Unfortunately, the Chandelier House didn’t score well on Harmon’s predetermined checklist for the corporate direction. So, although he’d composed several pages about the viability of the property, the crux of his recommendation had to answer one question: Did the Chandelier House meet the profile of a future Harmon property?
Eric tossed down his pen and crossed his arms. The answer was obvious to the point of hilarity, but Cindy’s pleading green eyes kept getting in the way. In a weak moment, he considered the scenario of recommending that Harmon keep the property—his reputation would be compromised, they would think twice before retaining him again and they would likely go against his recommendation in any case. And even if Harmon did keep the hotel, they’d forever be pressuring Cindy and her staff to conform—or more likely, replace her with a more corporate-minded general manager.
He stroked his chin, frustrated because never before had he labored over the delivery of such a logical directive. The words he’d spoken to Cindy on the roof kept haunting him. If I could afford to, I’d buy this place for you. He couldn’t afford to, but he had the contacts to assemble investors who could, and possibly the clout with Harmon to convince them to sell the property intact instead of piece by piece. Resigned but considerably cheered, he typed up the report on his laptop. At least he’d be able to walk away from this assignment knowing he’d treated all parties fairly.
Fairly? What a joke. He’d bent over backward…for the sake of Cindy Warren.
But could he walk away? Definitely. He had no business diddling with the comely woman—if he needed proof, he had to look no further than the disconcerting report he’d just prepared. His team had left this morning, and tomorrow was Christmas Eve. He’d decided to fly to Atlanta and spend a few days looking for a condo. The Southeast was pleasant this time of year, and New Year’s in Atlanta was hard to beat.
And he was bound to find some Southern belle who could take his mind off Cindy Warren. She’d spent the night with him, then ignored him for days, then spilled the beans about the chandelier and begged him to keep a million-dollar secret. Then the next thing he knew, they were both half-naked on the roof and howling at the moon. Had she participated only out of hope he’d keep quiet about the chandelier? And after they’d been interrupted, she’d decided to play hard to get again. To keep him on a chain? Hot, then cold, then hot and cold again. Was that her game? If so, then…then…
Then it seemed to be working.
Gritting his teeth, he typed in a half page of text about the chandelier, then changed his mind and deleted it. Eric cursed and slumped back in his chair. He’d vowed never to let a woman get in the way of doing a good job, and he never had—until now. Falling for Cindy had scrambled his brain.
He jerked his head up. Falling?
Eric pounded his hand on the desk, then attacked the keyboard again, typing furiously. After a few minutes, he absently patted his pocket for his cigarettes, then remembered he couldn’t smoke in his room. Begrudgingly, he grabbed a package of Sweet Tarts and popped a couple, then resumed typing.
Falling for an eccentric, soft-hearted, nostalgic, crazy-haired woman who would have him in knots every day of his life? He hit the caps button, then typed N-O W-A-Y.
MANNY SQUINTED, tilting his head from side to side. “Your hair really looks wonderful. You should have cut it sooner.”
Cindy lifted a hand to her short, wavy, blessedly dark brown locks, then punched him in the arm. “Now you tell me!” She was happy to spend a few minutes clowning with her best friend—especially now, when her stomach churned over the impending meeting with Eric. Laughably, she was more nervous about facing Eric Stanton the man than Eric Stanton the hotel mutilator.
Fifteen minutes before the appointed time she headed up to the boardroom, wanting to appear calm and collected when Eric arrived—for once. She turned on the lights and made herself a cup of hot tea, then assumed the authority seat at the end of the table, facing the door. She gulped her tea, trying to drown the butterflies in her stomach, but only managed to dribble on her best white blouse. She swore, then buttoned her jacket. For five minutes she practiced her busy, on-the-edge-of-her-seat pose for when he came in, and her jaunty-hair-toss-and-ease-back-in-the-chair-confidently maneuver for when he sat down. Then she raised her seat four inches and lowered the one to her right by four inches to give herself a feeling of superiority.
At the sound of approaching footsteps, she quickly assumed the pose, scrutinizing a memo she’d memorized. A light rap resonated through the room. She glanced up and, ignoring the catch of her heart at the sight of him, she waved Eric in, then immediately looked back to the memo and jotted a note in the margin.
“Do you need more time?” he asked, lowering himself, to her consternation, into the chair to her left instead of her right.
“Um…no,” she said after an appropriately occupied pause. She closed the folder and set down her pen, then carefully tossed her hair and slid back in the chair. Except the chair tilt didn’t lock. A leisurely split second passed during which Cindy experienced that sick feeling of knowing she was going over backward. Her eyes bugged and her arms flailed as she fought desperately to regain her balance, but to no avail. Eric lunged for her, but he couldn’t move fast enough to keep her chair from slamming against the floor.
Her head bounced twice, but the rest of her seemed to be okay, thanks to the death grip she’d maintained on the arms. She sat in the chair perfectly aligned, apart from the fact that she was looking at the ceiling.
Eric’s face appeared over her, tight with concern. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
An amused smile broke over his face as he helped her up. Burning with humiliation, she leaned against the table and gingerly touched her forehead. She felt light-headed, but then again, she was down a few pounds of purple hair.
“No wonder it tipped over,” he said, inspecting the chair. “Someone raised it too high and threw off the center of gravity.” He pushed her power chair aside and replaced it with the one she’d lowered. “Try this one.”
She cursed silently, but her head hurt so much, she dropped into the proffered seat, not caring when she sank so low his knees were at her eye level.
Eric knelt and peered into her face. “Are you sure you’re all right? Can I get you a glass of water?”
“No, thanks,” she mumbled. With her luck she’d probably drown herself. Cindy caught the fragrance of his strong soap, and she noticed he’d nicked his square chin while shaving. She wanted him. She loved him. She despised him. “Let’s just get this over with.”
He studied her face, his eyes guarded, then he nodded abruptly and reclaimed his seat. She looked up at him from her dwarfed position, her heart thudding. Eric opened a leather portfolio and read aloud. “This document serves as the official report from Stanton and Associates concerning Harmon Hospitality property number eighty-five, the Chandelier House, located at—” He stopped and pursed his mouth, closed the portfolio, then slid it toward her. “You can read it at your leisure, Cindy. I’ll hit the highlights.”
From his close body language and hesitancy she didn’t have to guess the contents. “Go on.”
He pressed his lips together, then said, “My final report contains a recommendation that Harmon sell the Chandelier House. I’m sorry. Professionally, I had no choice.”
She sat immobile, struck by a profound sense of sadness. Aside from the fact that her beloved hotel would likely be quartered and auctioned, Eric simply didn’t get it. Some things were worth more in sum than the total of their parts, market price be damned.
He pointed to the portfolio. “Overall, the review team found this property to be well-run. The hotel’s worst distinction is being purchased by Harmon in the first place. It’s all in my report if you care to read it.”
Cindy swallowed carefully. “Perhaps later.”
Eric folded his hands and leaned forward. “In case you’re wondering, I didn’t disclose the alleged history of the
chandelier.”
She smiled tightly. “But when the hotel is put up for sale, unlike when Harmon stole the place two years ago from a group of granny investors, every last spoon will be appraised.”
He conceded her point with a nod. “I decided the only way I could make an objective business evaluation was to proceed as if you hadn’t told me.”
“But I did,” she said slowly. “I did tell you the story of the chandelier, so it should have influenced your decision. The history of this hotel should be preserved, especially when you consider that the Chandelier House is well into the black.”
“For now.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That in five years role-playing groups and vampires and tattoos might be out of vogue.”
“So? Other special-interest groups will emerge.”
He threw up his hands. “The long-term customers Harmon needs to cultivate are large and midsize corporate—”
“You made your point, Mr. Stanton.” Cindy fought to maintain her composure. “This meeting is over.” She spun around in her low chair, turning her back to him and biting back tears of disappointment.
She heard him push away from the table and walk across the room. A few seconds of silence passed and she thought he must have left quietly. Then he spoke from the doorway. “Cindy.”
She looked at him over her shoulder. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry if I ruined your Christmas.”
Egotistical S.O.B.—at least he’d be easy to get over. “Mr. Stanton, you don’t have that much power in my life.”
From the squaring of his jaw, she knew she’d scored a point. “Then let me say it was very nice, um, working with you, despite the misunderstandings.”
She blinked.
“And just one more thing,” he said.
She waited.
“Your hair looks nice.” Then he walked out.
Cindy laid her aching head back on the chair and wished for the hundredth time that she’d never heard of Eric Quinn Stanton.
Her beeper sounded. Massaging the knot on the back of her head, she punched a button on the handheld radio. “Cindy here.”
“It’s Manny. Can you stand one more Christmas tree crisis?”
A groan started deep in her chest and eased out. “How could five thousand candy canes possibly be hazardous?”
“If hordes of street people are shaking the tree to knock down the candy.”
“I’ll be right there.”
ON THE WAY TO SAMMY’S for a stiff drink, Eric heard a commotion in the lobby and investigated the noise. The sky rained candy canes. Teams of shabbily dressed people were grabbing up the candy and stuffing it in bags, hats and pockets. The limbs within reaching distance were picked clean. Four large men hugged the trunk of the tree, taking turns shaking it to dislodge the stubborn hangers-on.
Eric shrank to a secluded corner to watch. As expected, the newly shorn general manager arrived on the scene in record time, dismantled the tree-shaking team, and ordered maintenance to erect scaffolding—again. The remaining candy was to be removed and placed in a bin just inside the entrance, free for the taking.
She’d done it again, he acknowledged. Danced into a crisis and handled it beautifully, dousing tempers and making everyone happy. As he watched her, Eric once again experienced the swelling in his chest he’d begun to associate with seeing and thinking about Cindy Warren. She was a delightful woman—witty, charming, beautiful and honest. Her employees loved her.
And he loved her.
With a jolt, Eric admitted he had indeed fallen for the wrong woman at the wrong time. Some of her most irresistible qualities—eccentricity, aplomb and chutzpah—were the very ones he knew would eventually drive him stark raving mad. He needed order in his life. He liked being surrounded by practical, predictable people.
Which was why he and his father couldn’t get along, he supposed. His father was unconventional. He preferred the process of making music and art to owning it. If his father had a choice, he would rather have been the creator of the chandelier than the heir to its value. That philosophy had been behind the hurtful things he’d said when Eric had purchased the piano so many years ago.
Eric watched as Cindy surveyed the workers and, apparently satisfied that her instructions were under way, slowly climbed the sweeping staircase. Dressed in her standard green uniform she seemed unremarkable, but he knew better. He knew that beneath the sensible skirt lay a pool of desire he craved more than he could ever have imagined. And what about the heart that beat beneath the buttoned-up jacket? Did she have any feelings for him other than malice? It was just as well, he decided, that their jobs had hindered their physical involvement before emotional barnacles started forming.
She stopped at the top of the stairs and wrapped her hands around the railing. Then she simply stared at the magnificent chandelier. Eric wondered what could be going through her mind—was she thinking of her grandfather? Of all the employees and guests who had walked through those double doors? She waved as the maintenance men carried away sections of the impromptu scaffolding. The street people and a few guests lined up to take candy canes from the bin set near the entrance. The tree, tall and naked and completely abandoned, flanked the staircase, swaying slightly.
Swaying?
Eric emerged from his hiding place, his steps quickening. He glanced up and saw the expression on Cindy’s face. She, too, suspected something was wrong. “The tree is falling!” she screamed, shooing stragglers with animated gestures. “Get out of the way, the tree is falling!”
He pulled back a few spectators, then watched in stunned amazement as the tree leaned, then gained slow momentum on its way down. The top branches grazed the chandelier, sending it rocking violently. Eric dragged his gaze from the scene to look for Cindy. She stood on the landing, her hand over her mouth, her eyes riveted on the swinging chandelier.
The gigantic tree landed with a fantastic whoosh, sprawling across the lobby in a spray of needles. Remarkably, no one had been in its path. But Eric knew spraying crystal would not be so kind. “Everybody down!” he yelled. And sure enough, with a sickening twist of metal, the magnificent fixture spun loose and fell on top of the tree, splintering into thousands of pieces.
13
CINDY OPENED HER EYES, practically swollen shut after a night of endless crying. It was Christmas Eve morning, and she’d never felt so miserable in her entire life.
She’d thought the meeting with Eric would be the lowlight of the day, but the falling Christmas tree and the crashing chandelier had outdone that horrible meeting. Luckily the tree broke the fixture’s fall, but she wasn’t sure how or if the chandelier would ever be completely restored. For the time being, the remnants had been carefully gathered and stored in countless boxes.
Eric was one of many who had helped with the cleanup last night, but she’d been careful to stay as far away from him as politely possible. If her overwhelming grief for the shattered chandelier had an upside, it was the fact that it numbed her to the biting sadness of knowing Eric was not the man she’d thought him to be—the kind of man who could love her, eccentricities and all, the kind of man who wanted to build and preserve people and places and things, not tear them down in the name of corporate cloning.
She dragged herself to the edge of her bed, her head spinning with the events of the last several days. Her life had gone from upbeat and fairly stable to downtrodden and perhaps living in a stable if she lost her job. And her heart…well, maybe she’d get a new one for Christmas. An unbreakable one.
On impulse, she picked up the phone and dialed her parents’ number.
“Hello, Mom? Merry Christmas—hmm? No, we’ll be there in a few—what? I’ve got a bit of a cold—no, I don’t have a fever—Mom, I need some advice…Mom, are you there? Good, well, remember the man from Manassas? Right, with a Q. Well, actually, it’s an S…”
ERIC STRODE into the health club and absently climbed on a vacant treadmill, surprised when
he realized that Manny Oliver was running on the neighboring machine.
The blond man had a muscular build, tall and lean. Sweating profusely, he nodded curtly at Eric, then checked the display monitor and slowed down.
“Getting in your workout early,” Eric observed.
“Got a plane to catch in a couple of hours,” Manny explained, his tone not overly friendly.
“Going home for Christmas?”
“Yeah,” the man said, “with Cindy.”
Eric balked—so she was having a relationship with her concierge? The realization shocked him because she didn’t seem the type to…not that it was any of his business. He’d been battling guilt all morning over not seeing his family for Christmas. Now his heart squeezed painfully as he imagined Manny and Cindy sharing a good old-fashioned holiday. He increased the speed of the machine to a brisk jog as intense jealousy pulsed through him. “I hope the two of you have a nice Christmas together,” he managed to say.
Manny’s eyes never left his own display. “Well, Mr. Stanton, I’d say you sort of nixed that now, didn’t you?”
Eric didn’t miss the thinly veiled hostility. “Look, I didn’t realize you and Cindy were involved.”
Slowing to a walk, Manny shook his head, smiling ruefully. “Cindy and I aren’t involved, Stanton.”
Eric’s heart lifted, surprising him. Then remembering the man’s comment about him ruining their Christmas, realization dawned. “I guess Cindy told you about my recommendation to sell the Chandelier House. I’m sorry, but that’s my—hey!” Manny pushed him from the machine with one strong shove. “What the hell are you doing?” Eric thundered.
The blond man’s face was a mask of calm disgust. “Cindy told me everything in the final report was positive, you jerk. Sounds like she was trying to spare me.” He scoffed. “You’re a chickenshit, Stanton. You don’t deserve her, and she doesn’t deserve what you’ve put her through, professionally and personally. Excuse me, sir, but I’d better leave before I pop you in the mouth and lose my job.”
12 Stocking Stuffers Page 66