a silk tree. Her pulse picked up. “I don’t mind.”

“It’s kind of silly for both of us to dine alone, don’t you think?” His voice was empty of innuendo. “May I join you, Ms. Warren?”

Say yes, she told herself. He was simply a nice sex-toy salesman, looking for light dinner conversation. Besides, this way she’d be able to keep track of him until Manny paged her. “Please.” He stood and carried his wineglass to her table, then gave her a tired little smile. She nodded toward the vacant chair across from her. “And call me Cindy.”

“All right, Cindy.” He had changed into casual brown slacks and a pale blue button-down. He settled into the chair with athletic grace, his movements triggering an awareness in her limbs.

“What do you recommend?” he asked.

A married girlfriend had once diagrammed a position she’d always wanted to try on a napkin. “The rib eye,” Cindy said, her heart thumping wildly. Not that she hadn’t had her chances with men.

He nodded. “Rib eye is what the concierge suggested.”

“You talked to Manny?” It was just that none of those guys she dated had particularly lit her fire.