12 Stocking Stuffers

by Beverly Barton

  When she could stall no longer, Cindy opened the door. With a deep, calming breath, she walked down the short hall to the opening into Eric’s bedroom. She wasn’t sure what to expect—candles, Eric reclining on the bed in a smoking jacket?—but she felt vague disappointment to find every light blazing, from the corner lamps to the night-light in the electrical outlet, and Eric standing across the room looking out the window.

  Gazing at the illuminated city of San Francisco, even more spectacular than usual due to added holiday lights, Eric mulled the unfolding situation. Of all the women in the world, why did he have to be attracted to one who not only ran a hotel, but a hotel he had been sent to terminate? And even though she said she was open-minded about the conflicts that could arise, Eric wasn’t as comfortable. In fact, he was beginning to wonder if he was drawn to the woman simply because he knew deep down that she wasn’t accessible. Or if she was drawn to him out of some conscious or unconscious desire to influence his decision in the coming weeks? He’d been approached before by comely employees who were under the microscope of a corporate review.

  He heard a movement and turned his head to see her standing in the entrance to his room, looking nothing like a woman hell-bent on seducing or being seduced. As a matter of fact, she looked a little scared.

  “Nice view,” he said, nodding toward the vista.

  “Mmm-hmm. If you have a chance before you leave, go up to the roof at night. Just phone the concierge desk and they’ll buzz you through the security door.”

  “I’ll do that. You put your scarf on,” he noted with approval.

  “Um, yes, I did.” She fussed with the ends. “Well, Eric, if you’ll give me your shirt, I’ll be on my way.”

  Maybe she’d lost her nerve, or maybe she was waiting for him to make the first move. His body screamed yes, peel off her uniform and find out if she loved with as much energy as she lived. But a sexual encounter had never taken priority over doing a job to the best of his ability, so he simply unbuttoned his shirt quickly, smiling when she turned to scrutinize an unremarkable painting on the wall. Shrugging out of the ruined shirt, Eric walked toward her, glad for his father’s advice to always wear a T-shirt underneath a dress shirt. “Here you go.”

  Visibly relieved to see his torso covered, she reached for the garment. “I’ll get a replacement as soon as possible.”

  He inclined his head, realizing the futility of arguing. Their fingers brushed and desire surged through his chest. “Cindy.”

  She felt it too, the chemistry. He could tell by the confusion in her green-gray eyes. “Yes?”

  He imagined himself pulling her against his chest, capturing her mouth with his, and then to his astonishment, he realized he wasn’t imagining it. He tasted her breath, her lips, her tongue. Her hands curled, then splayed against his sides, her breath escaping in little sighs. Eric drank the wine that lingered in the depths of her mouth while resisting the urge to fill his hands with her body. Instead, he smoothed back her hair and tilted her face to allow him greater access. His body swelled with longing to crush her closer, but the fierce response was uncommon enough to deliver a dose of reality. Eric lifted his head and released her, attempting to check his raspy breathing.

  She took a half step back, biting her swollen lips.

  “I didn’t mean for that to happen,” he said lamely, bending to retrieve the shirt lying at their feet. “But since I’ve been fighting my attraction to you all day, I can’t truthfully say I’m sorry.”

  “Fighting?” she asked softly. “Are you married?”

  He shook his head, laughing. “Oh, no, I’m not married, or engaged.” Then he sobered and ran his hand through his hair. “But I still have reservations about us becoming, er, involved, because of my job.”

  Cindy retrieved the shirt from his hand and studied the blackened sleeve for a few seconds, then she lifted her gaze. “I can get past it if you can.”

  Eric caught his breath at the sensation her words evoked. He’d never lacked for female company, but he couldn’t remember being more satisfied to realize a woman found him attractive. So, while his mind warned that he was about to embark on a path of potential destruction, his mouth said, “Perhaps we could have dinner tomorrow night.”

  She laughed—not quite the answer he’d hoped for.

  “Eric, the question I’ve been trying to ask you all evening is whether you’d like to escort me to our employee Christmas party tomorrow night.”

  Ridiculously pleased, he remained wary. “Have you told your employees why I’m here? I’d hate to get nasty rumors started about the boss.”

  She angled her head at him. “Right now I don’t see a need to share this kind of information with my subordinates.”

  “And if it comes up?”

  Cindy shrugged. “Tell the truth and let everyone deal with it.”

  The party, he reasoned, would be a great chance to see her interact with her staff informally—not to mention an opportunity to see how money was spent on after-hours activities. “Sounds great. Black tie?”

  She nodded. “Donte’s tuxedo shop is just a couple of blocks over, but I insist on paying for it. It’s the least I can do.” She moved toward the door and he followed.

  “Well, thank you anyway, but I travel with my own tux.”

  She stopped, her hand on the doorknob. “Oh.”

  “What time is the party?”

  “Eight o’clock until midnight in the lounge.”

  He smiled, despite the warnings going off in his head. “I’ll knock on your door at fifteen of.”

  “A BODY WAVE?” Cindy asked, staring in the mirror. “Are you sure?”

  “Sure as shootin’,” Camelia, the new hairdresser, said, her animated nod sending her high ponytail whirling around like a ceiling fan. “There are only two ways to add volume to thin, straight hair like yours. One is to layer it, and it looks like you’ve already been down that road. Number two is a perm. You’re a prime candidate for Miss Fern’s Permanent Wave with Aloe, fifteen to eighteen minutes, I’d guess.”

  Cindy brightened. “It’ll take less than twenty minutes?”

  “Heck, it’ll take me an hour to roll this mess, but after that, it’ll be a breeze.”

  Cindy glanced over at Jerry who was shaving a gentleman in the other chair, but the barber kept his head down. “But what will it look like?” she asked the hairdresser.

  “Nice and full,” Camelia assured her. “Big, loose curls—it’ll be darling, just you wait and see.”

  “I’ve always wanted curly hair,” Cindy admitted, then smiled. “And I have a party to go to tonight, so I want my hair to look nice.”

  “They won’t be looking at anyone else,” the lady assured her. “Let’s get started.”

  Cindy suffered through agonizing tugging on her hair as the zealous Camelia rolled the small sections tight enough to draw up the corners of her mouth.

  She studied her hollowed eyes in the mirror, trying to recall when she had looked worse. The sleepless night she’d had after yesterday’s numerous fiascos was reflected plainly on her face. Not to mention the thoughts of Eric Quinn that had haunted her all night.

  She’d risen with that sick feeling in her stomach she first experienced during puberty when the cutest boy in school winked at her in algebra class. The stress of wondering what to do next paralyzed her. Oh, during high school she’d managed to shuffle a few steps further, and in college she’d stumbled over the edge, but the nagging refrain—“Is this it?”—always came back to haunt her.

  Much as she lusted after Eric Quinn, she had the vague sensation she was setting herself up for a huge letdown. Even though she hated to admit it, his line of work did bother her, the eroticism notwithstanding. Her mother’s head, of course, would explode before her very eyes if she found out. And Christmas was the worst time of the year for launching a new relationship.

  “Almost ready for the solution,” Camelia sang. Cindy endured the eye-stinging pain of the last too-tight curler
, and smiled as Camelia squirted the pungent-smelling liquid across the helmet of rollers. “We’ll let it soak in and I’ll check the curl in a few minutes.”

  The peal of Cindy’s beeper sounded and she punched a button on her radio. “This is Cindy.”

  “Hey, it’s Amy—can you come up to the lobby?”

  Cindy glanced in the mirror. “I’m a little indisposed at the moment. Is this an emergency?”

  The rooms director’s voice floated to her in a scratchy whisper. “That annoying Mr. Stark is here swearing there’s a rat in his room. He insists on seeing the general manager.”

  Cindy rolled her eyes heavenward. “Take him to the break room and get him a cup of coffee—decaffeinated. I’ll be right there.” She turned and smiled apologetically at the hairdresser. “Can you wrap a towel around my head or something? I’m needed in the lobby.”

  Camelia frowned, unfolding a bright green towel. “You can’t be gone too long, now, you hear?”

  “Ten minutes, tops,” Cindy promised.

  She trotted to the lobby, one hand on the towel and her eyes on her feet, hoping to get through unnoticed. A split second later, she collided with a large body and landed on her rump, sliding three feet on the marble floor before coming to a halt. She instantly recognized the feet and bit back a curse. At least the towel remained intact, but she couldn’t imagine how silly she looked to Eric—this time.

  “Good morning,” he said, the laughter clear in his voice.

  “Morning,” she mumbled, refusing to look up.

  “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, causing the curlers to rattle beneath the towel.

  “I’m sorry, Cindy, I didn’t see you coming, although now I can’t imagine why.”

  “Everyone’s a comedian.”

  He squatted down and angled his head until their eyes were on a level plane. “Would you like a hand?”

  The man was just plain gorgeous. “A round of applause is exactly what I had in mind,” she said miserably.

  Eric laughed and her sick stomach flipped over. “Here.” He reached for her hand and she reluctantly accepted his warm grasp, allowing herself to be pulled to her feet. Devastating in gray slacks and a plum dress shirt, he surveyed her turban. “Is this a West Coast thing?”

  “I was interrupted in the salon,” she explained, thinking the green towel was the perfect complement to her undoubtedly scarlet face.

  “Then I guess I’d better let you go,” he said merrily. “We’re still on for tonight?”

  “You mean you still want to?” she asked wryly.

  “See you then, swami.”

  Well, at least the man had seen her at her worst—she hoped. Cindy rushed to the break room to find Amy fussing over a scowling Mr. Stark. She stepped forward, wondering how many times her name already appeared on his reports. “Mr. Stark, I’m Cindy Warren, the general manager.”

  “We’ve met twice before, Ms. Warren,” he said with agitation. “I’m not senile.”

  She swallowed a retort while Amy escaped without a backward glance. “My apologies, Mr. Stark. Of course you aren’t. Amy told me you saw a, um, rodent in your room?”

  “It was a rat.” He straightened his conservative burgundy tie. “What’s wrong with your head?”

  Her cheeks warmed. “I was in the salon, sir.”

  The man’s bushy gray eyebrows rose. “You were having your hair done while on duty?”

  Cindy squirmed. “I’m almost always on duty, sir. I rarely leave the hotel, so I work in personal services when I can.”

  “You look like the rest of those fruitcakes walking around here in costume. What kind of freak show are you running?”

  She bit the inside of her cheek to calm herself. He was testing her again. “I’m sorry if any of our guests make you uncomfortable, sir, but I assure you, their role-playing is a harmless hobby.” She inhaled deeply. “Now, about the um, animal you saw in your room. I’ll send someone from maintenance immediately, and I apologize profusely for the incident.”

  His chin jutted out. “I think I’m entitled to some kind of compensation for my ordeal.”

  Cindy maintained her friendly smile. “I agree, Mr. Stark. I’ll instruct the front desk to deduct one night’s stay from your bill. I hope this incident doesn’t ruin your visit with us.”

  He harrumphed and, jamming a hat on his head, strode toward the door. “The prune Danish this morning already did that.”

  Cindy winced as she realized she’d forgotten to change his breakfast order. Then, remembering her hair, she sprinted back to the salon, where Camelia stood tapping her foot. “You’re ten minutes late.”

  Cindy dropped into the chair. “Is my hair ruined?”

  “Let me check—the curl isn’t permanent until I put on the neutralizer.”

  The woman unrolled a curler and to Cindy’s delight, the lock of hair sprang back to her head in a spirally curl. She threw Jerry a triumphant smirk in the mirror. He simply shook his head.

  Camelia frowned. “The curl’s a little tight.”

  But to Cindy, who’d never had curly hair, there was no such thing. “I love it!”

  “Okay,” the woman said, breaking open the bottle of neutralizing solution. “Curly it is.”

  WHEN SHE OPENED THE DOOR, Manny only stared. “Oh…my…God.”

  Her worst fears were confirmed. “It’s horrible, isn’t it?”

  He reached to touch it, then pulled back. “It’s like that awful wig Jan Brady wore when she wanted to be different.”

  “Except it’s orange!”

  He looked sympathetic. “It does appear that the permanent leached the color a bit.”

  She burst into tears. “What am I going to do?”

  Manny put his arm around her and walked her toward the dressing table. “There, there, it’s not that bad. What happened?”

  “I got a perm,” she wailed. “Then I had to handle a problem and the solution stayed on too long.”

  “What did Jerry say?”

  “He isn’t speaking to me.” She dropped onto the padded stool and tearfully glanced in the mirror at her friend standing behind her.

  He reached into her brassy, stiff hair tentatively. “Good grief, Jimmy Hoffa could be in here.” His nose wrinkled. “And pew.”

  “I didn’t know it was going to smell so bad, either,” she moaned.

  “Better stay away from open flames tonight, or you’ll spontaneously combust.”

  She sniffed. “I take it you heard about the little incident in the restaurant last night.”

  “I caught it on Joel-SPAN this morning.”

  “I toasted Eric Quinn’s shirt.”

  He tisk-tisked. “Cindy, I know you want to see this guy naked, but don’t you think destroying his wardrobe one garment at a time is a little too obvious?”

  She scoffed. “Who says I want to see him naked?”

  “Okay, maybe I’m projecting, but you do seem to lose control when he’s around.”

  She stuck out her lower lip. “You’re supposed to make me feel better.”

  He gestured wildly to her eight-inch-high hair. “You’re not giving me much to work with here.”

  Cindy brightened a smidgen. “Well, at least I have a date for the Christmas party.” Then her shoulders drooped. “Of course that was before the perm.”

  “Ah, but after the fire,” Manny pointed out. “So at least we know he doesn’t scare easily. Just in case, better wear the Donna Karan.”

  “You think? The slit’s a little high.”

  “With this hair, you’d better rip it another six inches.”

  “Is there any hope?”

  He clucked and tried to get his hands around the mass. “You can gel it for a wet look this evening, but for now we’ll have to strap it down. Where’s your scarf?”

  Cindy opened the top drawer and handed him the Chanel scarf. “Remind me to tell you that story later. Look at this mess—as if I didn’t have enough to worry about today.”


  “Problems?”

  “Did you hear that Mr. Stark-Stanton reported a rat in his room?”

  “Any truth to it?”

  “Maintenance found some half-eaten food under the heat register, but no rat.”

  “He could have planted the vittles.”

  “Exactly. I’m getting tired of these little tests.” She sighed. “And engineering said the nursery bumped us down on the list for Christmas trees. At this rate, we might get one by New Year’s.”

  Manny jammed his hands on his hips. “Can I use your phone, dear?”

  She pointed into the bedroom. “The handset isn’t working in here, but try the one on my nightstand.”

  “Back in a jiff.”

  While he was gone, Cindy wrapped her scarf around her head in different configurations. After a few minutes, she admitted defeat and considered wearing the scarf as a veil so that no one would recognize her.

  Manny returned with a satisfied look on his face. “The tree will be here in an hour.”

  Cindy gaped. “How did you do that?”

  Shrugging, he said, “Connections. I simply called the nursery, dropped a few names and told them if they didn’t deliver a fabulous tree today, I’d sic the gay Mafia on them.” He snapped his long fingers. “They’d never get flowers wholesale in this town again.”

  She grinned. “Manny, where would I be without you?”

  He emitted a long-suffering grunt. “In Glamour magazine with a black strip across your eyes and a big ‘Don’t’ by your picture.” Smoothing her hair back from her face, he fastened the mop into a fat ponytail, then reached for the scarf. “So tell me about this Quinn fellow who has you whipped into such a lather.”

  Injecting as much innocence into her voice as possible, she said, “He’s a salesman.”

  “So you said. What kind?”

  “Hmm?”

  He sighed, exasperated. “What kind of salesman?”

  Cindy decided to confess, since Manny would find out anyway. She cleared her throat. “Adult entertainment articles.”