Club Cupid by Stephanie Bond

picked up the handset. Her arms and hands moved gracefully, beautifully. He wasn’t quite sure why even her slightest movement spoke to him, made him alternately want to watch her and fold his arms around her.
    Giving himself a mental shake, he mined a pen from a pile of debris, turned his back to give her some semblance of privacy, then studied the liquor-order sheets. Muffled laughter and the bass of the music sounded on the other side of the door, but not loud enough to drown out Frankie’s voice behind him.
    “Hi, Oscar, it’s me.”
    Randy frowned. Not Ms. Jensen, not Frankie—me. Which means they’re on very close terms.
    “Yes, I received the money. I don’t know what I would have done without your help.”
    His rolled his eyes. Since no one here has lifted a finger.
    “Everything’s fine. I’m scheduled to leave on another ship Sunday afternoon, so I’ll be home by Monday evening.”
    Home? Is she talking generalizations, or does she live with the guy?
    “The design sheets? I—I—I couldn’t locate a fax machine to get them to you today, but—Oscar, I know you need them, but—No, I don’t think anyone else has an updated copy, but—Oscar!” She spoke so sharply, he turned to stare. Frankie glanced up guiltily, then gave him a weak smile and turned back to the phone. “If I find a fax machine, I’ll send what you need. Otherwise, I’ll give you the sheets Monday night.”
    Monday night? So they are living together. A fact which was hard for him to reconcile with the uptight Frankie Jensen he was coming to know. He turned back to his orders.
    “How’s the testing going on the new compiler?”
    Randy listened as she exchanged computer talk with her beloved Oscar—conversation she probably thought would be over Randy’s head. Actually, he’d been quite the computer whiz in his day. Then he bit the inside of his cheek. From TV and newspapers, he gathered that computers had changed tremendously in the decade since he’d last touched a keyboard. He’d never even signed on to the Internet. Why did this woman make him suddenly feel as if he was missing something?
    The click of her hanging up the phone interrupted his thoughts. He hurriedly scanned and signed the rest of the orders, then pivoted to give her a wide, guileless smile. “How’s Oscar?”
    In a blink, she erased the concern from her face and casually retrieved her beer. “Fine.”
    “Missing you, I’ll bet.”
    She shrugged and stood. “He stays busy.”
    Unable to stop himself, he asked, “And did you tell him how you’ve been staying busy?”
    Frankie leveled her gaze on him. “What’s to tell?”
    A hot flush singed his neck and he inclined his head in concession to her candid, if stinging, observation. Then he caught sight of a one-hundred-dollar bill wedged under the phone. He settled his hands on his hips, frowning. “The call didn’t cost that much. I thought I made it clear that I’m not going to accept your money.”
    “Don’t get defensive,” she said, standing. “If you won’t take the money for yourself, take it for your charity fund.”
    He started to object, then a wicked idea occurred to him and he smiled. “Agreed.” He reached her in two lazy strides, and leaned one hand into the wall behind her, leaving mere inches between their bodies. “But doing the math in my head,” he whispered, stroking her pink cheek with his thumb. “That comes out to one hundred smackeroos for one hundred smackeroos.”

8
    B EFORE HE CLAIMED the kiss, Frankie had barely enough time to inhale, let alone voice the feeble protests half formed in her throat. Randy clamped his mouth down on hers with the fierceness of a consummation, although only their lips touched. He bathed her tongue with his, sharing the keen tang of beer and his own pleasing taste. Her body vaulted to life, section by section, as if she were a machine and he the power source.
    Desire coiled low in her stomach, then sprang into her torso and