Club Cupid by Stephanie Bond

desire drummed in his loins, low and prophetic. But he ground his teeth, suddenly determined to avoid the physical encounter he’d been so keen on initiating mere moments ago. He had the feeling that vulnerability was foreign for Frankie Jensen, and the fact that she had put her trust in him during a crisis was an honor he couldn’t breach. Dammit.
    “Ever been to Ohio?” she asked, seemingly unaware of his struggle.
    Glad for the distraction, Randy said, “I’ve been to Riverfront Stadium a few times.” He hadn’t thought of his and his brother’s weekend baseball excursions in years. Those days seemed like a lifetime ago.
    She opened her eyes and glanced his way with a laugh. “Don’t tell me Key-Westers go to Ohio for vacation?”
    “Conchs.”
    “Hmm?”
    “The locals are called Conchs.”
    “Like a conch shell?”
    Randy nodded. “Yeah, except a conch is the animal that once inhabited the shell—it’s kind of like a clam, and a favorite food around here.”
    She nodded as if she were familiar with the cuisine. “Okay, so do Conchs go to Ohio for vacation?”
    He shrugged. “People who settle in Key West typically get comfortable. I haven’t left since I arrived.” Randy immediately regretted opening a door to questions.
    Frankie shifted to her back and floated, her arms out to the sides, her toes poking out of the foam in front of her. “When was that?”
    The glass-clear water revealed every inch of her long, slender body. He swallowed hard and pretended to concentrate on a group of swimmers throwing a water Frisbee several hundred yards away. “A long time ago.”
    “So you’re a Conch now?” she teased, her tone offhand.
    “The natives tolerate me, I suppose.” Anxious to shift the subject away from himself, he asked, “Do you sail often?”
    Frankie shook her head. “Not anymore.”
    “Did something happen?”
    “Yeah.” She laughed. “I joined the rat race.”
    Been there. “Don’t you ever take time to relax?”
    Her shoulders lifted in a little shrug. “The project I’ve been working on has kept me pretty tied up.”
    Tied up? Randy wasn’t sure why everything the woman said seemed sexually charged. Her hair floated in the water behind her, beckoning him. Between her tempting body and her unsettling references to the corporate treadmill he himself had escaped by the skin of his teeth, his body temperature had definitely risen a few degrees. He dunked his head under the cool water, exhaled, then resurfaced and shook off the moisture. “You know what they say about all work and no play,” he chided gently.
    “Makes Jill a successful executive,” she finished in a knowing tone.
    Sympathy knifed through him for the woman’s misguided goals. Once he too had believed that a double-breasted suit, schmoozy lunches and long hours lined the path to success and self-fulfillment. Indeed, he had risen fairly quickly to become the youngest vice president in a thriving Atlanta savings and loan. Eager and naive, he hadn’t questioned suspicious practices until it was too late.
    He peeked at Red and experienced a compelling urge to save her from herself. Yet he wondered if he would have listened to well-intentioned warnings when he’d been in the throes of his burgeoning investment career.
    Money had flowed like water. The market was bullish and investors plentiful—until Black Monday. The S&L had slammed its doors and the next two years were a nightmarish blur of dealing with bankrupted customers, cooperating with state and federal banking agencies and testifying against his former bosses.
    Afterward, Randolph Evan Tate III had liquidated his home, car and what was left of his own investments, packed one suitcase and hopped the train to Hartsfield Airport. In search of not only a new life, but a new way of life, he’d asked for a one-way ticket to a perpetually sunny destination. When the clerk suggested Key West, he’d agreed. Within a few days of arriving, Randolph had died, and