Club Cupid Read Free Page A

she’d loved as a child. The man was one-hundred-percent polar from her type , but if she hadn’t been so miserable, Frankie would have stopped to appreciate his considerable good looks anyway.
    Instead, she hiccuped and offered him a small smile. The guy probably thought she was nuts. “S-sorry.”
    “No problem,” he said cheerfully, handing her a paper napkin sporting a parrot and the bar’s name. Frankie blew her nose noisily and when she glanced up, he had disappeared. To her left behind a wall she heard clanging noises and a faucet being turned on. “I don’t have a stove to heat the water,” he said above the noise. “But the tap gets pretty darn hot.”
    She nodded absently to the vacant spot where he’d been standing, briefly piqued that he seemed unnerved by her tears which, to Frankie, were such a novelty. “The tap’s fine.” She eyed the parrot dubiously, then, remembering the police officer, turned and scanned the street for what seemed like the hundredth time. Still no sign of the woman.
    The bartender might be able to help her, but she hated to involve a stranger and admit how vulnerable and stupid she’d been. Besides, judging by his unkempt appearance, this guy didn’t look to be very trustworthy himself. However, she could at least ply him for information. “Is the police department nearby?”
    The clanging sounds stilled, then the barkeeper stuck his head around the corner. “The police department?”
    She nodded, trying to look casual.
    His eyes narrowed and he looked as if he might quiz her. Then he seemed to change his mind. “Uh, yeah, the office is over about four streets, near thecorner of Angela and Simonton.” He set a yellow stoneware cup on the counter, wiped a metal spoon on the leg of his jean shorts, stirred the impromptu cup of coffee and pushed it toward her.
    Following his movements, Frankie cautiously lifted the cup for a drink, hoping the water was hot enough and the alcohol strong enough to banish whatever germs lurked from the unsanitary preparation. “Thanks.”
    The man inclined his head, and Frankie realized that his eyes, which she’d assumed were brown, were actually a light gold. All the darkness around them—his black lashes and thick eyebrows—had thrown her. He gave the bar another swipe with his cloth. “If that’s all, I need to take care of some things.”
    She paused, then decided he was a stranger and it didn’t matter what he thought of her. “Would you happen to have a cigarette?”
    His mouth tightened as he reached beneath the counter and pulled out an open pack of some generic brand, then tossed them onto the counter. “Those things’ll kill you.”
    “I know,” she assured him, reaching for the pack. “But I’m not hooked. How about a light?”
    Frowning, he produced a book of matches displaying the establishment’s name. “Anything else?”
    “That’s all.” Frankie watched him saunter from behind the bar. She guessed his age to be in the mid-to late-thirties range. He wore threadbare navy canvas tennis shoes and his faded cutoffs hung precariously low on narrow hips, revealing a glimpse of neon orange swim trunks.
    Impressive—he was a bartender and a beach bum. And he wasn’t even old enough to have reached his midlife crisis.
    Although the long bar where she sat was nearly deserted, clumps of people had spaced themselves out in happy little groups at tall tables on the perimeter of the open room and on the outside patio. A trio of scantily clad co-eds gave the bartender their orders between coquettish looks, and despite the obvious age difference, or probably because of it, he appeared to be enjoying the exchange.
    Frankie looked back to her coffee and lit a cigarette, then took a long, stale draw. Imagine—she’d been worried the disreputable-looking guy would want to become involved in her dilemma. Glancing at her watch, she gulped the warmish coffee, and the Kahlúa burned the back of her throat. Oh, well, at least she