Club Cupid by Stephanie Bond Page B

back against his arousal, eliciting another groan. He deftly untied her knotted shirt, then slid his hands over her stomach and into the loose waistband of her disheveled shorts.
    Liquid fire flamed through her body when he cupped his hands over the flimsy bikini bottom that stood between her nest and his apt fingers. With eyes glazed with desire, he met her gaze while pressing their bodies together with increasingly firm movements that promised a level of passion and expertise she had not yet experienced.
    She’d have to be an idiot to not know how much he wanted her. And she wanted him, too, with a fierceness that absolutely terrified her. Wanted him right here, right now, in a cramped closet of an office, with unsuspecting people on the other side of the wall.
    But when he slipped a finger beneath the inadequate scrap of fabric at the juncture of her thighs, the intimacy of the gesture shook her to her senses. Frankie stiffened. She was behaving like a coed on spring break, literally falling into the hands of the smooth-talking bartender. She dropped her arms and tugged his hand from the front of her shorts.
    He seemed surprised, but to his credit, he didn’t resist. He took a step back and dragged his hand over his face. “Frankie—”
    “Randy,” she cut in, frantically righting her clothes, gauging his reaction in the mirror, “I apologize for my behavior.” She paused to catch herbreath, then bit her lip hard, hoping the pain would help to clear her head, help to banish the passion that threatened to render her powerless to think. She glanced down to ensure body parts and clothing were back in place before she turned to face him.
    At the expression of anger on his face, she nearly faltered. But she lifted her chin and forged ahead. “I do appreciate all you’ve done for me, but weekend-vacation flings are not my style. This—” she gestured in circles, searching for the right word “—this, this, this… attraction is a pleasant diversion from my dreadful predicament, but I’ve—” She stopped and laughed, sounding hysterical even to her own ears. After a moment, she put a shaking hand to her temple and squeezed her eyes shut. Frankie swallowed, then said almost to herself, “I’ve got to face the fact that if I don’t find that briefcase, I might as well not even go back to Cincinnati.”
    “And what would be so terrible about that?”
    She glanced up and nearly laughed aloud at his simplistic solution. “I was being facetious—I have to go back.”
    He pursed his lips and pulled a dubious face. “Why?”
    Frankie blinked. Why, he asked? Randy Tate lived life by the seat of his raggedy cutoffs—how could he comprehend the responsibility she held or the magnitude of her blunder? How she not only had compromised her job by hoarding the plans for the project, but also the reputation of the entire team if the system were delayed due to her negligence? The full force of her dilemma hit heranew and nausea welled in her stomach. She shook her head in disbelief. Why was this happening to her? “I’ve got to get out of here.” She pivoted toward the door, but Randy caught her by the wrist.
    “Let go of me,” she bit out. “I know you’re angry, but—”
    “Frankie,” he said firmly, loosening his grip, but maintaining his hold. His eyes grew serious. “I’m not angry at you, I’m angry at myself for pushing you—I’m sorry. And I know you’re worried about finding your briefcase, but leaving like this won’t help anything.”
    Was he sincere, or simply giving a convincing performance? She had to admit he had risen above and beyond the call of duty at every step to help her. Was it possible she had underestimated the man when she assumed he had ulterior motives? His gaze bore into her—not the suggestive, flirty gaze of a ladykiller, but the somber, affectionate gaze of a man who… understood? Impossible.
    “Thank you for helping me find a place to stay,” she said, extracting her