“You and your sister don’t get along either?” Instead of judgmental, Jerry sounded only curious.
“No, that’s not it. Alicia is quite a bit younger than I am, and she has her own family.”
The barber looked sympathetic. “Still, kinfolk should stick together, especially at this time of year.”
Eric shifted on the stool, struck by a pang of longing for Christmases of his childhood. Popcorn garlands on a live tree, homemade cream candy and his father playing the piano. But Gomas Stanton had grown taciturn after his wife died, until finally Eric couldn’t bear to spend holidays at home, God help him.
If this holiday turned out like the last few, Eric would call his father on Christmas Eve, only to be subjected to a diatribe about how Eric’s work contributed to the fall of American capitalism. A master glassblower who had worked in a union factory for thirty-three years, his father believed a man’s contribution to the world came from a hard day’s work to produce a tangible good, something that could be bought and sold and owned. Eric’s chosen field, business consulting, was a mystery to him. “People like you are doing away with mom-and-pop enterprises—the kind of businesses and people who built this country,” his father had once said. And then there was the music, always the music.
The more Eric thought about it, the better Christmas right here on the West Coast sounded. Especially if he could manage to maintain an amicable relation with one Cindy Warren. Some GMs stayed close to their hotels for Christmas. Perhaps they could ring in the New Year together. He smiled wryly. If the accident-prone woman lived that long.
“Course, you’ll feel different about Christmas when you settle down with a lady,” Jerry pressed on, blowing a slow stream of smoke straight up in the air. “Love’s got a way of makin’ holidays special, yessir.”
Eric laughed. “There’s no danger of me falling in love, my man, Christmas or no.”
The man squinted at him. “Famous last words. I saw you two this morning, bouncing off each other like a couple of magnets turned the wrong way. I’m old, but I ain’t blind.”
Shaking his head, Eric set his glass on the counter and pushed away from the bar. “You’re imagining things, Jer.” He stood and gave the man a curt nod. “But thanks for the company anyway.”
“You’d better watch your step around her,” Jerry warned without looking up.
“Don’t worry,” Eric said dryly. “I’m not going to give Tony a reason to violate parole.”
Jerry laughed. “Mr. Quinn, don’t you know a pretty woman is ten times more dangerous than a hardened criminal?” He took a last puff on his cigar, then set it down with finality. “You’re a goner, son. Merry Christmas.”
3
“SO, WHO’S THE LUCKY GUY?” Manny asked as he rolled a section of Cindy’s hair with a fat curling iron.
Concentrating on his technique for later reference, she glanced at him in the mirror of her dressing table. “Lucky guy?”
“Amy told me you had a hot date for the party tomorrow night—who is he?”
“Is nothing sacred in this hotel?”
“I think we still have a bottle of holy water from a baptismal lying around somewhere.”
She sighed. “I don’t have a date…yet.”
“I can make a few calls.”
“He has to be straight.”
Indignant, Manny scoffed. “I know some straight guys—two, in fact.” Then he frowned. “Oh, but they’re married, and one is Joel.”
Cindy sniffed. “I smell smoke.”
Manny jumped and released the lock of hair, which fell limply back in place, perhaps straighter than before. “No harm done,” he assured her, then clucked. “Your hair is thin.”
“Thanks.” She lifted her bandaged hand. “Would you like to pour alcohol on my cuts, too?”
“What the heck did you do to your hand, anyway?”
Cindy hesitated. “I’ll tell you later. Maybe. Fix my hair—and hurry.”
“The hairdresser should have known better than to give you all these layers,” he grumbled.
“I told her to.”
“Then she should have exercised her right to a professional veto.”
“Maybe you should be our new stylist.”
“Cindy, contrary to popular belief, all gay men cannot cut hair and we don’t have track lighting in our refrigerators.”
“So tell me again why I’m submitting to your ministrations.”
Manny shrugged. “I’m simply trying to make the best of this tragedy.” He released another dark lock of hair that stubbornly refused to curl. “But I’m failing miserably—your hair won’t even bend.”
“Never mind.” She groaned and held up her hands in defeat. “I’ll borrow a nun’s habit.”
“You jest, but I think there’s one in the lost and found.”
“What am I going to do? My mother will have a stroke when I go home for Christmas.”
He scoffed. “You’ll be there for what—three days? You’ll live and so will she.”
“I’m glad you’re coming home with me,” Cindy said earnestly. “She’ll believe you if you tell her my haircut is in style.”
“Oh, no. I’m going home with you for baked ham and pecan pie, not to play referee for Joan and Christina Crawford.”
“We’re not that bad,” she retorted, laughing. “Just the normal mother-daughter, tug-of-war relationship. She’ll think you and I are sleeping together, you know.”
His forehead wrinkled. “Is that a compliment?”
“Yes!” She punched him. “And thanks in advance for saving me from the usual harangue about settling down.”
“So, what’s up with that?” he asked, fluffing and spraying her hair.
“My mother?”
“No—you not settling down. Got a bad suit in the old relationship closet?”
Cindy gnawed on the inside of her cheek for a few seconds, pondering the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. “I can’t recall any particularly traumatic experiences. On the other hand, I can’t recall any particularly noteworthy ones either.” She shrugged. “I’ve never met a man who appreciates the more unusual things in life. You know, a guy who uses words like ‘happenstance’ and ‘supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.’”
Manny stared.
“Okay, maybe I’m expecting too much.”
But he merely shook his head, tucked her hair behind her ears, and studied the effect. “Nope. Don’t settle, because if you’re like most of my friends—male and female—falling in love will be an agonizing event with a man who represents everything you hate.”
She laughed. “Don’t hold back.”
“I’m serious. Oh, yeah, now they’re giddy with newly-weditis, but right here is the shoulder most of them cried on during the courtship.” He tapped his collarbone. “And frankly, I’m not sure it was worth the trouble.”
Cindy held up one hand. “You’re preaching to the choir. But I am in desperate need of a day off, so I’ve got to find a date for the party even if I have to hire a man.”
He nodded. “Now that’s the ticket—retail romance.” Exhaling noisily, he shook his head at her reflection. “Sorry, Cindy, that’s the best I can do. I must say, though, without all that hair, your eyes really come alive.”
She stared at the bottom layers hanging limply around her shoulders, the top layers hugging her ears. “Thanks, but I simply can’t go around looking like this.” Cindy told herself she was not trying to look good in case she bumped into the man from room 1010 again.
“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.”
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?”
12 Stocking Stuffers Page 53