Stephanie Bond - Club Cupid

“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.

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.