Stephanie Bond - Club Cupid

“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.