Club Cupid

by Stephanie Bond

  Randy considered her question as he circled behind the bar to fetch a cold brew. She was fishing, perhaps delving to see if he was really as irresponsible as he seemed. For some bizarre reason, he felt torn between wanting to impress this woman and wanting to maintain the distance they’d established. “Manage? I guess you could say that.” She looked duly unimpressed—which was just as well, he decided. “What can I get you to drink, Red?”

  She drummed her fingers on the bar, craving a cigarette, he presumed. Her lips moved, but he couldn’t hear her over the din, so he cupped a hand behind his ear. Frankie fidgeted, then said loudly, “I’ll have a beer.”

  He started to grin, then realized in the space of a few hours he had introduced the woman to nude beaches and beer—not much to brag about. Feeling like a bona fide bad influence, he pulled two beers from the ice chest, emerged from behind the bar and nodded toward Parker’s regular table.

  Parker Grimes sat in the same seat, with the same pitcher of frozen margarita in front of him, holding court to a wide-eyed handful of studious-looking patrons. By his animated gestures and facial expressions, Randy knew the silver-haired man was telling one of his famous stories. And by the looks of anticipation on the faces of his audience, he was nearing the end. Suddenly Parker’s arms fell down, his shoulders sagged, and the entire table collapsed into gales of laughter. Randy touched Frankie’s elbow and forged closer, waiting for a chance to get his friend’s attention. The sooner he saw Red squared away with a room for the night, the sooner he could turn his thoughts elsewhere.

  When he saw them, Parker’s face lit up in greeting and he waved them forward. “Randy! Ms. Jensen! Please come and join us.”

  Two stools materialized, but Randy chose to remain standing—for a quick getaway? his conscience whispered. Frankie climbed onto a seat next to the man who had become a fixture in Rum King’s.

  Unlike most of the writers who found inspiration living in and around the unique landscape and personalities of Key West, humorist Parker Grimes was widely published, even achieving a good bit of critical acclaim with his second novel. Randy had inherited Parker’s magnanimous presence when he’d purchased the bar, and the two had become fast friends. In fact, Parker was the only person with whom he’d shared the details of his prior life.

  “I see you made it back safe and sound, Ms. Jensen.” Parker looked past Frankie’s shoulder and winked at Randy. “She seemed a bit concerned, my boy, that you might ravish her and leave her on the beach.”

  Randy caught Frankie’s guilty gaze and a thousand unspoken words passed between them. For him, Parker’s glib comment had the effect of stripping away the crowd and the noise, and sending him back to the stretch of sand he and Frankie had nearly christened. To lighten the moment, Randy conjured up a grin. “And you assured her, no doubt, Parker, that I had absolutely no intention of leaving her on the beach.”

  Frankie narrowed her eyes slightly, which he found adorable.

  His friend laughed, a rich, mellow sound. “Tell me, Ms. Jensen, did Mr. Tate help you out of your—what did you call it? Bind?”

  She turned a shaky smile in Parker’s direction. “Um, yes, Mr. Tate was very…accommodating.”

  Just knowing that Frankie too was thinking about their near romp sent desire pumping through Randy’s primed body. He leaned in close, wickedly gratified to see her swallow just before he murmured, “I seem to be collecting adjectives—first, hospitable and now, accommodating. What next?” Her mouth tightened and Randy remembered the silky feel of her lips beneath his own.

  “Incorrigible comes to mind,” she said sweetly. “Are you going to ask your friend about a place for me to stay or shall I?”

  He retreated, reining in his rampaging libido. “Parker, the lady needs a place to stay a night or two—can you put her up?”

  The man glanced from Randy to Frankie and back, then bestowed a blustery grin upon them. “I’m sure I can arrange something.”

  “Great,” Randy said, relieved to have one loose end secured. “Listen, Red, if you don’t mind hanging out here for a few minutes, I need to check on a couple of things.”

  “The kissing booth?” she asked with an arched eyebrow.

  “No,” he said, embarrassed anew, but Frankie wasn’t paying attention. She checked her watch, worrying her lower lip with small white teeth. “Do you have to be somewhere?” he asked in a wry tone.

  Frankie shook her head. “But I should make a phone call.”

  “Let me guess—good old Oscar?”

  She nodded, blessedly ignorant of his…jealousy? Impossible.

  “Come on,” he said with more impatience than he meant to reveal. The quick flash of hurt on her freckled face as she climbed off the stool filled him with remorse. He sighed. “I’ll even give you the quarter,” he said, his tone pathetically gentled.

  “But I still owe you a penny,” she reminded him with a small smile that sent a low throb of panic drumming through Randy’s stomach.

  Oh, dear God…he liked her.

  No, he wanted her, he corrected as he led Frankie through a maze of bodies to a door marked Employees Only. Like and want—big difference. Big, big difference.

  “Here you are,” he said, sweeping an arm into a closet-size room. A naked bulb from the low ceiling cast harsh light over the cluttered contents. “Not much to look at, but a little more quiet.” He closed the door behind them and pointed to a battered student’s desk in the corner. “Help yourself to the phone. If you don’t mind, while I’m here I’ll sign a few orders that have to go out in the morning.”

  Frankie stepped toward the desk, but her gaze was riveted to a picture on the wall, an awkwardly framed newspaper article and photograph of him handing a check to the director of the Dry Tortugas National Park. “You own this place,” she said, her voice tinged with surprise.

  “Guilty as charged,” he admitted.

  “You said you were the manager.”

  He laughed. “I am the manager—and the janitor, and the bartender if need be.” He watched her carefully, although he wasn’t sure what kind of reaction he expected.

  But she simply turned and set down her bottle by the phone. “I’ll leave you some money for this call—I’m already indebted to you enough.”

  Randy set his beer on a paper-strewn, shoulder-high file cabinet, watching Frankie’s red, windswept hair fall over her shoulder when she picked up the handset. Her arms and hands moved gracefully, beautifully. He wasn’t quite sure why even her slightest movement spoke to him, made him alternately want to watch her and fold his arms around her.

  Giving himself a mental shake, he mined a pen from a pile of debris, turned his back to give her some semblance of privacy, then studied the liquor-order sheets. Muffled laughter and the bass of the music sounded on the other side of the door, but not loud enough to drown out Frankie’s voice behind him.

  “Hi, Oscar, it’s me.”

  Randy frowned. Not Ms. Jensen, not Frankie—me. Which means they’re on very close terms.

  “Yes, I received the money. I don’t know what I would have done without your help.”

  His rolled his eyes. Since no one here has lifted a finger.

  “Everything’s fine. I’m scheduled to leave on another ship Sunday afternoon, so I’ll be home by Monday evening.”

  Home? Is she talking generalizations, or does she live with the guy?

  “The design sheets? I—I—I couldn’t locate a fax machine to get them to you today, but—Oscar, I know you need them, but—No, I don’t think anyone else has an updated copy, but—Oscar!” She spoke so sharply, he turned to stare. Frankie glanced up guiltily, then gave him a weak smile and turned back to the phone. “If I find a fax machine, I’ll send what you need. Otherwise, I’ll give you the sheets Monday night.”

  Monday night? So they are living together. A fact which was hard for him to reconcile with the uptight Frankie Jensen he was coming to know. He turned back to his orders.

  “How’s the testing goin
g on the new compiler?”

  Randy listened as she exchanged computer talk with her beloved Oscar—conversation she probably thought would be over Randy’s head. Actually, he’d been quite the computer whiz in his day. Then he bit the inside of his cheek. From TV and newspapers, he gathered that computers had changed tremendously in the decade since he’d last touched a keyboard. He’d never even signed on to the Internet. Why did this woman make him suddenly feel as if he was missing something?

  The click of her hanging up the phone interrupted his thoughts. He hurriedly scanned and signed the rest of the orders, then pivoted to give her a wide, guileless smile. “How’s Oscar?”

  In a blink, she erased the concern from her face and casually retrieved her beer. “Fine.”

  “Missing you, I’ll bet.”

  She shrugged and stood. “He stays busy.”

  Unable to stop himself, he asked, “And did you tell him how you’ve been staying busy?”

  Frankie leveled her gaze on him. “What’s to tell?”

  A hot flush singed his neck and he inclined his head in concession to her candid, if stinging, observation. Then he caught sight of a one-hundred-dollar bill wedged under the phone. He settled his hands on his hips, frowning. “The call didn’t cost that much. I thought I made it clear that I’m not going to accept your money.”

  “Don’t get defensive,” she said, standing. “If you won’t take the money for yourself, take it for your charity fund.”

  He started to object, then a wicked idea occurred to him and he smiled. “Agreed.” He reached her in two lazy strides, and leaned one hand into the wall behind her, leaving mere inches between their bodies. “But doing the math in my head,” he whispered, stroking her pink cheek with his thumb. “That comes out to one hundred smackeroos for one hundred smackeroos.”

  8

  BEFORE HE CLAIMED the kiss, Frankie had barely enough time to inhale, let alone voice the feeble protests half formed in her throat. Randy clamped his mouth down on hers with the fierceness of a consummation, although only their lips touched. He bathed her tongue with his, sharing the keen tang of beer and his own pleasing taste. Her body vaulted to life, section by section, as if she were a machine and he the power source.

  Desire coiled low in her stomach, then sprang into her torso and electrified her arms and legs, fingers and toes. The low desk bit into the back of her thighs, but she found the numbing pain slightly arousing. She nipped at the end of his tongue and he responded with increased intensity. Their teeth clicked together as they levered for advantage, their heads bobbing as power ebbed and flowed between them. His lips alternately softened and hardened, every few seconds shifting from gentle disclosure to blatant desire, and back. Her need for oxygen ended the kiss, leaving her gulping air. Frankie raised a hand to her tingling mouth, struggling for composure.

  Randy’s air passages seemed equally compromised, although his golden eyes remained riveted on her. He slipped his arms around her waist and emitted a low whistle of appreciation. “Only ninety-nine more to go.”

  “Randy,” she uttered, turning her head. “We shouldn’t.”

  Unwittingly she’d given him unobstructed access to her neck, which he latched on to, alternating tiny suckling kisses with a hoarse countdown. “Ninety-eight…ninety-seven…ninety-six…”

  “Randy,” she protested again, even as her hands cradled his dipping head.

  “…ninety-five…ninety-four…ninety-three…”

  She raised her chin and arched backward as his mouth traveled over the pulse jumping in her neck. “W-we shouldn’t let things g-get out of hand…”

  “…ninety-four…ninety-five…ninety-six…”

  She playfully slapped at his shoulder. “You’re counting in the wrong direction.”

  Frankie felt him grin against her neck. “And you’re supposed to be too distracted to notice.”

  She pushed him away in exasperation and crossed her arms in a literal effort to hold herself together. “Perhaps I should add conceited to your list.”

  Lifting his shoulders in a too-innocent shrug, he said, “Since the kissing booths were my idea, I figure it’s my responsibility to make sure you get your money’s worth.”

  The hunger in his eyes sent alarms screaming through her body, because she suspected he saw the same desire reflected in her baby blues. Panicked, Frankie spun to face the wall, fighting for control. Too late, she realized she faced a picturesize mirror, and Randy Tate was not someone she should have turned her back on.

  A good six inches taller, he stood behind her and caught her gaze in the reflection. With his mussed tawny hair and his sparkling gilded eyes, he reminded her of a lion circling a female he might either ravish or eat alive—or both—depending on his whim.

  He reached around and hooked his bronze fingers in the mass of red hair that had fallen forward to brush her collarbone. Frankie held her breath as he drew the tresses back over her shoulder, exposing the sensitive zone behind her ear. With a sinking heart, she realized her neck tingled in anticipation of his unbelievably talented mouth. But rather than planting a kiss, he lowered his head, making the light glint off his earring, and stroked her neck with his chin, his evening beard rasping along her skin. “So?” he muttered.

  She closed her eyes and released the pent-up breath, rolling her head to the other side as goose bumps raced along her shoulders. “So…what?” she gasped.

  He continued the stroking motion, nuzzling her hairline. “So, do you think you’re getting your money’s worth?”

  In answer, she eased back into him, wrapping her hands around his hips, pulling his hardened sex into the curve of her buttocks. He groaned and smoothed his hands inside her gaping shirt, massaging her breasts through the thin fabric of the white bikini top, budding her nipples with his thumbs. His breathing became erratic in her ear as his tongue lapped at her earlobe. “Frankie, I can’t keep my hands off you.”

  She moaned her acquiescence and opened her eyes just as he slid the two triangles of the bathing-suit top aside, exposing her paper-pale breasts. Fascinated by the sight of his brown fingers against her skin in the mirror, Frankie rubbed back against his arousal, eliciting another groan. He deftly untied her knotted shirt, then slid his hands over her stomach and into the loose waistband of her disheveled shorts.

  Liquid fire flamed through her body when he cupped his hands over the flimsy bikini bottom that stood between her nest and his apt fingers. With eyes glazed with desire, he met her gaze while pressing their bodies together with increasingly firm movements that promised a level of passion and expertise she had not yet experienced.

  She’d have to be an idiot to not know how much he wanted her. And she wanted him, too, with a fierceness that absolutely terrified her. Wanted him right here, right now, in a cramped closet of an office, with unsuspecting people on the other side of the wall.

  But when he slipped a finger beneath the inadequate scrap of fabric at the juncture of her thighs, the intimacy of the gesture shook her to her senses. Frankie stiffened. She was behaving like a coed on spring break, literally falling into the hands of the smooth-talking bartender. She dropped her arms and tugged his hand from the front of her shorts.

  He seemed surprised, but to his credit, he didn’t resist. He took a step back and dragged his hand over his face. “Frankie—”

  “Randy,” she cut in, frantically righting her clothes, gauging his reaction in the mirror, “I apologize for my behavior.” She paused to catch her breath, then bit her lip hard, hoping the pain would help to clear her head, help to banish the passion that threatened to render her powerless to think. She glanced down to ensure body parts and clothing were back in place before she turned to face him.

  At the expression of anger on his face, she nearly faltered. But she lifted her chin and forged ahead. “I do appreciate all you’ve done for me, but weekend-vacation flings are not my style. This—” she gestured in circles, searching for the right word “—this, this, this…attraction i
s a pleasant diversion from my dreadful predicament, but I’ve—” She stopped and laughed, sounding hysterical even to her own ears. After a moment, she put a shaking hand to her temple and squeezed her eyes shut. Frankie swallowed, then said almost to herself, “I’ve got to face the fact that if I don’t find that briefcase, I might as well not even go back to Cincinnati.”

  “And what would be so terrible about that?”

  She glanced up and nearly laughed aloud at his simplistic solution. “I was being facetious—I have to go back.”

  He pursed his lips and pulled a dubious face. “Why?”

  Frankie blinked. Why, he asked? Randy Tate lived life by the seat of his raggedy cutoffs—how could he comprehend the responsibility she held or the magnitude of her blunder? How she not only had compromised her job by hoarding the plans for the project, but also the reputation of the entire team if the system were delayed due to her negligence? The full force of her dilemma hit her anew and nausea welled in her stomach. She shook her head in disbelief. Why was this happening to her? “I’ve got to get out of here.” She pivoted toward the door, but Randy caught her by the wrist.

  “Let go of me,” she bit out. “I know you’re angry, but—”

  “Frankie,” he said firmly, loosening his grip, but maintaining his hold. His eyes grew serious. “I’m not angry at you, I’m angry at myself for pushing you—I’m sorry. And I know you’re worried about finding your briefcase, but leaving like this won’t help anything.”

  Was he sincere, or simply giving a convincing performance? She had to admit he had risen above and beyond the call of duty at every step to help her. Was it possible she had underestimated the man when she assumed he had ulterior motives? His gaze bore into her—not the suggestive, flirty gaze of a ladykiller, but the somber, affectionate gaze of a man who…understood? Impossible.

  “Thank you for helping me find a place to stay,” she said, extracting her wrist from his gentle hold. “I need to buy a few personal items and some clothes.” She attempted an optimistic smile. “And who knows? Maybe tomorrow my bag will turn up.”