He nodded.
“Until that time,” she continued, “I’m sure you will extend every courtesy to Mr. Stanton as he directs the review.” She herself had certainly gone above and beyond the call of duty. Cindy picked up her clipboard to signal a welcome end to the meeting. “That’s all I have. If you haven’t met Mr. Stanton, please introduce yourself before you leave.”
Cindy walked around to the other side of the table to avoid Eric and glanced at her watch.
“Ms. Warren.”
At the sound of his voice, she stopped. And so did everyone else. Cindy turned back to find Eric flanked by a few of her employees, apprehension clear on their faces. “Yes?”
On dark eyebrow raised slightly. “You said we could have a word after the meeting.”
Damn. “I’ll be in the lobby near the Christmas tree.” She made a hasty exit without waiting for his response.
Amy trotted up next to her on the way down the hall. “I’m sorry, boss.”
Cindy frowned. “Why are you sorry?”
“If I hadn’t pinpointed Mr. Stark as the corporate spy, you might have suspected Eric before you—” She broke off abruptly.
Cindy sucked in a breath. As far as she knew, only Manny was aware that Eric had spent the night in her bed, and she planned to keep it that way. “Before I what?”
“Before you asked him to the party,” Amy finished, looking sorrowful. “Don’t blame yourself, Cindy. He used you to get close to us.”
Her friends scrambled to assure her they didn’t blame her. When they arrived at the lobby, Amy slipped away. Joel started to make his escape too, but one of his two beepers sounded.
He pushed a button and lifted the radio to his mouth. “Joel here, what’s up?”
Manny’s voice crackled over the tiny speaker. “Trouble at the Christmas tree—you’d better get here quick. And bring Cindy.”
Cindy strode toward the front entrance with Joel right behind her. Her steps faltered as they rounded the corner. “What the—?”
Black. The blue spruce was dressed in black from top to bottom. Black ribbons, black ornaments, even a black star on top. Horrified, Cindy could only stare. Guests passed by and winced.
Joel gasped. “Who ever heard of black Christmas decorations?”
“Get the decorators back here,” she ordered, then pointed to a knot of people gathering on the sidewalk, some with signs. “And security. Looks like we’ve got a picket forming. We just may have offended every religious group in the city.”
“Oh, Stanton will love this,” Joel muttered.
“I’ll cut him off and take him out the side entrance,” she offered, handing him her clipboard.
“You’re a trooper,” Joel said, clapping her on the back.
“I’m an idiot,” she mumbled as she clambered back to the elevator to wait for the man she never wanted to see again. As she lingered, Cindy evaluated her situation and concluded she was definitely up the creek without a paddle. But she didn’t have long to berate herself. Eric stepped off the elevator and nearly smiled when he saw her. Gloating, no doubt. She swallowed the pride she had left—less than a mouthful—and offered him a flat smile. “Have you eaten breakfast?”
His forehead wrinkled slightly, then cleared. “No.”
“I thought we could walk to a diner to have that word in private.”
He pursed his lips, evoking thoughts of her mouth on his. Cindy shook off the memories, thinking tomorrow would be easier since she wouldn’t be reminded of their lapse every time her sore muscles moved. “Fine,” he said, sweeping his arm toward the front entrance.
“Um, the side exit is closer,” she said, moving in the opposite direction.
“HAM, HASH BROWNS, two biscuits, gravy and a side order of grits.” Cindy handed the menu to the waitress with a nod. “I’m starved.”
Amused, Eric tugged on his ear—he couldn’t deny they had worked up an appetite. “I’ll have the same.”
When the waitress left, he lifted his coffee cup. Where to start? He wished he knew what she was thinking, but she’d barely spoken a word to him during the stroll to the restaurant, despite his best attempt at small talk. She looked so fetching in her little green hat and scholarly glasses, Eric wished he could strip away the murky circumstances and carry her back to her disheveled bed. He splashed coffee over the edge of his cup. “Cindy, we obviously need to talk.”
“Me first,” she said, unsmiling, then cleared her throat. “Mr. Stanton—”
“I’m Eric, remember?”
She gripped her coffee cup with those wonderfully familiar hands. “Maybe,” she said evenly, “but you are not the person I thought you were.”
His set his jaw, and nodded in concession.
“Mr. Stanton,” she began again, her voice stronger. “Let me start by saying that I’m not in the habit of…of fraternizing with male guests. In fact—” she dropped her gaze “—last night was the first such incident.” She returned her gaze and lifted her chin before she continued. “I have no excuse for my behavior, but I sincerely hope you won’t hold my regrettable lapse in judgment against my staff.”
Eric pursed his mouth. Regrettable?
“That’s why,” she said, pressing on, “if you feel obligated to report this incident to headquarters, I’m asking you—” she hesitated, then wet her lips “—no, I’m imploring you to wait until the review of the hotel has been completed. If I’m removed as GM now, employee morale will suffer and the profit margins on holiday events might be compromised. I want the Chandelier House to present as healthy a bottom line as possible.”
His respect for her ratcheted up yet another notch. “Ms. Warren, I have no intention of bringing this, um, awkward situation to the attention of anyone at Harmon, although it had crossed my mind that you might be the one filing a report.”
Her forehead wrinkled. “Me?”
“Yes. Especially if you thought I might threaten to divulge or withhold certain details about the operation of the hotel unless you, er, you know.”
“Slept with you again?”
He nodded.
“Would you?”
For the first time he wished he was more of a people person, more intuitive, because her greenish eyes were clouded with emotions he longed to decipher. “No,” he said quietly. “I’d never blackmail my way into your bed.”
Her mouth twitched, but she remained silent.
“Which brings me to why I wanted to talk to you,” he continued. “I’m sorry I misled you into thinking I was someone else. For the sake of discretion when I’m undercover, I’m usually vague with personal details, but I don’t deliberately try to deceive people I’ll be working with, especially not the general manager. I truly thought I had already blown my cover.” He sighed. “And I’ve never indulged in this kind of liaison before either.”
She studied her hands, then lifted her gaze. “I owe you an apology for accusing you of tricking me. In hindsight, I jumped to wrong conclusions based on that vague information.”
“I’m sorry you’re embarrassed—”
“Please,” she cut in. “Let’s stick to how this situation will affect your handling of my hotel and staff.”
“Okay,” he agreed, having slammed into the personal brick wall she’d erected. “I have two propositions—” He stopped and laughed uncomfortably. Cindy didn’t even blink. “Um, make that two solutions I want to put on the table.”
She nodded, unsmiling.
“First, I can remove myself from this project entirely—”
“I like that one.”
Eric sighed with resignation. He couldn’t blame her for being angry, but he didn’t want her to make a decision that might adversely impact the hotel. “Except, I have a sneaking suspicion that if the review is delayed, some executive at Harmon looking for a promotion is going to ax the Chandelier House without a fair shake.”
“Why?” she asked, spreading her hands. “We’ve maintained a healthy margin, no thanks to Harmon. They’re
pocketing our earnings and doling out nickels and dimes for expansion and repair.”
“The hotel is bad for their image,” he said bluntly. “You’re familiar with Harmon’s strategy to cater to the corporate traveler—your guest demographics are way off the chart.”
“So let them sell us,” she said, pounding her fist on the table. “We’d be better off in the hands of someone else.”
“Cindy,” he said, resisting the urge to cover her hand. “It’s not that simple. If Harmon puts your hotel on the block, they’ll do it piece by piece—first the antique furniture, then the fixtures, then the building itself. And chances are, the building could be bought for the land alone and the structure bulldozed.”
She inhaled, then exhaled noisily. “And the alternative?”
“I stay on the project and if the books are as healthy as you say, I could at least present Harmon with a fair business case for keeping the hotel. A positive review won’t keep them from selling, but it will at least make a divestiture more difficult to justify.”
“That’s it?”
He locked his gaze with hers and spoke sincerely. “I can’t make any promises.”
A scoff escaped her lips. “You mean my best hope for saving the hotel is for you to stay and perform the review?”
“In my opinion, yes.”
“And what if you screw me?” One corner of her mouth lifted, but her eyes remained flat. “Again?”
Eric squirmed, knowing he’d put them both in an ethical position more awkward than any position they’d conjured up in her bed last night. “Cindy, I’m not in the business of wrecking people’s lives.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard.”
The remark hit him like a sucker punch, but he didn’t flinch. “You’ll have to trust me on this one.”
Her mouth tightened. “It looks as though I have no other choice, Mr. Stanton.” She pushed herself to her feet, her face pinched and pale. “I guess I won’t stay for breakfast. I lost my appetite. And since I’m going to be forced to see you for the next few days, Mr. Stanton, I think I’ll take this opportunity to avoid your company.”
“Cindy—” he said, half standing and putting his hand on her arm.
She pivoted her head to stare at his hand, which he removed after a few seconds of silence. Cindy slung her purse over her shoulder, then walked away.
CINDY DIALED THE NUMBER twice, hanging up both times before the phone could ring on the other end. With a heavy sigh, she leaned her head back on the comfy chair and stared at her bed. With no effort, she could picture Eric lying nude amidst the covers, his rakish smile beckoning her. She closed her eyes, allowing herself the sinful pleasure of reliving the more vivid sensations of their lovemaking before the inevitable, crushing return of humiliation and self-reproach roused her from her daydream.
Resigned, she picked up the phone and redialed the number, almost hoping no one would answer. But when her mother’s voice came over the line, Cindy acknowledged a decidedly juvenile sense of comfort she hoped she’d never outgrow.
“Mom? Hi, how’s everything—hmm? Oh, the party was fine—what? Well, the date didn’t turn out exactly—no, Mom, he didn’t take advantage of me, in fact—huh? No, I doubt if we’ll be going out again—the Donna Karan. Yes, the black one. My hair? Well, I’ve been doing some experimenting—oh, no, I like it. Hmm? A little shorter—no, it’s not ruined. Everyone around here is talking about it. So how’s everything—Eric…Eric Quinn. Right, with a Q. No Quinns in Manassas? Well, it’s a big place—Mom, it doesn’t matter because he was only—what? Ham will be fine. No, Mom, Manny is not Jewish. No, you don’t have to buy him a gift—size large will be fine, I think. Right. I just called to say hello—yes, Christmas Eve. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. My love to Dad…Love you, too. Okay…Okay, bye-bye…Okay, bye-bye.”
Cindy replaced the phone and shook her head, then smiled warmly, her spirit on the mend.
10
“I’M SORRY, MR. STANTON,” the jeweler said, shaking his head. “I can’t fix it, and there’s no way I can find a replacement.”
Eric’s shoulders drooped. “When I left it here two days ago, the woman said it would be no problem.”
“Again, I’m sorry, but my wife didn’t realize, and neither did I at first, that this earring isn’t glass—it’s vintage crystal.”
Irritated, Eric scrubbed his hand over his face. Cindy hadn’t exactly warmed up to him in the last couple of days, and he was hoping the gift would help repair their strained relationship. Like the piano you gave your father? He squashed the unsettling thought.
The jeweler turned the pieces over in his hand, his expression regretful. “Beautiful piece—looks like it might have come from a chandelier.”
He stopped and squinted at the man. “A chandelier, did you say?”
“Uh-huh. Now that would be some piece, a chandelier made from this caliber glass.”
Eric poked his tongue in his cheek, his mind spinning with possible scenarios. After securing the broken pieces in his pocket, Eric left the shop and found a pay phone. He punched in a number slowly, feeling a stab of longing when a familiar voice came over the line.
“Pop? It’s Eric.”
“I know that,” his father snapped. “I only got one son, you know.”
Eric bit his tongue, then asked, “How are you doing?”
“Bored to damned death—not that you care.”
“Pop, that’s not true—”
“I got your postcard from San Francisco. You out there hacking up another company?”
“No,” he answered patiently. “Dad, did you get a chance to check out the chandelier on the postcard?”
“Sure—recognized it right away. It’s a French design—A Merveille.”
“A merveille,” Eric murmured. “‘To perfection.’”
“Right. I did a little research. This particular model was custom-made in the twenties—the three originals took months to make. It was copied in lesser materials quite a bit in the forties and fifties. And the chandelier on the postcard appears to be a good copy, except for a missing piece, probably broken.”
Eric’s pulse picked up. “Tell me about the missing piece, Dad.”
“The original had a small spiral of crystals hanging from the center.”
From which at least one pair of earrings had been fashioned? “Do you have any idea what the original might be worth?”
“I wrote it down—one point three million.”
Eric clutched the edge of the phone booth. “Really.”
“Uh-huh. But the copies are only worth between twenty and thirty thousand. Not chump change, but not enough to retire on. Why the sudden interest in a light fixture?”
“Just trying to estimate a book value,” Eric lied, to gain time. “Dad, I need a picture of the original chandelier.”
“Christmas is only a few days away. Can’t you get the book then?”
Eric pinched the bridge of his nose. “Actually, I need that photo right away, and I, um…I’m not going to make it home for Christmas this year.”
There was a brief pause on the other end. “Why not?”
Because I don’t want to argue with you the entire visit and hear about how much money I wasted on that damned piano. “Something came up at work.”
“Okay by me, but Alicia and the kids will be disappointed.”
“I’ll call her and try to plan a visit after New Year’s.” He sighed. “Will you send the book?”
“Sure. What’s the address?”
Eric pulled out Cindy’s business card and read the hotel address to his father, thinking it sad that two of the people he cared about most would just as soon not be around him. Then he stopped. Cared about most?
CINDY HELD HER HEAD BACK, looking straight up at the tree. “I think you’re right,” she said to Manny. “Those veil-decorations are definitely melting.”
Her friend scoffed. “A Middle Eastern theme—aren’t those addle-headed decorators aware that most people in the Middl
e East don’t celebrate Christmas? In fact,” he said flatly, “maybe I’ll move there.”
“Oh, don’t be such a Scrooge,” she said lightly. “We’ve managed to have a decorated tree for—what? Four whole days now. Have Amy call the decorators and tell them to take off everything but the lights—that way it’ll still be festive when the rest of the review team arrives today.”
“You’re nothing if not optimistic,” her friend noted. “Speaking of the review team, I haven’t seen Stanton lurking around today. Wonder where he slept last night?”
She offered a rueful smile. “As long as it wasn’t with me, I couldn’t care less.”
“Just checking,” he said, his low voice rich with innuendo.
“What’s that supposed to mean? I’ve gone out of my way to avoid that man these last few days.” She’d even resisted the urge to hand-deliver the shirt she’d bought to replace the one she’d burned.
His pale eyebrows shot up. “My point exactly.”
“I don’t want anyone thinking I’m…I’m, you know.”
“Still infatuated with him?”
Her jaw dropped, then closed. “Not still…not ever!”
“That’s what I meant,” he said smoothly.
“Well—” Flustered, she scrambled for words. “I take issue with the term ‘infatuated.’” Her arm flailed of its own volition. “Being infatuated implies the existence of…some type of emotional involvement, of…of some kind of personal attachment. Anything between me and Stanton was purely physical.”
“Just a one-night stand,” Manny said, nodding.
A frown pulled down the corners of her mouth. “Right.”
He smiled and exhaled noisily. “What a relief to hear you say that. I can’t imagine a worse match than you and Eric Stanton.”
“Right.” She worried the inside of her cheek with her tongue. “What makes you say that?”
12 Stocking Stuffers Page 63