Club Cupid Read Free

bid goodbye to the Atlanta skyline from a southbound 747. “Sure, lady. What’ll it be?” Maybe she was a loon—at the last second he switched back to his first guess: martini.
    “What’ll it be? What’ll it be?” sang Tweety in his high-pitched voice.
    “Cappuccino,” she said, climbing onto a stool to his right.
    Randy blinked, then pursed his lips and scratched his bare stomach. Was she serious? With both hands, he leaned on the counter and slowly looked all around. Parrot, bar stools, ceiling fans, sand on the floor, island music…yeah, the place still looked like a beach bar to him. And Miss White and Uptight was so fascinated with something he couldn’t see out in the street, she hadn’t even noticed his reaction.
    “Uh, sorry,” he said wryly. “Our cappuccino machine is on the blink.”
    “Oh?” she said, turning to him and frowning deeper. “How about just plain hazelnut coffee, with sugar, cream and a little cinnamon?” She glanced back to the street.
    He laughed in disbelief and cocked his head. “Lady, I think you have me confused with Juan Valdez. How about a rum runner?”
    Disappointment washed over her face, and for an instant he could swear she was going to cry. “No coffee?”
    Randy sighed. The woman was obviously unstable. “I might have a jar of instant in the medicine cabinet.” For his own hangovers, he didn’t add. “I can doctor it with a little Kahlúa.”
    At last she smiled, revealing high dimples that triggered a stir in his loins.
    “Coming right up.” He exited through a tiny door to his left that led to a bathroom he didn’t have to share with his clientele. When he realized he was whistling under his breath, he stopped and laughed. Nothing made his day like a pretty woman. Except this pretty woman seemed a little off her rocker. Still, if he played his cards right…
    Flings with vacationers were relatively safe—no strings and no awkward attachments to untangle. And a fresh crop of female tourists who appeared ripe for the picking arrived daily, although lately he preferred windsurfing to brief affairs.
    But with a little soap and water, Red would be tempting…
    In his musings, he knocked over nearly every bottle in the medicine cabinet, sending the entire mess crashing into the sink. At last he came up with a small jar of coffee and returned to the bar,feeling foolishly victorious. But his celebration was cut short when he saw her, head down on folded arms, her shoulders shaking from silent sobs.
    Randy rolled his eyes heavenward. Don’t ask, man. Don’t get involved. Involvement means responsibility. Then he glanced back to Red and sighed mightily. Bonkers he could deal with—but the lost-puppy routine broke him up. Long-dormant protective feelings stirred in his chest, but he willed them away with a healthy oath. Then, resolved to act as if nothing was amiss, Randy cocked his head and donned his best island smile.

2
    F RANKIE HADN’T MEANT to cry, but for once in her life tears seemed like the only option. She’d invested nearly every waking hour in her career, only to have it threatened by her own stupidity and a petty thief. Surely no one would begrudge her a momentary crying jag.
    “Boo-hoo,” Tweety mocked, stopping her in midsob. “Boo-hoo!”
    She sniffed and lifted her head to discover the half-dressed bartender had returned. He grinned, revealing white teeth, and held up a coffee jar. “Hey, come on, I tried to hurry.”
    The man’s voice rumbled out in a lazy stream, his words running together like a too-big ice-cream sundae. A tiny gold hoop earring gleamed against his tanned skin. His sun-streaked shaggy brown hair hung nearly to his shoulders, the wavy mass in dire need of a trim. The lines of his face were strong and lean and brown, pleasingly balanced by a large nose and square chin. His muscular shoulders were wide and bowed slightly forward. A blue tattoo of a swirl design embellished his right biceps, reminding her of the lollipops