Читать книгу Club Cupid - Stephanie Bond, Stephanie Bond - Страница 7

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. She unabashedly perused Frankie’s body, gently turning her this way and that. “The top’s a little big, but the bottoms look great—do you use the stair climber?”

Twisting to see for herself, Frankie said, “No, but I run every other day.”

The woman nodded her head of dark hair. “Randy’s an ass man.”

Frankie blinked at Sheely, her earlier suspicion about the two of them confirmed.

“Why don’t you just skip the top?” Sheely asked, shrugging her lovely shoulders.

“Well, I…” Frankie stopped, feeling a blush at the roots of her hair. “This is new for me.”

The woman’s smile was understanding. “Didn’t Randy say you’re here on vacation for a couple of days?”

Frankie nodded. “Sort of.”

“Don’t worry—have fun,” she said, waving off Frankie’s concern. “You’ll probably never see any of us again.”

And with a flip of her shiny tresses, Sheely left.

“Thanks,” Frankie called weakly. The woman might be right, she noted with a frown. But big or not, the top was staying. And little or not, so were the bottoms.

She was about to reveal various freckles that heretofore only her doctor had seen. Desperate, she wrapped a huge blue towel around her waist, sarong-style, then pulled on her wrinkled brown blouse, leaving it unbuttoned for some semblance of nonchalance. With the addition of her hat, sunglasses and penny loafers, only her ankles and arms remained exposed. She stepped back to the mirror for the full effect. A little better.

Frankie folded and stuffed her underwear inside her shorts, then draped them over her arm and marched outside.

Her shred of confidence shriveled when every head turned in her direction. Sheely offered her a fluttery wave, and Frankie smiled tightly. She stared straight ahead and strove to keep her gaze shoulder level, scanning the crowd until she located Randy—which was easy since he was the only man wearing swimming trunks. He’d shed the shabby cutoffs and standing in the sun, his body was simply sensational. Not overly muscled, not an inch of flab. She tried not to stare at him, but told herself it was better than looking elsewhere on this beach. Her heart started pounding and for a minute she thought she might be having a panic attack. She inhaled deeply with each step.

“Over here, Red,” he said easily, raising his hand. As she approached, he lowered his sunglasses and looked her up and down, a smile tugging the corners of his mouth. He stepped away from a circle of naked men, then leaned toward her and whispered, “Are you in there somewhere?”

“Yes,” she managed to say with dignity.

“I do have sunscreen,” he said, his mouth twitching.

“Randy,” an older man with a thick head of blond hair admonished. “Introduce your new friend.”

“Maybe later, Phil,” he responded, taking her arm. “I think we’d better go before Red has a heat-stroke.”

To her relief, he bid the group goodbye, then steered her toward the ocean and to the left. Sometime while she was changing, he had acquired a small cooler which he held high as they picked their way among several sunbathers. She followed him past the volleyball game in progress, which, frankly, looked painful to her. After walking around several sand dunes, he stopped under crisscrossing palm trees, set down the cooler and spread out a large blue towel identical to the one she wore.

The sand crackled beneath her shoes and the sun’s rays reflected off the ashy surface in sheets of heat that were nearly visible. She could still hear the sounds from the house, and occasionally, a nude swimmer would walk in her line of vision to dive into the waves, but for all practical purposes, they were alone.

“Sorry to take you away from your friends,” she said, breaking the silence.

“No big deal. There’ll be other parties. Tom’s quite the entertainer.”

“What’s the occasion?”

He shrugged, lowering himself to the towel. “Valentine’s Day, I suppose. Seemed like a lot of out-of-town couples. It’s the weekend for romance,” he added in a mocking voice.

Still standing, she averted her gaze to the horizon, changing the subject. “The view is spectacular.”

“This beach is nicer than the areas open to tourists,” Randy said. “Tom lets me keep my wind surfboard in one of his storage units.” He pointed vaguely to the right, but Frankie could see only sand, water and trees. She looked back to him and wondered briefly if Randy took advantage of his rich friend. He couldn’t make much as a bartender.

He smiled up at her, his gold earring catching the sun, and unzipped the canvas bag. “You can put your clothes in here for now.”

Frankie dropped her shorts and underwear into the bag, not sure what to do next.

“Feel free to take off your shoes,” he added with a teasing grin.

She frowned down at her feet. The loafers did look pretty silly on the beach. Where she’d removed the dimes, two shiny dark circles of leather had been exposed. She slipped her feet out of the shoes, glad she’d touched up the bright pink nail polish on her toes while camped out in her cabin on the ship. The memory brought back the reason she was stuck on this island in the first place and renewed a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“Now the towel,” Randy said, his mouth twitching.

Frankie hesitated, but could feel the sweat trickling down her thighs.

“For Pete’s sake,” he said, raising one hand in the air. “It’s a thousand degrees out here.”

She toyed with the waist of the makeshift skirt, still anxious about revealing so much skin. Sheely’s image loomed large in her mind.

“One quick motion,” he encouraged. “Like a Band-Aid.”

Frankie laughed nervously, loosened the towel and pulled it off, then spread it on the sand next to his while keeping her gaze lowered. The brown blouse fell only to her waist, offering little coverage. Her face flamed as she sat down, adjusted her hat, then chanced a glance at him. His smile had vanished, and his dark sunglasses revealed nothing. Seconds passed with only the sound of the wind and the caws of seabirds around them.

“Gee, Red,” he finally said in a husky voice. “You could have left some leg for the rest of the female population.”

Her skin tingled under his blatant admiration…or maybe it was exposure to the sun. Frankie wavered between feeling flattered and feeling foolish. Was he coming on to her? Was that the reason he’d bothered to help her in the first place?

He cleared his throat. “Better apply sunscreen pronto,” he said, rummaging in the bag.

“I don’t tan well,” Frankie agreed as she twisted her hair into a thick roll and tucked it beneath her hat.

“I’ve got SPF eight, fifteen, and liquid corduroy,” he said, holding up various bottles.

She laughed and reached for the last bottle, then poured a generous amount in her hand and slathered it on every inch of her legs and feet, conscious of his eyes on her while he did the same. His nearness transformed the act of rubbing the cool lotion into her warm skin from an innocent precaution to sensual flirtation. Her skin prickled from heightened awareness as she fought to push the implication of their attraction from her mind. Randy Tate was a tempting distraction from her immediate problems, but she couldn’t afford to lose her mental edge in the middle of a crisis. A tiny shift in wind behind her alerted Frankie that he’d leaned close.

“Hmm, never been jealous of lotion before,” he said in her ear.

Her back stiffened and a shiver went down her spine.

“Want me to do your back?”

“Uh—n-no, that’s all right,” she said, leaning forward to shrug out of her blouse. She avoided his gaze and rubbed the sunscreen over her arms, shoulders, face, chest, stomach and as much of her back as she could reach with spine-twisting contortions.

He remained silent until she finished, then said, “You missed a spot.”

She looked down and over her shoulder. “Where?”

He took the bottle from her and squirted a gob of the creamy white stuff in his hand, then leaned back on one elbow. Frankie swallowed and closed her eyes, her body tense in anticipation of his touch.

“Here,” he said, a split second before rubbing a tiny area between her shoulder blades. His hands were hot, his fingertips as rough as pumice, but the lotion felt cool and slippery. Goose bumps raised along her forearms. How long had it been since a man had touched her?

“And here,” he said, his voice an octave lower. His fingers traveled lower, to the small of her back where they covered one square inch of flesh with agonizing slowness. She bit her lower lip and fought the urge to roll her shoulders.

“And here,” he said in a whisper she barely heard above the wind blowing in from the sea. His fingers traced a curvy line down her lower back to the top of the string that laughingly stood between her and nakedness.

Her breasts grew taut in response to his caress, the hair on the nape of her neck rising like a hundred tiny fingers. A stab of wanting struck low, and she willed a measure of sanity to return. Giving in to her incredible attraction toward a practical stranger while on a beach—it was simply too cliché. Not that she hadn’t fantasized…

Randy’s exploring fingers left her skin abruptly and he stood. “Ready for a swim?”

Startled out of her musings, Frankie glanced up. The telltale ridge of his desire strained at the clingy orange nylon of his trunks. She swallowed, grateful he’d suspended the erotic moment, yet vaguely disappointed. “A swim sounds great.”

He grinned and playfully pulled her to her feet, then tugged her to the water’s edge. Finding his enthusiasm contagious, Frankie laughed into the wind. Randy arrowed his hands, then made a perfect, shallow dive into the gentle waves and surfaced several feet out, his hair slick, his skin shining. “Come on in, Red!”

Frankie hesitated. This man was hazardous, without the courtesy of a warning buoy. Her heart thumped wildly as she watched him tread water, waiting for her. She inhaled deeply, feeling nervous and scared as she waded into the shallows, squishing damp, coarse sand between her toes.

“Don’t think about it—just dive in!”

With the expansive horizon at his back and surrounded by azure water, the devilishly handsome Randy Tate might have been a postcard enticing her to indulge in an island fantasy. Frankie bit her bottom lip hard, sensing more was at stake here than a sunburn.