Club Cupid (3 page)

“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
im
perfect stranger.

R
ANDY 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.

T
HINGS 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.

A memory surfaced, reminding her of a time in college she’d found herself attracted to a James Dean type, a dropout who hung around the student center to pick up girls. He’d flirted with her outrageously, constantly asking for a date. She’d been tempted, but frankly, the guy’s reckless style had frightened her a bit. With Randy Tate she didn’t fear for her safety, but she definitely felt as if she were walking a balance beam with responsibility on one side and hedonism on the other. The vertigo was absolutely heady.

All too soon, they were on the coast and he slowed, wheeling into the driveway of a large house encircled by a stone wall. The pale stucco structure resembled a hotel, the jungle-thick landscaping picture-perfect.

“Good friend of mine,” he yelled over the rumble of the motorcycle as he wheeled into a long crowded driveway as large as a parking lot. “I need to pick up his liquor order for the week, and I’ll find you a suit.”

When he shut off the engine, Frankie could clearly hear music on the other side of the vegetation. She climbed off the bike and squinted into the blazing sun.

“You’re a natural,” he said, nodding to the bike. He knelt and untied a canvas sports bag. “You were in perfect sync with me.”

Frankie patted her wild hair, tingling at his offhand compliment.

He stood and wiped his hands on his back pockets, then tossed her a knowing smile. “When a person moves that well with a bike, it’s a safe bet they’re good at other things, too.”

Desire sparked low in her stomach, burning away any clever retort she might have conjured up.

His eyes danced. “Like windsurfing, for instance.”

Her tongue finally recovered. “Is it similar to sailing?”

“You sail? Excellent.” His grin was full-fledged as he moved toward a stone path beside the house. “Red, this could be an interesting couple of days.”

Her heart pounded at the innuendo in his voice. A beach fling hadn’t been in her plans, but two
days in the company of a gorgeous man would definitely take her mind off the bedlam that awaited her in Cincinnati.
And tantamount to attempting a back-flip aerial on that balance beam,
her conscience whispered.

The sounds of music and voices grew louder as Frankie followed Randy to the house. He stopped at an ornate iron gate and gave her an awkward little smile. “Would you mind keeping an eye on the bike?”

“Oh,” Frankie said, faintly disappointed. “No problem.” She reminded herself he was here on business, then leaned against a waist-high stacked-stone fence and watched him move down the foot-worn path. An alarming feeling of loss filled her chest when he disappeared, leaving only the movement of giant plant leaves in his wake.

Who was this man who affected her in spite of her better judgment? A carefree barkeeper with whom she had nothing in common. He obviously thought she was overreacting to her missing briefcase—the man probably couldn’t comprehend the stress of a corporate job, where dozens, even hundreds, of people depended on you. She sighed, walked back to the motorcycle and freed her hat from the seat to protect her face from the rays of the merciless sun.

Frankie scanned the massive house, the well-planned tropical landscaping and the impressive oceanic backdrop. The picture represented more money than she would earn in a lifetime. Randy had some wealthy customers. The sounds of shouts and laughter alternately rose and ebbed with the roar of the ocean, and she experienced a
sense of wonder that for many people this paradise was part of a daily routine. She couldn’t imagine not having to be somewhere at certain times most of the day, every day.