“He told me an intact chandelier made out of this crystal would be extremely valuable.” She could tell from his muffled voice that he stared at the opposite horizon. How perfectly symbolic, she realized.
Cindy wet her lips, blinking against the wind, which was much stronger here on the perimeter of the roof. “I suppose it would be,” she said over her shoulder. She gasped as the scarf fell slack against her hairline and a leg of the pajama pants whisked in front of her face, riding the wind like a flag. She snatched the leg and straightened, using both hands to try to repair the damage.
Eric still stood with his back to her, hands on his hips. He obviously didn’t know how to broach the next question, which made Cindy a nervous wreck. How much did he know? How much should she tell him?
The head wrap fell around her neck. She panicked and whipped it off in a motion she knew would leave burn marks on her throat. Holding the garment in front of her in a ball, her mind raced. Her purse was too small. She had no pockets of her own. He still had his back to her. Her heart thudded.
“Cindy.”
She held the wadded-up pants over the edge and dropped the bundle, then spun and gave Eric her seemingly undivided attention as he crossed the small distance between them. “Yes?”
“Did that earring come from the chandelier hanging in the hotel lobby?”
“The earrings were p-passed down in my family,” she said quickly.
“And I remember you saying that your grandfather was one of the original owners of the Chandelier House, isn’t that right?”
She inclined her head. “You have a good memory.” Dammit.
He stepped closer, then pinned her down with his gaze. “Cindy, did that earring come from the chandelier hanging in the lobby?”
“Eric,” she said, laughing softly, “I’m not an expert on chandeliers.”
“No,” he said quietly. “But my father happens to be.”
She swallowed. “Your father?”
“He’s a retired master glassblower. I sent him a picture of the chandelier. According to his research, if it’s an original French A Merveille, it’s worth a fortune.”
“I can’t recall what the chandelier is worth,” she said, her voice sounding high-pitched even to her own ears. “But I’ll make sure someone in accounting gets that information to you.”
“I checked the books,” he said calmly, “and I don’t think they’re right. Cindy,” he said, stepping even closer and leaning forward, “I’m giving you one more chance to tell me everything you know about that chandelier. If you don’t, I’m going to call Harmon, tell them my suspicions, and suggest the piece be appraised.”
She evaluated her options—including jumping—but none of them seemed viable. Finally she angled her head at him. “And how do I know you won’t call Harmon anyway?”
His mouth tightened. “You don’t.”
She sighed and turned back to the view. Eric joined her, resting folded arms on top of the concrete wall. Wetting her lips, Cindy said, “My grandfather loved this hotel. He said the chandelier symbolized the greatness, the uniqueness of the place. While he was still part owner, he had the center piece removed from the chandelier and commissioned these earrings for my grandmother. I inherited them, along with the wonderful story about the three original chandeliers being sold for the war effort and replaced with glass copies.”
With a soft laugh, she said, “I honestly didn’t suspect the one in this hotel might be one of the originals until after Harmon bought the Chandelier House.”
“What made you suspect it wasn’t a copy?”
“I had a chance to visit the hotel in Chicago where one of the other two A Merveille originals once hung. That chandelier had an extra central spiral that our chandelier doesn’t. Out of curiosity, I made the trip to Hollywood and the copy there also has the center piece.”
He shrugged. “So maybe the center piece was removed from your copy to make it look like the original.”
She smiled, her lips dry and tight. “My thoughts exactly—until I poked around in my grandfather’s personal journals. At the last minute, instead of donating the chandelier, he made a hefty cash donation to the war effort, an amount that exceeded the value of the original chandelier at the time. The copy was hustled away on the black market, and no one was the wiser.”
He shook his head slowly. “That’s an amazing story.”
“And sad,” she noted. “That cash donation drained my grandfather’s resources and he ended up selling his interest in the hotel, even though he continued to love the place. He wrote that it was his secret, knowing the magnificent chandelier reigned over the place in his absence.”
“And why didn’t you notify someone?”
“Because I knew Harmon would probably sell it to the highest bidder and replace it with a cheap copy, if they replaced it at all. And our talk the other day at breakfast only reinforced my resolve to keep quiet.”
“Cindy,” he said quietly. “That piece should be in a museum.”
She frowned, turning to face him. “It belongs here.”
Eric shook his head. “It’s not right, Cindy. Harmon owns that chandelier and they should be told how much it’s worth.”
She stared at him. “And you’re going to tell them?”
He sighed and held up his hand. “I didn’t say that—I need to think things through.”
“I’m trusting you.” To her horror, her eyes filled with tears. “I’m trusting you to look past the capital gain and do the right thing, Eric.” She looked up at him, hoping for reassurance, but saw only indecisiveness in his expression.
Cindy turned and gripped the top of the cold concrete wall. She hated needing something from him…hated feeling so vulnerable…hated thinking she could be responsible for over two hundred employees losing their jobs. “It’s my fault,” she whispered. “I brought all this trouble on the hotel. I should have conformed to the corporate mandates. Now we’ll be sold or closed and the chandelier will be lost, too.” Cindy brought her hand to her mouth to stem a humiliating sob.
“Hey,” he said softly, turning her to face him. She inhaled deeply to regain her composure, loath to meet his gaze. “Cindy, don’t take this review personally—you did what you thought was best for your employees. It won’t be your fault if Harmon decides to divest the Chandelier House.”
She looked into his eyes, aware of the warmth of his hands on her arms, even through the fabric of his coat. “You mean if you decide, Eric?”
He faltered, then nodded curtly. “It’s strictly business, Cindy.”
“How can you do this?” she asked, searching his face. “Don’t you care that a few words from your mouth can change the lives of so many innocent people?”
His head dipped until their eyes were level. “We both have a job to do. We can’t let emotion interfere.”
She looked into his eyes, frustrated that with everything on the line, he could still have such a physical impact on her. His mouth mesmerized her, too vividly bringing back the memory of his lips on her body. Let emotion interfere? He taunted her. She lifted her chin. “That’s not the way I operate, Mr. Stanton. The Chandelier House is more than an entry on a profit-and-loss statement. If I could afford to, I’d buy this place myself.”
His expression softened and he lifted one hand to smooth her unbound hair back from her cheek. “And if I could afford to, I’d buy this place for you.” As if in slow motion, Eric pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her, tucking her head beneath his chin. Enclosed in his warm coat and strong embrace, Cindy closed her eyes and relaxed against him. Gradually, the comforting hug gained momentum. Eric ran his hands up and down her back and she folded her arms around his waist, delaying the moment she’d have to release him.
Eric drew back slightly, cupped her chin in his hand and lifted her mouth to meet his. She inhaled deeply just before their lips touched, because she wanted the kiss to last a long time—through the night, past the review and into the new year. His mouth mov
ed on hers with an aching sweetness. He flicked his tongue against her teeth and gave her his own breath when she needed air. Her knees buckled and she fell against him, moaning and straining for his touch.
Eric moved his mouth to her neck, nipping at the sensitive curve until waves of desire set every nerve ending on edge. His hands moved inside the jacket, cradling her hips with one large hand, supporting her back with the other. Effortlessly he lifted her against him, sliding her down oh-so-slowly over his chest, his stomach, his swollen arousal.
“Cindy,” he whispered. “You make me want to do crazy things, like make love to you right here.”
“We shouldn’t,” she murmured, more for herself than him. Yet she felt herself succumb to the titillating temptation of making love with him under the stars, with the wind whipping over their bodies. She massaged his erection through his slacks, eliciting a frustrated groan from Eric.
He pulled up her dress and slid his hands inside her panties, grasping her bottom and rubbing her against him. Teasing her nest from behind, his fingers urged her to open and give him better access. With a sigh she leaned into him, gasping when he inserted his fingers into her wet folds. The angle of his probing drove her wild and within seconds, they adopted a rhythm, him thrusting, her sliding back to meet his hand. The cool air on her exposed skin, and the sounds of his encouraging whispers billowed her higher and higher, until she trembled around his fingers in a shuddering pinnacle.
He showered her face and neck with kisses, caressing her body with both hands, murmuring her name. Wanting to pleasure him and since her legs were still weak from her own release, Cindy lowered herself to her knees and unfastened Eric’s belt. With his help, his monster erection was soon freed. A little intimidated by the size of his shaft, she trailed kisses and licks up and down before tentatively taking the tip into her mouth.
Eric plowed his fingers into her hair and threw his head back as a long moan escaped from his lips. She advanced carefully, taking him into her mouth with utmost care, grasping the base with her hands and falling into a slow tempo of massage. He could have been in agony or ecstasy from the sounds of his groans, but he let her set the pace. She stroked and devoured him while the wind whisked between them. At last he gasped her name, warning her of his impending flood, giving her time to retreat if she desired.
Suddenly a floodlight lit the sky, illuminating Eric’s head and shoulders above the concrete wall. He jerked around. “What the—?”
Cindy froze, then dragged herself to her feet, struggling to rearrange her clothing. Eric did the same, under considerably more duress. She glanced over the edge straight into a beacon of blinding light.
“Stop!” the head of hotel security bellowed through a bullhorn. A crowd of several dozen had gathered on the sidewalk. “For God’s sake, don’t jump! The police are on their way!”
“What the devil is going on?” Eric growled.
She stared down at the street. “I think he thinks there’s someone up here going to jump.”
“Believe me,” he said, running a hand through his hair, “I’m tempted to jump, just to wring that idiot’s neck!”
“Pete!” she yelled down through cupped hands. “Nobody’s going to jump!”
“Cindy? Is that you?”
“Yeah, Pete, it’s me.”
“What happened to your hair?”
She looked for a brick to drop, but seeing none, yelled, “Call the police and tell them it was a mistake. I’ll be right down.”
“Okay.” He sounded dejected.
The light was extinguished, plunging them back into semidarkness. “I have to go,” she said, the impact of her lapse suddenly dawning. “Or else someone will come for me.”
“Hey,” he said quietly, pulling her close for a quick kiss, “I was about two seconds away from coming for you.”
But the tawdry way she’d behaved shamed her. Her hands started trembling. They’d groped like frenzied animals, with no emotional involvement—at least not on his part. With a sinking feeling, Cindy realized that somewhere between “What’s wrong with long, straight hair?” and “I was about two seconds away from coming for you”, she’d fallen for Eric Quinn Stanton.
“I have to go,” she said forcefully, breaking his embrace and shrugging out of his coat.
A frown marred his smooth forehead. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she said coolly, feeling like the world’s biggest fool. “Like you said, we both have a job to do.” She turned and strode toward the door, mortified by her heart’s revelation in light of all that had transpired.
What was it Manny had said? Falling in love will be an agonizing event with a man who represents everything you hate.
Manny…right again, dammit.
MANNY LOOKED in the plastic bag she held open, then gaped at her. “You threw the pajamas off the top of the building?”
She shrugged. “How was I to know they’d snag on someone’s window? Security thought there was a man on top of the building getting ready to jump.”
“Little did they know there was a man on top of the building who was being jumped.”
“Hardee-har-har.”
“Where did you get these?”
“I filched them from security—it took me four days of sneaking around to find them.”
He looked at her as if she was insane. “Okaaaaaaay. I’m almost afraid to ask where you’re headed now.”
“To the furnace room,” she declared. “I’m going to burn these things so they can’t get me into any more trouble.” Her stomach rolled with queasy fear. “Stanton said he’d give me a preview of the final report this afternoon at four. And although it doesn’t seem likely that I’ll have yet another catastrophe before he leaves, I’m trying to limit the possibilities.”
“At least the tree is taken care of.”
“Right. What could be more harmless than plain old candy canes?” She checked her watch. “Got to run—I’m due at the salon.”
Manny clucked. “What else could you possibly have done to your hair?”
“I’m getting it fixed this time. New stylist.”
He shook his head. “You never learn, do you? Besides, I’ve heard a lot of people say they think the color is cool.”
Cindy nodded. “Complete strangers have stopped me to ask about my hair, but I just don’t think I can live with it.”
“You or your mother?”
“Both.”
He fidgeted. “Cindy, are you nervous about the report?”
“Sure,” she admitted shakily, “but I’m trying not to worry about it.” Trying not to worry about losing her job, or the chandelier being sold, or the entire hotel being auctioned off, or being in love with Eric, or why bubbles form in leftover glasses of water.
Manny patted her hand. “You’re doing a bang-up job here and if Stanton and his people can’t see it, they’re blind.”
“Thanks.”
“And I hate that man for putting you through the wringer.”
She gave him a careful little smile. “Don’t blame Eric, Manny. Everything I’m going through, I brought on myself.” And to her mortification, her eyes filled with tears.
He brought his hand to his head in a helpless gesture. “Oh, God, you’re in love with him, aren’t you?.”
She nodded, wiping her eyes. “A fact I am not proud of,” she added. “But don’t worry, I’ll be over him by New Year’s.” She tried to laugh it off. “Besides, I may have a change of heart when I hear his report this afternoon.”
“He’s a fool if he doesn’t realize how lucky he is.”
She sniffed and gave him a grateful squeeze. “Thanks. I’m glad you’re going home with me for Christmas.”
“Me too. Speaking of which, I have to run a couple of errands early tomorrow, so I’ll meet you at the departure gate.”
Falling in love with Eric Stanton—how stupid could she be? she thought morosely as she tramped downstairs to the furnace room. A corporate hack with no real ties to his
family, and no appreciation for the things in life that were really important, like preserving the integrity of the Chandelier House.
Using a mitt, she opened the door of an aged furnace and stuffed the pants into a bed of coals, gratified when they caught instantly and began to burn. She watched the tiny white monogram of EQS fold in on itself, then disintegrate. Then she made herself a note to turn in a security report for Eric’s missing pants, just in case he checked her paperwork.
At the salon, Cindy did a double-take at the line of men, women and teenagers waiting to get in. “There she is,” yelled one. “That’s the exact color I want!”
Confused, Cindy walked in to find Matilda furiously working on clients in three separate chairs. “You’re a hit,” she told the woman, amazed at the crowd.
“No, you’re the hit,” the hairdresser said. “Most of these people are here for exotic coloring jobs because they saw your hair.”
She touched her purplish tresses. “Really?”
“Yep. We could make a fortune specializing in coloring, head shaving and stuff like that.”
With their clientele, Cindy couldn’t believe they hadn’t thought of it before. She grinned. “That sounds terrific.”
“Great. Oh, Jerry is waiting for you in the back.”
“Thanks.” Cindy wound her way to the back where Jerry had staked out a small sink. “I owe you big for this,” she said, sitting down.
He snapped the cape, then draped it around her shoulders. “It’s my Christmas present to you,” he said with a smile, then raised an eyebrow. “Even if you have been naughty.”
She frowned. “Don’t believe everything you hear.”
He leaned down, his gaze boring into hers in the mirror. “And what if it’s something I see with my own eyes?”
Glancing away from his knowing expression, she said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He shrugged. “You make a good couple, you and the Stanton lad.”
She shook her head, but recognized the futility of arguing. “Jerry, did you have any idea that Quinn was Stanton?”
He nodded. “I knew that day in the salon when you first cut your hair.”
12 Stocking Stuffers Page 65
