“Near enough,” she muttered, turning off the engine and the lights, leaving the keys where they were. If someone wanted to steal the car they were welcome to it. After tonight she might never drive again.
Except that her hands weren’t shaking, and she no longer had that sick feeling of panic deep inside her belly. It was almost a sense of elation.
She was afraid she might get lost in the snow—on foot the visibility was even worse, the snow lashing at her eyes in the inky darkness. Her sense of time, of direction, was shot to hell. What usually took her five minutes to drive had taken her close to forty-five minutes. Her house wasn’t far from the main road, but with her luck she’d stumble right past it and into the lake.
She hadn’t left any lights on, not even her Christmas tree, but the faint glow was unmistakable. She knew what it was, and that it would lead her safely back home, and she no longer even thought to question it. When she stumbled in her front door the Christmas candle sat in the darkness, its warm glow filling the space.
If she had even half a brain at all she’d strip off her frozen clothes, build up the stove and get into bed. But she hadn’t risked life and limb out on the roads because she had sense, or because she wanted to sleep alone. She picked up the candle and started back out into the stormy night.
The snow should have dowsed the flame. The wind should have blown it out. But it stayed, straight and true, leading her through the snow-filled woods to Brody Jackson.
The house was dark as she climbed up onto the front deck. He hadn’t shoveled since the latest storm had begun, and she had a sudden awful feeling. He hadn’t said he was going to be there for Christmas, had he? And she’d pretty much told him she didn’t trust him and never would. Why would she think he’d be there that night?
It was too late now. The candle had led her there, through the storm, and this was where she was meant to be.
She pushed the door open, and the wind blew drifts of snow onto the floor. She shoved it shut behind her, then turned to look at the room.
He was lying in the bed by the woodstove, sound asleep. The covers were at his waist, exposing the long, beautiful back that she still remembered.
It would have helped if he’d woken up, said something, but he slept on, the rat. She set the candle down on the table. The only other light in the room came from the small white lights on the Christmas tree he’d brought in. There were no ornaments on it, but it was surprisingly beautiful.
She was soaking, weighted down with melting snow, and she’d come this far. And only good things can happen on Christmas Eve, right?
She pulled off her jacket and boots and left them by the woodstove. Her jeans were soaked halfway up her thighs, and they were cold, clammy and uncomfortable, when she took them off. She was shivering, but she stripped off her turtleneck and her sweater, too.
Colder still. She needed covers and a warm body. She peeled off her wool socks, but at the last minute couldn’t bring herself to remove her bra and panties. She tiptoed over to the bed, but he slept on. She picked up the covers and slid underneath them, close to him but not quite touching, holding her breath to see if he’d wake up.
He needed a shave. His long hair fell over his face, his mouth had a stubborn, sexy look even in sleep, and she put her head down on the pillow, feeling suddenly, unaccountably peaceful. She should be nervous, climbing into bed with a man when she wasn’t sure she was welcome, but she felt very calm. Safe. Home.
“It took you long enough.” He didn’t open his eyes, but reached out his arm and pulled her up against his warm, muscled body. “Your feet are cold.”
“Everything about me is cold,” she said with a little shiver.
“Not for long.”
It wasn’t perfect. Sex wasn’t meant to be perfect, graceful, elegant. But it was gloriously right. His hands knew just how to touch her, how hard, how gentle, how long. He did things with his mouth that she hadn’t even imagined, and when he pushed inside her she climaxed immediately, unable to help herself.
He held her tightly as the spasms racked her body, an unending shimmer of delight, and when they finally slowed he whispered in her ear, “Hey, I’m not that good.”
She cupped his face with her hands and smiled up at him dizzily. “But I am,” she said with a mischievous smile. And she wrapped her legs around him, pulling him in deeper.
The night was too short, yet endless. They made love, slept, made love again, ate Christmas cookies and drank eggnog, then made love once more, and the light from the Christmas candle spread a soft, magical glow around the cavernous room.
When she awoke it was near daylight and she was sprawled across his body in a haze of total well-being. She could tell by the change in his breathing that he was awake, too, and when he spoke she lifted her head to see him.
“What the hell is this?” he said, holding up her discarded underwear. “Are there Christmas trees on your bra?”
She smiled at him. “Of course.”
He groaned. “Oh, God. You’re going to make me wear Christmas boxers next year, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely.” She put her head back down on his warm chest, closing her eyes as he stroked her shoulder. The early light of dawn had filled the room with a warm glow, almost like the candle. And then she opened her eyes, to see if it was still burning.
It was gone. The candleholder was still there, but the candle had burned to nothingness, not even a trace of wax left behind. Only the faint scent of cinnamon and cranberry lingered to remind her.
She closed her eyes again, letting out a deep, satisfied smile. “Merry Christmas, Brody,” she whispered.
He put his hand under her chin, tilting her face up to his. “Merry Christmas, Angel,” he said. “And a happy new life.”
Naughty or Nice?
By Stephanie Bond
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
1
THE STYLIST HELD A HANDFUL of dark hair high above Cindy Warren’s head, the scissors poised only inches from her scalp. “Are you sure you want to do this, ma’am?”
Cindy bit her lower lip, wavering. Long hair was easy, uncomplicated. And a security blanket, her mind whispered.
Standing behind another salon chair a few feet away, Jerry cleared his throat meaningfully and pushed the fuzzy Santa hat he wore back on his bald head. An institution at the Chandelier House hotel, the elderly black barber gave trims to male guests, but declined to use his artistry on female heads. His implied subtle comment nettled her. Whose hair was it, anyway?
She looked up once again to the length of hair, then to the woman’s name tag. “Tell me, Bea, how long have you been working in our salon?”
“Counting today? Hmmmm. Three—no, four days. I graduated from beauty school two weeks ago, ma’am.”
Cindy digested the information as Jerry spun his seated customer around to face the action. “Well, I’m due for a change,” she murmured, to no one in particular, sitting erect with new resolve. “Long, straight hair is ridiculous at my age. I need to either have it cut, or become a country music singer.”
Jerry gave her a pointed stare. “Hum a few bars.”
“What’s wrong with long, straight hair?” Jerry’s customer asked.
Cindy’s gaze darted to the man’s reflection and her breath caught in appreciation
of his appallingly good looks. “Excuse me?” she squeaked, then warmed with embarrassment.
The visitor, a striking man with pale blue eyes and a prominent nose, sat tall in the chair, his long, trousered legs extending far below the gray cape Jerry had draped over his torso. His dark curly hair lay damp and close to his head, compliments of Jerry, and a mirror trimmed with glittery gold tinsel reflected his crooked smile. “I said, what’s wrong with long, straight hair?”
Squashing a zing of sexual awareness, Cindy bristled. “I-it makes me look like a coed.”
“Most women would be thrilled,” the man offered with a shrug.
“Well, not this woman,” Cindy said, growing increasingly annoyed with her unexpected—and unwanted—physical reaction to him.
Jerry leaned over the man’s shoulder and said in a conspiratorial voice, “She’s trying to impress someone.”
“Jerry,” Cindy warned, narrowing her eyes.
The customer nodded knowingly at Jerry in the mirror. “Figures. Man?”
“Oh, yeah,” Jerry drawled, pulling off the plastic cape to reveal the man’s crisp white collarless dress shirt and burgundy leather suspenders.
“Jerry, that’s enough!”
“Boyfriend?” the man asked Jerry.
“Nah,” the barber said sadly, shaking the cape. “Ms. Cindy doesn’t date much—works day and night.”
“Really? Day and night.” The man made a sympathetic sound. “Then who is she trying to impress?”
“Some corporate fellow,” Jerry said, whipping out a brush and whisking it over the man’s neck and broad shoulders.
“Jerry, I’ve never impressed anyone in my life!” Suddenly, she realized what she’d said. “I mean, I’ve never tried to impress anyone.”
The old barber ignored her. “Headquarters is sending a hatchet man next week to check us out, and to check out Ms. Cindy, too, I reckon.”
“Other than the obvious reason—” the man flicked his glance her way for a split second “—why would this fellow be checking out Ms. Cindy?”
“’Cause,” Jerry said, nodding toward their topic of discussion, “she runs this whole show.”
His customer looked impressed. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” Cindy said, looking daggers at Jerry. “That’s so.”
“Ma’am?” prompted a shaky Bea.
“Don’t do it.” The man leaned forward, resting his elbows on the padded arms of the chair.
With ballooning irritation, Cindy scoffed and waved off the stranger’s opinion. “If men had their way, every woman would have hair down to her knees.”
The man steepled his fingers and glanced up at Jerry. “I would have said ankles. How about you, Jer?”
“Amen.”
“Ma’am,” Bea pleaded, “my arms are about to give out.”
Cindy raised her chin. “Cut it. This will be my early Christmas present to myself.”
“Punishment for being naughty?” the man asked Jerry.
“Punishment for being nice,” Jerry amended.
Fuming, Cindy nodded curtly to the hesitant hairdresser. “Do it.”
“Don’t do it,” the man said, his voice rich with impending doom.
“Whack it off,” Cindy said more forcefully. “Layers all over. Make me a new woman.”
The handsome man’s eyes cut to Jerry. “Is there something wrong with the old woman?”
Jerry pursed his lips. “She’s a little impulsive.”
Cindy set her jaw. “Let’s get this over with.”
Bea swallowed audibly. “I’ll leave the back shoulder length, ma’am.” The woman closed her eyes.
Alarm suddenly gripped Cindy. “Wait!” she cried just as the shears made a slicing sound. Bea opened her eyes and stared.
The man winced, and Jerry grunted painfully when the hairdresser held up more than a foot of severed dark tresses. As the remnants fell back to her shoulders, Cindy tried to squash her own rising panic and painted on a shaky smile, encouraging the new stylist to continue.
Maybe, she thought, keeping her gaze down and dabbing at perspiration along her neck, this woman would stay longer than the seven days their previous hairdressers had averaged. Cindy had urged her staff members to give the salon their patronage, and felt compelled to take the lead. But twenty minutes later, when Bea stood back to absorb the full effect of her latest creation in the mirror, Cindy understood why none of her employees used the unproved stylists.
“Good Lord,” Jerry muttered, shaking his head.
The man whistled low. “Too bad.”
“You hate it, don’t you?” Bea asked Cindy, her face crumbling.
“N-no,” Cindy rushed to assure her. She lifted a hand, but couldn’t bring herself to touch the choppy, lank layers that hugged her head like a long knit cap. “It’ll just take some getting used to, that’s all.” She inhaled and smiled brightly.
“Think he’ll be impressed?” the man asked Jerry, doubt clear in his voice.
“If he can get past the hair,” Jerry said, nodding.
“Do you two mind?” Cindy snapped, feeling a flush scald her cheeks. She tugged the cape off her shoulders and stood, brushing the sleeves of her blouse. Jerry, she could overlook. But this, this…arrogant guest was tap-dancing on her holiday-frazzled nerves.
The infuriating man stood as well, and in her haste to leave, Cindy slipped on a pile of her own hair and skidded across the marble floor, flailing her arms and legs like a windup toy. He halted her imminent fall with one large hand, his fingers curving around her arm. Cindy jerked upright to stare into his dancing blue eyes, then pulled away from his grasp. “Th-thank you,” she murmured, her face burning.
“The haircut must have thrown off your balance,” he observed with a half smile.
Feeling like a complete idiot, Cindy retrieved her green uniform jacket and withdrew a generous tip for the distraught Bea, then strode toward the exit. Her skin tingled with humiliation and her scalp felt drafty, but she refused to crumble. She simply had too much on her mind to dwell on the embarrassing episode with the attractive stranger—the upcoming review, going home for Christmas and now her hair.
Cindy squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. No matter. After all, the unsettling man was simply passing through. And Manny would know what to do with her hair.
“OH, MY,” Manny said when she walked within earshot of the concierge desk. “Cindy, tell me that’s a wig.”
Cindy smiled weakly at her blond friend. “It’s a wig.”
“Liar,” he said smoothly, then emerged from behind his desk to touch her hair, a pained expression on his handsome face.
Hiring Manny Oliver as concierge over a year ago had been one of Cindy’s greatest achievements in her four years managing the Chandelier House. Next to most of the oddball staff members she had inherited, Manny was a breath of fresh air: good-looking, polite, helpful and witty. A true friend, and he could cook. Cindy sighed. Why were all the good ones gay?
“Don’t tell me,” he said, stroking her head as if she were a pet. “You’ve been to see Bea the Butcher.”
“You know about her?”
“I arranged a free dinner to console a lady she hacked yesterday.”
Cindy felt like crying. “Now you tell me.”
“You know I don’t bother you with details. What were you thinking to cut your beautiful hair?”
“I was trying to drum up confidence in the salon among the staff.”
“Now you’re a walking billboard, all right.”
She grimaced. “So can my hair be saved?”
He smiled. “Sure. There’s this great little hat shop down on Knob Hill—”
“Manny!”
“Shh, I get off at one. I’ll meet you in your suite,” he promised. “If you get there first, plug in your curling iron.”
Cindy frowned. “Curling iron?”
Manny pursed his lips and shook his head. “Never mind—I’ll bring the tools.”
She lowered
her voice and scanned the lobby. “So, have you seen anyone who looks like they might be undercover?”
He leaned forward and whispered, “Not a trench coat in sight.” When she smirked, he added, “What makes you think this Stanton fellow is going to come early to spy on us?”
“Because I would.”
“It would be nice if we knew what he looked like.”
“My guess is he’s in his fifties, probably white—although I can’t be sure—and walking funny because he’s got his shorts in a knot.” She leaned close. “And he might be in disguise. So be on the lookout for someone we’d least suspect to be on a corporate mission.”
At that moment, Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock look-alikes strolled by in full costume. Manny looked at Cindy. “Could you be more specific?”
“Okay,” she relented. “Spotting a spy will be difficult in this hotel, but keep your eyes peeled. I’ll see you at the staff meeting.”
She cruised by the front desk and smiled at the dozen or so smartly suited reservations handlers, not missing their alarmed glances at her hair. Engineering workers were hanging garland and wreaths on the wall behind the reservations desk and at least a hundred over-coiffed females—guests who’d attended a cosmetics convention—waited in lines fashioned by velvet ropes to check out. Cindy slipped in behind Amy, the rooms director, and asked, “How’s it going?”
“Fine,” the brunette answered, then lifted a hand to her forehead. “Except for a raging headache.”
Cindy tried to conjure up a bit of sympathy for the woman, but while Amy had proved to be very capable on the job, her tendency toward hypochondria remained legendary around the watercooler. “Must be the perfume,” she offered in her most soothing tone, nodding toward the aromatic crowd.
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