He stepped back and swept his arm inside the room. “This is your hotel. I’ll wait here.”
“I’ll just be a moment,” she murmured. As he held open the door, she slid past him, their bodies so close she could see the threads on the buttons of his starched white shirt. The proximity set what hair she had left on end.
Keeping her eyes averted from Mr. Quinn’s personal belongings, she stepped over his barge-sized dress shoes in the doorway of the bathroom, squashing down her instantaneous thought of the anatomical implications. She also ignored the masculine scents of soap and aftershave as she turned on the cold-water faucet and grabbed a washcloth.
Glancing into the mirror was a mistake—her hair looked straight out of the seventies and her makeup needed more than a touch-up. Cindy groaned, then gasped when the water hit her fingers. What an idiot I am.
She applied pressure with a white washcloth and looked toward the bedroom. The door he held open cast light into the room from the hallway, sending his long shadow across the carpet. No doubt he was belly-laughing at what must seem like her talent for self-destruction.
Cindy removed the washcloth, relieved the bleeding had slowed.
“You’ll find a couple of bandages in my toiletry bag,” he called out, and for the first time she noticed a slight Southern accent. “It’s on the back of the door. Help yourself.”
She hesitated to go through his personal belongings, but then told herself she was being ridiculous over a couple of lousy bandages. Cindy stepped back and closed the bathroom door, immediately smelling the soft leather of Mr. Quinn’s black toiletry bag. Her hand stopped in midair at the sight of pale blue silk pajama pants barely visible behind the large hanging bag. A picture of the handsome Mr. Quinn in his lounge wear zoomed to mind and the urge to run overwhelmed her.
With jerky hands, she unzipped the left side of the toiletry bag, but to her dismay, a barrage of small foil packets rained down on her sensible pumps. Condoms. At least a dozen in all varieties—colored, textured, flavored.
Oh, good Lord. Cindy dropped to her knees and snatched up the condoms, then stood and crammed them back into the pocket, knocking down Mr. Quinn’s pajama pants in the process. Dammit. She yanked up the flimsy pants, remembering too late the cuts on her hand. And silk was nothing if not absorbent. Cindy watched in abject horror as the pale fabric soaked up her blood. She dropped the garment as if it were on fire.
“Are you all right in there?” he called.
Cindy nearly swallowed her tongue. “Y-yes.”
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
Her heart thrashing, Cindy tore open the right zippered pocket of the toiletry bag and fished out the bandages amongst shaving cream, shampoo and toothpaste. “Got them!” she called. Quickly she rewashed her fingers and slapped on the bandages despite the tremor of her hands. Finally, she turned and carefully picked up the silk pants to assess the damage.
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
