Club Cupid

Frankie tried to think positively—the alternative was too overwhelming. Her folks would be devastated if she were fired from her job. She stopped, stunned that her parents’ reaction would be uppermost in her mind. Inhaling deeply, she pursed her lips, recalling for perhaps the thousandth time the argument she and her parents had shared when she enrolled in her first semester of college.

“I won’t have it!” her father had shouted, shaking his finger at her. “You can study law, medicine, computers—anything except the restaurant business.”

They’d been working in the diner at the time, and her father had turned to several of his regular customers and expressed his disbelief. “Francis and I have worked in the restaurant for twenty years to send Frankie to the finest schools, and what does she want to do?” He’d thrown up his hands in disgust. “Run a lousy restaurant.”

The whole scene had been excruciatingly embarrassing, but her mother had stepped in to referee and they had all compromised…on computers. The high-paying corporate job she’d landed after graduation had always been a source of pride for her parents, and while she’d bought into the work ethic, the politics and the money of the position herself, she realized now that she’d made a success of the job for her parents, and in spite of herself.

She took another drag of the terrible cigarette and blew the smoke straight up in the air. Feeling sorry for herself was a waste of time—she excelled at her job and she enjoyed the daily challenges. She’d live through this so-called vacation and get back behind her desk where she belonged. As for the missing briefcase…well, she’d simply handle that problem one step at a time.

“Boo-hoo,” Tweety sang. “Boo-hoo.”

Frankie lifted her chin. “Speak for yourself, you big canary.”

“Nice ass,” he squawked, undaunted, then joined in the chorus of a Jimmy Buffett song booming over the speakers in the rafters.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror behind the bar and gasped. Dirty face, disheveled clothes—no wonder the guy took off. He was probably as wary of her appearance as she was of his. As she dabbed at her face with a napkin dipped in an abandoned glass of water, she smiled ruefully. No one seemed to notice when she had screamed for help earlier, and even in her current state, no one asked questions.

So much for chivalry in Key West.

“Okay.”

Frankie jumped at the bartender’s voice behind her and exhaled smoke in a short puff. When she turned, he stood with one hand leaning on the stool next to her, his eyebrows raised expectantly. “You mean the coffee?” she asked. “It’s fine.”

He shook his head. “No, I mean okay, what gives? Why do you need the police?”

Frankie took a long drink of the bitter coffee. “A man stole my purse.”

His eyes widened and he reached toward her, but fell short of touching her arm. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head firmly, tingling unexpectedly at his concern.

“Did you lose all your cash?”

She nodded, taking another quick drag to fight the tears welling in her eyes again.

Jamming his hands on his lean hips, he said, “For Pete’s sake, why didn’t you say something before now?”

“For Pete’s sake,” Tweety parroted.

“I was waiting for the police officer to return,” she explained, hating how he made her feel foolish. “She told me to stay put, but she’s been gone for nearly an hour.”

“Heavyset woman?”

Frankie nodded.

“That’d be Officer Ulrich. She might have caught the guy and taken him down to the station.”

“That’s why I asked for directions.”

The bartender looked all around the establishment, as if sizing up her options. “Are you alone?”

Frankie studied the ashes on the butt of the cigarette and considered the question in a larger context, then mentally kicked herself and dropped the sooty mess into the nearly empty glass of water. “I am now—I missed my cruise ship.”

He pursed his lips, crossed his arms and took a half step backward. “Well, like I said, the police station is only a few streets over.”

Frankie stood and dusted off the front of her shorts. “Thanks for the coffee. I don’t have enough for a tip.”

“No problem.”

“Then I guess I’ll be going.”

He nodded, then shifted restlessly. “You shouldn’t have any problem finding it—the station, I mean.”

“Thanks.” She turned to leave.

“It’s next to an airbrush T-shirt shop.”

Frankie looked back. “Thanks…again.”

He twisted the cloth in his hands. “If you get lost, just ask anyone.”

“Okay…thanks.”

“Wait.”

She turned back expectantly.

He walked toward her, tossing the cloth on a table he passed. “Uh, why don’t you let me give you a ride?”

“That’s not necessary—”

“I was getting ready to leave anyway, and I’d feel better knowing you got your purse back. Besides, it might help to walk in with a local.”

Frankie assessed him from head to toe, aware of the finger of apprehension nudging her. Something about the man emanated more danger than the petty thief who had accosted her earlier. Every sermon her mother had ever delivered about accepting rides from strangers reverberated in her head. “I don’t think—”

“I’m Randy Tate,” he said, reading her mind. He extended a long-fingered, bronzed hand.

“Um, Frankie Jensen,” she said, giving his hand the briefest of shakes.

He grinned. “Nice name. Give me a minute to tell Kate I’m leaving.”

Frankie’s mind raced as he approached a curvaceous blond waitress. She read about situations like this in the papers all the time. She had just told the man she was vacationing alone and had no identification…practically an invitation for him to commit a violent crime against her.

Glancing around for an ally, she spotted a neatly groomed, middle-aged man sitting alone a few steps away, writing in a journal. A half-empty pitcher of a pale yellow frozen drink sat in front of him.

“Excuse me, sir,” Frankie said, keeping one eye on the questionable Mr. Tate.

The gentleman looked up and smiled at her, his silver eyebrows furrowed with curiosity. “Yes?” He spoke with a pleasing English accent.

“My name is Frankie Jensen, and—”

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Jensen. I am Parker Grimes.”

Frankie nodded briefly, anxious to skip the small talk. “Mr. Grimes, I’m in a bit of a bind, and the bartender, Mr. Tate, has offered his assistance in helping me find the police station—”

“How nice of the young man.” Parker smiled with approval.

“Oh, yes,” Frankie said hurriedly. “But I just met him and I wanted someone to know that I was leaving with him, in case—” She stopped, suddenly feeling foolish.

“In case your body washes up on shore?” the man asked, nodding.

She felt herself blush. “Well—”

“Say no more, Miss Jensen.” He glanced toward the bartender and made a thoughtful noise with his cheek. “He does look a bit disreputable, doesn’t he?” Then he gave her a comforting wink. “Don’t worry—if you should turn up missing, I’ll recount this conversation.”

“Ready?” The disreputable-looking topic of their discussion stepped up beside Frankie and pulled a single key from his back pocket. “Hey, Parker.”

“Hello, Randy.”

Frankie glanced back to Parker, but the man was once again absorbed in his journal. Feeling duped, she frowned wryly and followed Randy into the blistering heat. From out of nowhere he withdrew wraparound-style sunglasses and tucked the ends of the flexible frames around his ears. He turned a corner and led her down a short alley to a weedy, makeshift parking lot for bikes, mopeds and motorcycles. She experienced only mild surprise when he stopped and threw one leg over the seat of a seasoned black Harley-Davidson Sportster.

Frankie bit the inside of her cheek. Stranger, tattoo, motorcycle…If her mother could see her now, she’d have a stroke.

Randy rolled the bike forward to release the kickstand, then walked the vehicle backward out of its spot. Twisting, he flipped down the passenger foot pegs. “Climb on.”

Eyeing the motorcycle dubiously, Frankie wet her lips. “There’s nothing to hang on to.”

Randy’s grin made her breath catch. “There’s me.”

To distract herself from the disturbing option, she asked, “Where’s your helmet?”

His mouth twitched. “A head injury would be more merciful than lung cancer. Are you coming or not?”

Rigidly, Frankie climbed on, careful not to touch him, finally settling onto the hot leather seat, then feeling all around for a handhold. At last she curled her fingers under the edge of the seat. “I’m ready,” she announced, squaring her shoulders and staring straight ahead.

He sat holding the handlebars loosely, his shoulders rounded. “First time on a bike?” Frankie caught his look of amusement in the side mirror.

She was tempted to lie, but decided against it and nodded.

“Well, try to relax, and move with me. You’ll throw off my balance with that stiff little backbone.”

“Okay,” she murmured primly, easing her posture a fraction of an inch.

“And you’d better hang on to that hat if you’re fond of it.”

Frankie loosened one hand from her death grip on the seat and gingerly lifted it to the top of her head. “Okay.”

He inserted the key and depressed an innocuous-looking button. When the engine roared to life, her heart vaulted into her throat. With no warning, the bike lurched forward. Frankie abandoned her hold on both the seat and the hat and rammed her body up next to his, circling his waist with both arms.

With her chin resting on his shoulder and her eyes squeezed shut, Frankie felt rather than heard his laughter as he maneuvered the motorcycle around the side of the building and into the street. His back felt solid and safe. She inhaled the odor of strong soap mingled with mild perspiration on his neck. His wayward hair tickled her cheek.

Above the rumbling hum of the engine, the noises of the island descended upon them: pounding music, shouting vendors, creeping traffic. Frankie opened one eye, then the other, but carefully kept her head down as he threaded through side streets and alleys. Relief in the form of a cooling breeze rushed over her arms and legs, and Frankie’s heart raced with adrenaline.

“Relax,” Randy shouted over his shoulder, shifting his body as if to encourage her.

Embarrassment bolted through her, and she forced her limbs, her torso, to soften. Her thighs cradled his intimately, white against brown. Her breasts—such as they were—were pressed up against his warm shoulder blades. Foreign sensations, which she couldn’t justly blame on the bike, vibrated through her body, and her skin sang with heightened awareness.

The sensory overload on top of keen anxiety over her missing bag left her drained and barely able to hold on, even though they were moving at a leisurely pace. Frankie slid her hands over his hard, flat stomach, fumbling, searching for a firm hold, finally twining her trembling fingers together above his waistband. The Kahlúa was working on her empty stomach, and she felt light-headed. Her boneless body moved in sync with his, swaying around tight turns, then upright coming out of the curves.

If she blocked out the deep purr of the engine beneath her, she could easily imagine herself on her beloved and neglected sailboat, moving rhythmically with the water to maximize the boat’s speed. The entire experience was delightfully erotic, and Frankie had never felt so aroused fully clothed. For a few seconds, Cincinnati and her pressing job seemed like an uncomfortable recollection. She bought into the illusion, trying to prolong the feeling.

They slowed for a stop sign and he put down his feet, supporting their weight and the bike’s. Frankie eased her hold around his waist, feeling self-conscious, but when she inched back he reached down and patted her knee.

“Better stay close.”

Before she had time to register the unsettling intimacy of his touch, they were off again.

Careful to keep her head low and her hat safe, Frankie peeked over Randy’s shoulder to take advantage of the brief tour. Key West seemed dressed for company. Tall and narrow, the buildings resembled colorful shoe boxes. Every house looked freshly outfitted in soothing yellows, greens and blues. Many were bed-and-breakfast inns, some were retail stores. Fanciful black iron adorned the structures like onyx jewelry, highlighting gates, porches and doors. Climbing vines, hanging baskets and exotic trees with multicolored blooms framed tiny lush yards. The chamber of commerce was to be commended. In a word, Key West was inviting.

If one had time to indulge in idleness, she reminded herself as Randy signaled left and slowed. He turned his head to the right, grazing his cheek against her nose. “We’re here.”

She looked up to see the unremarkable entrance of the police department, and sat erect while he pulled the motorcycle in front at an angle, then shut off the engine. Appalled at her reluctance to pull away from her Good Samaritan, Frankie did so nonetheless and pinched herself hard on the back of her hand as she dismounted. He was, after all, a perfect stranger.

Randy pushed down the kickstand, then reached up to remove his sunglasses, the swirl tattoo rippling on his bronze arm.

Correction—an imperfect stranger.

3

RANDY TOOK HIS TIME climbing off the bike. It was a good thing Red had been riding on the back instead of the other way around, else she would’ve probably noticed how her groping hands and yielding body had affected him on their ten-minute trip.

He scratched his temple. Hell, had it been that long since he’d had breakfast with a woman?

“You don’t have to stay—I’ll be fine from here.” She adjusted the absurd hat she’d managed to somehow hold on to so that it sat more crooked than ever.

She was right, he decided. This little episode could mushroom into something messy. He’d simply find another tourist to scratch the itch she’d provoked. Besides, Red had given him an out.

He opened his mouth to say “so long” when he noticed the slight furrow of her eyebrows and the tight set of her mouth. She was worried and scared and on unfamiliar terrain. How could he leave her? Those unbidden protective feelings sprouted in his chest again. Damn. “I’ll stick around for a little while,” he offered, much to his chagrin.

The corners of her mouth lifted just a whisper. “If you insist.” Then she turned and marched through the front door.

Randy sighed as he followed, cursing himself under his breath. What a softie he was today.

Officer Ulrich wasn’t around, but she’d radioed in that the purse snatcher had eluded her. On her way back, she’d been summoned to apprehend a shoplifter. Red nearly hyperventilated at the bleak news, but recovered enough to fill out a report, giving a pretty detailed description of the thief. Then she mumbled something about being fired as she signed the paper with a shaky pen.

“Relax,” a young officer said in his molasses-slow dialect. “Your purse might turn up somewhere.”

But she looked terrified. As she called to cancel her credit cards and traveler’s checks, Randy watched and listened with growing dread. Complications…involvement…

Next, she called someone named Oscar and asked him to wire her money immediately, all the while assuring the man that she was unharmed and would fax a copy of some design sheet as soon as things settled down.

Difficulties…strings…

The dispatcher wired her cruise ship and arranged a pickup in two days on another ship. Frankie agreed, saying she couldn’t extend her trip much longer, regardless of whether or not her bag was recovered.

Problems…responsibility—

Randy’s head snapped up. Two days? Hmm. The officer was probably right about her purse turning up, and then…He scanned Red’s dusty bod with renewed appreciation.

Long legs…tangled sheets…

Things were looking up.

THINGS COULDN’T GET much worse.

Frankie’s mind moved sluggishly, slowed by the waves of fear consuming her. Oscar needed one of the early design sheets, which was stored on a compact disc, which was in the portfolio in her stolen bag, which was God only knew where. Her fingers twitched for a cigarette.

“Where can we reach you, Miss Jensen?” the young officer asked, his habit of pausing between each drawled word grating on Frankie’s nerves.

Randy’s arm appeared next to hers. He stood behind her, leaning into the counter that supported her weak-kneed frame. “My couch is a little lumpy, but available,” he murmured, for her ears only.

She jerked back and narrowed her eyes at him, but he appeared innocent of wicked thoughts.

He raised his hands in defense. “It’s just a friendly offer.”

“Thanks anyway,” Frankie said warily. “Officer, can you suggest a hotel?”

The young policeman shook his head, expressing obvious concern. “You’ll be lucky to find a vacancy this time of year, ma’am.”

Her hopes sank—much like her purse, she noted dejectedly, which was probably at this moment sinking into the depths of either of the two bodies of water surrounding the island.

Looking back to the bartender, Frankie asked, “A cancellation, perhaps?”

Randy’s wink was so comforting, she could have believed that he invented the gesture. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I have a couple of friends who own B&B’s.” He scribbled a number on a piece of paper and handed it to the officer. “Page me, Rick, if the bag turns up.”

Rick scoffed. “You never answer that thing, Randy.”

“I will today.”

Frankie wanted to protest because she didn’t plan to spend the rest of the day with him, but as much as she hated to admit it, she needed his help, and, for once, it was good to have someone to turn to in a crisis. “Do you know everyone on the island?” she asked as he held the door open for her.

He shrugged. “I suppose I’ve served most everyone on the island a drink at one time or another.”

Disgruntled, she said, “Everyone here seems to move in slow motion.”

Randy’s laugh was low and suggestive as he leaned toward her. “I can move as fast as you want.”

She stiffened. “This isn’t funny, Mr. Tate.”

To her surprise, his smile dimmed and he touched her arm gently, sending currents throughout her body. “Listen, Red, I’m sorry about your cash, but at least the guy can’t get very far on canceled credit cards. Cheer up.”

With horror, Frankie realized her mouth was quivering, and dropped her gaze. “It’s not the cash.”

“The cruise?”

Her laugh was dry. “Hardly.”

“What, then?”

Frankie cleared her throat and looked up. “You wouldn’t understand.”

One dark eyebrow arrowed up, then he crossed his powerful arms. “Try me.”

The gentle seriousness in his voice shook her. She studied his face in the glaring sun for a full minute, noting for the first time the slight creases in his wide forehead, the crow’s-feet framing his eyes, the hint of silver at his temples. Was it possible this barkeeper was more than he appeared to be?

“My bag held a portfolio of irreplaceable papers and compact discs. I have to get it back.”

“What kind of papers?”

“Documentation for a computer project I’m heading up.”

He looked perplexed. “You’re on a cruise and you’re worried about your job?”

Frankie scoffed. “That silly Valentine’s cruise wasn’t my idea. My cousin asked me to be her bridesmaid, and I had no choice, even though the timing couldn’t have been worse.”

“Chained to your desk, huh?”

She lifted her chin. “My career is the most important thing in my life.”

“Too bad. But if it’s any consolation, you’re the best-looking computer nerd I’ve ever met.”

Frankie felt herself blush, but held her ground. “My job depends on recovering that portfolio.”

Frowning, Randy scratched his jaw. “Is this some kind of top-secret project?”

“No.”

“Then there has to be copies of this documentation somewhere, right?”

She winced and shook her head.

“Is that typical?”

She winced and shook her head again.

“Ouch.” He exhaled noisily, then shrugged. “Oh, well, in Key West when things get tough, the tough go to the beach. How about it?”

Frankie swallowed at his abrupt personality change. So much for the multifaceted theory. “The beach? Isn’t it a little late?”

He grinned. “Like you said, we move slowly down here. Late afternoon and early evening are the best times to miss the tourists—no offense. Do you swim?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Great.” Randy unfolded his sunglasses and walked toward his bike. “Let’s go.”

Her mind raced. She couldn’t just sit around getting a suntan while her entire career evaporated. Maybe if she could find a computer with basic software, she could re-create from memory the design document Oscar needed. It was worth a shot. “Do you have a computer?”

He stuck his tongue into his cheek and gave her an amused smirk. “No.”

Fighting her disappointment, Frankie asked, “Public library? A school perhaps? Somewhere I can gain access to a computer for a few hours?”

But he simply shook his head. “Not this late in the day. And not tomorrow, either—nothing is open on Saturday except the retail shops.” He straddled the bike and looked up. “Come on, there’s nothing more you can do here.”

Frankie considered the wisdom of parting company with the good-intentioned beach bum. “I have to pick up my money.”

“We’ll stop along the way.”

He extended his hand to help her on, and Frankie hesitated. “But I have to find a place to stay—”

“I’ll make sure you get a place to stay.” He sighed, his shoulders dropping. “Listen, Red, a little R and R would do you a world of good. Look around—you’re stranded in paradise. Have a little fun.”

She wavered.

“We’ll make a few stops along the way to look for your bag,” he added. “The guy might have ditched it in a Dumpster.”

Feeling like Alice in Wonderland hovering above the rabbit hole, Frankie relented. He was right—camping out at the police station wouldn’t help her recover her bag any faster. And she hadn’t had a vacation in the year since the project started. Maybe the sun and sand would do her some good. Besides, his Dumpster theory was a slim, but reasonable, possibility. She smiled and took his hand. “Okay.”

His warm grin was reward enough—settling into their body-hugging riding position was purely a bonus. They stopped at a floral shop that doubled as the wiring office and woke up the napping shop owner, but her money hadn’t yet arrived. The man yawned and wrote down Randy’s pager number, promising to notify them if the wire came before he closed.

Par for the day’s course, Frankie thought wryly. Next, they drove down four different alleys where Randy hoisted himself up and poked around in commercial trash bins, but didn’t find the briefcase.

“Sorry,” he said after restarting the engine and turning to her. “Don’t worry—it’ll show up.”

A compulsion to believe him welled in her chest. This man had a powerful effect on her, lending a sense of security while triggering every defense mechanism in her body. Alarms pealed in her ears, yet she was touched he’d go to so much trouble for a stranger. “Thanks for looking.”

“The ride to the beach will be longer, so hang on tight.”

“But I don’t have a suit.”

He grinned. “I have to make a stop along the way—we’ll pick up a suit for you there.”

Her arguments exhausted, Frankie gave in and tried to put her spiraling career out of her mind. The ride was cool and flirty and just plain fun, she decided as laughter bubbled up in her chest. Randy had tied her hat to the seat, leaving her hair to whip around her face and neck with abandon. She didn’t want to think too much about the pleasure of pressing herself up against her Good Samaritan, a man she barely knew, but who’d already hinted he found her desirable.