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shook her head, smiling wryly. “Just let the staff know they need to be on their toes around our grumpy Mr. Stark.”

      Amy snapped her fingers. “Why don’t you invite him to the Christmas party tomorrow night?”

      She stared. “Are you insane?”

      “Why not? Show him a good time.”

      “Let him see the staff at their most drunken, uninhibited selves?”

      “Oh.” Amy frowned. “You have a point, but you also need a date.”

      “Well, it won’t be the man who has come to make mincemeat out of us,” she insisted. “Besides, I don’t mind playing nicey-nicey, but I certainly don’t want the staff thinking I’m kissing up to this man to save my own job.”

      “You’re right,” Amy said, scratching at her neck. “I’d better get back to the desk.”

      “See you later.” Sighing, Cindy jogged down the stairs to the basement in the unlikely event her scarf had escaped the moving parts of the shaft and had somehow floated out intact onto the floor. Nothing. Her mother’s gift was probably wrapped around some critical gear, damaging the working parts of the elevator even as she stood wringing her hands.

      She glanced at her watch. Three o’clock—Manny should be back within the next hour. Then she’d easily be able to replace the pajamas while Eric Quinn worked out in the health club, a vision that conjured up a sweat on her own body. Cindy called engineering again about a Christmas tree, but the nursery had not yet located a candidate.

      She dropped by the crowded Trekkie trade show and skimmed the many rows of tables to make sure the spring show’s bestseller, a stun gun capable of administering a dizzying shock, was nowhere to be found. The public swarmed over the trading card tables. Costumes and masks were also enjoying a brisk trade. All in all, the show had successfully attracted a sizable family crowd.

      Cindy fast-forwarded to next week’s adult toy show. Picturing Eric Quinn surrounded by erotic paraphernalia was enough to convince her to skip that particular exhibition.

      At seven o’clock, still without a word from Manny, Cindy decided to have dinner while she waited. She descended the service stairs to the restaurant and walked through the kitchen to say hello to the staff. After a few minutes of small talk with the chef, she chose a bad table near the rest rooms and slipped off her shoes. What a day.

      “Surely you don’t intend to eat alone,” Eric Quinn said behind her.

      She turned to see him seated at a table a few feet away, half hidden by a silk tree. Her pulse picked up. “I don’t mind.”

      “It’s kind of silly for both of us to dine alone, don’t you think?” His voice was empty of innuendo. “May I join you, Ms. Warren?”

      Say yes, she told herself. He was simply a nice sex-toy salesman, looking for light dinner conversation. Besides, this way she’d be able to keep track of him until Manny paged her. “Please.” He stood and carried his wineglass to her table, then gave her a tired little smile. She nodded toward the vacant chair across from her. “And call me Cindy.”

      “All right, Cindy.” He had changed into casual brown slacks and a pale blue button-down. He settled into the chair with athletic grace, his movements triggering an awareness in her limbs.

      “What do you recommend?” he asked.

      A married girlfriend had once diagrammed a position she’d always wanted to try on a napkin. “The rib eye,” Cindy said, her heart thumping wildly. Not that she hadn’t had her chances with men.

      He nodded. “Rib eye is what the concierge suggested.”

      “You talked to Manny?” It was just that none of those guys she dated had particularly lit her fire.

      “Yeah—seems like a nice fellow.”

      “He’s my right-hand man.” Oh, the restaurateur from Oakland showed the spark of a promise, but she’d been mired in hotel problems at the time and…oh, well.

      “Good help is hard to find,” he agreed.

      “Especially in the hospitality industry.” But this man—this man was one big mass of flammable substance.

      “Cindy, before we go any further,” he said, his eyes merry, “there’s something we need to discuss.”

      A sense of doom flooded her. He knew about the pajamas. He’d discovered them missing and deduced that she’d taken them. “Wh-what do you mean?” she asked, reaching for her water glass.

      His smile sent a chill up her spine. “I mean a certain piece of clothing.”

      She gulped down a mouthful of water, choking in her haste, her mind racing. “Oh, that. Well, I can explain—”

      “It’s not necessary,” he said, shaking his head, his smile never wavering. “You were a little embarrassed—I understand.”

      “Um, yes, I was, but—”

      “Actually, I think your little mishaps are funny.”

      Irritated, Cindy squirmed. “I’m glad, but—”

      “And I hope you don’t mind that I consulted the cleaners around the corner,” he said, reaching inside his jacket.

      “Well, as a matter of fact,” she said, “I’ve already made arrangements for a replacement, so you don’t have to worry about the bloodstain.” Then she stopped. Cleaners? He knew the pants were gone, but how would he know about a stain?

      He frowned as he withdrew a small paper bag. “Bloodstain? You were injured when your scarf came off?”

      “My scarf?” she croaked.

      “Yes, your scarf.” Laughing, he withdrew her yellow Chanel scarf, folded neatly. “What did you think I was talking about?”

      “I thought you were talking about…my scarf, of course,” she replied lamely. “The cuts on my hand—I was afraid I had gotten blood on my scarf when I tried to grab it.”

      “I was able to pull it inside the elevator,” he explained. “But the silk was soiled, so I thought I’d have it cleaned for you.” He smiled again. “I had to drop off a few shirts anyway—I hope you don’t think it was too forward.”

      Not when I have your PJs. “Not at all,” she said. “Thank you. This was a gift from my mother.”

      “Ah. And where is she?”

      “Virginia. Along with my father and older brother.”

      He blinked. “Really? I’m from Virginia, too.”

      Her surprise was interrupted by the sound of her beeper. “I’m sorry, I’m still on call.” She glanced at the number, then withdrew a small radio from her pocket and punched a button. “Yes, Amy?”

      “Sorry to bother you, Cindy, but our special guest in room 620 is complaining about the room temperature.”

      Suspecting Mr. Stark was still testing them, Cindy asked, “Too hot or too cold?”

      “Too hot.”

      “Check the air-conditioning personally, Amy. And take a fan with you just in case.”

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