Club Cupid. Stephanie Bond
of frustration filled her eyes. Frankie shoved a hand through her hair, wryly noting she’d lost her hat, too.
People passed her on all sides, but no one gave her more than a curious glance. In the distance behind her, she heard the growing whine of a siren. With relief, Frankie turned and spotted a police-woman on a motorcycle threading her way through the crowd. Frankie waved her arms and began yelling before the stout woman wearing Terminator sunglasses had even rolled to a stop. Hurriedly, she described the thief and her purse, then pointed in the direction he had gone. The woman nodded curtly, told Frankie to stay put and sped off.
Frankie glanced at her watch and swore, her apprehension growing. The ship sailed in fifteen minutes, but she couldn’t leave without the papers. A passerby handed her the misshapen, trampled hat. She smoothed the torn straw, then twisted her hair and tucked it underneath with shaking hands.
The papers simply could not be lost. Her career flashed before her eyes. She’d taken a job with Ohio Roadmakers right out of college. Developing computer systems for a paving and construction company hadn’t ranked high on her creativity list at the time, but the starting salary had been generous. She’d settled in, worked hard and progressed through several promotions in the past decade. When the inventory project had been approved, Frankie had been delighted to accept the high-visibility assignment. And now…
The green fly was back. She slapped at it viciously with both hands, her anger focused on squashing that infuriating bug, as if the act would solve her immediate problems. Arms flailing wildly, she suddenly realized how foolish she must look and stopped. But no one paid her any mind. Most of the people strolling past seemed to be bound for Rum King’s, a semiopen sidewalk bar a few steps away where, the sign boasted, the first drink cost only twenty-five cents.
Frankie took a deep, calming breath and rolled her wrist to check the time again. Three minutes left. Should she make a run for the dock and beg the captain not to sail? Or wait for the police officer to return and gamble that the ship would be delayed? Or perhaps her cousin Emily would miss her and hold the ship? Frankie sighed. Fat chance…Emily had eyes only for her new husband, addle-brained Albert—they probably hadn’t come up for air yet. The thought triggered images on which she instantly decided she’d rather not dwell.
She turned in the direction of the dock, then stopped. If the police officer returned with her purse, she needed to be here. And right now its contents were more important than the last leg of a cruise she hadn’t wanted to take in the first place. She brightened a degree. If her bag was recovered, it would be a blessing in disguise because she could fly home early with a good excuse.
Her mind made up, Frankie leaned against a No Panhandling street sign and waited. A few minutes later, she heard the ship’s horn blasting in the distance as it moved away from the dock. Party music crescendoed as the locals bid farewell in the rollicking style of the islands. After a couple of minutes, the aged ship crawled into view as it wallowed into the Atlantic Ocean.
Lifting her hand in a rueful send-off wave, Frankie felt a brief stab of remorse—Emily would have to pack up Frankie’s cabin and take care of her luggage once Frankie contacted the ship. Her meditating, poem-reading, touchy-feely cousin would probably worry about her being stranded in Key West, but right now Frankie felt more free than she had since the rusty ship had drawn anchor in Miami.
She’d dreaded spending Valentine’s Day alone amongst a boatful of lovestruck couples. Some realities were simply too painful to face—single, with no outstanding prospects at her age…and Oscar didn’t count. Ouch.
Frankie worked her mouth from side to side. Her job fulfilled her…really it did. Which was why she had to find that darn briefcase.
Apprehension washed over her anew and she muttered a quick prayer under her breath, promising to stop being such a control freak if her prayers were granted. Biting down hard on her bottom lip, Frankie chastised herself—she had no business keeping all those documents to herself in the first place. Throughout the project, she had released only bits and pieces to the team members on an as-needed basis, but she alone had the complete system documentation and minutes of off-site meetings. She hadn’t even kept it on her hard drive at work. In the beginning she had rationalized assembling the private portfolio with the thought that, as project manager, she needed one master set of documents which were always up-to-date. But somewhere along the line, she’d grown possessive of “the Bible” as Oscar had affectionately dubbed the collection of papers. Once their boss caught wind of her stingy—and costly—shortsightedness, she’d be fired for sure.
Where the heck was the police officer? After another thirty minutes had expired, between the heat and the anxiety, Frankie felt close to expiring herself. Key West was so tiny, the officer could have canvassed the entire island by now.
Tingling with rising panic and feeling dangerously close to tears, Frankie looked around, her gaze settling on Rum King’s. Fashioned like a Tiki hut, the entire front of the little bar served as a door, open to foot traffic, creating a breezeway to a small patio barely visible on the far side.
She swallowed, thinking how good a drink would feel on her dry throat. Although the bar didn’t at all resemble her parents’ diner, little details of such establishments—music, clusters of tables and chairs, the laughter of other patrons—had always given her a comforting feeling of belonging when she traveled. Frankie walked toward the bar, her steps quickening. If she stood near the doorway, she’d be able to see the police officer when she returned with her purse.
RANDY TATE SPOTTED the pale little woman as soon as she entered the room. Between the big, crooked hat with the curly dark red hair sticking out, the large sunglasses and her dusty, preppie outfit, she looked completely ridiculous. He shook his head and continued wiping the bar with a damp cloth.
Sizing her up beneath his lashes, he tried to guess her drink of choice. Surprise darted through him when she removed the glasses and revealed a heart-shaped face, dirt-smudged, but younger than he’d first imagined, and very pretty, even with her eyebrows drawn in a frown. She seemed nervous, looking out into the street every few seconds as she made her way toward where he stood behind the bar. A tourist, obviously. Probably on parole from an uptight corporate job. Had she become separated from a cruising companion? Imagining a customer’s story had become a favorite pastime. Most tourists’ lives were similar to his own rat-race existence before coming to the island, and were easy to figure out.
Dry martini with an olive, he guessed as she walked tentatively closer. No, she wasn’t that jaded. And she had arresting, clear blue eyes. Long Island iced tea? Her figure was pleasing, with fabulous, well-turned legs, even if they were as white as milk. He clicked his cheek in sudden decision. Definitely mineral water, with a twist of lemon.
Tweety, a caged blue macaw, squawked as the woman stepped up to the bar. “First drink is a quarter,” the bird said clearly, then squawked again, twitching his brilliantly colored head.
“He’s right,” Randy said, smiling at her surprised expression. “Tweety learned the phrase ten years ago and we haven’t been able to raise the price because of it. What’ll it be?” he asked, stuffing the cloth he’d used through a belt loop on his ragged cutoffs. Damn, but she was a cute little freckled thing.
But her eyes suddenly clouded. “Twenty-five cents?” Her voice rolled out low and husky, and he immediately liked the sound of her. Suddenly she disappeared from sight. Randy frowned, then leaned over the bar to find her bent at the waist, removing the dimes from her penny loafers. “Nice ass,” he muttered under his breath.
“Nice ass,” seconded Tweety, much louder.
The woman straightened abruptly, and shot a suspicious glance at the bird.
“Sorry—Tweety has no manners whatsoever,” Randy said, shrugging.
She pushed the two dimes toward him, then dug deep in the front pockets of her stiff, khaki shorts. One pocket produced three pennies, the other, one. Triumphantly, she counted out the lint-covered coins and added them to the dime lineup.
“I’ll have to owe you a penny,” she said, her bottom lip quivering slightly.