Club Cupid Page 2

  Flings with vacationers were relatively safe—no strings and no awkward attachments to untangle. And a fresh crop of female tourists who appeared ripe for the picking arrived daily, although lately he preferred windsurfing to brief affairs.

  But with a little soap and water, Red would be tempting…

  In his musings, he knocked over nearly every bottle in the medicine cabinet, sending the entire mess crashing into the sink. At last he came up with a small jar of coffee and returned to the bar, feeling foolishly victorious. But his celebration was cut short when he saw her, head down on folded arms, her shoulders shaking from silent sobs.

  Randy rolled his eyes heavenward. Don’t ask, man. Don’t get involved. Involvement means responsibility. Then he glanced back to Red and sighed mightily. Bonkers he could deal with—but the lost-puppy routine broke him up. Long-dormant protective feelings stirred in his chest, but he willed them away with a healthy oath. Then, resolved to act as if nothing was amiss, Randy cocked his head and donned his best island smile.

  2

  FRANKIE HADN’T MEANT to cry, but for once in her life tears seemed like the only option. She’d invested nearly every waking hour in her career, only to have it threatened by her own stupidity and a petty thief. Surely no one would begrudge her a momentary crying jag.

  “Boo-hoo,” Tweety mocked, stopping her in midsob. “Boo-hoo!”

  She sniffed and lifted her head to discover the half-dressed bartender had returned. He grinned, revealing white teeth, and held up a coffee jar. “Hey, come on, I tried to hurry.”

  The man’s voice rumbled out in a lazy stream, his words running together like a too-big ice-cream sundae. A tiny gold hoop earring gleamed against his tanned skin. His sun-streaked shaggy brown hair hung nearly to his shoulders, the wavy mass in dire need of a trim. The lines of his face were strong and lean and brown, pleasingly balanced by a large nose and square chin. His muscular shoulders were wide and bowed slightly forward. A blue tattoo of a swirl design embellished his right biceps, reminding her of the lollipops she’d loved as a child. The man was one-hundred-percent polar from her type, but if she hadn’t been so miserable, Frankie would have stopped to appreciate his considerable good looks anyway.

  Instead, she hiccuped and offered him a small smile. The guy probably thought she was nuts. “S-sorry.”

  “No problem,” he said cheerfully, handing her a paper napkin sporting a parrot and the bar’s name. Frankie blew her nose noisily and when she glanced up, he had disappeared. To her left behind a wall she heard clanging noises and a faucet being turned on. “I don’t have a stove to heat the water,” he said above the noise. “But the tap gets pretty darn hot.”

  She nodded absently to the vacant spot where he’d been standing, briefly piqued that he seemed unnerved by her tears which, to Frankie, were such a novelty. “The tap’s fine.” She eyed the parrot dubiously, then, remembering the police officer, turned and scanned the street for what seemed like the hundredth time. Still no sign of the woman.

  The bartender might be able to help her, but she hated to involve a stranger and admit how vulnerable and stupid she’d been. Besides, judging by his unkempt appearance, this guy didn’t look to be very trustworthy himself. However, she could at least ply him for information. “Is the police department nearby?”

  The clanging sounds stilled, then the barkeeper stuck his head around the corner. “The police department?”

  She nodded, trying to look casual.

  His eyes narrowed and he looked as if he might quiz her. Then he seemed to change his mind. “Uh, yeah, the office is over about four streets, near the corner of Angela and Simonton.” He set a yellow stoneware cup on the counter, wiped a metal spoon on the leg of his jean shorts, stirred the impromptu cup of coffee and pushed it toward her.

  Following his movements, Frankie cautiously lifted the cup for a drink, hoping the water was hot enough and the alcohol strong enough to banish whatever germs lurked from the unsanitary preparation. “Thanks.”

  The man inclined his head, and Frankie realized that his eyes, which she’d assumed were brown, were actually a light gold. All the darkness around them—his black lashes and thick eyebrows—had thrown her. He gave the bar another swipe with his cloth. “If that’s all, I need to take care of some things.”

  She paused, then decided he was a stranger and it didn’t matter what he thought of her. “Would you happen to have a cigarette?”

  His mouth tightened as he reached beneath the counter and pulled out an open pack of some generic brand, then tossed them onto the counter. “Those things’ll kill you.”

  “I know,” she assured him, reaching for the pack. “But I’m not hooked. How about a light?”

  Frowning, he produced a book of matches displaying the establishment’s name. “Anything else?”

  “That’s all.” Frankie watched him saunter from behind the bar. She guessed his age to be in the mid-to late-thirties range. He wore threadbare navy canvas tennis shoes and his faded cutoffs hung precariously low on narrow hips, revealing a glimpse of neon orange swim trunks.

  Impressive—he was a bartender and a beach bum. And he wasn’t even old enough to have reached his midlife crisis.

  Although the long bar where she sat was nearly deserted, clumps of people had spaced themselves out in happy little groups at tall tables on the perimeter of the open room and on the outside patio. A trio of scantily clad co-eds gave the bartender their orders between coquettish looks, and despite the obvious age difference, or probably because of it, he appeared to be enjoying the exchange.

  Frankie looked back to her coffee and lit a cigarette, then took a long, stale draw. Imagine—she’d been worried the disreputable-looking guy would want to become involved in her dilemma. Glancing at her watch, she gulped the warmish coffee, and the Kahlúa burned the back of her throat. Oh, well, at least she knew the police station lay within walking distance. If the officer hadn’t returned by the time she finished her coffee, she’d walk there to see if the thug had been apprehended.

  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 laughte
r 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.”