Club Cupid. Stephanie Bond
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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.”