Club Cupid. Stephanie BondЧитать онлайн книгу.
reaction would be uppermost in her mind. Inhaling deeply, she pursed her lips, recalling for perhaps the thousandth time the argument she and her parents had shared when she enrolled in her first semester of college.
“I won’t have it!” her father had shouted, shaking his finger at her. “You can study law, medicine, computers—anything except the restaurant business.”
They’d been working in the diner at the time, and her father had turned to several of his regular customers and expressed his disbelief. “Francis and I have worked in the restaurant for twenty years to send Frankie to the finest schools, and what does she want to do?” He’d thrown up his hands in disgust. “Run a lousy restaurant.”
The whole scene had been excruciatingly embarrassing, but her mother had stepped in to referee and they had all compromised…on computers. The high-paying corporate job she’d landed after graduation had always been a source of pride for her parents, and while she’d bought into the work ethic, the politics and the money of the position herself, she realized now that she’d made a success of the job for her parents, and in spite of herself.
She took another drag of the terrible cigarette and blew the smoke straight up in the air. Feeling sorry for herself was a waste of time—she excelled at her job and she enjoyed the daily challenges. She’d live through this so-called vacation and get back behind her desk where she belonged. As for the missing briefcase…well, she’d simply handle that problem one step at a time.
“Boo-hoo,” Tweety sang. “Boo-hoo.”
Frankie lifted her chin. “Speak for yourself, you big canary.”
“Nice ass,” he squawked, undaunted, then joined in the chorus of a Jimmy Buffett song booming over the speakers in the rafters.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror behind the bar and gasped. Dirty face, disheveled clothes—no wonder the guy took off. He was probably as wary of her appearance as she was of his. As she dabbed at her face with a napkin dipped in an abandoned glass of water, she smiled ruefully. No one seemed to notice when she had screamed for help earlier, and even in her current state, no one asked questions.
So much for chivalry in Key West.
“Okay.”
Frankie jumped at the bartender’s voice behind her and exhaled smoke in a short puff. When she turned, he stood with one hand leaning on the stool next to her, his eyebrows raised expectantly. “You mean the coffee?” she asked. “It’s fine.”
He shook his head. “No, I mean okay, what gives? Why do you need the police?”
Frankie took a long drink of the bitter coffee. “A man stole my purse.”
His eyes widened and he reached toward her, but fell short of touching her arm. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head firmly, tingling unexpectedly at his concern.
“Did you lose all your cash?”
She nodded, taking another quick drag to fight the tears welling in her eyes again.
Jamming his hands on his lean hips, he said, “For Pete’s sake, why didn’t you say something before now?”
“For Pete’s sake,” Tweety parroted.
“I was waiting for the police officer to return,” she explained, hating how he made her feel foolish. “She told me to stay put, but she’s been gone for nearly an hour.”
“Heavyset woman?”
Frankie nodded.
“That’d be Officer Ulrich. She might have caught the guy and taken him down to the station.”
“That’s why I asked for directions.”
The bartender looked all around the establishment, as if sizing up her options. “Are you alone?”
Frankie studied the ashes on the butt of the cigarette and considered the question in a larger context, then mentally kicked herself and dropped the sooty mess into the nearly empty glass of water. “I am now—I missed my cruise ship.”
He pursed his lips, crossed his arms and took a half step backward. “Well, like I said, the police station is only a few streets over.”
Frankie stood and dusted off the front of her shorts. “Thanks for the coffee. I don’t have enough for a tip.”
“No problem.”
“Then I guess I’ll be going.”
He nodded, then shifted restlessly. “You shouldn’t have any problem finding it—the station, I mean.”
“Thanks.” She turned to leave.
“It’s next to an airbrush T-shirt shop.”
Frankie looked back. “Thanks…again.”
He twisted the cloth in his hands. “If you get lost, just ask anyone.”
“Okay…thanks.”
“Wait.”
She turned back expectantly.
He walked toward her, tossing the cloth on a table he passed. “Uh, why don’t you let me give you a ride?”
“That’s not necessary—”
“I was getting ready to leave anyway, and I’d feel better knowing you got your purse back. Besides, it might help to walk in with a local.”
Frankie assessed him from head to toe, aware of the finger of apprehension nudging her. Something about the man emanated more danger than the petty thief who had accosted her earlier. Every sermon her mother had ever delivered about accepting rides from strangers reverberated in her head. “I don’t think—”
“I’m Randy Tate,” he said, reading her mind. He extended a long-fingered, bronzed hand.
“Um, Frankie Jensen,” she said, giving his hand the briefest of shakes.
He grinned. “Nice name. Give me a minute to tell Kate I’m leaving.”
Frankie’s mind raced as he approached a curvaceous blond waitress. She read about situations like this in the papers all the time. She had just told the man she was vacationing alone and had no identification…practically an invitation for him to commit a violent crime against her.
Glancing around for an ally, she spotted a neatly groomed, middle-aged man sitting alone a few steps away, writing in a journal. A half-empty pitcher of a pale yellow frozen drink sat in front of him.
“Excuse me, sir,” Frankie said, keeping one eye on the questionable Mr. Tate.
The gentleman looked up and smiled at her, his silver eyebrows furrowed with curiosity. “Yes?” He spoke with a pleasing English accent.
“My name is Frankie Jensen, and—”
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Jensen. I am Parker Grimes.”
Frankie nodded briefly, anxious to skip the small talk. “Mr. Grimes, I’m in a bit of a bind, and the bartender, Mr. Tate, has offered his assistance in helping me find the police station—”
“How nice of the young man.” Parker smiled with approval.
“Oh, yes,” Frankie said hurriedly. “But I just met him and I wanted someone to know that I was leaving with him, in case—” She stopped, suddenly feeling foolish.
“In case your body washes up on shore?” the man asked, nodding.
She felt herself blush. “Well—”
“Say no more, Miss Jensen.” He glanced toward the bartender and made a thoughtful noise with his cheek. “He does look a bit disreputable, doesn’t he?” Then he gave her a comforting wink. “Don’t worry—if you should turn up missing, I’ll recount this conversation.”
“Ready?”