Manny declared, scrutinizing the label. “It’s a men’s boutique in Pacific Heights that carries this brand.”
Cindy brightened. “Really?”
“Yeah. The man has expensive taste.”
She reached for her purse. “Manny, I don’t suppose you would—”
“Run to Beckwith’s and see if they have a duplicate?”
Steepling her hands, she said, “I’m officially begging you.”
Manny pressed his lips together and adopted a dreamy expression. “Well, I have a few errands to run first, but there is this tie in their window I’ve had my eye on.”
“It’s yours!” she exclaimed, handing over her gold credit card. “But I need those pajama pants before dinner.”
“Now there’s a sentence you don’t hear every day.”
“And—” she lifted a finger in warning. “Not a word of this outside these walls.”
His mouth twitched. “Didn’t you know that concierge is French for ‘keeper of dirty little secrets’?” He stuffed the pants into the toiletry bag, along with the curling iron. “By the way, Amy said to stop by the front desk—she might have a line on our undercover Mr. Stanton.”
Cindy perked up. “No kidding?”
“She wouldn’t tell me a thing. She said she’d only talk to you.”
They rode the elevator to the lobby together, then separated after Manny promised to page her as soon as he returned “with the goods.” Cindy started feeling shaky again as she approached the front desk—she’d hoped that at least the tree would be installed and all the holiday decorations completed before Stanton arrived.
Amy stood with her head back, placing drops in her eyes.
“Allergies?” Cindy asked.
Blinking rapidly, Amy nodded toward the wall behind her. “I think it’s the evergreen wreaths.”
“Christmas is a lousy time of the year to be allergic to evergreen,” Cindy noted.
“It’s almost as bad as Valentine’s Day.”
“Are you allergic to chocolate, too?”
The rooms director frowned. “No, penicillin.”
Cindy squinted. “How does penicillin—never mind.” She leaned close and lowered her voice. “Manny said you might have spotted Stanton posing as a guest?”
“I think so,” Amy reached into her jacket pocket and withdrew a slip of paper. “Here’s his room number—you might want to check it out yourself.”
After reading the scribbling, Cindy gasped. “I spoke to this man about a room change this morning. Why do you suspect he’s Stanton?”
Amy sniffed, then dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “Besides the name similarity and the fact that he’s alone, he’s been all over the hotel asking questions about the furniture and making notes. Plus,” she lowered her voice, “he’s booked in his room through Christmas Eve and instead of using a credit card, he paid cash for his room deposit.”
Cindy nodded, the implications of the man’s identity spinning in her head. “Sounds like he could be our man. I think I’ll drop by his room again to say hello.”
“Um, boss.” Amy leaned over the counter and glanced at Cindy’s sensible navy skirt. “If you’re going to pay him a visit, show some leg, would you?”
Her mouth fell open. “Amy! Do you honestly think I’d resort to feminine wiles to influence the man’s decision?”
Amy looked at her for a full minute.
Cindy sighed, looked around, then opened her jacket to roll down the waistband of her skirt. “How much leg?”
CINDY SMILED BRIGHTLY as the door swung open to reveal the man still dressed in slacks, shirt and loosened tie. “Hello again, Mr. Stark.”
Holding the same pad of paper as earlier, the graying man’s eyes swam behind wavy lenses. “Yes?”
“I’m Cindy Warren, the general manager. I spoke to you this morning about changing rooms?”
“Oh, right,” he said tartly. “I don’t want a better view now since I’m already settled in.”
“Fine,” she said quickly, deciding not to mention they had already booked the room she’d offered him earlier. “I wanted to express our regret once again, and let you know if there’s anything we can do to make your stay more enjoyable, don’t hesitate to contact me or someone on my staff.”
“A couple of free meals would be nice,” he said bluntly.
She cleared her throat mildly. “I’ve already arranged for a complimentary breakfast to be delivered in the morning, sir.”
He glanced over the top of his glasses. “More than coffee and a doughnut, I hope?”
She bit her tongue. “Yes, sir. Enjoy your stay.”
After the door closed behind her, none too gently, she backed away and frowned. If that sour man had their fate in his hands, they were all in trouble. Waiting for the elevator, she got an unwanted view of her hair in the mirrored doors and groaned. When she remembered her foolish bet with Joel, she groaned again. The doors opened and she stepped inside, lost in thought.
“Hello,” a deep voice said.
She glanced up to find Eric Quinn smiling at her. For a few seconds, she could only absorb his good looks. She noticed a high dimple on his left cheek she’d missed before. He had changed into gray sweatpants, a loose white T-shirt and athletic shoes. She prayed he hadn’t yet missed his jammies.
“Uh-oh,” he said. “Problems?”
“No,” she assured him hurriedly, then smiled. “Well, no more than usual.”
“No more injuries, I hope.”
Her cheeks warmed. “No, no more injuries.” She cleared her throat, searching for a new topic. “How is your stay so far, Mr. Quinn?”
“Productive,” he said smoothly, glancing at her shortened skirt, his gaze lingering on her legs before making eye contact again. “And I’m Eric.”
Oh, those eyes. Her fingers tingled slightly—the clipboard had probably severed a few nerves. She scrutinized the numbers panel, trying to remember where she’d been headed. “What’s your line of work…Eric?”
“Sales.”
“What kind of sales?” she asked, for the sake of conversation.
“Oh, trinkets and…things.”
She
