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Club Cupid
Stephanie Bond
Workaholic Frankie Jens had no time for romance, let alone a vacation. So what was she doing spending Valentine's Day stranded in Key West with sexy-as-sin Randy Tate? The gorgeous bar owner tempted her to let loose, indulge in a few island fantasies. Too bad all her fantasies involved Randy….Little did Frankie guess that Randy was harboring a few fantasies of his own. The gorgeous redhead brought out Randy's protective instincts and sent his libido spinning out of control. But Frankie was only visiting his tropical paradise. How could he convince her to be his Valentine indefinitely?



Club Cupid
Stephanie Bond


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15

1
FRANKIE JENSEN JERKED her head vigorously to shoo away the enormous green fly buzzing under the brim of her straw hat. “Oscar, don’t tell me the new compiler doesn’t work,” she warned, gripping the receiver of the pay telephone with one hand and juggling a portfolio of documents in the other.
He sighed. “Relax, Frankie—”
“That could delay the project by another eight weeks!” She straightened her sunglasses, then slapped at the fly with a rolled-up flowchart and missed, cursing silently. All these damn insects!
“But Frankie—”
“Which would be career suicide for both of us.”
“I know, Frankie—”
“Call the president of the software company if you have to, but get that compiler working before I get back to Cincinnati.”
“Uh, Frankie—”
“What?” she snapped.
“How’s the cruise going?”
Frankie sighed and considered telling Oscar the truth—that her cousin’s wedding had been a roaring bore, that she’d been worried sick about missing work, then just plain sick from the constant rocking of the ship—but she didn’t want to prolong the conversation. “The cruise is fine.” Except for the fact that the Valentine’s Day package passengers had paired off like Noah’s animals…present company excluded.
“I miss you,” he said softly, obviously heedful of office eavesdroppers. “I wish you’d let me go with you on the cruise.”
The inopportune sentimentality ruffled her. The one good thing about the trip was that it gave Frankie time to mull over her co-worker’s gentle pressure to take their friendship a step further. “Oscar, you know it was impossible for both of us to be gone during this project.”
“You’re right.” He agreed so readily that her frustration climbed a notch. “Where are you now?”
She glanced around at strolling sight-seers and street vendors, an explosion of primary colors and exotic odors—and insects. She swatted at the fly again. “Key West.”
“Well, try not to worry about things here. Enjoy yourself, and have a drink for me.”
“I’ll call you at the next port.”
“Promise?”
She fought the urge to sigh. “Goodbye, Oscar.” She jammed the phone down, then looked around at the smiling tourists walking arm in arm. Frankie grimaced. Only four more days of Club Cupid. Then she’d be back home supervising the rollout of the inventory prototype. After an entire year of putting the team together, training everyone and agonizing through the system analysis and design, she was stuck on a creaky love boat during the most important phase of the project.
Frankie carefully tidied the papers she’d removed from the portfolio, smoothing the furled edges of the flowchart, trying to squash her burgeoning frustration. She had a promotion riding on the successful presentation of the prototype—it had to be right.
After slipping the folder into the pocket of her black, soft-sided briefcase, she zipped the top and snapped down a covering flap for extra security. The packet of papers she carried—initial design, data flows and countless pages of handwritten notes from numerous meetings—were irreplaceable. She’d kept them with her during the entire cruise and had even stashed the briefcase under a pew during the wedding ceremony.
From another compartment, she withdrew a long menthol cigarette and smoked it down to the filter within two minutes, looking over her shoulder the entire time. She could just picture running into her cousin who’d promptly tattle to her parents. A ridiculous thing for a woman of thirty-two to be worried about, she knew, but she didn’t want or need a run-in with her fretful mother—or her overbearing father. Frankie made a face as she stubbed out the cigarette against the side of a metal trash can, then tossed the butt inside.
She’d quit smoking after the project ended.
After slinging the bag over her shoulder, she checked her watch. The ship sailed at two o’clock, so she had thirty minutes to find souvenirs for her folks.
Frankie pushed the hat back on her head. The sidewalks were packed, the crowd spilling into the narrow street, oozing between parked compacts and delivery vans. Bicycles appeared to be the favored mode of transportation. A calypso band played on the roof of a single-story building across the street, the singers’ gyrations hemmed in by an ornate wrought-iron railing, their shakers and bongos providing a beat to which the pedestrians’ feet kept time.
If the temperature was one degree, it was one hundred and one. The sun blazed down and the air hung heavy, pungent with the sweet smells of perspiration and incense. The collar of Frankie’s knit shirt clung to her sticky neck despite her having captured her long red wiry hair beneath the straw hat. She took a deep breath and entered the disjointed stream of lookers, buyers and sellers, focusing on making it to the leather-goods stand a few yards away.
“Pretty, pretty,” a mahogany-skinned man crowed, thrusting a strand of beads in her face. She blinked, then smiled and shook her head.
“Handmade sandals!” another man shouted, waving two pairs of canvas shoes. Frankie glanced down at her white feet shod in ancient penny loafers. They looked a little dorky, but they were soft and comfortable. Maybe her mother would appreciate a pair of the cloth shoes, since she stood all day at the restaurant.
Frankie edged closer to the stand, then pointed to the pair she wanted. But as she twisted to reach into her briefcase, a vicious jerk on her shoulder pulled her to the ground. She felt the strap of her briefcase being ripped off her arm. Disbelief rolled over her as her back hit the sidewalk hard, knocking the breath out of her.
She grunted and blinked, tilting her head to look at the retreating purse snatcher from her point of view on the pavement. Only a glimpse of his khaki-green T-shirt was visible as he fought his way through the crowd. Unsuspecting people in his path yelped as he pushed them aside, reminding Frankie that she too had a voice. “Help!” she screamed, struggling to get to her feet with the help of the sandal man. “He stole my purse!”
Outrage spurred her forward and she took off in the direction of the thug, yelling at the top of her lungs and desperately trying to keep him in view. The nimble thief scrambled across the hood of a parked car, darted across the street to the tune of screeching brakes and sprinted down the other side. Despite her best efforts, Frankie followed at a much slower pace, still pointing and yelling, and while many people stopped to look, no one seemed willing to join the chase.
Nearly a block later, the purse snatcher long gone, Frankie stopped, her chest ready to explode from exertion. She yanked off her crooked sunglasses, then held her knees, gasping for breath. Panic sprouted low in her stomach and billowed into her quivering lungs. Quickly she took mental stock of her losses: wallet, cash, traveler’s checks, identification, credit cards, family pictures…and the project documentation. Hot tears of frustration filled her eyes. Frankie shoved a hand through her hair, wryly noting she’d lost her hat, too.
People passed her on all sides, but no one gave her more than a curious glance. In the distance behind her, she heard the growing whine of a siren. With relief, Frankie turned and spotted a police-woman on a motorcycle threading her way through the crowd. Frankie waved her arms and began yelling before the stout woman wearing Terminator sunglasses had even rolled to a stop. Hurriedly, she described the thief and her purse, then pointed in the direction he had gone. The woman nodded curtly, told Frankie to stay put and sped off.
Frankie glanced at her watch and swore, her apprehension growing. The ship sailed in fifteen minutes, but she couldn’t leave without the papers. A passerby handed her the misshapen, trampled hat. She smoothed the torn straw, then twisted her hair and tucked it underneath with shaking hands.
The papers simply could not be lost. Her career flashed before her eyes. She’d taken a job with Ohio Roadmakers right out of college. Developing computer systems for a paving and construction company hadn’t ranked high on her creativity list at the time, but the starting salary had been generous. She’d settled in, worked hard and progressed through several promotions in the past decade. When the inventory project had been approved, Frankie had been delighted to accept the high-visibility assignment. And now…
The green fly was back. She slapped at it viciously with both hands, her anger focused on squashing that infuriating bug, as if the act would solve her immediate problems. Arms flailing wildly, she suddenly realized how foolish she must look and stopped. But no one paid her any mind. Most of the people strolling past seemed to be bound for Rum King’s, a semiopen sidewalk bar a few steps away where, the sign boasted, the first drink cost only twenty-five cents.
Frankie took a deep, calming breath and rolled her wrist to check the time again. Three minutes left. Should she make a run for the dock and beg the captain not to sail? Or wait for the police officer to return and gamble that the ship would be delayed? Or perhaps her cousin Emily would miss her and hold the ship? Frankie sighed. Fat chance…Emily had eyes only for her new husband, addle-brained Albert—they probably hadn’t come up for air yet. The thought triggered images on which she instantly decided she’d rather not dwell.
She turned in the direction of the dock, then stopped. If the police officer returned with her purse, she needed to be here. And right now its contents were more important than the last leg of a cruise she hadn’t wanted to take in the first place. She brightened a degree. If her bag was recovered, it would be a blessing in disguise because she could fly home early with a good excuse.
Her mind made up, Frankie leaned against a No Panhandling street sign and waited. A few minutes later, she heard the ship’s horn blasting in the distance as it moved away from the dock. Party music crescendoed as the locals bid farewell in the rollicking style of the islands. After a couple of minutes, the aged ship crawled into view as it wallowed into the Atlantic Ocean.
Lifting her hand in a rueful send-off wave, Frankie felt a brief stab of remorse—Emily would have to pack up Frankie’s cabin and take care of her luggage once Frankie contacted the ship. Her meditating, poem-reading, touchy-feely cousin would probably worry about her being stranded in Key West, but right now Frankie felt more free than she had since the rusty ship had drawn anchor in Miami.
She’d dreaded spending Valentine’s Day alone amongst a boatful of lovestruck couples. Some realities were simply too painful to face—single, with no outstanding prospects at her age…and Oscar didn’t count. Ouch.
Frankie worked her mouth from side to side. Her job fulfilled her…really it did. Which was why she had to find that darn briefcase.
Apprehension washed over her anew and she muttered a quick prayer under her breath, promising to stop being such a control freak if her prayers were granted. Biting down hard on her bottom lip, Frankie chastised herself—she had no business keeping all those documents to herself in the first place. Throughout the project, she had released only bits and pieces to the team members on an as-needed basis, but she alone had the complete system documentation and minutes of off-site meetings. She hadn’t even kept it on her hard drive at work. In the beginning she had rationalized assembling the private portfolio with the thought that, as project manager, she needed one master set of documents which were always up-to-date. But somewhere along the line, she’d grown possessive of “the Bible” as Oscar had affectionately dubbed the collection of papers. Once their boss caught wind of her stingy—and costly—shortsightedness, she’d be fired for sure.
Where the heck was the police officer? After another thirty minutes had expired, between the heat and the anxiety, Frankie felt close to expiring herself. Key West was so tiny, the officer could have canvassed the entire island by now.
Tingling with rising panic and feeling dangerously close to tears, Frankie looked around, her gaze settling on Rum King’s. Fashioned like a Tiki hut, the entire front of the little bar served as a door, open to foot traffic, creating a breezeway to a small patio barely visible on the far side.
She swallowed, thinking how good a drink would feel on her dry throat. Although the bar didn’t at all resemble her parents’ diner, little details of such establishments—music, clusters of tables and chairs, the laughter of other patrons—had always given her a comforting feeling of belonging when she traveled. Frankie walked toward the bar, her steps quickening. If she stood near the doorway, she’d be able to see the police officer when she returned with her purse.

RANDY TATE SPOTTED the pale little woman as soon as she entered the room. Between the big, crooked hat with the curly dark red hair sticking out, the large sunglasses and her dusty, preppie outfit, she looked completely ridiculous. He shook his head and continued wiping the bar with a damp cloth.
Sizing her up beneath his lashes, he tried to guess her drink of choice. Surprise darted through him when she removed the glasses and revealed a heart-shaped face, dirt-smudged, but younger than he’d first imagined, and very pretty, even with her eyebrows drawn in a frown. She seemed nervous, looking out into the street every few seconds as she made her way toward where he stood behind the bar. A tourist, obviously. Probably on parole from an uptight corporate job. Had she become separated from a cruising companion? Imagining a customer’s story had become a favorite pastime. Most tourists’ lives were similar to his own rat-race existence before coming to the island, and were easy to figure out.
Dry martini with an olive, he guessed as she walked tentatively closer. No, she wasn’t that jaded. And she had arresting, clear blue eyes. Long Island iced tea? Her figure was pleasing, with fabulous, well-turned legs, even if they were as white as milk. He clicked his cheek in sudden decision. Definitely mineral water, with a twist of lemon.
Tweety, a caged blue macaw, squawked as the woman stepped up to the bar. “First drink is a quarter,” the bird said clearly, then squawked again, twitching his brilliantly colored head.
“He’s right,” Randy said, smiling at her surprised expression. “Tweety learned the phrase ten years ago and we haven’t been able to raise the price because of it. What’ll it be?” he asked, stuffing the cloth he’d used through a belt loop on his ragged cutoffs. Damn, but she was a cute little freckled thing.
But her eyes suddenly clouded. “Twenty-five cents?” Her voice rolled out low and husky, and he immediately liked the sound of her. Suddenly she disappeared from sight. Randy frowned, then leaned over the bar to find her bent at the waist, removing the dimes from her penny loafers. “Nice ass,” he muttered under his breath.
“Nice ass,” seconded Tweety, much louder.
The woman straightened abruptly, and shot a suspicious glance at the bird.
“Sorry—Tweety has no manners whatsoever,” Randy said, shrugging.
She pushed the two dimes toward him, then dug deep in the front pockets of her stiff, khaki shorts. One pocket produced three pennies, the other, one. Triumphantly, she counted out the lint-covered coins and added them to the dime lineup.
“I’ll have to owe you a penny,” she said, her bottom lip quivering slightly.
Confused, Randy shrugged, loath to ask questions. He was not the stereotypical bartender with a sympathetic ear. In fact, he’d shed the entire White Knight gig ten years ago when he bid goodbye to the Atlanta skyline from a southbound 747. “Sure, lady. What’ll it be?” Maybe she was a loon—at the last second he switched back to his first guess: martini.
“What’ll it be? What’ll it be?” sang Tweety in his high-pitched voice.
“Cappuccino,” she said, climbing onto a stool to his right.
Randy blinked, then pursed his lips and scratched his bare stomach. Was she serious? With both hands, he leaned on the counter and slowly looked all around. Parrot, bar stools, ceiling fans, sand on the floor, island music…yeah, the place still looked like a beach bar to him. And Miss White and Uptight was so fascinated with something he couldn’t see out in the street, she hadn’t even noticed his reaction.
“Uh, sorry,” he said wryly. “Our cappuccino machine is on the blink.”
“Oh?” she said, turning to him and frowning deeper. “How about just plain hazelnut coffee, with sugar, cream and a little cinnamon?” She glanced back to the street.
He laughed in disbelief and cocked his head. “Lady, I think you have me confused with Juan Valdez. How about a rum runner?”
Disappointment washed over her face, and for an instant he could swear she was going to cry. “No coffee?”
Randy sighed. The woman was obviously unstable. “I might have a jar of instant in the medicine cabinet.” For his own hangovers, he didn’t add. “I can doctor it with a little Kahlúa.”
At last she smiled, revealing high dimples that triggered a stir in his loins.
“Coming right up.” He exited through a tiny door to his left that led to a bathroom he didn’t have to share with his clientele. When he realized he was whistling under his breath, he stopped and laughed. Nothing made his day like a pretty woman. Except this pretty woman seemed a little off her rocker. Still, if he played his cards right…
Flings with vacationers were relatively safe—no strings and no awkward attachments to untangle. And a fresh crop of female tourists who appeared ripe for the picking arrived daily, although lately he preferred windsurfing to brief affairs.
But with a little soap and water, Red would be tempting…
In his musings, he knocked over nearly every bottle in the medicine cabinet, sending the entire mess crashing into the sink. At last he came up with a small jar of coffee and returned to the bar, feeling foolishly victorious. But his celebration was cut short when he saw her, head down on folded arms, her shoulders shaking from silent sobs.
Randy rolled his eyes heavenward. Don’t ask, man. Don’t get involved. Involvement means responsibility. Then he glanced back to Red and sighed mightily. Bonkers he could deal with—but the lost-puppy routine broke him up. Long-dormant protective feelings stirred in his chest, but he willed them away with a healthy oath. Then, resolved to act as if nothing was amiss, Randy cocked his head and donned his best island smile.

2
FRANKIE HADN’T MEANT to cry, but for once in her life tears seemed like the only option. She’d invested nearly every waking hour in her career, only to have it threatened by her own stupidity and a petty thief. Surely no one would begrudge her a momentary crying jag.
“Boo-hoo,” Tweety mocked, stopping her in midsob. “Boo-hoo!”
She sniffed and lifted her head to discover the half-dressed bartender had returned. He grinned, revealing white teeth, and held up a coffee jar. “Hey, come on, I tried to hurry.”
The man’s voice rumbled out in a lazy stream, his words running together like a too-big ice-cream sundae. A tiny gold hoop earring gleamed against his tanned skin. His sun-streaked shaggy brown hair hung nearly to his shoulders, the wavy mass in dire need of a trim. The lines of his face were strong and lean and brown, pleasingly balanced by a large nose and square chin. His muscular shoulders were wide and bowed slightly forward. A blue tattoo of a swirl design embellished his right biceps, reminding her of the lollipops she’d loved as a child. The man was one-hundred-percent polar from her type, but if she hadn’t been so miserable, Frankie would have stopped to appreciate his considerable good looks anyway.
Instead, she hiccuped and offered him a small smile. The guy probably thought she was nuts. “S-sorry.”
“No problem,” he said cheerfully, handing her a paper napkin sporting a parrot and the bar’s name. Frankie blew her nose noisily and when she glanced up, he had disappeared. To her left behind a wall she heard clanging noises and a faucet being turned on. “I don’t have a stove to heat the water,” he said above the noise. “But the tap gets pretty darn hot.”
She nodded absently to the vacant spot where he’d been standing, briefly piqued that he seemed unnerved by her tears which, to Frankie, were such a novelty. “The tap’s fine.” She eyed the parrot dubiously, then, remembering the police officer, turned and scanned the street for what seemed like the hundredth time. Still no sign of the woman.
The bartender might be able to help her, but she hated to involve a stranger and admit how vulnerable and stupid she’d been. Besides, judging by his unkempt appearance, this guy didn’t look to be very trustworthy himself. However, she could at least ply him for information. “Is the police department nearby?”
The clanging sounds stilled, then the barkeeper stuck his head around the corner. “The police department?”
She nodded, trying to look casual.
His eyes narrowed and he looked as if he might quiz her. Then he seemed to change his mind. “Uh, yeah, the office is over about four streets, near the corner of Angela and Simonton.” He set a yellow stoneware cup on the counter, wiped a metal spoon on the leg of his jean shorts, stirred the impromptu cup of coffee and pushed it toward her.
Following his movements, Frankie cautiously lifted the cup for a drink, hoping the water was hot enough and the alcohol strong enough to banish whatever germs lurked from the unsanitary preparation. “Thanks.”
The man inclined his head, and Frankie realized that his eyes, which she’d assumed were brown, were actually a light gold. All the darkness around them—his black lashes and thick eyebrows—had thrown her. He gave the bar another swipe with his cloth. “If that’s all, I need to take care of some things.”
She paused, then decided he was a stranger and it didn’t matter what he thought of her. “Would you happen to have a cigarette?”
His mouth tightened as he reached beneath the counter and pulled out an open pack of some generic brand, then tossed them onto the counter. “Those things’ll kill you.”
“I know,” she assured him, reaching for the pack. “But I’m not hooked. How about a light?”
Frowning, he produced a book of matches displaying the establishment’s name. “Anything else?”
“That’s all.” Frankie watched him saunter from behind the bar. She guessed his age to be in the mid-to late-thirties range. He wore threadbare navy canvas tennis shoes and his faded cutoffs hung precariously low on narrow hips, revealing a glimpse of neon orange swim trunks.
Impressive—he was a bartender and a beach bum. And he wasn’t even old enough to have reached his midlife crisis.
Although the long bar where she sat was nearly deserted, clumps of people had spaced themselves out in happy little groups at tall tables on the perimeter of the open room and on the outside patio. A trio of scantily clad co-eds gave the bartender their orders between coquettish looks, and despite the obvious age difference, or probably because of it, he appeared to be enjoying the exchange.
Frankie looked back to her coffee and lit a cigarette, then took a long, stale draw. Imagine—she’d been worried the disreputable-looking guy would want to become involved in her dilemma. Glancing at her watch, she gulped the warmish coffee, and the Kahlúa burned the back of her throat. Oh, well, at least she knew the police station lay within walking distance. If the officer hadn’t returned by the time she finished her coffee, she’d walk there to see if the thug had been apprehended.
Frankie tried to think positively—the alternative was too overwhelming. Her folks would be devastated if she were fired from her job. She stopped, stunned that her parents’ reaction would be uppermost in her mind. Inhaling deeply, she pursed her lips, recalling for perhaps the thousandth time the argument she and her parents had shared when she enrolled in her first semester of college.
“I won’t have it!” her father had shouted, shaking his finger at her. “You can study law, medicine, computers—anything except the restaurant business.”
They’d been working in the diner at the time, and her father had turned to several of his regular customers and expressed his disbelief. “Francis and I have worked in the restaurant for twenty years to send Frankie to the finest schools, and what does she want to do?” He’d thrown up his hands in disgust. “Run a lousy restaurant.”
The whole scene had been excruciatingly embarrassing, but her mother had stepped in to referee and they had all compromised…on computers. The high-paying corporate job she’d landed after graduation had always been a source of pride for her parents, and while she’d bought into the work ethic, the politics and the money of the position herself, she realized now that she’d made a success of the job for her parents, and in spite of herself.
She took another drag of the terrible cigarette and blew the smoke straight up in the air. Feeling sorry for herself was a waste of time—she excelled at her job and she enjoyed the daily challenges. She’d live through this so-called vacation and get back behind her desk where she belonged. As for the missing briefcase…well, she’d simply handle that problem one step at a time.
“Boo-hoo,” Tweety sang. “Boo-hoo.”
Frankie lifted her chin. “Speak for yourself, you big canary.”
“Nice ass,” he squawked, undaunted, then joined in the chorus of a Jimmy Buffett song booming over the speakers in the rafters.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror behind the bar and gasped. Dirty face, disheveled clothes—no wonder the guy took off. He was probably as wary of her appearance as she was of his. As she dabbed at her face with a napkin dipped in an abandoned glass of water, she smiled ruefully. No one seemed to notice when she had screamed for help earlier, and even in her current state, no one asked questions.
So much for chivalry in Key West.
“Okay.”
Frankie jumped at the bartender’s voice behind her and exhaled smoke in a short puff. When she turned, he stood with one hand leaning on the stool next to her, his eyebrows raised expectantly. “You mean the coffee?” she asked. “It’s fine.”
He shook his head. “No, I mean okay, what gives? Why do you need the police?”
Frankie took a long drink of the bitter coffee. “A man stole my purse.”
His eyes widened and he reached toward her, but fell short of touching her arm. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head firmly, tingling unexpectedly at his concern.
“Did you lose all your cash?”
She nodded, taking another quick drag to fight the tears welling in her eyes again.
Jamming his hands on his lean hips, he said, “For Pete’s sake, why didn’t you say something before now?”
“For Pete’s sake,” Tweety parroted.
“I was waiting for the police officer to return,” she explained, hating how he made her feel foolish. “She told me to stay put, but she’s been gone for nearly an hour.”
“Heavyset woman?”
Frankie nodded.
“That’d be Officer Ulrich. She might have caught the guy and taken him down to the station.”
“That’s why I asked for directions.”
The bartender looked all around the establishment, as if sizing up her options. “Are you alone?”
Frankie studied the ashes on the butt of the cigarette and considered the question in a larger context, then mentally kicked herself and dropped the sooty mess into the nearly empty glass of water. “I am now—I missed my cruise ship.”
He pursed his lips, crossed his arms and took a half step backward. “Well, like I said, the police station is only a few streets over.”
Frankie stood and dusted off the front of her shorts. “Thanks for the coffee. I don’t have enough for a tip.”
“No problem.”
“Then I guess I’ll be going.”
He nodded, then shifted restlessly. “You shouldn’t have any problem finding it—the station, I mean.”
“Thanks.” She turned to leave.
“It’s next to an airbrush T-shirt shop.”
Frankie looked back. “Thanks…again.”
He twisted the cloth in his hands. “If you get lost, just ask anyone.”
“Okay…thanks.”
“Wait.”
She turned back expectantly.
He walked toward her, tossing the cloth on a table he passed. “Uh, why don’t you let me give you a ride?”
“That’s not necessary—”
“I was getting ready to leave anyway, and I’d feel better knowing you got your purse back. Besides, it might help to walk in with a local.”
Frankie assessed him from head to toe, aware of the finger of apprehension nudging her. Something about the man emanated more danger than the petty thief who had accosted her earlier. Every sermon her mother had ever delivered about accepting rides from strangers reverberated in her head. “I don’t think—”
“I’m Randy Tate,” he said, reading her mind. He extended a long-fingered, bronzed hand.
“Um, Frankie Jensen,” she said, giving his hand the briefest of shakes.
He grinned. “Nice name. Give me a minute to tell Kate I’m leaving.”
Frankie’s mind raced as he approached a curvaceous blond waitress. She read about situations like this in the papers all the time. She had just told the man she was vacationing alone and had no identification…practically an invitation for him to commit a violent crime against her.
Glancing around for an ally, she spotted a neatly groomed, middle-aged man sitting alone a few steps away, writing in a journal. A half-empty pitcher of a pale yellow frozen drink sat in front of him.
“Excuse me, sir,” Frankie said, keeping one eye on the questionable Mr. Tate.
The gentleman looked up and smiled at her, his silver eyebrows furrowed with curiosity. “Yes?” He spoke with a pleasing English accent.
“My name is Frankie Jensen, and—”
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Jensen. I am Parker Grimes.”
Frankie nodded briefly, anxious to skip the small talk. “Mr. Grimes, I’m in a bit of a bind, and the bartender, Mr. Tate, has offered his assistance in helping me find the police station—”
“How nice of the young man.” Parker smiled with approval.
“Oh, yes,” Frankie said hurriedly. “But I just met him and I wanted someone to know that I was leaving with him, in case—” She stopped, suddenly feeling foolish.
“In case your body washes up on shore?” the man asked, nodding.
She felt herself blush. “Well—”
“Say no more, Miss Jensen.” He glanced toward the bartender and made a thoughtful noise with his cheek. “He does look a bit disreputable, doesn’t he?” Then he gave her a comforting wink. “Don’t worry—if you should turn up missing, I’ll recount this conversation.”
“Ready?” The disreputable-looking topic of their discussion stepped up beside Frankie and pulled a single key from his back pocket. “Hey, Parker.”
“Hello, Randy.”
Frankie glanced back to Parker, but the man was once again absorbed in his journal. Feeling duped, she frowned wryly and followed Randy into the blistering heat. From out of nowhere he withdrew wraparound-style sunglasses and tucked the ends of the flexible frames around his ears. He turned a corner and led her down a short alley to a weedy, makeshift parking lot for bikes, mopeds and motorcycles. She experienced only mild surprise when he stopped and threw one leg over the seat of a seasoned black Harley-Davidson Sportster.
Frankie bit the inside of her cheek. Stranger, tattoo, motorcycle…If her mother could see her now, she’d have a stroke.
Randy rolled the bike forward to release the kickstand, then walked the vehicle backward out of its spot. Twisting, he flipped down the passenger foot pegs. “Climb on.”
Eyeing the motorcycle dubiously, Frankie wet her lips. “There’s nothing to hang on to.”
Randy’s grin made her breath catch. “There’s me.”
To distract herself from the disturbing option, she asked, “Where’s your helmet?”
His mouth twitched. “A head injury would be more merciful than lung cancer. Are you coming or not?”
Rigidly, Frankie climbed on, careful not to touch him, finally settling onto the hot leather seat, then feeling all around for a handhold. At last she curled her fingers under the edge of the seat. “I’m ready,” she announced, squaring her shoulders and staring straight ahead.
He sat holding the handlebars loosely, his shoulders rounded. “First time on a bike?” Frankie caught his look of amusement in the side mirror.
She was tempted to lie, but decided against it and nodded.
“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 imperfect stranger.

3
RANDY 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.

THINGS 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.
She glanced at her watch and frowned when she realized twenty-five minutes had passed during her musings about how the other half lived. Her forearms were turning a light pink and her underwear felt damp and clammy. She frowned and looked around for shade, but all the vegetation lay on the other side of the gate. Craning her neck in the direction Randy had gone, she wondered what could be taking him so long. She really needed to visit the bathroom.
Ten minutes later, she lifted the latch on the gate and stepped into the immaculate yard area. After a glance over her shoulder at the motorcycle, Frankie took a few tentative steps down the stone path, exhaling in relief when she stepped beneath the lush canopy of trees that met above the narrow walk-way. She stood still for a moment, allowing the coolness to bathe her scalding skin. The voices and music were much louder now, and she could see snatches of sand and water through the trees and undergrowth. In fact, she could hear Randy’s voice relatively close by and decided to walk farther down the path. She saw him standing by a shoulder-high wooden privacy fence, talking to a balding man on the other side of the partition and making notes on a small pad.
The other gentleman noticed her and raised a hand in greeting. Randy turned around, then grimaced in apology. “I’m almost finished,” he called to her.
“Join us.” The man gestured, smiling in welcome. “I’m Tom Hartelman.”
Frankie approached them, feeling a bit sheepish. “Frankie Jensen. I walked down to find some shade,” she said, rubbing her fiery arms.
“Randy,” the man chided. “Bring your friend in for a cool drink.”
“Well, I—”
“Look at her, man. She’s frying.”
“Actually,” Frankie said with a wry smile, “I was hoping I could visit a bathroom.”
Randy frowned slightly. “Frankie—”
“Why, of course, my dear,” the gentleman said. “Come right in and meet some of Randy’s friends.”
“Frankie,” Randy said as he held the handle of the wooden gate. “Can you wait? My friends are a little different—”
“Relax,” she murmured, indignant. “I can hold my own amongst your rich friends.”
His mouth twisted in amusement, and when the older man opened the gate, Randy swept his bronze arm wide in acquiescence.
Frankie gave him a tight smile, then stepped across the threshold onto the pale, glittery sand. She felt him fall in close behind her. In fact, his body slammed into hers when she stopped short at the contented scene. Some people were sunning in chaises, some were playing volleyball, some were relaxing in the shade with tropical drinks. There were both genders, all shapes and sizes and skin tones, with one universal theme.
Clothing appeared to be optional.

4
RANDY STEPPED around Frankie and watched her carefully. Her lips parted ever so slightly and her blue eyes rounded. He counted to nine before she swung her gaze to him, her eyebrows high, her expression one of puritan disapproval.
Suddenly contrite, he shrugged, palms up. “I tried to warn you.”
She glanced to his friend Tom who, very much at ease with his big nude body, extended his hand. Frankie shook his hand woodenly, and once again Randy felt protective of her, suddenly embarrassed that he had exposed her to the more liberal side of the Keys. When Tom walked off in search of a drink, Randy touched her arm lightly. “Relax, Red, we don’t have to stay and you don’t have to take off your clothes if it makes you uncomfortable.”
She turned back to him, her pale face flushed. Straightening her shoulders in an unconvincing show of bravado, she said in a low tone, “Listen, Buster—my name is Frankie. And taking off my clothes doesn’t make me uncomfortable unless I happen to be standing around in public.”
Trying his best to smother a smile, Randy asked, “Buster?”
“Would you please show me to the bathroom?” she asked pleasantly. “Then I’ll call a cab and be out of your way.”
There it was—that little-lost-puppy routine that tugged at his heart every time. She really was adorable…and completely irresistible. And he knew if she left, he’d spend the rest of the day and all night worrying about her. “Hey,” he said, reaching to grasp her arm gently but firmly. “You’re not in my way. Stay with me and I’ll find you a bathing suit. Then we’ll go farther up the beach and try to salvage this rotten day, okay?”
She blinked and seemed to relax slightly. A confetti of freckles paraded across her nose and under golden eyelashes. He could feel her pulse beating beneath his fingers.
“If the waves are calm, I’ll teach you to windsurf,” he coaxed, aware of his own pulse kicking up.
After a few seconds of silence, the corners of her mouth rose, barely. Then she narrowed her eyes. “Do you promise to keep your trunks on?”
Relieved, Randy grinned. “I have to—too much wind drag reduces speed.”
He was rewarded with a wry laugh as she shook her head slowly. “Okay, I’ll go. If you can find me a suit.”
“Wait right here,” he said, holding up his index finger. Then he turned toward the beach, his steps hurried.
Frankie crossed her arms and shrank back against the fence self-consciously, watching him walk out among the nude sunbathers. Beneath her lashes, she scrutinized the nudists, some part of her appalled at their lack of modesty, some part of her awed by their lack of self-consciousness, some part of her titillated by their candor. Contrary to her first panicky impression, no orgies were being conducted on the beach blankets. In fact, other than random hand-holding, she saw nothing that could be remotely construed as sexual activity.
Randy, she noted, seemed completely at ease with the environment. He lifted his hand in greeting to more than one person and yelled to others. He stopped by a large blanket where three women and four men lay on their backs side by side. The brunette on the end wore headphones, but removed them when she saw Randy and sat up.
Frankie inhaled sharply at the size of the woman’s bare breasts—high and firm, and void of any tan lines. She frowned down at her own slight curves, then glanced back, unable to take her eyes off Randy and his friend. Undoubtedly an old girlfriend, she guessed, surprised that the thought would be so disquieting.
Which was ridiculous, she decided, since a man with his looks on an island where women lay around buck naked would probably fall somewhere short of sainthood. Besides, it wasn’t any business of hers anyway.
The couple talked for a minute, then Randy jerked a thumb toward her and the woman glanced in her direction. Frankie hesitated. Should she wave? Join them? Somehow she’d reached her thirties without learning proper nude-beach protocol.
The woman nodded and reached into a bag, withdrawing what appeared to be a handful of white shoestrings and handed it to Randy. He smiled, then walked toward Frankie looking triumphant.
“One unworn bathing suit, compliments of my friend Sheely,” he announced as he stepped up, dangling the garment in the air. “See? It still has the price tag.”
Frankie swallowed hard. The shiny garment looked incongruous in his large hand. The top was huge, the bottom was practically nonexistent. And if anything could possibly make her skin look whiter, it was the color white. “I don’t think Sh-Sheely and I have the same…uh—”
“Taste?” he supplied, his voice teasing.
She smiled wryly. “Something like that.”
“Well, try it on,” he urged. “The changing house and bathroom are over there.” The red tile roof of a building on the fringe of the garden was barely visible through the trees.
Frankie sighed and picked up the bikini with forefinger and thumb, holding it in front of her as she veered off on a more narrow path that snaked in the general direction of the changing house. Oh, well, in two days she’d be on her way home and these people would forget they’d ever seen her. What did she care if she looked ghastly?
The changing bungalow was nicer than her Cincinnati apartment. Textured glass made up the entire top half of the building. Thick rugs lay on terra-cotta tile floors, with heavy rattan furniture clustered around a sleek big-screen TV, which was black and silent at the moment. A pool table sat against a wall, the balls racked and ready for breaking. Alternative entertainment for rainy days, she supposed. As to the numerous comfy-looking couches on the perimeter of the room, she blushed to think about their intended use.
Unoccupied, the only sound in the building was the swish of overhead fans and light reggae music from hidden speakers. On the other side of a long bar flanked by leather bar stools lay a stainless-steel kitchen that rivaled the one in her parents’ restaurant.
There were two changing rooms, unmarked as to which was the men’s and which was the women’s. She chose one and entered a combination bathroom and lounge, with sinks and open showers and more couches. Not much privacy, she decided, then conceded that nudists were less demure than the population at large.
Her eyes widened at her rumpled, windblown, dusty reflection in the full-length mirror. She didn’t even faintly resemble Frankie Jensen, the professional, fastidious systems analyst.
Glancing over her shoulder every few seconds, she showered quickly, grateful for the abundance of thick blue towels. She borrowed a wide-tooth comb from a selection on a marble vanity and de-tangled her wet hair as much as possible. After stalling for so long, and worrying that Randy might come looking for her, she reluctantly reached for the borrowed suit and pulled it on, then turned around slowly to look in the mirror.
“Oh my God,” she muttered. Always pale, her skin looked so bleached it was difficult to tell where she ended and the white suit began. The double-D top swallowed her single-B chest, the excess extending up to her collarbones and down to her navel. The bottoms, in comparison, consisted of a white eye patch held together by two strands of dental floss. There was no back that she could find.
Soft footsteps sounded behind her, and before she could cover herself, the oil-slick, busty Sheely strode in, looking like a bronze goddess freed from her pedestal. “Oh, you must be Frankie,” she said, flashing a brilliant smile. “I’m Sheely. Does it fit?”
Frankie stood speechless, flashing back to a similar nightmare in sixth-grade gym class. The woman was wearing only a navel ring, not that her stunning body needed any ornamentation at all. Frankie looked up to the ceiling, burning with embarrassment, trying desperately to think of something to say.
But apparently Sheely needed no encouragement. She unabashedly perused Frankie’s body, gently turning her this way and that. “The top’s a little big, but the bottoms look great—do you use the stair climber?”
Twisting to see for herself, Frankie said, “No, but I run every other day.”
The woman nodded her head of dark hair. “Randy’s an ass man.”
Frankie blinked at Sheely, her earlier suspicion about the two of them confirmed.
“Why don’t you just skip the top?” Sheely asked, shrugging her lovely shoulders.
“Well, I…” Frankie stopped, feeling a blush at the roots of her hair. “This is new for me.”
The woman’s smile was understanding. “Didn’t Randy say you’re here on vacation for a couple of days?”
Frankie nodded. “Sort of.”
“Don’t worry—have fun,” she said, waving off Frankie’s concern. “You’ll probably never see any of us again.”
And with a flip of her shiny tresses, Sheely left.
“Thanks,” Frankie called weakly. The woman might be right, she noted with a frown. But big or not, the top was staying. And little or not, so were the bottoms.
She was about to reveal various freckles that heretofore only her doctor had seen. Desperate, she wrapped a huge blue towel around her waist, sarong-style, then pulled on her wrinkled brown blouse, leaving it unbuttoned for some semblance of nonchalance. With the addition of her hat, sunglasses and penny loafers, only her ankles and arms remained exposed. She stepped back to the mirror for the full effect. A little better.
Frankie folded and stuffed her underwear inside her shorts, then draped them over her arm and marched outside.
Her shred of confidence shriveled when every head turned in her direction. Sheely offered her a fluttery wave, and Frankie smiled tightly. She stared straight ahead and strove to keep her gaze shoulder level, scanning the crowd until she located Randy—which was easy since he was the only man wearing swimming trunks. He’d shed the shabby cutoffs and standing in the sun, his body was simply sensational. Not overly muscled, not an inch of flab. She tried not to stare at him, but told herself it was better than looking elsewhere on this beach. Her heart started pounding and for a minute she thought she might be having a panic attack. She inhaled deeply with each step.
“Over here, Red,” he said easily, raising his hand. As she approached, he lowered his sunglasses and looked her up and down, a smile tugging the corners of his mouth. He stepped away from a circle of naked men, then leaned toward her and whispered, “Are you in there somewhere?”
“Yes,” she managed to say with dignity.
“I do have sunscreen,” he said, his mouth twitching.
“Randy,” an older man with a thick head of blond hair admonished. “Introduce your new friend.”
“Maybe later, Phil,” he responded, taking her arm. “I think we’d better go before Red has a heat-stroke.”
To her relief, he bid the group goodbye, then steered her toward the ocean and to the left. Sometime while she was changing, he had acquired a small cooler which he held high as they picked their way among several sunbathers. She followed him past the volleyball game in progress, which, frankly, looked painful to her. After walking around several sand dunes, he stopped under crisscrossing palm trees, set down the cooler and spread out a large blue towel identical to the one she wore.
The sand crackled beneath her shoes and the sun’s rays reflected off the ashy surface in sheets of heat that were nearly visible. She could still hear the sounds from the house, and occasionally, a nude swimmer would walk in her line of vision to dive into the waves, but for all practical purposes, they were alone.
“Sorry to take you away from your friends,” she said, breaking the silence.
“No big deal. There’ll be other parties. Tom’s quite the entertainer.”
“What’s the occasion?”
He shrugged, lowering himself to the towel. “Valentine’s Day, I suppose. Seemed like a lot of out-of-town couples. It’s the weekend for romance,” he added in a mocking voice.
Still standing, she averted her gaze to the horizon, changing the subject. “The view is spectacular.”
“This beach is nicer than the areas open to tourists,” Randy said. “Tom lets me keep my wind surfboard in one of his storage units.” He pointed vaguely to the right, but Frankie could see only sand, water and trees. She looked back to him and wondered briefly if Randy took advantage of his rich friend. He couldn’t make much as a bartender.
He smiled up at her, his gold earring catching the sun, and unzipped the canvas bag. “You can put your clothes in here for now.”
Frankie dropped her shorts and underwear into the bag, not sure what to do next.
“Feel free to take off your shoes,” he added with a teasing grin.
She frowned down at her feet. The loafers did look pretty silly on the beach. Where she’d removed the dimes, two shiny dark circles of leather had been exposed. She slipped her feet out of the shoes, glad she’d touched up the bright pink nail polish on her toes while camped out in her cabin on the ship. The memory brought back the reason she was stuck on this island in the first place and renewed a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.
“Now the towel,” Randy said, his mouth twitching.
Frankie hesitated, but could feel the sweat trickling down her thighs.
“For Pete’s sake,” he said, raising one hand in the air. “It’s a thousand degrees out here.”
She toyed with the waist of the makeshift skirt, still anxious about revealing so much skin. Sheely’s image loomed large in her mind.
“One quick motion,” he encouraged. “Like a Band-Aid.”
Frankie laughed nervously, loosened the towel and pulled it off, then spread it on the sand next to his while keeping her gaze lowered. The brown blouse fell only to her waist, offering little coverage. Her face flamed as she sat down, adjusted her hat, then chanced a glance at him. His smile had vanished, and his dark sunglasses revealed nothing. Seconds passed with only the sound of the wind and the caws of seabirds around them.
“Gee, Red,” he finally said in a husky voice. “You could have left some leg for the rest of the female population.”
Her skin tingled under his blatant admiration…or maybe it was exposure to the sun. Frankie wavered between feeling flattered and feeling foolish. Was he coming on to her? Was that the reason he’d bothered to help her in the first place?
He cleared his throat. “Better apply sunscreen pronto,” he said, rummaging in the bag.
“I don’t tan well,” Frankie agreed as she twisted her hair into a thick roll and tucked it beneath her hat.
“I’ve got SPF eight, fifteen, and liquid corduroy,” he said, holding up various bottles.
She laughed and reached for the last bottle, then poured a generous amount in her hand and slathered it on every inch of her legs and feet, conscious of his eyes on her while he did the same. His nearness transformed the act of rubbing the cool lotion into her warm skin from an innocent precaution to sensual flirtation. Her skin prickled from heightened awareness as she fought to push the implication of their attraction from her mind. Randy Tate was a tempting distraction from her immediate problems, but she couldn’t afford to lose her mental edge in the middle of a crisis. A tiny shift in wind behind her alerted Frankie that he’d leaned close.
“Hmm, never been jealous of lotion before,” he said in her ear.
Her back stiffened and a shiver went down her spine.
“Want me to do your back?”
“Uh—n-no, that’s all right,” she said, leaning forward to shrug out of her blouse. She avoided his gaze and rubbed the sunscreen over her arms, shoulders, face, chest, stomach and as much of her back as she could reach with spine-twisting contortions.
He remained silent until she finished, then said, “You missed a spot.”
She looked down and over her shoulder. “Where?”
He took the bottle from her and squirted a gob of the creamy white stuff in his hand, then leaned back on one elbow. Frankie swallowed and closed her eyes, her body tense in anticipation of his touch.
“Here,” he said, a split second before rubbing a tiny area between her shoulder blades. His hands were hot, his fingertips as rough as pumice, but the lotion felt cool and slippery. Goose bumps raised along her forearms. How long had it been since a man had touched her?
“And here,” he said, his voice an octave lower. His fingers traveled lower, to the small of her back where they covered one square inch of flesh with agonizing slowness. She bit her lower lip and fought the urge to roll her shoulders.
“And here,” he said in a whisper she barely heard above the wind blowing in from the sea. His fingers traced a curvy line down her lower back to the top of the string that laughingly stood between her and nakedness.
Her breasts grew taut in response to his caress, the hair on the nape of her neck rising like a hundred tiny fingers. A stab of wanting struck low, and she willed a measure of sanity to return. Giving in to her incredible attraction toward a practical stranger while on a beach—it was simply too cliché. Not that she hadn’t fantasized…
Randy’s exploring fingers left her skin abruptly and he stood. “Ready for a swim?”
Startled out of her musings, Frankie glanced up. The telltale ridge of his desire strained at the clingy orange nylon of his trunks. She swallowed, grateful he’d suspended the erotic moment, yet vaguely disappointed. “A swim sounds great.”
He grinned and playfully pulled her to her feet, then tugged her to the water’s edge. Finding his enthusiasm contagious, Frankie laughed into the wind. Randy arrowed his hands, then made a perfect, shallow dive into the gentle waves and surfaced several feet out, his hair slick, his skin shining. “Come on in, Red!”
Frankie hesitated. This man was hazardous, without the courtesy of a warning buoy. Her heart thumped wildly as she watched him tread water, waiting for her. She inhaled deeply, feeling nervous and scared as she waded into the shallows, squishing damp, coarse sand between her toes.
“Don’t think about it—just dive in!”
With the expansive horizon at his back and surrounded by azure water, the devilishly handsome Randy Tate might have been a postcard enticing her to indulge in an island fantasy. Frankie bit her bottom lip hard, sensing more was at stake here than a sunburn.

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