Naughty or Nice?. Stephanie Bond
He looked toward the ceiling. “I’ll cover for you all day Wednesday.”
She straightened. Since her home consisted of a small suite near the top of the hotel, excursions outside the walls—especially for an entire day—were rare. This could be her last chance to go Christmas shopping before the hotel descended into seasonal chaos. “You’d cover my office calls?”
“Yep.”
Her last chance to buy a few casual clothes before she headed home to Virginia on Christmas Eve. “My pager?”
“Sure thing.” Then he grinned. “Of course, if you come stag, I get your parking spot for a month.”
And hadn’t the lock on her garment bag jammed the last time she’d traveled to L.A. overnight on business? She definitely needed new luggage. “And all I have to do is produce a man?”
“He has to be straight,” Amy qualified, walking on the other side.
“Right,” Joel agreed sternly. “I expect to see definite heterosexual groping before the night’s over.”
Cindy put her hand over her heart. “I’m wounded—you two honestly think I can’t find a date?”
“Right,” they said in unison.
She squinted at Joel. “You’re on, buster.”
Joel rubbed his hands together and squeezed his eyes shut. “VIP parking—I can hardly wait.”
“Well, I can’t wait to meet this mystery man,” Amy said over her shoulder as she followed Joel toward the stairs.
Cindy stopped and stared after her friends, dread surging in her stomach. “Neither can I.”
ERIC SPENT the next couple of hours touring various areas of the hotel as unobtrusively as possible, occasionally ducking into alcoves to scribble on index cards. If employees stopped to offer assistance, he either manufactured requests for directions or said he was waiting for someone.
The covert stage of his job had always been his least favorite. Eric didn’t have a problem with pointing out deficiencies in an operation, but he much preferred doing it face-to-face with the staff.
He spotted Cindy Warren twice as she practically jogged from one task to another, but he stayed out of her line of vision despite his urge to talk to her again. He typically made his most valuable observations early in the review process and he liked as much done as possible in the first couple of days, since he never knew if or when his cover would be blown. After that, the sucking-up factor set in—an ego trip for some consultants, but merely a hindrance to productivity in his opinion.
After he’d exhausted his many checklists, he made his way to the concierge desk, where a pleasant-looking blond man offered him a professional smile.
“Good afternoon, sir. How can I help you?”
Eric sized him up in seconds—he knew from the man’s demeanor he was an asset to Cindy Warren. “I’m looking for a dinner recommendation.”
“Any particular type of cuisine, sir?”
“Maybe a good steak.”
“Unless you want to see the city, our chef grills a great rib eye.”
Eric inclined his head, silently applauding the man’s response. “Sounds good—I’ll try it. How’s the lounge?”
“Great drinks, but not much action on Monday night.”
Shaking his head slightly, Eric laughed. “Fine with me.”
The concierge extended his hand. “I’m Manny Oliver.”
Eric clasped his hand in a firm grip. “Quinn. Eric Quinn.”
“Glad you chose the Chandelier House for your trip, Mr. Quinn. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to make your stay more enjoyable.”
At that moment, Eric caught sight of Cindy across the lobby. He hadn’t realized he was staring until Manny’s cool voice reached him. “That’s our general manager, Cindy Warren.”
Eric tried to appear casual. “We met briefly in the salon this morning. I was quite impressed with her, um, professionalism.” And her legs. Eric watched her move alongside a barrel-chested man, gesturing from floor to ceiling in the curve of the magnificent staircase.
“She’s first-rate,” the man agreed. “The Chandelier House is lucky to have her.”
“She seems young for so much responsibility,” Eric said, fishing.
“Early thirties,” Manny offered.
“Is she single?” The words came out before Eric could stop them, and he wasn’t sure who was more surprised, himself or the concierge.
Manny straightened, his defenses up, and Eric wondered if the man had romantic feelings for his boss. “Ms. Warren is unmarried,” he said tightly.
Mentally kicking himself, Eric simply nodded. “Thank you for the meal recommendation, Mr. Oliver.” He withdrew a bill from his wallet, but before he could extend it, Manny stopped him with the slightest lift of his hand. “Don’t mention it, Mr. Quinn. It’s my job to take care of everyone in the hotel.”
Manny’s friendly smile didn’t mask the glimmer of warning in his clear blue eyes.
“I’m sure you’re good at your job,” Eric said lightly.
“The best,” Manny assured him as another guest approached his station. “Enjoy that steak, Mr. Quinn.”
Unable to resist another peek in her direction, Eric was treated to an inadvertent display of lower thigh as Cindy stretched her arm high to make a point to the man, presumably in preparation for installing more seasonal decorations.
Feeling Manny’s stare boring into his back, Eric dragged his gaze away from Cindy Warren. Checking his watch and finding he had plenty of time for a drink before dinner, he moved in the direction of the lounge, trying to shake off the undeniable surge of attraction he felt for the general manager. The nostalgia of the season must be getting to him, he decided. Making him sappy. Or horny. Or both.
The name “Sammy’s” stretched over the entrance to the lounge, one of the few areas in the hotel Eric had not yet staked out. He walked down two steps and into the low-lit interior, fully expecting the lounge to resemble the hundreds of other generic hotel bars he’d visited during his fifteen-year stint in the business. Instead, he was pleasantly surprised to find a motif of antique musical instruments. An old upright piano sat abandoned in a far corner. The strains of Burl Ives played over unseen speakers, evoking memories of past Christmases. A bittersweet thought; family gatherings hadn’t been the same since his mother’s death.
The place was practically deserted, with only a handful of customers dotting the perimeter of the room. A knot of Trekkies indulged in a down-to-earth pitcher of beer.
But to his pleasure, Jerry the barber sat on one of the upholstered stools, still wearing the Santa hat. He chatted with a thick-armed bartender and smoked a sweet-smelling cigar.
“Weeeeell, if it isn’t Mr. Quinn.” Jerry grinned and nodded to the stool next to him. “Have a seat. Tony’ll get you a drink.”
Eric slid onto the stool and rested his elbows on the smooth curved edge of the bar. “Bourbon and water,” he directed Tony with a nod. “Taking a break, Jer?” He patted his shirt pocket for a cigarette, then remembered he had left them in the room.
The older man nodded and took a long drag of his cigar. “I’m through for the day—got tired of that woman caterwauling.”
“Excuse me?”
Jerry used the cigar as a pointer while he talked. “That woman who whacked off Ms. Cindy’s hair—she’s been bawling all day.”
“It wasn’t her fault,” Eric