Club Cupid

by Stephanie Bond

  “How charming,” she murmured, her eyes bright and darting.

  “Part museum, part pub,” Randy said. “As seedy as it sounds, piracy was one of the industries on which Key West was founded.”

  She nodded. “I think I read that in the cruise literature.”

  He gestured to the documents and artifacts mounted on walls and within small cases. “Jordy’s great-great-grandfather was supposedly one of the most infamous swashbucklers. He keeps the old man’s glass eye in a case beside the bar cash register.”

  Her eyes widened like a child’s. “He doesn’t!”

  “What did you call it? Ambience?” he teased.

  Busy even for a Friday night, the little place overflowed with customers. They joined the long line behind the authentic ship wheel that served as a makeshift hostess station, but when their turn to be seated arrived, Jordy’s daughter beamed, exchanged small talk with Frankie, then led them directly to a choice table. Randy nodded to Antony, an ancient islander strolling the catwalk above them, playing a soothing piccolo. The man nodded and winked, never missing a note.

  “I see you’re a regular,” Frankie noted as he held out her seat.

  “Good food and great people,” he said easily. “I usually eat here at least once a week.”

  “With a date?”

  He glanced up in surprise as he sat down across from her. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But more often not.” A waiter arrived immediately with two wineglasses and a bottle of Randy’s favorite merlot. “Do you like red wine?” Randy asked Frankie.

  She nodded absently, still engaged by the decor.

  “Thanks, Chapel, I’ll open the wine,” he said, taking the bottle and the corkscrew from the young man.

  “This is simply marvelous,” she said, fingering the lighthouse that served as their centerpiece.

  “I think Jordy’s wife collects lighthouses.” He chuckled over her shining enthusiasm. “You must love restaurants.”

  “I do—my parents own a family restaurant in Cincy, and I grew up waiting tables and helping in the kitchen.”

  “Ah,” he said as he popped the cork on the bottle. Filling her glass, he said, “And you didn’t want to follow family tradition?”

  She picked up the tiny chalkboard on which the day’s menu had been handwritten. “Actually, I did want to.”

  He splashed the berry-colored wine into his own glass, surprised at this side of Frankie. “So why didn’t you?”

  She shrugged her lovely shoulders and sipped the wine, nodding with approval. “My parents convinced me there are easier ways to make a living.”

  “Like designing asphalt inventory systems?”

  A smile danced on her lips, wet with wine. She had definitely gotten some sun today, and it became more noticeable as the evening wore on. Her cheeks fairly glowed and Randy decided she was simply the most compelling woman he’d ever met—beautiful to distraction and diligent to a fault. “I have a good job.”

  “So you’ve said before. But do you like it?”

  “I like the insurance and the steady income.”

  “Stability means a lot to you,” he stated, probing. He hated to belabor the point, but he wanted to prove to himself on a deeper level that a romantic entanglement with Frankie Jensen was a lost cause, that she wanted the very things in life he’d sworn never to be a slave to again.

  “I suppose,” she said.

  The waiter returned with entrée recommendations. Randy ordered conch fritters for an appetizer and grouper for dinner. Frankie ordered yellowfin tuna. Then Randy encouraged her to bring her glass of wine and join him on a quick tour. For the next twenty minutes, they strolled around the restaurant and Randy pointed out the more interesting items in Jordy’s collection, including the notorious glass eye.

  On the way back to the table, Frankie asked, “Randy, have you ever thought about turning your bar into a restaurant?”

  He pursed his lips as they reclaimed their seats. “Not really. I’d probably make a lot more money, but the upgrades to be able to serve food would be considerable, plus a new decor, a larger staff…more responsibility.”

  She conceded with a smile. “How did you make the jump from being an actor to being a bar owner?”

  Randy blinked, recalling her earlier assumption, but saw no reason to correct her. Time had healed some of the wounds of his failed career and bankrupted customers—he didn’t wish to open the wounds again now with someone who would be leaving the day after tomorrow, or sooner if her missing bag turned up. He refilled their glasses to buy a few seconds, then decided to stay on the periphery of the truth.

  “When my career ended in Atlanta, I decided I needed a change of venue. I came here for a few days and struck up a friendship with Parker and a man named King who had owned Rum King’s for over twenty years. I’d been here, oh, about a month when the bar owner decided to retire. It was Parker’s idea that I buy the bar. I inherited good employees, and the place practically runs itself. I own a small place nearby, and find time to surf almost every day. I’m happy.”

  “Sounds like your life is perfect,” she agreed, sipping from her glass. “Have you ever been married?”

  “No.” He couldn’t take his eyes off the way her fingers wrapped around the stem of the glass. “Never had the inclination.” His gaze darted to her unadorned fingers, then back. “You?”

  She shook her head and when he opened his mouth to ask if she and Oscar had planned that far ahead, the conch fritters arrived, saving him from asking and having to hear her answer. Because if she’d said yes, finishing dinner while thinking about Frankie with some faceless man would have been…well, trying. And if she’d said no, he might have been tempted to convince her to spend the night with him, which he’d as good as promised her he wouldn’t do. Not to mention his weighty suspicion that bedding her would spell disaster for life as he knew it.

  Squirming, he watched as Frankie sampled one of the spicy fritters that resembled hush puppies. Her eyebrows shot up in an impressive salute. “These are really good.”

  Still rattled over his own revelation, he drank deeply before eating one of the conch morsels. If he had any sense at all, he’d manufacture some emergency at the bar and leave her cab fare to Parker’s.

  “Do you miss acting?” she asked, oblivious to his struggle.

  “No,” he said, reasoning it wasn’t a lie—he couldn’t miss something he’d never done.

  She seemed surprised. “You don’t miss anything about your previous career?”

  With jarring clarity, Randy remembered the zing of elation when a stock he recommended or a portfolio he assembled had performed well. He’d felt so invincible that he’d had no trouble convincing clients to put their life savings in his hands. Indeed, he’d grown the funds considerably for most of his customers. But it was the few dozen who’d lost nearly everything who still haunted him. He often wondered what had happened to Mr. and Mrs. Oldham, who’d been looking forward to retirement. And Mr. Chandler, who’d intended to set up a trust fund for his grandson. And Mrs. Quillion, who’d been terrified of ending up in a nursing home in the event she lasted longer than her money.

  “Ah, here’s our food,” he said, immensely grateful for the interruption as their waiter placed the steaming plates before them. The aromas were as tempting as always, and the presentation flawless, but Randy’s hunger for food had fled in the wake of an overriding preoccupation with the woman across from him. Still, he squeezed fresh lemon juice over the grouper and forked a flaky bite into his mouth, hoping to jump-start his appetite.

  Frankie closed her eyes in appreciation and pronounced the tuna wonderful just as Jordy stopped by on his nightly rounds from table to table. Randy made the introductions and stood to shake the old man’s hand in greeting. Frankie raved about the tavern, her eyes shining. The man was instantly enchanted, Randy noted with relief—at least he wasn’t the only one to fall under her spell. In fact, the longer Jordy loitered, the more outrageously the gray-haired
man flirted. When the stabs of jealousy over their banter threatened to banish even his shrunken appetite, Randy gently cut in.

  “Jordy, if you like, I’ll pick up your liquor order after we finish eating.”

  The older man flushed guiltily and bid them an enjoyable evening before moving on.

  Despite Frankie’s declaration about the food, he noticed she was so busy watching the waiters, hostesses and musicians, she scarcely ate, although he filled her wineglass a third time. She asked dozens of questions about the patronage, local seafood sources and liquor laws. He didn’t feel slighted by the fact that she seemed more taken with the restaurant itself than with her dinner companion. Indeed, he was thankful that she alone had the presence of mind to resist fostering their accidental attraction with lingering looks and coy small talk.

  But her elusive attention gave him free license to study her…the fluidity with which she moved her head and hands, her sharp, absorbing gaze, the way her lips tightened and pursed sporadically as if her mind was whirling and she was about to blurt out her thoughts. Randy sipped his wine, looking for some answer in the slight buzz of the alcohol to explain why this woman so captivated him.

  She was beautiful, no doubt, but so were any number of women he met on a daily basis. Sexy and passionate? Sure, but so was Sheely and he’d never been enticed to sleep with her. Intelligent and inquisitive? Yes, but not all the women in his bed had been empty-headed, either.

  “Do I have something on my chin?” she asked, holding up her napkin.

  “No,” he replied with a laugh. “I didn’t mean to stare.”

  “You were a million miles away, I think.”

  “No, I rarely let my thoughts and plans wander past the boundaries of the island,” he lied, although he wanted it to be true.

  “It must be nice to feel so at peace with your…decisions,” she said, her voice wine-wistful.

  Her words raised a disturbing question in his mind: Was he truly making proactive decisions about his life, or had he simply bowed to serendipity by staying in Key West? To evade commenting, he turned the misguided observations around. “Earlier today when you claimed to be happy, you weren’t being truthful?”

  She slowly pushed aside her plate and leaned forward on her elbows, her arms crossed at her slim wrists. “I was being as truthful as I knew to be,” she said, her too-bright eyes testifying to the effects of the wine. “But when I see people like you and Jordy living exactly the life you want to—and living it in paradise…well, you have to admit that writing code for a computer in Ohio pales a bit in comparison.”

  “It’s a good job,” he said, mimicking her words.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “But when you consider that you spend the better part of your waking hours at your job—and more time with your co-workers than your own family—you should really love who you do, er, I mean what you do.”

  Randy wet his lips, ignoring her slip. “Of course, some would argue that what I do doesn’t exactly contribute to the quality fabric of society.”

  She shrugged in an exaggerated fashion. “That’s for you to decide.”

  He frowned. Decide…decisions.

  “I’d give anything for a cigarette,” she said, leaning closer. Her eyes drooped and her lips pouted.

  Randy swallowed. “Anything?”

  She smiled lazily and nodded. “And anything twice for two.”

  He stood up suddenly, sending his chair crashing to the floor and gathering the attention of couples seated around them. “I-I’ll get Jordy’s order and see if I can find you a smoke,” he said, righting the chair and snatching his napkin from the floor. After smoothing the cloth next to his abandoned plate, Randy gave her a smile he hoped was stronger than his resolve to resist her, then strode in the direction of the kitchen.

  Jordy stood in the steamy, bustling kitchen wearing a stained apron and sampling a pinkish soup that Randy recognized as lobster bisque.

  “Randy, are you leaving so soon?” The man wagged his silver eyebrows. “Not that I blame you—your Ms. Jensen is quite a dish.”

  He frowned. “She’s not mine, Jordy. I came to get your liquor order.”

  “So testy,” the man said, tsk-tsking. “She seems like a very special young woman.”

  Randy clenched his jaw under the man’s watchful gaze. “Just a pretty tourist, Jordy, who had her purse stolen and missed her cruise ship.”

  “And I suppose you’re simply helping her out in a jam?”

  “That’s right.”

  Jordy’s laugh was gratuitous. “Well, if that isn’t a case of the fox taking care of the henhouse, I don’t know what is.”

  Randy sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. “You’re a riot, Jordy. Where’s your liquor order?”

  The old man chuckled as he pulled a folded sheet of paper from his apron pocket. “If I didn’t know better, my boy, I’d say Cupid has clipped you with his arrow.”

  Rankled, Randy protested hotly, “Yeah, well, don’t worry—” He stopped, then sighed as he looked into the wrinkled face of a true friend, and clapped Jordy on the back. “Don’t worry, old man, it’s just a flesh wound.” He took the order form and started to retreat, more anxious than ever to deposit Frankie safely at the B&B. Then he snapped his fingers. “I almost forgot—do you know where I can get a couple of cigarettes?”

  “I didn’t realize you smoked.”

  Randy gave him a wry smile. “It’s for the hen.”

  “Ah. Check at the bar. Good night, lad, and good luck.”

  Taking the long way back to the table, Randy fought to get a grip on himself. No woman could wield so much power in his life unless he allowed it. Just because Frankie Jensen had unwittingly pushed old buttons didn’t mean he had to assign her a special place in his life. She was an acquaintance, that’s all—and a passing acquaintance at that.

  But when he neared the table, he acknowledged the quickening of his pulse at the mere sight of her and ground his teeth. Her smile widened to a grin, melting his heart when he produced the unopened pack of menthol cigarettes—a harbinger of things to come, he feared.

  “No Key lime pie for dessert?” he asked, holding back the pack.

  “This will be my dessert,” she said, plucking the package out of his hand. “And another glass of wine.”

  Randy eyed her dubiously as he sat down. “How about a half glass?”

  She leaned forward, looking hurt. “I thought you wanted me to relax.”

  Red was nursing a good buzz—beautifully. Her chiseled features were soft around the edges and her eyes luminous. Desire beat a rhythm through his loins, torturing him. He sighed. “I do, but I don’t want you to fall off the bike, either.”

  She shrugged, hurriedly tapping out a cigarette. “Okay.” She lit the smoke with a hand that shook slightly.

  He frowned as he poured her a half glass, pushing his own glass aside in preparation for driving home. “You’re hooked on those things.”

  She inhaled deeply, drawing in her cheeks until her eyes bugged, then turned her head to exhale. “No, I’m not.”

  Scoffing, he asked, “Are you the same woman who just promised ‘anything twice’ for a couple of lousy cigarettes?”

  A smile moved languidly across her pink, freckled features. The cigarette dangled from her long fingers, the tip sending up a curling wisp of smoke. “Surely you didn’t take me literally.”

  Her words had indeed telegraphed pictures to his mind of various types of repayment. “Of course not,” he said, glancing at his watch. Ten-fifteen. He could drop off Frankie, then head back to the bar for closing. Perhaps the kissing booths would still be open and he could find a substitute for—

  “Am I keeping you from something you’d rather be doing?” she asked, taking another drink of the heady wine.

  “No,” he assured her quickly. “I’d just lost track of time, that’s all.”

  She smiled again. “Does that mean you’re having fun?”

  “No.” He winced, and held up one
hand. “I mean, yes, I’m enjoying, um…dinner.”

  “But dinner is over,” she pressed, gesturing to the near-empty table. Their plates had been cleared in his absence. “Are you still having fun?”

  “Yes,” he said politely, deciding not to elaborate. He signaled the waiter for the check and reached up to run a finger around his shirt collar, only to remember he was wearing a T-shirt. The unconscious gesture astounded him because it was a habit he’d dropped ten years ago when he’d adopted the dress code of the island. So why did he suddenly feel as if he had an eighty-dollar shirt collar pulled tight around his neck with a sixty-dollar tie?

  “No Key lime pie for dessert?” she asked, sounding amused.

  “Uh, no,” he said, drumming his fingers on the table. He glanced up at Antony who strolled the catwalk playing “My Funny Valentine” on his silver piccolo. Randy lifted his hand, and Antony gave him a thumbs-up, gesturing toward Frankie. Flustered, Randy shot him a tight smile and nodded curtly.

  The waiter came by and handed him a note. “Where’s the check?” Randy asked.

  “Mr. Jordy asked me to give you this, sir. Good night.” The young man nodded to Frankie. “Ma’am.”

  Perplexed, Randy opened the note. Accept dinner with my compliments. Happy Valentine’s Day to you and your Ms. Jensen. This is a special night, I think.

  “What does it say?” she asked, draining her wineglass.

  “Dinner’s on the house,” he said, refolding the note. Rankled, he pulled out his wallet and withdrew a hefty tip just as she snuffed out the cigarette in a small tin ashtray. “Are you ready to go?” he asked, trying not to betray his desire to be rid of her as soon as possible.

  She smiled and nodded, then pushed herself to her feet using her lower arms. Randy recognized the symptom of someone who might not be feeling so well in the morning and was by her side in a flash. “Easy,” he said when she swayed and raised a hand to her temple. “I think you had a little too much wine, Red.”