One clear red imprint of her hand embellished the backside, as if she’d grabbed the man’s tush.
Cindy closed her eyes, her mind reeling. Why did things like this happen to her?
“Is everything okay in there?”
She leaned on the sink for support. Should I tell the man I found his stash of rubbers and fondled his pajamas? Then Cindy straightened. She could have the pants cleaned, then slip them back inside his room before tonight—Mr. Quinn would never know. Considerably cheered, she wadded the pants into a ball and shoved them down the back of her skirt. Thankfully, her jacket covered the lump.
Cindy took a deep breath and emerged from the bathroom, nearly faltering when she had to sidle past him again to reach the hall. “Thank you,” she said, as she retrieved the clipboard.
“No problem.”
At the sight of his devilish grin, Cindy remembered the man’s sexual preparedness and told herself he was a lady-killer to be avoided. Recalling her original errand, Cindy cleared her throat. “And I’m sorry about the room, Mr. Quinn. Of course you’re welcome to smoke in the hotel lounge.”
He shrugged. “Perhaps I’ll take this opportunity to rid myself of a nasty vice.”
Backing away on wobbly legs, Cindy nodded curtly. “Well, good luck.” Then she turned and fled, horrifically aware of the man’s pants jammed in her pantyhose.
ERIC STEPPED INTO THE HALL and watched her hurry away. He was at a loss to explain why he’d felt so compelled to tease the woman. In scant days Cindy Warren would see him in an entirely different light, and laying a friendly foundation wouldn’t hurt, he reasoned. He ignored the fact that such a gesture had never seemed necessary in past assignments. Perhaps the thought of her cutting her lovely hair to impress the hatchet man had made the difference.
From the reports concerning the Chandelier House, he had known the general manager was a woman, but nothing had prepared him for her youth or her beauty. Yet after observing her in the salon for only a short time, he understood why Cindy Warren held the top position in the grande dame hotel. She had fire in her beautiful green eyes and a firm set to her chin. And even with the haircut from hell, she was still pretty damn cute.
Eric stepped back into his room, pushing the stiff leather suspenders over his shoulders to fall loosely past his waist. Crossing to the antique desk where he’d abandoned a stack of paperwork, he reclaimed the surprisingly comfortable chair.
Using a pen with the hotel’s name on it, he jotted down notes about the room he’d received as an incognito business traveler. His head pivoted as he surveyed the space.
Although the wood furnishings were far from new, the bed, armoire and desk were charming and smelled pleasantly of lemon furniture polish. The bed linens were a restful combination of taupe checks and plaids, and the worn areas in the carpet had been cleverly concealed by attractive wool rugs. The electrical outlets worked and the spacious bathroom smelled fresh and sunny, although the Sweet Tarts on the pillow struck him as slightly odd.
He scribbled a few more notations, then stopped and dragged his hand over his face, picturing the determined set of Cindy Warren’s shoulders. Frustrated by the attraction he felt for her, he reminded himself of the danger of getting too involved with someone who might suffer from his assignment.
Craving a cigarette, he expelled a noisy breath, then reached for the phone and dialed out. After a few seconds, a familiar voice came on the line.
“Lancaster here.”
“Bill, this is Stanton. I just wanted to let you know I’m on-site.”
“Great. How’s the preliminary—is the place as nutty as we’ve been told?”
Eric fingered the package of Sweet Tarts. “Too early to tell.”
“Well, I spoke to our liaison from Harmon today. If you discover in the next few days that the Chandelier House doesn’t fit the future profile for a corporate property, we won’t even send in the rest of the team.”
Eric frowned. “I’m good, but that hardly seems fair.”
“Sounds like Harmon wants to get rid of this property.”
“If the numbers are that bad, why don’t they just dump it?”
“Because the numbers aren’t that bad. And some old cow on the board of directors has a soft spot for the place, so they need justification. We’re it.”
Eric leaned back in his chair. “Look, Bill, I came here to do a job and I’m not turning in a phony report. Plan on sending the team as scheduled. My reputation aside, there are people here to consider.”
His associate snorted. “People? I’m sorry, I thought I was talking to Eric Stanton. Are the holidays making you soft?”
Cindy Warren’s green-gray eyes flashed through his mind. “No—I guess I’m just tired.”
“Have you met the GM?”
“Yeah.” Oh, yeah.
“Is she on to you yet?”
Eric pinched the bridge of his nose. “Nope, she’s not on to me yet.” But she’s already under my skin.
2
CINDY TRIED TO ERASE Eric Quinn’s image from her mind as she approached the executive meeting room. If ever there was a time not to be distracted by an attractive guest, it was now, when the fate of her staff depended on her. Worry niggled the back of her mind. Working in the close confines of the hotel, co-workers rapidly became like family, and she felt responsible for their future.
In the two years since Harmon Hospitality had purchased the Chandelier House, she and her staff had received countless memos from the home office mandating changes that would force their beloved hotel to fit into a corporate mold. So far, she had resisted. Her employees had no concept of a corporate direction—at any given time, most of them had no idea which direction was up. Yet somehow jobs were done and guests were delighted enough to return time after time.
“Good morning, everyone,” she said, flashing a cheerful smile around the room as she walked to the head of the long table. Six directors and a handful of assorted managers chorused greetings and exchanged barbs while vying for a choice doughnut from the boxes being passed around.
The meeting room reeked of the mingling brews gurgling from appliances in the corner: regular coffee, cappuccino, sassafras tea and something scarlet dripping from the juicer. Cindy wrinkled her nose and refilled her cup with black coffee.
“New haircut, Cindy?” Joel Cutter, the food and beverage director, covered a smile by biting into a powdered doughnut.
Amidst the good-natured chuckling, Cindy threw him her most withering look, which didn’t faze him. A valued employee and personal friend, Joel oversaw the restaurant, the lounge and catering. Hot coffee sloshed over the edge of her happy-face mug as she set it on the table. She tucked herself into an upholstered chair, ignoring the unsettling lump at her back. “Pass the doughnuts. And thanks for the opening, Joel. We’ll begin with the hair salon. Amy?”
All eyes turned to the wincing rooms director, who was shaking white pills from one of the four bottles sitting on the table in front of her. She downed them with a drink of the scarlet liquid. “If it wasn’t for Jerry, I’d say turn the place into an ice-cream parlor. I talked the new stylist into staying through tomorrow, but after that, we’ll be shorthanded again.” Amy smiled sheepishly. “Jerry said she hasn’t stopped crying since you left, boss.” The room erupted into more laughter.
Cindy waved to quiet the melee. “Ha, ha, very funny. Seriously, what seems to be the problem with keeping a qualified stylist?”
Amy leaned forward. “Most hairdressers I’ve interviewed want to keep their skills sharp in areas other than simple cuts,