Club Cupid. Stephanie Bond
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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