Club Cupid by Stephanie Bond Page B

froze—the wet, see-through fabric had adhered to her breasts and privates in a way that left no detail to the imagination. Frankie gasped, then jerked up her head, grateful Randy had turned his back. Had he seen her? Of course he’d seen her! Mortified, she crossed her arms in front of her and shuffled past him to drop to her knees on one of the towels beneath the bowed palms, her back to him.
    The low rumble of his chuckle reached her. “You have nothing to be ashamed of, Red.”
    Her face burned with ridiculous pleasure as she yanked her wrinkled shirt from the gym bag. “Please don’t call me that.”
    “Okay,” he said, his voice cordial as he leaned over and withdrew his pager. He made a regretful noise. “No word yet. Sorry, Re—I mean, Frankie.”
    She pulled her shirt around her hurriedly and planted her rear end on the large blue towel, her earlier frustration flooding back. “How can I be sure the police are really working on my case?”
    He picked up her hat and plopped it on her head before she could react, and lowered himself to the neighboring towel. “Because,” he said with a wink, “we take crime against tourists seriously around here—especially crime against pretty tourists.”
    His gold-colored eyes sparkled, the dark frame of his lashes and eyebrows providing such a striking contrast, the intensity of his gaze unnerved her. Frankie glanced away, her skin tingly and tight from salty residue. She removed the dilapidated hat and finger-combed her hair, kinked and separated from the moisture. Her stomach ached, partly from anxiety over the lost briefcase, partly from hunger, partly from emotions kicked up by the near stranger next to her. “Where did you move from?” she asked, steering the situation back to safe conversation.
    He lifted the lid of the cooler. “Atlanta.”
    His deep voice sounded guarded, piquing her interest. Had he left a bad relationship? A bad marriage? Aware of the collision course, she derailed her train of thought. “I went to Atlanta twice for training last year.”
    “Nice place,” he said, noncommittal.
    “I didn’t sight-see,” she confessed, smiling in fond memory. “But I did visit a different restaurant every night.”
    He laughed as he withdrew a nugget of ice and rubbed it on the back of his neck. “No offense, but you don’t look like much of an eater.”
    Mesmerized, Frankie followed his tanned hand as his warm skin consumed the bit of ice. The temperature in their patch of shade shot up. “W-well, there’s more to a restaurant than the menu, you know.”
    He lifted one eyebrow. “Like?”
    Like a gorgeous man sitting across the table. “Like atmosphere and ambience.”
    He grinned. “You mean smart-ass birds and staticky speakers?”
    Relaxing an iota, she smiled. “Sort of.”
    “A restaurant would have to be extraordinarily bad to fail in Atlanta,” he acknowledged. “Even with a tavern every few feet in the Highlands, the Friday-night wait used to be three hours.”
    “Do you miss it?”
    He hesitated, then scoffed and reached into the cooler again. “All that traffic—are you kidding?”
    Realizing she’d hit a nerve, she proceeded slowly. “Where is your family?”
    A look of affection crossed his face as he removed a frosty bottle of beer. “There’s just me and my younger brother. He’s a missionary in India.”
    She tried to contain her surprise, but at the sound of his belly laugh, she knew she had failed.
    “That’s the typical reaction,” he said. The corded muscles in his forearm flexed as he twisted off the cap. He extended the bottle toward her.
    She shook her head. “I don’t drink beer.”
    “Maybe I should introduce you to my brother.”
    Frankie bristled primly. “I never acquired a taste for it, that’s all.”
    He shrugged. “Too bad—this is good stuff, brewed locally.” Rummaging in the cooler once more, he withdrew a bottle of water and handed it to her.
    “So your brother is a missionary.” She