Club Cupid Page 14

  When she clenched her knees against his shoulders in preparation for her deliverance, he squeezed her thighs with strong hands, and sent her soaring over the edge with an animal growl against the swollen bead. Frankie cried out his name and bucked under his kneading mouth, relishing the long, languid flood of release between each contraction. She descended with slow, satisfying spasms which he matched with unerring perception. At last she quieted, shrinking from his mouth when even the gentlest pressure was torture for her engorged flesh. She sighed in bliss, reveling in the perfection of one of the most basic of human acts.

  But she didn’t have long to ponder how Randy had managed to elevate the essential mechanics of sex to a satisfying emotional experience. He crawled higher, his face a mask of smug maleness. She had the fleeting thought that he might pound his chest, but instead he planted a quick kiss on her mouth, then reached for his gym bag. He unzipped two pockets before withdrawing a condom, which he lay next to her shoulder. “You,” he said as he dropped another kiss on her lips, “have very strong legs.”

  She laughed, heady with her own scent and musky taste lingering on his mouth. Reaching down to stroke his erection, she murmured, “Did I hurt you?”

  Randy caught his breath and bit back a healthy curse. “You’re killing me.” If he didn’t get a grip, he would explode within Frankie Jensen’s small white hands and end their pleasure much too soon. Her enthusiastic response to his sensual tongue-lashing and her vocal climax had stoked his fires to heights he hadn’t experienced since his teenage years, when sex had been new and so incredibly exciting. For an instant, he wished he and Frankie could have known each other then, could have explored the blush of erotic discovery together. Then he bit his tongue. With his youthful ready-at-amoment’s-notice libido, he couldn’t have handled her back then—hell’s bells, she was almost too taxing now for him. He closed his hand over hers, stilling her nimble fingers. “Ease up a minute, love. You make my body forget how decrepit it is.”

  She laughed, a confident, sexy laugh of a woman in control. In answer, she sat up and climbed over his body until she knelt between his knees. Randy swallowed and ground his teeth for restraint as her long, curly hair swept over his stomach. The carpet of red tresses blocked his view, but her intentions were clear enough, and indeed, clinched when her mouth closed over the tip of his arousal.

  His eyes rolled back in his head and he exhaled quickly, trying to concentrate on their surroundings to distance himself somewhat from the enormous pleasure coursing through his body. But her tongue commanded his attention, circling, lapping, drawing moisture from his primed manhood. She drew him inside her mouth and he groaned at the exquisite torture, burying his hands in her hair. “Slowly,” he pleaded. “Frankie, please go slowly.”

  To her credit, she withdrew with infinite slowness and descended again with even more deliberate care. But the incredible textures in her mouth and the steady pressure set his life fluid boiling, and after only a few strokes he had to still her once again. He swept aside the fall of hair for one glance of her devouring him, and the sight alone was almost too much for him to bear.

  “I need your body, Frankie,” he said hoarsely. “Make love to me.”

  She lifted her head and felt on the towel for the condom. As if sensing his urgency, she tore open the package and rolled the thin casement over him, another exercise in control, he discovered. Then she straddled him, her blue eyes heavy-lidded, pausing to give him a few seconds to compose himself, he presumed. And when her silken glove closed around him, he was grateful for the hesitation…so grateful.

  “Aaahhhhhhhhh,” he breathed, settling his hands on her slim waist as she accepted his length with a gasp. She threw her head back, then rocked forward and leaned on his chest for support. Randy groaned and covered her breasts with his hands, tweaking her hardened nipples until they glowed. She tightened around his shaft, and moved up and down in a slow, agonizing rhythm that soon told him there was no turning back. He plunged into her with the increasing intensity of a lost but driven man. Frankie’s moans echoed his, and when he realized in a blinding flash that she was going to climax again, he arched into her with a massive thrust and shuddered, grinding their hips together. Her soft cries came on the heels of his powerful release, and they swayed, interlocked, until their bodies cooled and their pulses calmed.

  Randy sighed heavily and pulled Frankie down to lie against his chest. He closed his eyes and stroked her hair, his heart swelling with an unfamiliar, scary emotion. He had become amazingly attached to this woman in such a short time—he wished they had a few more days to explore their amazing chemistry. Would she forsake her boyfriend and job in Cincinnati and agree to stay with him…for a while?

  “Yes,” Frankie whispered against his shoulder.

  His hand stilled upon her hair and his eyes flew open. Had he spoken aloud? “Yes, what?” he asked, his heart thudding.

  “Yes, I’ll stay with you,” she said, then added, “for a while.”

  His heart vaulted with mixed sentiments—surprise, happiness, fear, anxiety.

  She lifted her head from his chest and smiled. “It sounds like you’re going to have a heart attack. Have you already changed your mind?”

  He hadn’t realized how much he would have missed her until he looked into her velvety blue eyes. “No,” he said with a slow grin and pulled her close for a welcoming kiss. “Guess this means I’ll have to buy a cappuccino machine.”

  13

  STILL REELING from her spontaneous announcement to stay in Key West, Frankie’s mind whirled like the wheels beneath her during the motorcycle ride back to the bar. What would her parents say? She’d never done anything so crazy in her entire life. But telling her folks she’d quit her job to live with a beach-bum bar owner in Key West sounded better than admitting she’d been fired for her own stupidity and relegated to look for another job, with no references. Either way, she’d lose her job, but this way, she’d have Randy, she reasoned. And while he wasn’t the long-term, settling-down kind of man she might have hoped for, he was kind and passionate and free-spirited and…easy to love.

  She wasn’t a fool—she knew Randy’s interest in her was more of a physical nature than spiritual. Naturally she herself recognized the powerful sexual chemistry between them. But she also harbored true affection for the man, and something else…gratitude. Because during the short time she’d spent in Randy Tate’s company, he had unwittingly shown her she was living her life as if at the end she could trade it in for another one. Of course she couldn’t expect Randy to reciprocate those strong feelings, because he couldn’t appreciate her revelation.

  She could help him run the bar until she decided what to do next. She had a healthy savings account for several months’ living expenses, and thanks to her company’s stock rising and splitting twice in the last decade, she’d accumulated a couple hundred thousand in her retirement account if she needed to tap into those funds. Frankie knew her open-ended plan was preposterous. For the first time, she was working without a net, and the experience felt…liberating. At the same time, doubts niggled the back of her mind, raising concerns that she might already be in over her heart where Randy was concerned. Would more time spent in his bed cure the condition or kindle it?

  As if he suspected she might be having second thoughts, Randy reached back and gave her thigh a comforting pat, then winked at her in the side mirror. They’d spent the rest of the afternoon making love and napping beneath the palm trees, talking about sailing and surfing and more about their families. But they’d scrupulously evaded the topic of Frankie agreeing to stay, as if they both realized her resolve was shaky and best left alone for now. Frankie smiled into his neck and hugged him closer as they drove down the now-familiar street toward the bar parking lot.

  As she climbed off the bike, Frankie decided she’d definitely have to invest in a few casual clothes—namely, tennis shoes—if the bike was to be their primary means of transportation. Their…even the simple pronoun carr
ied intimate implications that kicked up her pulse. She decided to look into buying a moped, which would be more her speed. Then Frankie stopped. How empty her life had to have been that she could so easily acclimate herself to a new environment. When Randy dropped a kiss on her temple, her throat constricted. Very empty indeed.

  His expression turned to teasing as he unhooked the suitcase he’d given her this morning when she’d insisted upon finding another place to stay the night. They’d been carrying it around all day and now would be taking the piece of luggage back home with them.

  “A woman’s prerogative,” she said simply, offering to take the bag.

  But he only shook his head and, smiling like a man who knew when to be quiet, led the way to the bar. Frankie smoothed a hand over her hair and down the rumpled skort and pink T-shirt, which had spent most of the day folded into little squares inside her canvas bag. “How do I look?”

  He grinned. “Like you’ve been tumbled.”

  “Thanks,” she said with a dry laugh.

  “No, thank you.”

  Scoffing, she preceded him into the bar, amazed that her fateful trek into this unassuming little place only yesterday had so changed her life. At six o’clock, the Saturday-night crowd was beginning to pick up, although a few empty tables remained. The interior felt cool and inviting, the fans overhead busily circulating air. Bob Marley’s distinctive reggae boomed from the rafters, and the pale sand on the floor glistened in the low lighting. The Valentine’s kissing booths sat unoccupied on the patio, but Frankie suspected they would be busy before the night ended and the beer stopped flowing.

  Kate once again staffed the bar, her eyes lighting up when she saw Randy, then dimming when she spotted Frankie. A pang of jealousy struck Frankie. Were the two of them involved, or had they been at some point? With a sinking heart, she realized the longer she stayed in Key West, the better her chances of running into an old lover of Randy’s. How soon would she, too, be relegated to the “ex” pile?

  “Are you leaving?” Kate asked cheerfully when Randy set the suitcase on a bar stool.

  “Uh, no,” Frankie replied with an awkward glance in Randy’s direction.

  He smiled, seemingly ignorant of the competitive undercurrent. “Frankie’s staying in Key West for a while, Kate. I’m going to leave this suitcase in the office.” Glancing toward the covered cage above them, he grimaced. “Tweety sleeping off a hangover?”

  Kate nodded. “Some bozo slipped a shot glass of tequila into his cage. The poor little guy couldn’t even hang on to his perch.”

  Randy shook his head. “Remind me to get a lock, will you. I doubt if my health insurance will cover rehab for a bird. How’s business?”

  “Business is good, as always,” the woman replied with little enthusiasm. “A lot of people have been asking for you.”

  Randy raised his eyebrows. “Tippy?”

  Another lover? Frankie wondered, watching from beneath her lashes. Kate shook her head, and Frankie couldn’t read Randy’s reaction. But his sudden change in demeanor indicated he wasn’t interested in what anyone else might have wanted. He removed two bottled waters from the cooler behind the bar and handed one to Frankie. The peal of a ringing telephone sounded behind the office door. “I’ll get that,” Randy said, grabbing the suitcase and pivoting toward the noise. He flashed an apologetic grin at Frankie. “Back to work.”

  “Good to have you back,” Kate called after him, then settled a sullen gaze on Frankie.

  She twisted the cap off the bottle of water and took a shallow drink, hoping Kate might move on down the bar. She didn’t. “Have you worked for Randy long?” Frankie finally asked, adopting a friendly tone.

  The waitress smiled tightly. “Long enough to see lots of his girlfriends come and go.”

  Frankie’s smile dropped.

  “See you around,” Kate said over her shoulder as she moved toward a customer. “For a little while, that is.”

  Embarrassment flooded Frankie, warming her cheeks as she averted her eyes. Was she making such a fool of herself by willingly adding a notch to Randy Tate’s bedpost?

  “Pay her no mind, Ms. Jensen.”

  Frankie turned as Parker Grimes settled himself onto the stool next to her. He’d apparently overheard their exchange.

  “Schoolgirl crush,” he said, nodding toward Kate. “She’s actually a very nice young lady, but her infatuation with Mr. Tate has sharpened her tongue.”

  “Were they…involved?” Frankie asked, squirming.

  Parker laughed. “Certainly not. Randy has better sense than to dally with an employee. In fact, he has a rule about never dating local women.”

  She frowned. “What’s wrong with local women?”

  He shrugged congenially. “They are here, my dear.”

  Realization dawned. “You mean Randy only dates tourists?”

  “You could say that.”

  “I did say that.”

  His smile spread wide. “So you did.”

  Worry chewed at her stomach. “He only dates tourists because they’re temporary, right?”

  He shrugged again. “You may draw your own conclusions. But know this—Randy is a good fellow who would never intentionally hurt a soul. And,” he added with a look toward the office door, “I overheard him say you would be staying for a while?”

  “For a while,” she parroted, the words sounding more vague every time they ran through her head.

  “So,” he said with a toothy grin, “I gather your sleeping arrangements were satisfactory.”

  “You tricked us,” she accused.

  “So I did,” he admitted with a smug expression. “But truthfully, Ms. Jensen, I knew you were in capable and trustworthy hands. And may I say, the two of you make a delightful couple.”

  “Thank you,” she said, struck by her new status as part of a “couple.”

  Randy suddenly appeared behind Parker, and her heart lifted appallingly at the mere sight of him. “Don’t even try to steal her away, old man,” he said, giving Frankie a wink.

  “Just keeping you on your toes, my boy.”

  Randy shot him a warning look, then said, “Frankie, I need to run a quick errand. Would you mind hanging out here for a while?”

  She blinked, then chastised herself. She hadn’t expected to spend every minute with him, had she? “Of course I don’t mind,” she said quickly, thinking she might take the opportunity to make a couple of very difficult long-distance phone calls.

  “Great.” He held up the suitcase. “I’ll run this by the house while I’m at it, and I’ll be back soon. Make yourself at home.” After dropping a chaste kiss on her temple, he disappeared. Frankie stared after him thoughtfully. Had it been her imagination, or was he avoiding direct eye contact?

  “My dear, would you care to join me at my table?” Parker asked.

  Frankie nodded, intrigued by the distinguished writer Randy had mentioned often and with such obvious affection. She accompanied him to what must have been his regular roost. He offered her a drink from the half-filled pitcher in front of him, but she declined, noting the strong aroma of tequila.

  “Randy told me you encouraged him to buy this place,” she said, glancing around, her mind spinning with the possibilities—live entertainment, an appetizer menu.

  “Considering the size of my weekly tab,” he muttered, “I should have bought the place myself.”

  She laughed and gestured to the blank legal pad. Reading glasses rested next to a dull, gnawed pencil. “Do you spend your days here writing?”

  “Some days writing, some days thinking of writing.”

  “What inspires you?”

  He frowned as he perused the ceiling, giving the question theatrical regard. “A snatch of overheard conversation, a line in a song—” he glanced at her pointedly “—a look between lovers.”

  She felt herself blush.

  “You’re a nice change for Randy,” he declared, pouncing on the subject of their fledgling relationship with little pr
ovocation and with the gusto of a father. “Someone to jump-start his mind again.”

  “I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Frankie said, wondering if he was slightly drunk.

  “The boy has a brilliant talent,” Parker said as he refilled his glass from the pitcher. “And what does he do with his gift? Serve drinks to people who typically have more money than good sense.”

  Frankie smiled at Parker’s praise—the man obviously adored Randy. “Randy was modest when he told me about his career in Atlanta.”

  The older man nodded. “He’s very circumspect about the entire affair. I wouldn’t have known myself, save for an acquaintance of mine there who raved about the boy’s uncanny ability to pick technical stocks. Randy made the gentleman quite a tidy sum before he sadly gave up the game and left town.”

  “Was the man an actor?”

  Parker frowned. “No, he was in commercial real estate.”

  Confused, Frankie opened her mouth to ask a few questions, then realized she might learn more if she played along. Anxiety curled low in her stomach at the thought that she was snooping into Randy’s background, but she reminded herself she had a right to know about the man who had captured her heart, darn him. Actor, schmactor. “Yes, the circumstances under which Randy left Atlanta would make a good plot for a book, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “…THREE HUNDRED, four hundred, five hundred.”

  “Sorry about the wallet,” Tippy said, folding the bills into his shirt pocket. “But the kid couldn’t remember where he ditched it.”

  Randy frowned ruefully at the man sitting in the dark cab. “How much of this money are you giving to the punk?”

  Tippy’s teeth flashed in the dark. “Just enough to pay the fine for the shoplifting charge.”

  “Shoplifting?”

  “Uh-huh. Tomorrow morning the police will receive an anonymous tip that the kid has a radio that was stolen last week from the audio shop.”

  Randy smiled. “You’re a good man, Tippy.”

  The cabdriver reached into his pocket and withdrew a one-hundred-dollar bill, then shoved it back into Randy’s hand. “All’s well that ends well,” he said, and pulled away from the curb.