Naughty or Nice?

With ballooning irritation, Cindy scoffed and waved off the stranger’s opinion. “If men had their way, every woman would have hair down to her knees.”

The man steepled his fingers and glanced up at Jerry. “I would have said ankles. How about you, Jer?”

“Amen.”

“Ma’am,” Bea pleaded, “my arms are about to give out.”

Cindy raised her chin. “Cut it. This will be my early Christmas present to myself.”

“Punishment for being naughty?” the man asked Jerry.

“Punishment for being nice,” Jerry amended.

Fuming, Cindy nodded curtly to the hesitant hairdresser. “Do it.”

“Don’t do it,” the man said, his voice rich with impending doom.

“Whack it off,” Cindy said more forcefully. “Layers all over. Make me a new woman.”

The handsome man’s eyes cut to Jerry. “Is there something wrong with the old woman?”

Jerry pursed his lips. “She’s a little impulsive.”

Cindy set her jaw. “Let’s get this over with.”

Bea swallowed audibly. “I’ll leave the back shoulder length, ma’am.” The woman closed her eyes.

Alarm suddenly gripped Cindy. “Wait!” she cried just as the shears made a slicing sound. Bea opened her eyes and stared.

The man winced, and Jerry grunted painfully when the hairdresser held up more than a foot of severed dark tresses. As the remnants fell back to her shoulders, Cindy tried to squash her own rising panic and painted on a shaky smile, encouraging the new stylist to continue.

Maybe, she thought, keeping her gaze down and dabbing at perspiration along her neck, this woman would stay longer than the seven days their previous hairdressers had averaged. Cindy had urged her staff members to give the salon their patronage, and felt compelled to take the lead. But twenty minutes later, when Bea stood back to absorb the full effect of her latest creation in the mirror, Cindy understood why none of her employees used the unproved stylists.

“Good Lord,” Jerry muttered, shaking his head.

The man whistled low. “Too bad.”

“You hate it, don’t you?” Bea asked Cindy, her face crumbling.

“N-no,” Cindy rushed to assure her. She lifted a hand, but couldn’t bring herself to touch the choppy, lank layers that hugged her head like a long knit cap. “It’ll just take some getting used to, that’s all.” She inhaled and smiled brightly.

“Think he’ll be impressed?” the man asked Jerry, doubt clear in his voice.

“If he can get past the hair,” Jerry said, nodding.

“Do you two mind?” Cindy snapped, feeling a flush scald her cheeks. She tugged the cape off her shoulders and stood, brushing the sleeves of her blouse. Jerry, she could overlook. But this, this…arrogant guest was tap-dancing on her holiday-frazzled nerves.

The infuriating man stood as well, and in her haste to leave, Cindy slipped on a pile of her own hair and skidded across the marble floor, flailing her arms and legs like a windup toy. He halted her imminent fall with one large hand, his fingers curving around her arm. Cindy jerked upright to stare into his dancing blue eyes, then pulled away from his grasp. “Th-thank you,” she murmured, her face burning.

“The haircut must have thrown off your balance,” he observed with a half smile.

Feeling like a complete idiot, Cindy retrieved her green uniform jacket and withdrew a generous tip for the distraught Bea, then strode toward the exit. Her skin tingled with humiliation and her scalp felt drafty, but she refused to crumble. She simply had too much on her mind to dwell on the embarrassing episode with the attractive stranger—the upcoming review, going home for Christmas and now her hair.

Cindy squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. No matter. After all, the unsettling man was simply passing through. And Manny would know what to do with her hair.

“OH, MY,” Manny said when she walked within earshot of the concierge desk. “Cindy, tell me that’s a wig.”

Cindy smiled weakly at her blond friend. “It’s a wig.”

“Liar,” he said smoothly, then emerged from behind his desk to touch her hair, a pained expression on his handsome face.

Hiring Manny Oliver as concierge over a year ago had been one of Cindy’s greatest achievements in her four years managing the Chandelier House. Next to most of the oddball staff members she had inherited, Manny was a breath of fresh air: good-looking, polite, helpful and witty. A true friend, and he could cook. Cindy sighed. Why were all the good ones gay?

“Don’t tell me,” he said, stroking her head as if she were a pet. “You’ve been to see Bea the Butcher.”

“You know about her?”

“I arranged a free dinner to console a lady she hacked yesterday.”

Cindy felt like crying. “Now you tell me.”

“You know I don’t bother you with details. What were you thinking to cut your beautiful hair?”

“I was trying to drum up confidence in the salon among the staff.”

“Now you’re a walking billboard, all right.”

She grimaced. “So can my hair be saved?”

He smiled. “Sure. There’s this great little hat shop down on Knob Hill—”

“Manny!”

“Shh, I get off at one. I’ll meet you in your suite,” he promised. “If you get there first, plug in your curling iron.”

Cindy frowned. “Curling iron?”

Manny pursed his lips and shook his head. “Never mind—I’ll bring the tools.”

She lowered her voice and scanned the lobby. “So, have you seen anyone who looks like they might be undercover?”

He leaned forward and whispered, “Not a trench coat in sight.” When she smirked, he added, “What makes you think this Stanton fellow is going to come early to spy on us?”

“Because I would.”

“It would be nice if we knew what he looked like.”

“My guess is he’s in his fifties, probably white—although I can’t be sure—and walking funny because he’s got his shorts in a knot.” She leaned close. “And he might be in disguise. So be on the lookout for someone we’d least suspect to be on a corporate mission.”