Naughty or Nice?. Stephanie Bond

is a popular woman,” Eric observed.

      “She’s a good woman,” Jerry amended. “But stubborn.” He shook his head. “Stubborn as the day is long.”

      “She’s not a good manager?”

      “She’s the best. But a big company bought this place a couple of years ago and has been trying to change it ever since. Ms. Cindy is wearing herself out digging in her heels.”

      Eric kept his voice light. “There’s always room for improved efficiency.”

      “People don’t come to the Chandelier House for efficiency, Mr. Quinn. You can go down the street and get a bigger room with a better view for less money.”

      “So why come here at all?”

      The man laughed and nodded toward the Trekkies. “We’re oddballs, Mr. Quinn, and we cater to oddballs. It’s a profitable niche, but Ms. Cindy can’t get anyone up the ladder to listen to her.”

      “She confides in you?”

      “Nope.” Jerry grinned. “But I know this hotel—been here thirty years, and I know women—been married three times.”

      “The last one is a dubious credential,” Eric noted, taking another drink from his glass.

      “Women are the most blessed gift the good Lord put on this earth,” the old man said with a ring of satisfaction. “Ever been to the altar, son?”

      A short laugh escaped Eric. “No.”

      Jerry nodded knowingly. “But Ms. Cindy’s interesting, isn’t she? An attractive woman.”

      Eric frowned, alarmed that his interest was apparently so easy to spot. He needed to find a way to spend time with Cindy Warren, but he didn’t want it interpreted as a come-on. “I barely know her.”

      Jerry sucked deeply on the cigar, then blew out the smoke in little puffs. “Oh, yeah, you like her all right.”

      Feeling warm with a mixture of annoyance and embarrassment, Eric finished his drink. “No comment.”

      “Mmm-hmm. Got it bad.” He laughed, a low, hoarse rumble. “How long you planning to stay in San Francisco?”

      A bit rankled, Eric shrugged. “My business will be over in a few days, but I’m thinking about hanging around through New Year’s. Maybe visit the wine country.”

      Jerry studied the burning end of his cigar. “Spending Christmas alone, are you? No family?”

      Eric considered lying, then decided the truth was just as simple. “My father and I aren’t very close since my mother’s passing a few years ago. My younger sister will be with him for the holidays.”

      “You and your sister don’t get along either?” Instead of judgmental, Jerry sounded only curious.

      “No, that’s not it. Alicia is quite a bit younger than I am, and she has her own family.”

      The barber looked sympathetic. “Still, kinfolk should stick together, especially at this time of year.”

      Eric shifted on the stool, struck by a pang of longing for Christmases of his childhood. Popcorn garlands on a live tree, homemade cream candy and his father playing the piano. But Gomas Stanton had grown taciturn after his wife died, until finally Eric couldn’t bear to spend holidays at home, God help him.

      If this holiday turned out like the last few, Eric would call his father on Christmas Eve, only to be subjected to a diatribe about how Eric’s work contributed to the fall of American capitalism. A master glassblower who had worked in a union factory for thirty-three years, his father believed a man’s contribution to the world came from a hard day’s work to produce a tangible good, something that could be bought and sold and owned. Eric’s chosen field, business consulting, was a mystery to him. “People like you are doing away with mom-and-pop enterprises—the kind of businesses and people who built this country,” his father had once said. And then there was the music, always the music.

      The more Eric thought about it, the better Christmas right here on the West Coast sounded. Especially if he could manage to maintain an amicable relation with one Cindy Warren. Some GMs stayed close to their hotels for Christmas. Perhaps they could ring in the New Year together. He smiled wryly. If the accident-prone woman lived that long.

      “Course, you’ll feel different about Christmas when you settle down with a lady,” Jerry pressed on, blowing a slow stream of smoke straight up in the air. “Love’s got a way of makin’ holidays special, yessir.”

      Eric laughed. “There’s no danger of me falling in love, my man, Christmas or no.”

      The man squinted at him. “Famous last words. I saw you two this morning, bouncing off each other like a couple of magnets turned the wrong way. I’m old, but I ain’t blind.”

      Shaking his head, Eric set his glass on the counter and pushed away from the bar. “You’re imagining things, Jer.” He stood and gave the man a curt nod. “But thanks for the company anyway.”

      “You’d better watch your step around her,” Jerry warned without looking up.

      “Don’t worry,” Eric said dryly. “I’m not going to give Tony a reason to violate parole.”

      Jerry laughed. “Mr. Quinn, don’t you know a pretty woman is ten times more dangerous than a hardened criminal?” He took a last puff on his cigar, then set it down with finality. “You’re a goner, son. Merry Christmas.”

      3

      “SO, WHO’S THE LUCKY GUY?” Manny asked as he rolled a section of Cindy’s hair with a fat curling iron.

      Concentrating on his technique for later reference, she glanced at him in the mirror of her dressing table. “Lucky guy?”

      “Amy told me you had a hot date for the party tomorrow night—who is he?”

      “Is nothing sacred in this hotel?”

      “I think we still have a bottle of holy water from a baptismal lying around somewhere.”

      She sighed. “I don’t have a date…yet.”

      “I can make a few calls.”

      “He has to be straight.”

      Indignant, Manny scoffed. “I know some straight guys—two, in fact.” Then he frowned. “Oh, but they’re married, and one is Joel.”

      Cindy sniffed. “I smell smoke.”

      Manny jumped and released the lock of hair, which fell limply back in place, perhaps straighter than before. “No harm done,” he assured her, then clucked. “Your hair is thin.”

      “Thanks.” She lifted her bandaged hand. “Would you like to pour alcohol on my cuts, too?”

      “What the heck did you do to your hand, anyway?”

      Cindy hesitated. “I’ll tell you later. Maybe. Fix my hair—and hurry.”

      “The hairdresser should have known better than to give you all these layers,” he grumbled.

      “I told her to.”

      “Then she should have exercised her right to a professional veto.”

      “Maybe you should be our new stylist.”

      “Cindy, contrary to popular belief, all gay men cannot cut hair and we don’t have track lighting in our refrigerators.”

      “So tell me again why I’m submitting to your ministrations.”

      Manny shrugged. “I’m simply trying to make the best of this tragedy.” He released another dark lock of hair that stubbornly refused to curl. “But I’m failing miserably—your hair won’t even bend.”

      “Never