Naughty or Nice?. Stephanie Bond
she headed toward the sweeping three-story staircase in the front of the lobby. The climb up the dark-gold-carpeted stairs gave her an impressive view of her front operation.
The hotel’s signature item, an enormous sparkling chandelier, presided over the lobby. She gave the dazzling piece a fond wink in memory of her grandfather, thinking of his stories of the hotel in its heyday, then turned her attention to the pulsing activity below. Every employee seemed occupied, from the valets to the bellmen to the lobby maids. Greenery, garlands and lights, thanks to engineering, were slowly enveloping the lobby walls and fixtures. Jaunty Christmas Muzak kept everyone moving and lifted Cindy’s spirits as well.
A new beginning lay just around the corner. A clean slate. A promising year for the Chandelier House, a better relationship with her mother, maybe even a man in her life.
Cindy smirked. Why settle for one Christmas miracle?
At the top of the stairs, she paused to catch her breath, then caught an elevator to the sixth floor. An owlish-looking middle-aged man answered her knock to room 620. Wearing suit slacks, dress shirt and tie, he held a pad of paper under his arm and, oddly, the room’s antique desk lamp in one hand. Cindy raised an eyebrow, then quietly introduced herself and explained that a room with a better view of the city was available, but it was a suite, and therefore, considerably more expensive.
The man frowned behind thick glasses and complained loudly, but Cindy remained calm, her eyes meaningfully glued to the lamp. In the end he huffily claimed the room to be adequate and slammed the door. Cindy shook her head, then jotted a reminder to send him a complimentary prune Danish the following morning. The man was obviously constipated.
The robed couple in room 916 cleared up a misunderstanding—they weren’t complaining about having access to the adult channel, they were complaining because they thought the channel should be free. No, Cindy explained, but an evening of pay-per-view was still relatively cheap entertainment in San Francisco.
She was two for three approaching room 1010, thankful the complaints were small compared to what her staff normally dealt with. Wrinkling her nose at the ancient orange carpet bearing a nauseating floral pattern, she pledged to put the case forcefully to headquarters about the need for new hallway floor coverings, then lifted her hand and rapped lightly on the door.
Within seconds, the handsome stranger from the hair salon stood before her, minus his dress shoes. His imposing masculinity washed over Cindy and his smile revealed white teeth and slight crow’s-feet at the corners of his ice-blue eyes. Late thirties, she decided. “We meet again,” he said pleasantly.
“Um, yes,” Cindy murmured, resisting the urge to pull her jacket up over her head. She checked the clipboard. “Er, Mr. Quinn?”
“Eric Quinn,” he said, extending his hand.
She returned his firm and friendly shake. “I’m Cindy Warren, Mr. Quinn, I—”
“—run this whole show…I remember.”
She flushed. “I’m the general manager, and I came to discuss your request for another room.”
He crossed his arms and leaned against the doorjamb, smiling lazily. “Do you personally oversee every guest request, Ms. Warren?”
“No, I—”
“Then I’m flattered.”
He was an extremely handsome man, Cindy decided as she struggled to regain control of the situation. And very full of himself. “No need, Mr. Quinn,” she replied coolly. “My reservations staff is swamped at the moment, so I’m pitching in. If you’re interested, we have a smoking room available, but it doesn’t have a king-sized bed.”
Mr. Quinn frowned and stroked his chin with his left hand.
No ring, she noticed, then chastised herself. The absence of a ring didn’t mean the man was available. And despite her mother’s increasingly urgent pleas for her to find a nice man and settle down, even if he was available, Cindy wasn’t in the market for a relationship with a guest…who rubbed her the wrong way…at the most professionally chaotic and emotionally vulnerable time of the year.
Mr. Quinn shook his head ruefully. “No, a smaller bed will never do. I can afford to go without cigarettes more than I can afford to go without sleep. I’m a big man,” he added unnecessarily.
To her horror, Cindy involuntarily glanced over his figure again, then felt a heat rash scale her neck. She fidgeted with the clipboard, clacking the metal clip faster and faster as her pulse rate climbed.
He shrugged. “I guess I’ll stay put since I need a big, roomy bed.”
Cindy’s hand slipped and the metal clip snapped down on her fingers, sending pain exploding through her hand. “Yeeeeooooow!”
Mr. Quinn grabbed the clipboard and released her pinched fingers in the time it took for Cindy to process the distress signals from her brain.
“You’re bleeding,” he uttered, clasping her fingers.
“It’s nothing,” she gasped, bewildered that such a minor injury could produce so much blood—and agony—and wondering what it was about this man that made her behave like the Fourth Stooge.
“Come in and wash your hands,” he said, tugging gently at her arm.
“Uh, no.” Cindy knew there was a good reason to turn him down, but the rationale escaped her for a few seconds.
“But you need to stop the bleeding.”
Suddenly Cindy’s brain resumed functioning—oh, yeah, she lived here. “I have my own suite,” she explained hurriedly.
“Be reasonable, Ms. Warren. You’ll ruin your clothes.” His mouth curved into a wry smile. “Not to mention this, er, lovely carpet.”
She relented with a laugh, gritting her teeth against the pain. “Maybe I will borrow a wet washcloth, if you don’t mind.”
He stepped back and swept his arm inside the room. “This is your hotel. I’ll wait here.”
“I’ll just be a moment,” she murmured. As he held open the door, she slid past him, their bodies so close she could see the threads on the buttons of his starched white shirt. The proximity set what hair she had left on end.
Keeping her eyes averted from Mr. Quinn’s personal belongings, she stepped over his barge-sized dress shoes in the doorway of the bathroom, squashing down her instantaneous thought of the anatomical implications. She also ignored the masculine scents of soap and aftershave as she turned on the cold-water faucet and grabbed a washcloth.
Glancing into the mirror was a mistake—her hair looked straight out of the seventies and her makeup needed more than a touch-up. Cindy groaned, then gasped when the water hit her fingers. What an idiot I am.
She applied pressure with a white washcloth and looked toward the bedroom. The door he held open cast light into the room from the hallway, sending his long shadow across the carpet. No doubt he was belly-laughing at what must seem like her talent for self-destruction.
Cindy removed the washcloth, relieved the bleeding had slowed.
“You’ll find a couple of bandages in my toiletry bag,” he called out, and for the first time she noticed a slight Southern accent. “It’s on the back of the door. Help yourself.”
She hesitated to go through his personal belongings, but then told herself she was being ridiculous over a couple of lousy bandages. Cindy stepped back and closed the bathroom door, immediately smelling the soft leather of Mr. Quinn’s black toiletry bag. Her hand stopped in midair at the sight of pale blue silk pajama pants barely visible behind the large hanging bag. A picture of the handsome Mr. Quinn in his lounge wear zoomed to mind and the urge to run overwhelmed her.
With jerky hands, she unzipped the left side of the toiletry bag, but to her dismay, a barrage of small foil packets rained down on her sensible pumps. Condoms. At least a dozen in all varieties—colored,