“Did he see you?” he asked, exasperated.
“No.” She stopped in front of the elevator and stabbed the button, then sheepishly turned to face her friend. “I hid in the bathtub.”
He shook his head slowly. “Unbelievable.”
“No,” she corrected, shaking her finger, “unrepeatable.”
Manny grinned. “Wonder what a good blackmailer pulls down these days?”
“I have to get back to dinner with Mr. Quinn.” Her chest heaved as if she’d been running a marathon. She held up the bag. “Would you mind disposing of these for me?”
“Okay. So how’s it going?”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Supping with the quintessential Mr. Quinn.”
Cindy pressed the button again. “Dinner with Eric Quinn was simply a ploy to keep tabs on him until you returned.”
“No footsie under the table?”
She scoffed. “Of course not.” In the elevator, Cindy selected the basement button and Manny chose the lobby. With a tissue from her jacket pocket, she dabbed at the perspiration on her forehead.
“If I didn’t know better,” Manny said, his voice sing-songy, “I would think you’re starting to like this guy.”
“Except you know better,” she reminded him as the doors opened to the lobby.
“See you tomorrow.” He stepped into the corridor, then turned. “And don’t forget to tell Mr. Quinn the Christmas party tomorrow night is black tie.”
Cindy opened her mouth to protest, but the doors slid closed on Manny’s knowing smirk.
Feeling completely exhausted, she exited at the basement and hurried back to the restaurant. Eric Quinn sat at the table with his hands wrapped around his wineglass, but he stood when she approached the table.
Manufacturing a smile, she lowered herself into her seat, hoping to get through the meal without another embarrassing disaster. “Sorry for the delay.” Someone had lit a votive candle in the table centerpiece, and the light from the flickering flame threw the planes of his chiseled face into relief. Either Eric had grown handsomer during her absence, or her own glass of wine was kicking in.
His eyes crinkled with a smile. “No trouble, I hope?”
“Um, no.”
The waiter arrived with their entrees under domed lids, but Cindy had lost her appetite. Instead she found herself studying Eric for some sign of sleaziness, some manifestation of peddling provocative products for a living that would give her a reason to avoid his company. But she saw only a darkly gorgeous, thoroughly masculine man politely waiting for her to begin eating.
Eric gazed across the table at the ruffled Cindy Warren, trying to figure out how he could spend time with the beauty without arousing her suspicion—or his libido. “Where were we?” he asked as he raked the grilled onions off the top of his steak—not that he expected to be kissing anyone tonight.
“Virginia,” she said, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear.
Even with the hacked haircut, the woman was stunning. Classically beautiful with large eyes, high apple cheeks and skin as flawless as glass. “Ah, yes,” he said, already wanting to change the subject. Thinking about his argumentative father gave him indigestion.
“Do you still live near Manassas?”
He sliced into the rib eye, shaking his head. “No, I’m on the road quite a bit. I maintain condos here and there.”
“Will you be traveling back for the holidays?”
First Jerry and now Cindy. Eric wondered if his cover had been blown and if the employees were trying to cozy up to him. “Probably not,” he answered as casually as possible. “I believe you were about to ask me a question before you left the table?”
Cindy reached for her wine. “Whatever it was has slipped my mind.” She fidgeted, then asked, “Is this your first time staying at the Chandelier House?”
“Yes, although I’m in the Bay area several times a year on business.” When she averted her eyes, Eric wondered again if she knew why he was here. If so, there wasn’t anything he could do about it now except play along. “This is a very charming place.”
“Thanks. The hotel was built in the twenties, suffered through two substantial earthquakes, plus countless tremors. She’s been repaired, added on to, torn down and built up again. And still, she perseveres.”
Noting the affection in her voice, he said, “You speak of her more like an acquaintance than a structure.”
“The Chandelier House is something of a family friend,” she said wistfully. “My maternal grandfather was one of the original owners.”
Surprise infused him. He hadn’t been informed of Cindy Warren’s personal connection. “That’s remarkable. So it’s no accident that you’re here—” he smiled “—and running the whole show.”
“Yes and no,” she said between picking at the salmon on her plate. “My grandfather sold his interest in the Chandelier House years before I was born.” A smile lit her face. “My mother says I take after him, although I hardly remember him at all.” She sipped her wine. “Anyway, I studied hotel management in college and worked in a couple of small, independent hotels before stumbling onto this opening a few years ago.”
He played dumb. “So the Chandelier House is independently owned?
“When I came here, it was. But about two years ago a company in Detroit bought it and thankfully, allowed me to stay on as general manager.”
“A vote of confidence for you, I’d say.”
She shrugged. “I’m not bragging, but the Chandelier House is a special place, with special employees. It takes a certain kind of person to appreciate the, um, atmosphere.”
On cue, a crew of Vulcans filed by, in full costume. Cindy smiled. “It’s never dull.” He refilled her glass from the carafe, but she stopped him at the half-full mark. “I’m still on call for another hour,” she said, an adorable blush on her cheeks.
“So,” he said, nodding toward the Trekkies, “are they your typical clientele?”
“Oh, no. Our typical clientele is much weirder than that.”
“Really?”
She took another deep drink of wine and nodded. “The snake handlers were the scariest, I think.”
Eric blinked. “Snake handlers?”
“And surprisingly, the tattoo artists were the most courteous.”
“Hmm.”
“And last year the vampires ran up an incredible bar tab, so we’re looking forward to having them return in the spring.”
He leaned forward. “Vampires, did you say?”
“Oh, don’t worry—the whole staff gets tetanus boosters ahead of time.”
Eric’s jaw went slack. “That’s good.”
“And, um, your people will be arriving shortly.”
So, she had somehow discovered who he was. Relieved, but unreasonably disappointed at the same time, he nodded slowly. “I hope you understand why I had to be discreet.”
She averted her gaze. “Yes, I can see why.”
“People tend to treat you differently once they know the truth.”
A smile curved her mouth and her eyelids drooped sexily. “Well, I have to admit had I not had the opportunity to get to know you, Eric, I might have been one of those people.”
“I’m glad to see my line of work won’t interfere with our, um…friendship.”
Another wine-induced smile. “I’m an open-minded woman.”
Eric’s body leapt in response. Alarms went off in his ears. Was she going to come on to him in hopes of favorable treatment? “I’d rather not talk about work at all,” he said, “because I hate mixing business with pleasure.”
“Fine with me,” she said agreeably, then turned back to her plate with more gusto.
Eric watched her with no small amount of surprise. He had worried the moment of revelation would be confrontational, or tense at the very least, but obviously he’d been wrong. If anything, Cindy seemed more at ease—happy even—that his reason for being at the Chandelier House was out in the
open. He relaxed back into his chair and lifted his glass to his mouth, studying the woman before him.
She wasn’t wearing the yellow scarf, but realizing how embarrassed she’d been over the elevator incident, he decided not to say anything. Eric did, however, wonder if she had any idea this was the most enjoyable meal he’d had in months.
Cindy pushed aside her plate, her eyes shining and her lips wet with wine. Suddenly she leaned forward and confided, “I have a confession to make.”
Lifting his eyebrows, he said, “Okay, but I feel compelled to warn you I’m not a priest.”
She laughed, making a bubbly little sound, then hiccuped and clapped her hand over her mouth. “Excuse me,” she gasped.
Eric laughed, delighted at her lack of inhibition. He pushed his own plate aside and split the remaining measure of wine between their two glasses. “So what’s this confession?”
She drank deeply, then toyed with the stem. “Actually,” she said, her voice tentative, “I was planning to ask you something earlier.”
“Good evening, Cindy.” A suited man walked up to the table holding two full-bellied glasses and a small beribboned bottle.
Straightening, Cindy said, “Joel. This is Eric Quinn, one of our guests. Mr. Quinn, this is Joel Cutter, our food and beverage director.”
At least she was planning on keeping his identity a secret for a while longer, Eric noted. Cutter set the glasses on the table and extended a hand.
“Sorry to interrupt,” the man said smoothly, “but since you’re finished with your meal, I thought you might like to try a cinnamon liqueur I ordered in for the holidays.”
“Sure,” Cindy agreed. “Eric?”
“Sounds interesting.”
Cutter poured an inch of reddish liquid into the fat goblets. “Enjoy,” he said, then moved away. Cindy studied the liqueur thoughtfully, holding on to the edge of the table as if trying to orient herself. Maybe she’d had too much wine.
“Shall we drink a toast?” Eric asked, lifting his glass.
“I’m not sure,” she said carefully.
“Just a taste,” he said, respecting her restraint.
“Okay.” She smiled, wrapping her hand around her own glass. “To Christmas.”
“To Christmas,” he agreed, clinking his glass to hers over the candle, then added, “May we both get what we want.”
Cindy’s smile faltered and her glass fell, struck the candle, then bounced across the table. The white tablecloth absorbed a second’s worth of liqueur before the flame caught, setting the table ablaze. Eric reached over the flame and pushed Cindy away, catching his sleeve on fire in the process. Screams sounded across the dining room. Someone yelled for a fire extinguisher, but Eric yanked the edge of the table cloth and folded it over his arm, smothering the fire instantly.
Hovering six feet away, Cindy stared at the smoking tablecloth.
“Are you all right?” Eric clasped her elbow and gently turned her toward him.
Mortified, she blinked his concerned face into focus. “I set you on fire.”
“No, you didn’t—it was an accident.” He held up his arm, displaying a smoke-blackened but intact shirtsleeve. “See?” He unbuttoned the cuff and rolled back the fabric. “No damage.”
She still stared, astounded at her own carelessness. First the man’s pajamas, now his shirt…and very nearly his arm!
“Cindy!” Joel jogged toward them. “What happened?”
“Everything’s okay,” Eric said. “The liqueur spilled and the candle—”
“Joel,” Cindy cut in, finally finding her voice. “I’m sorry for causing a disturbance. If you’ll send someone to clean up this mess, I’ll sign for Mr. Quinn’s dinner and see him to the first aid station.”
“That’s not necessary,” Eric assured her, but she gave him her best don’t-argue-with-me look. He relented with a nod and an eye-locking smile that made her knees grow even weaker.
Cindy signed the meal receipt with a shaky hand, still marveling over her own stupidity. “Look, Cindy,” Joel whispered over her shoulder. “Don’t worry about the mess—I’m just glad you weren’t hurt.” He smiled sheepishly. “And I know this isn’t the best time, but I’m looking for a volunteer to be Santa for the party tomorrow night.”
She glanced up with a laugh. “You want me to be Santa Claus?”
“Well,” her friend squirmed, “I thought it would be good for morale if everyone saw you in the holiday spirit, you know, with the review coming up and all.”
She sighed. “Okay, bring the suit to the party—I’ll duck out and change when it’s time to give out gifts.”
“Swell, and don’t worry—the suit is flame-retardant.”
“You’re a real gas.”
As Joel walked away, Cindy glanced at Eric who stood a few feet away reassuring everyone he was all right. Even if she could get up the nerve to ask Eric to the Christmas party, the man would be nuts to go—she was liable to kill him!
He joined her and they walked out together, Cindy blushing with humiliation. “I strike again,” she said finally.
“It wasn’t your fault,” he repeated gently.
Cindy punched the elevator call button. Her body was a quaking mass of fear, embarrassment, exhilaration and confusion. When the doors opened, she chanced a glance at Eric, noticing a smoky streak marking his left cheek. Pulling a tissue from her jacket pocket, she turned toward him and reached high, then stopped in midmotion as their gazes met.
Cindy swallowed. “There’s a…here.” She handed him the tissue and gestured to the black mark, then stepped away from him.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him stretch his neck toward the stainless panel, then swipe at the mark. “Think we’d better choose a floor?”
Completely bereft of dignity, Cindy lifted her hand, then stopped. Choose a floor? Was he dropping a hint that he’d like to spend the night with her? Her finger started to shake, and the ten button lit suddenly. His floor.
“And for you?” he asked.
“F-fifteen,” she squeaked, feeling ridiculous. He wasn’t dropping a hint about spending the night with her. He was probably going to call his insurance agent—or his lawyer.
“Unless you’d like to come in for a nightcap,” he said, checking his watch, then offering an unreadable smile. “And you never did get around to asking me that question.”
Panic washed over her. The way things were going, she’d probably go back to Eric’s room and the roof would collapse, or he’d be electrocuted, or heaven only knew what else. But the man must be desperate if he was willing to entertain a firebug. Unless he was looking for someone to tie to the bed while he demonstrated S&M toys from sample cases. “No!”
“Okay. Thank you for a wonderful dinner.”
Cindy smiled wryly. “Despite the crash and burn?”
He revealed white teeth in a broad smile. “Despite the crash and burn.”
His eyes were so riveting. “I had fun, too.”
The elevator dinged and the doors opened to his floor. “Perhaps our paths will cross again tomorrow.”
Her throat ran dry. “Perhaps.”
When the doors closed, Cindy leaned against the wall heavily and looked at the ceiling. Please let this day end. First the bad haircut, then cutting her hand, the pajama-pant mess, the scarf thing—
She straightened. Where was her yellow scarf? She closed her eyes, her mind rewinding. She remembered taking it when she left the table and she recalled tossing it over her shoulder just before she’d…
Her eyes popped open. Eric’s room! Somehow, she’d lost her scarf in his room, probably in the bathroom—or in the bathtub. If he found her scarf, he’d know she’d been in his room, and when. Choking back hysteria, Cindy darted out of the elevator as soon as the doors opened, and fled toward the stairs.
5
CINDY ZOOMED DOWN the five flights of stairs in record time, twisting her ankle twice. Thank goodness Eric’s room was at the far end of the building—wit
h luck she could catch him before he went in. She sprinted down the hall, turned the corner and saw him standing in front of his door, inserting his key.
“Eric!”
He turned, his gaze questioning.
She jogged toward him, then slowed, suddenly realizing how out of breath she’d become.
“Cindy, is everything okay?”
Her chest heaved while she searched for an explanation. “I…I…want to…buy you…another shirt!”
His face creased in amusement. “You ran all the way back here to tell me you want to buy me another shirt? I assure you it isn’t necessary. I’m not overly attached to my clothing.”
A fact she wished she’d been privy to three hundred and fifty dollars ago.
“I insist. If I can borrow…a piece of scratch paper…I’ll write down the brand…and your size.”
He shrugged good-naturedly. “Okay, if it will make you feel better. But how about just taking the shirt?”
She massaged the stitch in her side and nodded.
“Give me a minute to change.”
Panic gripped her again—she had to get in his room. “Um, Eric!”
He turned back, the hint of a smile still hovering. “Yes?”
“About that question I was going to ask.”
“Yes?”
Desperate, she looked both directions, then lowered her voice. “Well, it’s kind of personal.”
“In that case, please come in.”
As expected, he unlocked the door and gestured for her to precede him into the room. Her heart pounded at the compromising situation in which she’d managed to land herself—again. She scanned the carpet in the entranceway for her scarf, but found nothing. The darn thing had to be in the bathroom.
“Would you like a drink?” he asked.
“Um, no, I have to go to the bathroom,” she blurted. Then she added, “to freshen up.”
He blinked. “Be my guest.”
She fled to the bathroom and closed the door behind her. Cindy glanced at her reflection, then closed her eyes. Bizarre hair and even more bizarre behavior. What must he think of her? She hurriedly searched the room, then found her scarf—surprise, surprise—in the bathtub. After tying the scrap of yellow silk around her neck in a secure knot, she fluffed her hair, brushed her teeth with her finger, then washed her hands.
12 Stocking Stuffers Page 55
