Club Cupid

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.