Club Cupid (9 page)

“What?” she asked, frowning.

He straightened and shook his head. “Nothing.”

She turned to check the rear fit. A little loose, but adequate in a pinch.

“Hmm.”

Frankie looked back to the source of the grunt. “What’s wrong?”

He shook his head again. “Nothing.”

She started back to the changing booth.

“It’s just that…”

She sighed.
“What?”

“Well…” He tilted his head to one side, scanning
her figure. “That outfit’s kind of plain, don’t you think?”

She looked down at the neat, unadorned garments. “So?”

“So try on the other one.”

Flustered at his familiarity, she nodded to his shabby cutoffs and threadbare T-shirt. “For some reason, I assumed clothes didn’t mean much to you.”

He shrugged good-naturedly. “If I’d known you’d be dropping in the bar today, I’d have worn my good T-shirt.”

She closed the curtain with a snap and kept her gaze averted while removing the clothing as quickly as her quaking hands would allow. There was something undoubtedly erotic about undressing with Randy in plain sight…she might as well be performing a striptease.

With burning cheeks, she shimmied the yellow silk tank over her head. The thin fabric settled over her breasts with a whisper, the slight friction instantly pearling the tips. She wrapped the skirt around her hips, and even before she secured the ties at the side, she knew the garment was perfect—a perfect fit to mold her hips, the perfect color for her pale skin and the perfect length to show off her long legs…but where on earth would she wear the outfit when she returned home?

“So?” he asked, still loitering nearby.

Frankie swallowed and pushed back the curtain, foolishly gratified when Randy straightened and his eyes grew large. “Wow, Red.”

Embarrassed, she gave him a wry smile and stepped in front of the mirror. The garments were
indeed flattering, she decided as she turned sideways. Still dubious, she glanced down at her white feet. “But I’ll need shoes.”

At last the preoccupied salesclerk turned, surveyed Frankie’s outfit and smiled. “We have a few pairs of sandals in the back.”

Randy looked to Frankie with eyebrows raised.

She sighed and nodded to the girl. “Eight and a half.”

With ballooning confidence, Frankie chose a few more items—white gauze drawstring pants, a floral skort, a soft pink T-shirt dress, a one-piece teal swimsuit, two casual tops and a thin white cardigan for the cool evenings on the return cruise. The clerk returned with a selection of shoes, and Frankie chose a pair of strappy green sandals to go with the silk skirt, and a pair of low-heeled white mules to go with everything else.

“Why don’t you wear the skirt to dinner?” he suggested, grinning. “I’m dressed like a bum, but no one will be looking at me anyway.”

Pleased beyond understanding, Frankie nodded and ducked back into the changing room to dress in the outfit. She was looking forward to a nice, conversational meal, fully dressed, with a table wedged safely between them.

“Will there be anything else, ma’am?” the girl asked when Frankie carried the purchases to the cash register.

“Yes.” She leaned forward and whispered, “Underwear.”

Standing a few feet away, Randy coughed and she shot him a warning glance.

“Right this way, ma’am,” the clerk said, heading toward a counter in the back of the store.

In case he had notions of “helping” again, she pointed a finger in his direction. “Don’t move from that spot.”

He held up his hands in a gesture of innocence, which she didn’t believe. Thankfully, Frankie was able to select a few undergarments without him looking over her shoulder, but she had to admit, she chose styles that were more brief and lacy than her normal fare.

“All done?” he asked pleasantly, while craning for a peek as the salesclerk tucked the filmy garments into bags.

“Yes,” she said primly, and he chuckled.

Not amused, she removed a black canvas bag and nylon wallet from a rack, in resignation to the fact that she might never see her briefcase and wallet again. Her expression must have betrayed her thoughts because when she looked at him again, he gave her a comforting wink. “It’ll turn up,” he said quietly. And once again, she believed him.

“I suppose I’ll have to buy a suitcase tomorrow,” she said with a laugh, to change the subject.

The bounty took a good portion of the cash Oscar had wired her, but she didn’t worry because she’d be able to pick up replacement traveler’s checks in the morning. She did experience a pang of guilt when she thought about her would-be boyfriend who was genuinely worried about her while she spent the evening in the company of an undeniably attractive man…a man who had become entirely too easy to kiss in the—she checked her watch—good Lord, seven hours she’d known him.
Seven hours.
Frankie shook her head and glanced sideways at her companion as they gathered up bags.

“What have I done now?” he asked with a smirk.

“Nothing,” she said quickly, stepping through the open door onto the sidewalk.

“Good, because I’m trying to be on my best behavior.” The thinly veiled remark indicating he’d like to finish what they’d started—twice—sent a thrill to her stomach, but she decided she was hungry and ready for another beer.

She stopped and looked down at their burdens. “How are we going to get all these packages to the inn on the back of your motorcycle?”

“No problem,” Randy said, then walked to the end of the curb and lifted his hand to hail a cabbie sitting on the corner. Immediately, the lights flashed and the driver pulled forward. After taking the bags from her arms, Randy loaded all the packages into the back seat, walked around to the driver side and leaned down.

“Hey, Tippy,” he said to the tiny man.

Tippy grinned and put out his hand for Randy to palm. “What’s happening, my man?”

After a glance to ensure Frankie hadn’t followed him, Randy returned the smooth handshake, leaving a fifty behind.

Tippy’s eyes bugged. “Where to?”

“Take these packages to Parker’s and have them delivered to the room he reserved for a Miss Frankie Jensen.”

“Done.”

“One more thing, Tippy—I’ve got a business proposition for you.”

The man instantly turned serious. “I’m listening.”

“I’m looking for a woman’s briefcase that was scarfed earlier today.” He squinted, trying to recall the descriptions she’d given the police officer. “Black and soft-sided, like a purse. The guy who took it was young, white, with short hair, wearing jeans and a green T-shirt. If you find the punk and he hasn’t dumped the bag, I want it.”

Tippy nodded and considered his words. “How bad do you want it?”

“Five hundred for the briefcase, contents intact.”

The man shook his head. “Any money and jewelry are long gone, man.”

Randy dismissed the comment. “I’m interested in some papers and CD’s that were in the bag, but I’ll throw in a hundred-dollar bonus for the wallet, minus the cards and cash. Got it?”

“Yeah. Where can I find you?”

“Leave me a message at the bar.”

The little man sneaked a peek at Frankie standing on the curb under the streetlight and whistled low. “Six hundred dollars, huh? I hope she’s worth it.”

“She is,” Randy said without thinking, then pushed away from the cab with a stone of anxiety in his stomach.

H
E STOOD
long after the cab had pulled away, staring at the woman standing on the sidewalk who had so thoroughly captured his…attention. Her long curls swirled around her shoulders in the light breeze, and the new clothes showed off her fabulous figure. Unbeknownst to her, she was turning the head of every man who passed. And she was his date for the evening, a thought that made his stomach clench with possessive masculine pride.

The fact that she was stranded and had practically no other choice was inconsequential, he decided.

She smiled. “Are you going to stand in the middle of the street all night or are you going to feed me?”

“Feed you,” he relented. With a strange tightening in his chest, he rejoined her, then turned in the direction of his favorite restaurant, Jordy’s Shell House. On the way, his southern manners resurfaced, rusty from disuse. In the decade since he’d arrived, his encounters with women had been short-lived and superficial. He couldn’t remember ever taking a woman to dinner with the express determination to
not
bed her afterward.

Sex with Frankie would be incredible, he knew,
and therein lay the paradox. Randy had the unsettling feeling that if she’d already affected his mind-set in such a short time, making love to her might have him doing something really crazy…like asking her to stay here with him instead of going back home to her boyfriend and her
Fortune 500
job.

“You’re awfully quiet,” she observed.

Randy started from his musings, suddenly realizing that they only had a few more hours together, and he wanted to make the most of it. He had no doubt that Tippy would smoke out the thug eventually, but if the police hadn’t yet recovered the briefcase, chances were slim the kid hadn’t sunk the bag or burned it. Either way, she’d be leaving on another cruise ship Sunday at the very latest. “Just enjoying the scenery,” he said, thinking she’d grown more lovely with each passing minute. “Are you cold?”

“Cool,” she admitted, then unfolded the white cardigan.

He took the sweater from her and placed it around her shoulders, resisting the urge to leave his arm there. Everywhere he looked, couples held hands, danced, kissed—and more. Gearing up for Valentine’s Day, he supposed. Funny, other than the opportunity to raise money for charity at the bar, Valentine’s had always been just another day to him. Now he wondered if he would remember it as the day Frankie Jensen sailed out of his life.

“So tell me about this big project you’re working on,” he said to keep his mind from wandering into dangerous areas.

She laughed. “It’s very boring, actually.”

“Try me.”

Frankie shrugged, then said, “It’s a computer system to track inventory of road-paving materials. The company I work for bids on state and federal road jobs, and up until now, inventory control has been haphazard.”

He frowned. “Doesn’t sound like much of a way to run a business, much less a huge business.”

“You’re right, but the raw materials used in our line of work—like rock, sand, asphalt, concrete—are difficult to track. The material might be mixed at a plant and trucked over, or mixed on the job site. And since most of the materials are stored in piles that sit out in the elements, there’s a lot of waste—” She stopped and laughed. “See, I told you it was boring.”

“Not at all,” he corrected her. “But I admit to being a little surprised to hear that your specialty is asphalt inventory systems.”

“My specialty is systems analysis and design,” she said. “It just so happens that Ohio Roadmakers made me the best offer out of college.” She pressed her lips together. “Looks like I’ll be job hunting soon.”

“It can’t be that bad,” he insisted. “Maybe you’re overreacting.”

Frankie shook her head. “No. If that documentation doesn’t show up, it could take us weeks to piece together the information the vendor needs to get the new compiler working. The new system has to be in place before construction season, which is just around the corner. If we miss this deadline, we’ll have to wait until November or December when activity at the job sites slows down again, and we’ll have sacrificed an entire season’s worth
of productivity gains—” She stopped again and sighed. “I’m sorry, this isn’t your problem.”

“That’s all right, it sounds interesting,” he confessed, aware of the stir in unused areas of his brain. Ohio Roadmakers sounded familiar—did it trade on the New York or the American stock exchange? He should at least renew his subscription to the
Wall Street Journal,
he decided. “I’m glad to listen if it helps to talk about it.”

Frankie shook her head. “I think I’d rather try to enjoy the rest of the night, um, evening.”

“Here we are,” he said, stopping in front of a tiny rounded awning, suddenly wondering if Frankie would be disappointed to find Jordy’s absent of white tablecloths and upscale patrons. His doubts were erased, however, when they stepped inside and she brought her hands together.

“How charming,” she murmured, her eyes bright and darting.

“Part museum, part pub,” Randy said. “As seedy as it sounds, piracy was one of the industries on which Key West was founded.”

She nodded. “I think I read that in the cruise literature.”

He gestured to the documents and artifacts mounted on walls and within small cases. “Jordy’s great-great-grandfather was supposedly one of the most infamous swashbucklers. He keeps the old man’s glass eye in a case beside the bar cash register.”

Her eyes widened like a child’s. “He doesn’t!”

“What did you call it? Ambience?” he teased.

Busy even for a Friday night, the little place overflowed with customers. They joined the long
line behind the authentic ship wheel that served as a makeshift hostess station, but when their turn to be seated arrived, Jordy’s daughter beamed, exchanged small talk with Frankie, then led them directly to a choice table. Randy nodded to Antony, an ancient islander strolling the catwalk above them, playing a soothing piccolo. The man nodded and winked, never missing a note.

“I see you’re a regular,” Frankie noted as he held out her seat.

“Good food and great people,” he said easily. “I usually eat here at least once a week.”

“With a date?”

He glanced up in surprise as he sat down across from her. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But more often not.” A waiter arrived immediately with two wineglasses and a bottle of Randy’s favorite merlot. “Do you like red wine?” Randy asked Frankie.

She nodded absently, still engaged by the decor.

“Thanks, Chapel, I’ll open the wine,” he said, taking the bottle and the corkscrew from the young man.

“This is simply marvelous,” she said, fingering the lighthouse that served as their centerpiece.

“I think Jordy’s wife collects lighthouses.” He chuckled over her shining enthusiasm. “You must love restaurants.”

“I do—my parents own a family restaurant in Cincy, and I grew up waiting tables and helping in the kitchen.”

“Ah,” he said as he popped the cork on the bottle. Filling her glass, he said, “And you didn’t want to follow family tradition?”

She picked up the tiny chalkboard on which the
day’s menu had been handwritten. “Actually, I
did
want to.”

He splashed the berry-colored wine into his own glass, surprised at this side of Frankie. “So why didn’t you?”

She shrugged her lovely shoulders and sipped the wine, nodding with approval. “My parents convinced me there are easier ways to make a living.”

“Like designing asphalt inventory systems?”

A smile danced on her lips, wet with wine. She had definitely gotten some sun today, and it became more noticeable as the evening wore on. Her cheeks fairly glowed and Randy decided she was simply the most compelling woman he’d ever met—beautiful to distraction and diligent to a fault. “I have a good job.”

“So you’ve said before. But do you like it?”

“I like the insurance and the steady income.”

“Stability means a lot to you,” he stated, probing. He hated to belabor the point, but he wanted to prove to himself on a deeper level that a romantic entanglement with Frankie Jensen was a lost cause, that she wanted the very things in life he’d sworn never to be a slave to again.

“I suppose,” she said.

The waiter returned with entrée recommendations. Randy ordered conch fritters for an appetizer and grouper for dinner. Frankie ordered yellowfin tuna. Then Randy encouraged her to bring her glass of wine and join him on a quick tour. For the next twenty minutes, they strolled around the restaurant and Randy pointed out the more interest
ing items in Jordy’s collection, including the notorious glass eye.

On the way back to the table, Frankie asked, “Randy, have you ever thought about turning your bar into a restaurant?”

He pursed his lips as they reclaimed their seats. “Not really. I’d probably make a lot more money, but the upgrades to be able to serve food would be considerable, plus a new decor, a larger staff…more responsibility.”

She conceded with a smile. “How did you make the jump from being an actor to being a bar owner?”

Randy blinked, recalling her earlier assumption, but saw no reason to correct her. Time had healed some of the wounds of his failed career and bankrupted customers—he didn’t wish to open the wounds again now with someone who would be leaving the day after tomorrow, or sooner if her missing bag turned up. He refilled their glasses to buy a few seconds, then decided to stay on the periphery of the truth.

“When my career ended in Atlanta, I decided I needed a change of venue. I came here for a few days and struck up a friendship with Parker and a man named King who had owned Rum King’s for over twenty years. I’d been here, oh, about a month when the bar owner decided to retire. It was Parker’s idea that I buy the bar. I inherited good employees, and the place practically runs itself. I own a small place nearby, and find time to surf almost every day. I’m happy.”

“Sounds like your life is perfect,” she agreed,
sipping from her glass. “Have you ever been married?”

“No.” He couldn’t take his eyes off the way her fingers wrapped around the stem of the glass. “Never had the inclination.” His gaze darted to her unadorned fingers, then back. “You?”

She shook her head and when he opened his mouth to ask if she and Oscar had planned that far ahead, the conch fritters arrived, saving him from asking and having to hear her answer. Because if she’d said yes, finishing dinner while thinking about Frankie with some faceless man would have been…well,
trying
. And if she’d said no, he might have been tempted to convince her to spend the night with him, which he’d as good as promised her he wouldn’t do. Not to mention his weighty suspicion that bedding her would spell disaster for life as he knew it.

Squirming, he watched as Frankie sampled one of the spicy fritters that resembled hush puppies. Her eyebrows shot up in an impressive salute. “These are really good.”

Still rattled over his own revelation, he drank deeply before eating one of the conch morsels. If he had any sense at all, he’d manufacture some emergency at the bar and leave her cab fare to Parker’s.

“Do you miss acting?” she asked, oblivious to his struggle.

“No,” he said, reasoning it wasn’t a lie—he couldn’t miss something he’d never done.

She seemed surprised. “You don’t miss
anything
about your previous career?”

With jarring clarity, Randy remembered the zing of elation when a stock he recommended or a port
folio he assembled had performed well. He’d felt so invincible that he’d had no trouble convincing clients to put their life savings in his hands. Indeed, he’d grown the funds considerably for most of his customers. But it was the few dozen who’d lost nearly everything who still haunted him. He often wondered what had happened to Mr. and Mrs. Oldham, who’d been looking forward to retirement. And Mr. Chandler, who’d intended to set up a trust fund for his grandson. And Mrs. Quillion, who’d been terrified of ending up in a nursing home in the event she lasted longer than her money.

“Ah, here’s our food,” he said, immensely grateful for the interruption as their waiter placed the steaming plates before them. The aromas were as tempting as always, and the presentation flawless, but Randy’s hunger for food had fled in the wake of an overriding preoccupation with the woman across from him. Still, he squeezed fresh lemon juice over the grouper and forked a flaky bite into his mouth, hoping to jump-start his appetite.

Frankie closed her eyes in appreciation and pronounced the tuna wonderful just as Jordy stopped by on his nightly rounds from table to table. Randy made the introductions and stood to shake the old man’s hand in greeting. Frankie raved about the tavern, her eyes shining. The man was instantly enchanted, Randy noted with relief—at least he wasn’t the only one to fall under her spell. In fact, the longer Jordy loitered, the more outrageously the gray-haired man flirted. When the stabs of jealousy over their banter threatened to banish even his shrunken appetite, Randy gently cut in.

“Jordy, if you like, I’ll pick up your liquor order after we finish eating.”

The older man flushed guiltily and bid them an enjoyable evening before moving on.

Despite Frankie’s declaration about the food, he noticed she was so busy watching the waiters, hostesses and musicians, she scarcely ate, although he filled her wineglass a third time. She asked dozens of questions about the patronage, local seafood sources and liquor laws. He didn’t feel slighted by the fact that she seemed more taken with the restaurant itself than with her dinner companion. Indeed, he was thankful that she alone had the presence of mind to resist fostering their accidental attraction with lingering looks and coy small talk.

But her elusive attention gave him free license to study her…the fluidity with which she moved her head and hands, her sharp, absorbing gaze, the way her lips tightened and pursed sporadically as if her mind was whirling and she was about to blurt out her thoughts. Randy sipped his wine, looking for some answer in the slight buzz of the alcohol to explain why this woman so captivated him.