Read Online Club Cupid by Stephanie Bond - Free Book Online Page A

picking for a hungry islander with long, able arms. She wasn’t afraid of him, but she knew an opportunist when she saw one. Frankie lifted her chin. “Maybe you shouldn’t assume so much where I’m concerned, Mr. Tate.”
    “No need to be so formal,” he said smoothly, dipping a chunk of white meat in the butter. “Especially since I’ve seen your…”
    She glowered.
    “Freckles,” he finished neatly, then devoured the morsel with the most innocent expression.
    Frankie pulled her shirt closer around her and flipped the edge of the towel over her legs.
    His laugh rolled out pleasantly as he extended the butter toward her. “Too late for modesty, don’t you think?”
    “I don’t appreciate being laughed at.”
    “I’m laughing with you,” he said, relegating the butter to a level spot on the towels between them when she made no move to take it.
    “Except I’m not laughing.”
    “Sad but true,” he noted, undaunted. “Nothing personal, Red, but you seem unhappy.”
    Frankie blinked. “Unhappy? Th-that’s the mostridiculous thing I’ve ever heard,” she stammered, not about to succumb to his amateur psychoanalysis. “I mean, I’m not entirely happy at the moment, but who would be under the circumstances?” Picnicking with an outrageously handsome man on a tropical beach. She gestured wildly. “Believe me, when my job isn’t in jeopardy and I’m not stranded thousands of miles from home, I’m happy.” She donned what she hoped was a convincing smile. “ I have every reason to be happy, thank you very much.”
    “Careful,” he said, wagging a crab leg at her. “You protest too much.”
    Her composure faltered. “And you talk too much.”
    “Occupational hazard,” he said with glib familiarity, then he winked. “I’ll sit here and try to think of something better to do with my mouth.”
    Frankie’s throat constricted. His utterly cool disposition unnerved her, and she wondered how he’d achieved his level of nonchalance. Realizing that her quick temper played into his hands, Frankie decided to turn the tables with something she sensed Randy Tate didn’t like—questions. “Were you a bartender in Atlanta, too?”
    As she suspected, his demeanor changed. Randy averted his gaze and busied himself cracking more legs for them. “No.”
    When he didn’t expound, she pushed her advantage. “Missionary?”
    At least he laughed this time. “No.”
    “Independently wealthy?”
    Another laugh. “Hardly.”
    She tipped up the beer, this time savoring thetaste. “If you don’t tell me, I’m going to think you were involved in something illegal.” When his hands stilled suddenly, Frankie experienced a stab of alarm. Had she misjudged him—was he a criminal? A fugitive? She tensed, remembering she was supposed to go for the eyes and the gonads if he pounced.
    But Randy simply handed her another red shell, his gaze a bit sardonic. “Illegal? Depends on who you ask, I suppose.”
    Edgy, Frankie tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m asking you .” He bit into a piece of crab, and chewed it thoughtfully. She finished her beer, her gaze riveted on her mysterious companion.
    “I was an investment broker.”
    Frankie skimmed the man before her, taking in his shaggy hair, earring, tattoo and sun-bronzed chest, then burst out laughing. “Right,” she said, tossing another shell on the small pile they’d accumulated. “You said that with such a straight face, you must be an actor.”
    One side of his mouth climbed in a sheepish smile. “You’re pretty good, Red.”
    Frankie held up her hand to refuse another piece of crab, then fingered the neck of the beer bottle. The label of washed-up actor fit Randy Tate’s image perfectly, so why did his revelation leave her with a vague sense of disappointment? Because she had projected a level of complexity onto this man out of some misplaced romanticism? “Were you in anything I might have seen?”
    “No,” he said, laughing