“It’s beautiful,” she said, touched. “Thank you, Randy.”
He grinned and his eyes lifted at the corners. “You’re welcome. And I’m glad we’re back on a first-name basis…Frankie.”
Ridiculously pleased with his gift and his good humor, she waded out of the water with him, clutching the white suit to her body, recalling the bikini’s transparency. He picked up the towel and her shirt where she’d dropped them, but when she reached for the items, he held on to them, making her pause. “Frankie,” he said, his voice suddenly serious. “I’m sorry about…earlier.”
Surprised, her mind raced for an explanation for his apology. Was it a ruse to catch her off guard, to endear her to him further? She bit the inside of her cheek. He looked so damn sincere…but then, he was an actor. Conjuring up a shaky smile, she said, “Let’s forget about it, okay?”
“Okay,” he agreed with a nod. “Maybe by the time you pick up your money, the police will have found your briefcase.”
“And I can be on my way,” she said, nodding with him. Except suddenly, stupidly, she hoped the briefcase wouldn’t show up until just before the second ship arrived Sunday. She could spend a couple more days on the island relaxing with…alone. Yes, alone on the beach with a book. A nice, platonic nonfiction book. A cookbook.
“On your way back to cold weather,” he murmured, retaining his hold on the items between them.
“Back to my job.”
“Back to the stress,” he said with a pointed look.
“Back to my responsibilities,” she corrected gently.
He slowly released the towel and the shirt into her hands. “You’re right, of course. Let’s get going. I guess the windsurfing lesson will have to wait until another time.”
Within a few minutes, they had repacked the cooler and donned their clothing. Since her shirt was missing a few buttons, Frankie tied the ends across her midriff. They remained silent for most of the walk back to the private beach and the spectacular stucco home. Frankie held the gym bag in one hand and the conch shell in her other, rubbing her thumb against the smooth inside wall. The stroking motion seemed to calm her vacillating mood, and she felt a strange attachment to the gift. She occasionally sneaked a peek at the man striding next to her, thinking he would laugh if he knew how much the token had pleased her.
When they stepped within bounds of the nudists, Randy moved closer to her side and touched her waist in a protective gesture that she appreciated, despite the fact that the casual contact set her nerves on end.
He guided her along the outskirts of the sunbathers and Frankie labored to keep from staring. Sheely had turned over on her stomach to give her sleek back and behind equal exposure to her front. “I’d like to pay your friend for the bathing suit,” she said. “Will you bring the money back to her on your next visit?”
“I already offered to pay Sheely, but she didn’t want the money.”
Frankie frowned. “I can’t very well give it back to her after wearing it.”
“She wants you to keep it.”
This habit of accepting charity from strangers left her feeling very…beholden. “Why would she do that?”
He shrugged. “Sheely is a very generous person.”
Frankie was glad he didn’t expand on the woman’s different levels of generosity, but she couldn’t resist asking, “Is she an old girlfriend of yours?”
His chuckle rumbled low and mocking. “No. Does it matter?”
“Of course not,” she assured him, although she did feel strangely comforted by the disclosure.
The owner of the house loitered near the gate, smoking a short cigar—Frankie strove not to make Freudian comparisons. Trying to keep her eye contact high, Frankie realized with a start that she hadn’t craved a cigarette since they’d arrived at the beach.
“Ahhhh, Randy,” the balding man crooned. “Surely you’re not whisking away this lovely woman so soon.”
“I’m afraid we need to get back, Tom.”
His friend pulled a face. “You’re not fooling anyone, my boy. You simply want to keep her all to yourself.”
“How true,” Randy said easily, his hand tightening on her waist. With the other hand, he held up the cooler. “Thanks for the crab legs.”
Tom winked. “No problem. I figured you two would work up a bit of an appetite.”
Frankie narrowed her eyes at Randy, but he simply smiled and shook his head as if to say, “Even if we deny it, no one will believe us.” Instead, he said, “I might be back tomorrow afternoon for a little surfing.”
The host nodded hospitably, then gestured toward Frankie with his cigar. “Will you be bringing your little tourist treasure?”
Frankie lifted her chin, bristling. The man made her sound like a generic plastic souvenir. She glanced at Randy and found him studying her with amusement dancing in his eyes. “That’s up to Red, I suppose. She seems to be in a hurry to leave our fair island.”
Flushing under his mocking gaze, Frankie inclined her head in farewell to his congenial naked millionaire friend, then walked through the gate Randy held open. She stepped onto the shaded path leading to the parking area, feeling self-conscious. Following the path abruptly to the right around a hibiscus bush heavy with fragrant, pink blooms, Frankie lost sight of the men, but she could still hear them talking.
Tom chuckled. “Did you scare her off, Randy?”
Expecting a flippant answer, Frankie smirked. Then Randy’s deep voice floated to her, despite his obvious attempt at a lowered tone. “The other way around, my man, the other way around.”
7
FRANKIE ONLY half listened as the man at the flower shop counted the bills into her hand. During the entire return trip, the offhand parting comment Randy had made to his friend had darted in and out of her mind much like the way he’d maneuvered the motorcycle in and out of streets and alleys. She had scared him off? What the heck was that supposed to mean?
After thanking the clerk, she turned to find the man of her musings standing with his foot propped up on the low sill of the display window, his tanned fingers keeping beat with the tune on the radio against his bare knee. Earthy and masculine, Randy Tate looked incongruous standing amidst floor stands of live and silk flowers.
Staring out the window, he appeared bored, and Frankie decided she was making too much of the earlier remark. Considering him now, unobserved and restless, the thought occurred to her that he probably meant she had turned into more trouble than he’d bargained for, what with all the running back and forth. After all, the island was undoubtedly rampant with low-maintenance one-night stands, and he was wasting valuable time with her, a lost cause.
As if he sensed she was thinking about him, he glanced at her and gave her a distant smile. “Ready to go, Red?”
She nodded, then extended a one-hundred-dollar bill in his direction.
He made no move to take the cash. “What’s this?”
“For all your trouble,” she said simply.
He straightened, frowning. “You don’t have to pay me.”
Attempting to press the money into his hand, she said, “I owe you a tip anyway.”
He pulled his hand away empty and shook his head. “If memory serves, you only owe me a penny.”
Frankie hadn’t meant to offend him. More impressed with his gallantry than she cared to admit, she tried to lighten the mood. Holding up the bill, she smiled. “So, do you have change for a hundred?”
Thankfully, he laughed. Frankie felt a stab of panic that the rich sound had become so welcome to her ears. “Come on,” he said, opening the door and causing a bell to tinkle overhead. “Maybe the bar will.”
From the flower shop, they rode to the police station, but Frankie’s briefcase still hadn’t turned up. Her initial disappointment gave way to bewildering relief, but she chose not to analyze her reaction too closely. On the trip back to Rum King’s, Frankie wrung pleasure out of every second of the early-evening breeze cooling her pink skin. The sun in its des
cent had turned from flaming tangerine to a brilliant coral, with flowing robes of rose and blue clouds gathered around in preparation for a grand exit. Bongos reverberated in the distance, probably a celebration of the impending sunset.
Having acclimated to Randy’s rhythm, her body melded with his seamlessly as they swayed around curves, her hair whipping behind her. The skin on his back felt soft and fuzzy with salty residue. The flat planes of his stomach moved beneath her interlocked hands as he shifted on the seat they shared. Frankie clung to his warmth, resisting the overwhelming urge to run her hands freely over the front of his body. The heat, her circumstances, his proximity—all of it combined to make a powerful aphrodisiac. But, she reminded herself, she had always conducted herself with discipline, and she wasn’t about to change now.
Still, the thought of what might have happened on the towel beneath the palm trees kept sneaking into her mind, sending arrows of fire to her belly. Would he have been the fiercely gentle lover she’d longed for during the wee hours of countless sleepless nights? Gazing at the ceiling until she’d memorized every crack in the plaster, many times she’d concluded there had to be more to life than the daily grind of corporate drudge. But by the light of day her romantic reflections had seemed silly, and by lunch she’d been reveling in the hectic pace of the day. Her parents had taught her to be strong, independent and resourceful—she didn’t need a man to make her feel fulfilled, and certainly not a raggedy vagabond.
As if strengthening her resolve, Frankie tightened her fingers over Randy’s midriff, her fingers grazing the indention of his navel, a strangely erotic sensation. Perhaps in response, or maybe not, he rolled his shoulders slightly, pressing back into her breasts. She closed her eyes against the rush of desire that left her neck rubbery, thinking how it was very lucky that she’d escaped the brush with intimacy with this unabashedly appealing man. Otherwise, she might spend the rest of her life looking for a mate with the impossible combination of sex appeal and security. In her opinion, such a man didn’t exist because the two drives ran counter to each other. What better example than to compare her hazardous riding companion to her complacent co-worker? Randy evoked a more animal response in her with a single glance than trusty Oscar achieved with the candy and the earnest kiss he’d given her before she left.
Her disturbing thoughts cleared when they stopped at an intersection she recognized. She marveled at the swelling crowds swarming down the sidewalks like so many colorful bees. Randy threaded through the people, at a pace so leisurely he kept his feet down, touching the pavement occasionally to maintain their balance.
After a few turns, they bumped gently into the weedy parking lot they’d left earlier in the day, triggering in her a vague sense of sadness that the ride was over. Randy eased the bike into a grassy spot and killed the engine. He held the motorcycle level while she climbed off, then lowered the kickstand with his foot. Rolling the bike backward, he pulled up on the handlebars to lock the kickstand into place. After removing the clear-lensed glasses he’d traded for his sunglasses in the waning light, he untied their belongings.
“Thanks for the ride,” she murmured as she took her straw hat.
“My pleasure,” he answered easily, engrossed with loosening the gym bag.
“I always thought motorcycles were dangerous. I didn’t know they were so much fun.”
“They can be dangerous,” he admitted with a quick glance in her direction. The fading light cast most of his face in shadow. “But you’re right—there’s nothing like having something warm and responsive between your legs.”
Frankie froze, wondering if her overblown hormones were prompting her to read more into his comment than he’d intimated. But when she saw the flash of his white teeth, she knew she was indeed being goaded again. “Are you ever serious?” she asked, exasperated.
“Being serious is bad for your health,” he asserted. “Between the smoking and your type-A personality, I’ll bet your arteries are already clogged.”
“My bank account is healthy,” she said loftily.
“Oh, well,” he said with thinly veiled sarcasm. “At least you’ll be able to afford a private hospital room.”
“I would be much more stressed if I didn’t have the security of a good job,” she insisted.
“Define ‘good,”’ he said as he rummaged in the gym bag.
Frankie frowned. “Hmm?”
“Define a good job.” He came up with a T-shirt and then pulled it over his head.
Momentarily distracted by the disappointment she felt when he concealed his smooth, muscled chest, Frankie chewed on the inside of her cheek, then said, “Good—you know, well-paying, stable.”
He turned toward the street, stepping between her and a noisy group of college-age kids as they rumbled by in the falling dusk. “You don’t ask for much out of your career, Red.”
Frankie nearly laughed aloud—a bartender was telling her she didn’t ask for much out of her career? She trotted behind him down the short, sparsely lit alley. “Excuse me?”
Randy shrugged. “No offense, but what about spending most of your waking hours doing something you just plain enjoy?”
Ruffled, Frankie pulled away from him as she walked. “I never said I didn’t enjoy my job.”
“You never said you did.” Randy stepped into an opening in the stream of pedestrians on the sidewalk and made room for her.
She followed and raised her voice to be heard over the clatter. “I’m very good at what I do.”
He gave her a quick once-over, his eyes sparkling with appreciation. “I’m sure you’re good at a lot of things, Red, but just because you’re promotable doesn’t mean you like what you do.”
She flushed under his gaze and the suggestive comment, but considered the wisdom of his words. The man was right, of course, but judging from what she knew of him, he was taking his own advice to the extreme. Deciding the conversation had strayed too close to a topic she didn’t want to explore, Frankie scanned their surroundings.
The streets, now awash with light, had taken on a definite carnival appeal. Woe to any driver foolish enough to attempt taking a car down the street, which was swollen with vivid, vibrating bodies. Several establishments broadcast their own music, each louder and happier than the next in order to attract foot traffic. Even Rum King’s had assumed a nighttime persona, sporting a huge neon parrot she hadn’t noticed in the daylight.
“Did I hit a nerve talking about your job?” he asked near her ear.
She jumped, surprised he hadn’t tired of their serious subject. “It’s a trade-off,” she said as he drew her aside to avoid a wayward partier. “A person can’t have fun twenty-four hours a day.”
He lifted his eyebrows in obvious disagreement.
“Well,” she relented, lifting her hand toward him, “not everyone.”
His laugh rolled out as they slowly made their way toward the bar. He placed a warm hand on her waist and she instinctively moved closer. “People like us balance out each other, Red. You’re productive enough for both of us, and I’m…” He pursed his mouth as he presumably considered his best traits.
“Reproductive enough for both of us?” The remark had entered her mind, but she hadn’t meant to blurt it out.
But his burst of laughter made it clear she had embarrassed herself far more than she’d embarrassed her companion. Randy squeezed her waist as he steered her through the wide doorway of Rum King’s. “We all have our talents.” His voice sounded wistful—was he thinking of missed opportunities?
The bar had undergone a transformation in preparation for the night crowd. More tables had been added, and luminaires sat in the center of each table. Strings of white lights sparkled down from the rafters. The waitresses, now wearing short black shorts and tight cropped T-shirts, maneuvered between crowded tables. Reggae music boomed from the speakers. Cigarette smoke hung thick in the air, stirring Frankie’s appetite for nicotine and practically obscuring the press of bodies on the patio. The underl
ying sweetness of citrus and alcohol tickled her nose, but she had the most irritating craving for a beer.
Randy nodded and smiled to a couple of customers who must have been regulars, then led her toward the bar where the blond waitress Kate dispensed drinks with a practiced hand. Tweety squawked like a broken record. “First drink is a quarter, awk, first drink is a quarter.”
Randy briefly introduced the women. Upon hearing Frankie’s name, Tweety dipped his blue head and declared, “Nice ass.”
Frankie frowned at the bird and shot an accusing glance at Randy, who simply pressed his lips together and shrugged. Kate flitted her gaze over Frankie, then said, “Hey, Randy, the girls are asking for you out back.” She jerked her thumb toward the patio and lifted her eyebrows suggestively. “Remember, it’s for a good cause.”
Randy squirmed and actually blushed, intriguing Frankie. “What’s going on out on the patio?” She craned for a better look.
“Kissing booths,” Kate explained.
“Kissing booths?” Frankie asked, then smirked in Randy’s direction. “Let me guess—your idea?”
“Of course,” chirped the blonde as she splashed rum into a row of glasses on the bar.
Randy reddened. “We have fund-raisers for charity a couple of times a year.”
“And since Sunday is Valentine’s Day,” Kate continued while slicing limes, “Randy thought it would be a good time to raise a few bucks—one smackaroo for one smackaroo.” She winked at Randy. “Of course, with some of the talk I overheard, you could probably name your price, boss.”
Frankie imagined women standing in line to kiss Randy Tate and experienced a sting of jealousy. He shifted under her gaze, then glossed over the awkward moment by asking Kate several questions related to inventory and the day’s receipts. He was making sure everyone else had covered for him in his absence, Frankie noted, probably in case the manager came around asking questions. But when Kate moved down to the other end of the bar, Frankie remembered how the woman had addressed him.
“Do you manage this place?” She gestured vaguely toward the crowd, trying to mask her censure. After all, the man certainly had a right to live his life the way he saw fit.
Club Cupid Page 7