His hands stopped. “Sex toys?”
She squirmed. “You make it sound so tawdry.”
“If the stiletto boot fits, wear it.”
“Well, somebody’s got to sell the stuff.”
He held up both hands. “Hey, I’m grateful, but that doesn’t mean I trust him with my best friend.”
She smiled and elbowed his thigh. “You’re just a big old softy.”
“Keep it to yourself, would you? I have an image to uphold.” He leaned down. “So do you think you could get me some free samples?”
“I have a box of stuff under the bed that Sam gave me to preview for the trade show—you’re welcome to sift through it.”
“I’m there.”
ERIC STEPPED THROUGH the door of Sammy’s and claimed a seat at the bar. A tent sign by an ashtray announced the bar would be closed to guests after eight to accommodate a private Christmas party. The piano bench was stacked high with decorations. He extracted a cigarette from his pocket, suddenly realizing he’d begun smoking about the time he’d become too busy to play the piano.
He ordered a Canadian beer from a glowering Tony and lit his cigarette, frowning after the first drag. He really needed to quit—the damn things didn’t even taste good anymore.
“Those things’ll kill you.” A middle-aged suited man with thick glasses slid onto a stool next to him and plopped a limp fedora on the bar. “Got an extra?”
Eric slid the pack of cigarettes toward him. “Help yourself.”
The man ordered a Scotch from Tony, then lit a cigarette. “Thanks. Reginald Stark.”
“Eric Quinn.”
“Glad to know you.” He glanced around, taking note of the group of Trekkies glued to the TV set in the corner. Frowning, he leaned close. “I think you and I are the only people in this hotel who aren’t in costume.”
Eric laughed. “I’m here strictly for business. You?”
Stark shrugged. “I’m an antique dealer, here on a shopping trip. I always stay in older hotels and keep my eyes open.” He took a drag on his cigarette and exhaled sloppily in Eric’s direction. “Sometimes I get lucky and stumble across things the hotel is ready to throw out or sell for next to nothing.”
“And have you found any good stuff here?”
“Nah,” the man said. “Oh, the furniture is great, but not what I’m looking for at the moment.” He laughed, a dry hacking sound. “This place is kind of pricey, but I’ve discovered that if you complain enough, you can usually get some freebies.”
Eric experienced a pang of sympathy for the staff who had to deal with people like Mr. Stark, day in and day out.
The irksome man expelled a cloud of smoke, glanced side to side, then murmured, “You got any money, Quinn?”
Eric reached for his wallet. “I can spot you a ten if you need to cover your tab.”
“No, man. I mean do you have any real money? I have an investment opportunity.”
Eric shook his head. “I’m not interested in the latest multilevel marketing scheme.”
Tobacco fumes hung thick around the graying man’s head. “It’s not like that. I happen to know where there’s a fortune in plain sight, waiting for someone to jump on it.”
What a con man. Eric put out his own cigarette.
“You don’t believe me? Okay, I’ll tell you because you look like a man of honor.” Stark glanced around surreptitiously again. “It’s the chandelier.”
Eric frowned. “The chandelier?”
“Yeah, that huge one in the lobby.”
“I remember,” he said. “What about it?”
“Worth a fortune, that’s what.” The man reached into his pocket and withdrew a ragged page torn from a book. “See for yourself.”
His curiosity piqued, Eric studied the page which featured an aged black-and-white photo of a chandelier, with a small amount of text beneath. “French lead crystal. This says that three chandeliers were produced, but only two are accounted for.”
Stark nodded, then pointed toward the lobby. “I think the third one is hanging right in plain sight.”
Dubious, Eric said, “The chandelier in this photo looks different.”
“From what I can tell, there’s a piece missing in the center, but the rest of it’s the same.”
“But this page says it’s worth over seven hundred thousand dollars.”
“That’s from an old book,” the man said, puffing on the cigarette. “Probably worth a cool million now.”
Eric’s heart rate picked up. “And you’re telling me that no one knows about this?”
“I don’t think so.”
Eric squinted, trying to remember the hotel’s balance sheet. To his recollection, the fixtures category hadn’t seemed inordinately large, but it was something to look into.
“The way I see it, if you’ve got, say, five hundred Gs, we can make the hotel an offer.”
He blinked. “If I have five hundred Gs?”
“Sure. I have a party interested in buying it, but I need up-front purchase money. I’ll split whatever we clear with you.”
The man was a total scam. Eric shook his head and handed back the dog-eared page. “Sorry, buddy. I’m not biting.”
Stark stuffed the paper into his pocket, then drained his drink. “Your loss, pal.” Slapping a bill on the bar, the man stood and snuffed out the cigarette. “Thanks for the smoke, anyway. See you around.”
Eric watched as the man left, wondering if he’d actually find someone dumb enough to give him five hundred thousand dollars. Still marveling over the man’s gall, he signaled Tony and was settling his own tab when the guy who’d given them the Christmas liqueur at the restaurant sauntered over, extending a hand. “Joel Cutter. We met last night. Quinn, isn’t it?”
Eric nodded and shook his hand. “No crises today?”
Cutter grinned. “The day’s not over yet. I hear you’re coming to the party with Cindy.”
Eric cut his gaze to Tony the bartender, who was frowning at the news. “Strictly as friends,” he assured them both, pushing aside the memory of their kiss. Thankfully, a ringing phone distracted Tony.
“Cindy’s a great gal,” Joel said warmly. “She certainly loves this place—to the point of neglecting her personal life, if you know what I mean.”
Eric nodded pleasantly, wondering if Joel was singing his boss’s praises because he knew Eric’s true identity. He hated second-guessing those around him, but speculating about ulterior motives was part of his job.
“Joel!” Tony hung up the phone and reached behind him to untie his waist apron. “Problem in the lobby—Cindy needs all available staff, pronto.”
“Is Stanton here?”
Joel’s question caused Eric to jerk his head involuntarily. So Cindy hadn’t yet told them who he was. And it sounded as though the staff expected his arrival to be traumatic.
“It’s not Stanton,” Tony said, bringing his stout, muscular body from behind the bar. “The Christmas tree just arrived, and the delivery men have it wedged in the front entrance.”
Joel glanced at Eric. “What did I tell you about the day not being over?”
Eric pushed away from the bar. “Think you’ll need an extra hand?”
“Come on.” Joel trotted toward the door. “If not, we can always use an eyewitness.”
6
CINDY MASSAGED THE ACHE at the base of her neck, not quite sure if the pain stemmed from the hairdresser’s brutal rolling job, her skinned-back ponytail, or the stress of seeing a twenty-five-foot Christmas tree wedged in the double-door entrance of the hotel.
Beneath the massive shimmering chandelier, chaos reigned in the lobby. Guests snapped pictures, some posing in front of the spectacle. Employees stood around with their hands in their pockets, gazing first at the giant blue spruce, then at her, expectantly.
The top half of the tree lay inside the lobby, the bottom half sprawled across the sidewalk plus one lane of the busy street in front of the hotel. Manny stood outside, his long a
rms waving wildly as he gave the delivery crew a tongue-lashing. Cindy had sent a woman from security out to direct traffic around the tree trunk—and to make sure Manny didn’t kill anyone.
“Ms. Warren, how am I supposed to leave this place?”
Cindy closed her eyes and groaned inwardly, then turned to face an impatient Mr. Stark. “I apologize for the inconvenience, sir. There is a side exit past the elevators.”
“I decided I’d better go out and buy a rat trap,” he said contrarily.
Thankfully, Cindy spotted Amy hovering in the background, a white filtering mask over her allergic nose and mouth. She signaled her rooms director who came forward with something less than a spring in her step. “Amy, please arrange for a complimentary cab to meet Mr. Stark at the side entrance and take him wherever he needs to go.”
The man’s bushy-browed frown lessened, but only slightly. Amy led him away, explaining that he might be part of a growing medical phenomenon known as Christmasitis—people who are grumpy around the holidays who, in fact, are experiencing physiological sensitivity to Christmas trees, angel-hair…
“What happened?”
Joel skidded to a halt beside Cindy, followed by Tony, Samantha in a yellow, caped uniform, and to her consternation, Eric. Oh, well, she wouldn’t want him to wait more than a few hours before seeing her in yet another jam. Cindy sighed. “The plastic netting around the tree split open when they had it halfway through the door, and now with the branches fully extended, they can’t budge the thing.”
Joel stared at her. “I meant what happened to your hair.”
Resisting the urge to pinch him, she snarled, “I had it done.”
Sam squinted. “It looks kind of…orangey.”
“It’s the glare of the fluorescent lights,” Cindy said through clenched teeth.
“Your head has a real nice shape,” Tony offered.
She smiled tightly. “Thanks, Tony.”
“Do you have a plan?” Eric asked, his expression amused.
“I was considering shaving my head and borrowing one of Sam’s costumes.”
“I was talking about the tree,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching.
“Oh. No.” She glanced around the group. “But the floor is officially open for suggestions.”
Her staff assumed identical blank expressions. Eric walked closer to the tree, stroking his jaw with his thumb. Hugging her clipboard, she followed him, self-consciously smoothing a hand over her wiry hair. “What do you think?”
After a few seconds, he gave her a half smile. “I’d call the maintenance department and see if they can remove the panels around the door to widen the opening.”
“Great idea,” she agreed. “I already called, and they can’t.”
His smile flattened. “Oh. Well, you could cut the tree in two and use just the top.”
“But then we’d be left with a mighty short Christmas tree for this mighty big lobby.”
He shrugged. “It’s just a tree. It’ll be up for what—three weeks. Then it will wind up being mulch in somebody’s yard.”
Cindy blinked at his unexpected Scrooginess, evidence of a definite chasm within his family. The sad realization made her own comments about dealing with her mother seem petty, triggering a stab of remorse. She made a mental note to call home later.
Her expression must have betrayed some of her thoughts, because Eric straightened and laughed softly. “Of course, that’s only my opinion.”
She wagged her finger as if he were a child. “You need a big dose of Christmas spirit.” Turning, she addressed Joel. “Round up every pair of gloves you can find. Sam, drag Manny in here, would you?”
“What are we going to do?” Tony asked.
Looking back to the tree, Cindy lifted her chin. “Let’s try to hold down the branches one by one and push it inside. Even if we break a few, we’ll still be better off than if we cut the tree in two.”
She slid a smile toward Eric and paused, mesmerized by his incredible ice-blue gaze. This man turned all her peaceful, orbiting atoms into crazed, overcharged ions. Cindy swallowed. Tomorrow she would write an apology note to her high school science teacher for saying she’d never use that stuff.
Joel returned with a bundle of work gloves and passed them around. The self-appointed team leader, Manny waved his arms for silence, then pulled on his gloves as precisely as a surgeon. “Okay, everybody, we can get through this if we work together. Remember to use your legs, not your back. I know you’ll feel like you want to push, but wait until I say.”
Many employees and several guests pitched in, stepping into the branches and grabbing hold. Eric positioned himself amongst the tangle of towering limbs opposite Cindy, by chance or design, she wasn’t sure. From her vantage point, she could see the lower part of his face, see him smile and his lips move as he spoke to a young man next to him. And in that instant, surrounded by cool air swirling in through the open doors, Cindy decided that Eric Quinn would be an easy man to fall for.
She quelled a little thrill of anticipation by wrapping her fingers around a sturdy branch the width of a soda can…not that she was looking for a phallic substitute. She sighed—might as well drop a note to her psychology teacher too.
Amy handed Manny an extra filter mask. He pulled it over his mouth, then squatted by the door, wrapping his hands around a branch. “Okay, take a deep breath and push on three. One…two…three!” With the nursery workers pushing from the outside and everyone else pushing from the inside, the tree inched through the doorway.
“Easy now,” Manny yelled. “Easy, don’t let her turn.”
Cindy kept her gaze averted from Eric as she threw her weight behind her section of trunk, but she was so aware of him she could scarcely concentrate. In less than six hours, she would be spending the evening on the arm of the sexiest man she’d met in ages. And he had a great sense of humor, good taste in clothes, a decent job.
Okay, maybe decent wasn’t the right word. Stable. After all, what could be more stable than a career in sex?
“One last push!” Manny yelled. “Here she comes!”
With a collective grunt, they shoved one more time and the tree whooshed through the door and into the lobby, sliding easily across the marble floor. Cheers and applause broke out, and relief washed over Cindy—the tree would be set up by the time cranky Mr. Stark-Stanton returned.
Laughing, Eric pulled off his gloves. “Why do I feel like passing out cigars?”
Cindy decided he really should laugh more often. Her heart danced a crazy little jig. Despite the uproar around them, she felt strangely secluded with this man who had affected her so in such an alarmingly short period of time. She seized on a neutral subject. “Speaking of which, how goes the decision to quit smoking?”
“I’m okay as long as I keep my hands busy,” he said with the barest smile.
Cindy swallowed. So much for neutral. Over his shoulder she noted the arrival of the two tree decorators. Feeling flirtatious, she lowered her voice. “What if I told you I had something to keep your hands and your mouth busy at the same time?”
He looked around them. “I’d say we’re in public.”
“Okay.” She shrugged. “The tree decorators are here, so I’d better get back to work.”
“Hey.” He laughed, grasping her arm as she halfheartedly started to leave. “All right, I’m curious.”
Cindy angled her head at him. “You also have a very dirty mind.” She reached into her pocket, pulled out a pack of Sweet Tarts, then handed it to him with a grin. “Ta-da! The quitting smoker’s secret weapon. Use it wisely, grasshopper.” Cindy sobered slightly, then said, “If our paths don’t cross again, I’ll see you tonight. Thanks for helping with the Christmas tree.”
He nodded slowly. “Thanks for the dose of Christmas spirit.”
Fingering the package of candy, Eric watched her cross the lobby and greet two men, obviously gay. They embraced Cindy, then touched her hair with concern. He smiled—she’d been
harboring a permanent under that towel this morning. Actually, he found the reddish highlights in her hair attractive. In fact, he couldn’t imagine anything she might do to herself that would diminish her beauty.
Eric maintained a calm exterior while his insides thrashed with sensory overload. He couldn’t rationalize the urge he felt to keep her within eyeshot—hell, he could barely acknowledge the urge, much less explain it. Away from Cindy, the arguments against spending time with her stacked up neatly, but in her proximity, those arguments tumbled with alarming ease.
Workers were building scaffolding and tying ropes up and down the massive trunk in preparation for hoisting the evergreen next to the magnificent staircase. Eric’s gaze traveled to the dazzling chandelier hanging high above everyone, thinking for the first time how much his father would appreciate the craftsmanship of the glass. Perhaps he would send him a postcard of the chandelier with a quick note to let him know his son was thinking about him. Mysteriously buoyant, Eric made his way back through the lobby.
THE REST OF CINDY’S AFTERNOON passed in a merciful blur. She spot-checked the installation of the towering spruce, then left the somewhat flaky decorators to their own devices after they promised her “a masterpiece” by morning.
She also arranged for Mr. Stark to enjoy a night out at the theater, gratis. At least the play would keep the man occupied while the employees drifted in and out of the Christmas party. She swung by Sammy’s to make sure preparations were under way. Joel waved to her from the other side of the room and gave her a thumbs-up. Jerry stood on a ladder where the piano used to sit, hanging an armful of lights.
Cindy walked over, struck by affection for the elderly man who always pitched in, in any area of the hotel. “Are you still mad at me?” she asked, looking up at him.
Without glancing down, he grunted. “It’s your head of hair to ruin, I reckon.”
She sighed. “Okay, okay, I should have left well enough alone. It’ll grow out.”
“No, it’ll fall out.”
“Maybe,” she conceded. “But I have it on good authority that my head has a nice shape.”
12 Stocking Stuffers Page 57