Her acute anger triggered a flash of reality, during which she looked at the situation through Randy Tate’s eyes: she was a stranded, half-dressed tourist, seemingly ripe for the picking for a hungry islander with long, able arms. She wasn’t afraid of him, but she knew an opportunist when she saw one. Frankie lifted her chin. “Maybe you shouldn’t assume so much where I’m concerned, Mr. Tate.”
“No need to be so formal,” he said smoothly, dipping a chunk of white meat in the butter. “Especially since I’ve seen your…”
She glowered.
“Freckles,” he finished neatly, then devoured the morsel with the most innocent expression.
Frankie pulled her shirt closer around her and flipped the edge of the towel over her legs.
His laugh rolled out pleasantly as he extended the butter toward her. “Too late for modesty, don’t you think?”
“I don’t appreciate being laughed at.”
“I’m laughing with you,” he said, relegating the butter to a level spot on the towels between them when she made no move to take it.
“Except I’m not laughing.”
“Sad but true,” he noted, undaunted. “Nothing personal, Red, but you seem unhappy.”
Frankie blinked. “Unhappy? Th-that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” she stammered, not about to succumb to his amateur psychoanalysis. “I mean, I’m not entirely happy at the moment, but who would be under the circumstances?” Picnicking with an outrageously handsome man on a tropical beach. She gestured wildly. “Believe me, when my job isn’t in jeopardy and I’m not stranded thousands of miles from home, I’m happy.” She donned what she hoped was a convincing smile. “I have every reason to be happy, thank you very much.”
“Careful,” he said, wagging a crab leg at her. “You protest too much.”
Her composure faltered. “And you talk too much.”
“Occupational hazard,” he said with glib familiarity, then he winked. “I’ll sit here and try to think of something better to do with my mouth.”
Frankie’s throat constricted. His utterly cool disposition unnerved her, and she wondered how he’d achieved his level of nonchalance. Realizing that her quick temper played into his hands, Frankie decided to turn the tables with something she sensed Randy Tate didn’t like—questions. “Were you a bartender in Atlanta, too?”
As she suspected, his demeanor changed. Randy averted his gaze and busied himself cracking more legs for them. “No.”
When he didn’t expound, she pushed her advantage. “Missionary?”
At least he laughed this time. “No.”
“Independently wealthy?”
Another laugh. “Hardly.”
She tipped up the beer, this time savoring the taste. “If you don’t tell me, I’m going to think you were involved in something illegal.” When his hands stilled suddenly, Frankie experienced a stab of alarm. Had she misjudged him—was he a criminal? A fugitive? She tensed, remembering she was supposed to go for the eyes and the gonads if he pounced.
But Randy simply handed her another red shell, his gaze a bit sardonic. “Illegal? Depends on who you ask, I suppose.”
Edgy, Frankie tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m asking you.” He bit into a piece of crab, and chewed it thoughtfully. She finished her beer, her gaze riveted on her mysterious companion.
“I was an investment broker.”
Frankie skimmed the man before her, taking in his shaggy hair, earring, tattoo and sun-bronzed chest, then burst out laughing. “Right,” she said, tossing another shell on the small pile they’d accumulated. “You said that with such a straight face, you must be an actor.”
One side of his mouth climbed in a sheepish smile. “You’re pretty good, Red.”
Frankie held up her hand to refuse another piece of crab, then fingered the neck of the beer bottle. The label of washed-up actor fit Randy Tate’s image perfectly, so why did his revelation leave her with a vague sense of disappointment? Because she had projected a level of complexity onto this man out of some misplaced romanticism? “Were you in anything I might have seen?”
“No,” he said, laughing and shaking his head. “My work was confined to Atlanta.”
Maybe he had no talent, hence the sarcasm about some people thinking he made his living illegally. “You weren’t rich and famous?” she teased.
“Comfortable and infamous,” he corrected.
“So what brought you to Key West?”
He lifted his bottle for a slow drain, but kept his unsettling gaze on her. Unable to look away, Frankie’s skin tingled and her breasts tightened. This man had a way of making her feel as though the liquid he pulled down his throat was a preview of the way he would deplete her own reserves, given the chance. After setting the bottle aside, Randy leaned toward her, slowly…deliberately, then grinned devilishly. “I heard the island was full of damsels in distress.”
He invaded her space and her senses as easily as the wind blew, lifting the ends of her hair and his. Frankie’s heart pounded as she debated her next move. Advance? Retreat? Surrender?
Randy seemed poised, waiting for a signal, his eyes questioning. Arrogance, she could resist, but quiet chivalry…heaven help her. She eased forward almost involuntarily until only a cool breeze separated their parted mouths. Randy’s gold eyes turned molten, but for a split second she had the strangest feeling he might pull away.
Then he inhaled, consuming the air between them, and drew her lips to his.
6
HALF OF HIM wanted her to surrender, half of him wanted her to bolt. From the troubled look in her wide blue eyes, it appeared that Frankie was considering both options when he captured her lips with his. When her mouth moved under his tentatively, sending his body roaring to life, Randy wished like hell she had resisted him, had given him a reason to resist her.
Instead, the prim, leggy beauty acted as if a switch had been engaged that directed her movements. The tip of her velvety tongue flicked against the sensitive roof of his mouth, sending shudders down to his knotted stomach. He cupped his hand behind her head, splaying his fingers in her hair, squashing the soft curls to leverage for better access to her mouth.
Their kiss deepened, each dipping and delving into sweet crevices with a sense of discovery and wonder. Frankie groaned and Randy heard the faint chink of her bottle falling to the sand. He clasped his other arm around her warm shoulders, easing her back to the towel. He followed, reveling in the length of her body touching his.
Since their swim he’d been telling himself to let this one go. Frankie Jensen wasn’t the typical single female tourist looking for a romp with a local boy. She emanated seriousness and old-fashioned integrity—certainly not the type to take a romantic liaison lightly. Randy instinctively knew she’d let few men compromise her single-minded dedication to her career. Almost no one had time or energy for unbridled ambition and unbridled sex. He remembered well the long purposeful days and the long lonely nights. Into the kiss, Randy poured all the want and frustration from those days that this woman resurrected. Just a kiss, he promised himself.
When his lungs demanded air, he lifted his head and gazed at her—another mistake. The brilliant blue of her eyes matched the deep hue of the water and sky flanking them. Her dark red hair fanned around her head, seemingly alive from the slices of sun falling through the moving palm leaves onto the fiery strands. She lay arched beneath him, her chin up, her mouth parted. The sensible brown shirt lay open, as if in invitation. One of the tiny straps on the ill-fitting bathing-suit top had fallen over a shapely, creamy white shoulder, revealing the swell of her breast and the barest hint of a plump areola. He felt dizzy with the raw desire that pulsed through him. Her name hovered on his tongue, but he was afraid to speak, afraid to shatter the moment.
Without conscious thought, he moved, stroking his raging erection against her thigh. He braced for her objection, and welcomed it. But when her eyes fluttered closed and a raspy moan of need escaped her
mouth, he gritted his teeth against a surge of passion, then, admitting defeat, lowered his mouth to the silky contours of her collarbone.
Angling her body under his, he lowered himself between her long legs, kneading the firm muscle at the back of her thigh beneath her rounded hip. He lapped at her pearly skin and nipped at pale freckles, kissing a trail down to her half-covered breast. Heady with longing, he pulled aside the thin fabric with his teeth, gratified when a rock-hard pink nipple popped into view.
A torrent of heat gripped his loins as he pulled the salty tip into his mouth and bathed it with his fevered tongue. She drove her fingers through his hair, pressing him closer. A moan tore from her mouth, sending a vibration through her chest that he felt against his cheek.
So absorbed was he in his sensual ministrations that when Frankie tensed beneath him, he thought she was merely straining into him. Then she shifted and pulled her hands from his hair, struggling to sit up. He fought his first instinct to pull her back to him.
“Randy,” she said, breathing raggedly. “Your beeper…is going off.”
He raised his head and bit his tongue against the disappointment sluicing through his body. Frankie looked…relieved? With a heavy sigh, he smoothed his hair back from his forehead, rolled over and reached for the offending mechanism.
Frankie sat up, dragging herself backward with weak arms. She gulped for air to clear her fuzzy head, wincing at the pain zipping through her temples at the sudden shift from horizontal to vertical. A breeze swirled around her, cooling her uncovered breast, budding the nipple still wet from Randy’s tongue. Mortification over her behavior flooded her. She yanked up the bikini top and secured the minuscule ties, then buttoned her shirt for good measure, despite her shaking hands. Thankfully the sand dune had ensured their privacy, although anyone could have stumbled across them.
As Randy bent over the pager, she stared at his broad back and the mop of shaggy, sun-streaked hair. A stranger, in a strange place. What was she thinking? She’d known this man for scant hours, and she’d nearly gotten naked with him. She hadn’t been thinking, period. Frankie swallowed and pushed her fingers into her hair, her mind spinning. She scrambled to her feet, then, feeling naked, jerked up the towel and wrapped it around her waist, sand and all.
Randy pushed himself to his feet and turned around, holding up the pager. “It’s the flower shop. Your money must have arrived.” His voice sounded a little hoarse, but his expression remained unreadable as he swept her covered figure with his eyes.
She kept her gaze high to resist the impulse to see if he maintained his earlier state of arousal. Her hands felt awkward, so she hugged her arms and strove to look casual. “That’s g-good.”
His chest expanded as he inhaled deeply, then his mouth formed a grim, straight line. “Considering where this situation was headed—” he gestured vaguely at the towel “—it was also very good timing.”
No matter how close he’d come to the truth, heat climbed her neck at his presumption of her willingness to have sex with him. And why not? Hadn’t she given him every reason to think she would? Just another in a long line of willing female tourists, no doubt.
Shaken at her near lapse, Frankie squared her shoulders and assumed her most professional face. “Mr. Tate, I think it’s better if we say goodbye now. I’ll take a taxi to the florist’s. Now that I have money, I’ll be fine.” She stepped toward him, her toes sinking into the silky sand, and stuck out her hand. “Thank you for your, er, hospitality.”
His eyebrows rose and he considered the hand she’d extended, not without amusement, she noticed. Frankie immediately regretted her action since her hand wasn’t exactly steady. She felt ridiculous, but still she waited. He pursed his mouth, then reached forward and blanketed her fingers with his in a comforting grip. “I’m nothing if not hospitable, Ms. Jensen,” he said, mocking her formality. “But you’ll still be needing a place to stay tonight, and I’d feel better if you’d let me arrange it.”
She carefully extracted her hand from his and nodded curtly. “I would appreciate it. Perhaps you could make a call on my behalf?”
“The fellow who owns the place I have in mind will probably be at the bar,” Randy said. “After we pick up your money, we’ll swing by there.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s nearly six—I’m expected back soon anyway, and you can talk to Parker about a room. Then,” he added lightly, “we can part company.”
For the time being, she ignored his comment about parting company because she found the idea so startlingly disappointing. “Parker? You mean the older gentleman I spoke to?”
Randy nodded. “His house is a bed-and-breakfast. I’m sure he can find a place for you to rest your pretty head for a couple of nights.”
She tried to ignore his compliment, but failed miserably. “Hopefully just one night,” she amended. “If my briefcase turns up by tomorrow, I’ll try to get a flight out of here instead of waiting for the ship on Sunday.”
He smiled slightly. “Good idea. After all, you wouldn’t want to delay your return to the daily grind, and—” his eyes twinkled “—Oscar.”
Her face burned. “No, I wouldn’t,” she said tightly.
“Well, then it’s settled,” he said matter-of-factly, casually walking backward toward the shore. “Give me a few minutes, and we’ll pack up and head back.”
Frankie frowned as he increased the distance between them. “A few minutes?”
He squinted into the sun and flashed a sheepish smile as he walked into the shallows. “Excuse me, but I find myself in need of a cold swim.” After a quick pivot, he dived into the water with athletic ease.
When she realized he needed to quench his libido, Frankie allowed herself several seconds of smug satisfaction before shaking herself and bending to tidy up the remnants of their picnic. She murmured a word of thanks to the heavens for intervening on her behalf. If that pager hadn’t sounded, right now they might be writhing on the towel, their bodies fused in unleashed passion. Frankie swallowed hard, squashing the provocative image. With a frown, she wondered how many conquests the virile Mr. Tate had made beneath this palm tree alone.
Unable to resist a peek in his direction, she scanned the glistening, bobbing waves and watched the perplexing man swim away with powerful strokes. She sighed. He had certainly gone above and beyond the call of duty by stepping in to help her. Granted, he might have harbored ulterior motives—like the private picnic—but she had to admit she’d welcomed his attention.
His dark head disappeared beneath the water, evoking a flutter of apprehension in her chest. The wind had kicked up considerably, cultivating the waves until they crashed more forcefully onto the beach. Straightening from her task, Frankie bit her bottom lip and counted the seconds he remained submerged. After ten seconds, she dropped the bag of uneaten crab legs and cupped her hands as she jogged to the water’s edge. “Randy!” When he hadn’t surfaced in another five seconds, she stepped free of the cumbersome towel and ripped open her shirt, sending buttons flying. “Randy!”
In her haste, Frankie broke the surface of the water with a loud splash, concentrating on the spot she’d last seen him. Out of habit, she opened her eyes under water, only to be reminded instantly that she was swimming in the ocean. Withstanding the stinging saltwater, Frankie swam with strong kicks as long as her lungs would allow, frantically searching the clear depths for her Good Samaritan.
Spotting a dark object several yards in front of her, Frankie surfaced for air, coughed, then propelled herself forward with a jerky overhand crawl. “Randy!” she sputtered. “Can you hear me?”
In the distance, two yacht-size cruisers were passing, blowing air horns. Her heart thudded in her ears. If a man of his size and strength had been pulled down by an undertow, she’d have very little chance of saving him without becoming a victim herself. Diving shallowly, Frankie tensed for any change in the current of the water around her.
At first she thought the shadowy fingers floating below her were kelp or s
ome kind of sea flora, then she realized it was Randy’s hair. With a surge of strength, Frankie grabbed a handful and pulled hard while kicking for the surface. To her immense relief, after the initial weight resistance, his body seemed to rise with little effort on her part. Frankie’s first thought was that he must be unconscious. But as soon as she broke the surface, she gasped in amazement when he emerged, eyes wide, his head crooked to accommodate her death grip on his hair.
“Gee, Red, if you wanted me back on shore, all you had to do was say so,” he said, his voice rich with suppressed laughter.
Frankie released him with a jerk, coming away with more than one strand of honey-colored hair. Anger blazed through her as she gasped for breath. “I thought…you were…in trouble!”
His grin flustered her further. “You swam out to save me?”
“No!” she sputtered. “I mean…yes, dammit!”
His hearty laugh rumbled out, echoing across the water. With his hair slicked back and the sun glinting off his earring, Randy Tate was quite possibly the most outrageously handsome man she’d ever seen. While Frankie burned with embarrassment at coming to his supposed rescue, the man beamed.
She scowled and headed back to shore with as much fervor as she could manage with her rubbery limbs, weak from exertion and relief. She heard Randy following her, his occasional spurts of laughter fueling her exasperation.
He caught up with her in shoulder-deep water. “I do appreciate the gesture,” he said, still smiling.
Frankie tried to splash the gloating expression from his face. “What the heck were you doing underwater for so long?”
“I thought you might like this,” he said, lifting his hand to reveal a curved shell the size of his palm.
“A conch,” she murmured as he placed it in her hand. The hues of the shimmering shell ranged from pale pink to deep rose, with the curved inside nearing purple. “Does it still contain a living animal?”
“Not this one. It’s yours if you want it. I’d hate for all your memories of the island to be bad ones.”
Club Cupid Page 6