Club Cupid. Stephanie Bond
with tropical drinks. There were both genders, all shapes and sizes and skin tones, with one universal theme.
Clothing appeared to be optional.
4
RANDY STEPPED around Frankie and watched her carefully. Her lips parted ever so slightly and her blue eyes rounded. He counted to nine before she swung her gaze to him, her eyebrows high, her expression one of puritan disapproval.
Suddenly contrite, he shrugged, palms up. “I tried to warn you.”
She glanced to his friend Tom who, very much at ease with his big nude body, extended his hand. Frankie shook his hand woodenly, and once again Randy felt protective of her, suddenly embarrassed that he had exposed her to the more liberal side of the Keys. When Tom walked off in search of a drink, Randy touched her arm lightly. “Relax, Red, we don’t have to stay and you don’t have to take off your clothes if it makes you uncomfortable.”
She turned back to him, her pale face flushed. Straightening her shoulders in an unconvincing show of bravado, she said in a low tone, “Listen, Buster—my name is Frankie. And taking off my clothes doesn’t make me uncomfortable unless I happen to be standing around in public.”
Trying his best to smother a smile, Randy asked, “Buster?”
“Would you please show me to the bathroom?” she asked pleasantly. “Then I’ll call a cab and be out of your way.”
There it was—that little-lost-puppy routine that tugged at his heart every time. She really was adorable…and completely irresistible. And he knew if she left, he’d spend the rest of the day and all night worrying about her. “Hey,” he said, reaching to grasp her arm gently but firmly. “You’re not in my way. Stay with me and I’ll find you a bathing suit. Then we’ll go farther up the beach and try to salvage this rotten day, okay?”
She blinked and seemed to relax slightly. A confetti of freckles paraded across her nose and under golden eyelashes. He could feel her pulse beating beneath his fingers.
“If the waves are calm, I’ll teach you to windsurf,” he coaxed, aware of his own pulse kicking up.
After a few seconds of silence, the corners of her mouth rose, barely. Then she narrowed her eyes. “Do you promise to keep your trunks on?”
Relieved, Randy grinned. “I have to—too much wind drag reduces speed.”
He was rewarded with a wry laugh as she shook her head slowly. “Okay, I’ll go. If you can find me a suit.”
“Wait right here,” he said, holding up his index finger. Then he turned toward the beach, his steps hurried.
Frankie crossed her arms and shrank back against the fence self-consciously, watching him walk out among the nude sunbathers. Beneath her lashes, she scrutinized the nudists, some part of her appalled at their lack of modesty, some part of her awed by their lack of self-consciousness, some part of her titillated by their candor. Contrary to her first panicky impression, no orgies were being conducted on the beach blankets. In fact, other than random hand-holding, she saw nothing that could be remotely construed as sexual activity.
Randy, she noted, seemed completely at ease with the environment. He lifted his hand in greeting to more than one person and yelled to others. He stopped by a large blanket where three women and four men lay on their backs side by side. The brunette on the end wore headphones, but removed them when she saw Randy and sat up.
Frankie inhaled sharply at the size of the woman’s bare breasts—high and firm, and void of any tan lines. She frowned down at her own slight curves, then glanced back, unable to take her eyes off Randy and his friend. Undoubtedly an old girlfriend, she guessed, surprised that the thought would be so disquieting.
Which was ridiculous, she decided, since a man with his looks on an island where women lay around buck naked would probably fall somewhere short of sainthood. Besides, it wasn’t any business of hers anyway.
The couple talked for a minute, then Randy jerked a thumb toward her and the woman glanced in her direction. Frankie hesitated. Should she wave? Join them? Somehow she’d reached her thirties without learning proper nude-beach protocol.
The woman nodded and reached into a bag, withdrawing what appeared to be a handful of white shoestrings and handed it to Randy. He smiled, then walked toward Frankie looking triumphant.
“One unworn bathing suit, compliments of my friend Sheely,” he announced as he stepped up, dangling the garment in the air. “See? It still has the price tag.”
Frankie swallowed hard. The shiny garment looked incongruous in his large hand. The top was huge, the bottom was practically nonexistent. And if anything could possibly make her skin look whiter, it was the color white. “I don’t think Sh-Sheely and I have the same…uh—”
“Taste?” he supplied, his voice teasing.
She smiled wryly. “Something like that.”
“Well, try it on,” he urged. “The changing house and bathroom are over there.” The red tile roof of a building on the fringe of the garden was barely visible through the trees.
Frankie sighed and picked up the bikini with forefinger and thumb, holding it in front of her as she veered off on a more narrow path that snaked in the general direction of the changing house. Oh, well, in two days she’d be on her way home and these people would forget they’d ever seen her. What did she care if she looked ghastly?
The changing bungalow was nicer than her Cincinnati apartment. Textured glass made up the entire top half of the building. Thick rugs lay on terra-cotta tile floors, with heavy rattan furniture clustered around a sleek big-screen TV, which was black and silent at the moment. A pool table sat against a wall, the balls racked and ready for breaking. Alternative entertainment for rainy days, she supposed. As to the numerous comfy-looking couches on the perimeter of the room, she blushed to think about their intended use.
Unoccupied, the only sound in the building was the swish of overhead fans and light reggae music from hidden speakers. On the other side of a long bar flanked by leather bar stools lay a stainless-steel kitchen that rivaled the one in her parents’ restaurant.
There were two changing rooms, unmarked as to which was the men’s and which was the women’s. She chose one and entered a combination bathroom and lounge, with sinks and open showers and more couches. Not much privacy, she decided, then conceded that nudists were less demure than the population at large.
Her eyes widened at her rumpled, windblown, dusty reflection in the full-length mirror. She didn’t even faintly resemble Frankie Jensen, the professional, fastidious systems analyst.
Glancing over her shoulder every few seconds, she showered quickly, grateful for the abundance of thick blue towels. She borrowed a wide-tooth comb from a selection on a marble vanity and de-tangled her wet hair as much as possible. After stalling for so long, and worrying that Randy might come looking for her, she reluctantly reached for the borrowed suit and pulled it on, then turned around slowly to look in the mirror.
“Oh my God,” she muttered. Always pale, her skin looked so bleached it was difficult to tell where she ended and the white suit began. The double-D top swallowed her single-B chest, the excess extending up to her collarbones and down to her navel. The bottoms, in comparison, consisted of a white eye patch held together by two strands of dental floss. There was no back that she could find.
Soft footsteps sounded behind her, and before she could cover herself, the oil-slick, busty Sheely strode in, looking like a bronze goddess freed from her pedestal. “Oh, you must be Frankie,” she said, flashing a brilliant smile. “I’m Sheely. Does it fit?”
Frankie stood speechless, flashing back to a similar nightmare in sixth-grade gym class. The woman was wearing only a navel ring, not that her stunning body needed any ornamentation at all. Frankie looked up to the ceiling, burning with embarrassment, trying desperately to think of something to say.
But apparently Sheely needed no encouragement.