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Club Cupid
Stephanie Bond
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
1
FRANKIE JENSEN JERKED her head vigorously to shoo away the enormous green fly buzzing under the brim of her straw hat. “Oscar, don’t tell me the new compiler doesn’t work,” she warned, gripping the receiver of the pay telephone with one hand and juggling a portfolio of documents in the other.
He sighed. “Relax, Frankie—”
“That could delay the project by another eight weeks!” She straightened her sunglasses, then slapped at the fly with a rolled-up flowchart and missed, cursing silently. All these damn insects!
“But Frankie—”
“Which would be career suicide for both of us.”
“I know, Frankie—”
“Call the president of the software company if you have to, but get that compiler working before I get back to Cincinnati.”
“Uh, Frankie—”
“What?” she snapped.
“How’s the cruise going?”
Frankie sighed and considered telling Oscar the truth—that her cousin’s wedding had been a roaring bore, that she’d been worried sick about missing work, then just plain sick from the constant rocking of the ship—but she didn’t want to prolong the conversation. “The cruise is fine.” Except for the fact that the Valentine’s Day package passengers had paired off like Noah’s animals…present company excluded.
“I miss you,” he said softly, obviously heedful of office eavesdroppers. “I wish you’d let me go with you on the cruise.”
The inopportune sentimentality ruffled her. The one good thing about the trip was that it gave Frankie time to mull over her co-worker’s gentle pressure to take their friendship a step further. “Oscar, you know it was impossible for both of us to be gone during this project.”
“You’re right.” He agreed so readily that her frustration climbed a notch. “Where are you now?”
She glanced around at strolling sight-seers and street vendors, an explosion of primary colors and exotic odors—and insects. She swatted at the fly again. “Key West.”
“Well, try not to worry about things here. Enjoy yourself, and have a drink for me.”
“I’ll call you at the next port.”
“Promise?”
She fought the urge to sigh. “Goodbye, Oscar.” She jammed the phone down, then looked around at the smiling tourists walking arm in arm. Frankie grimaced. Only four more days of Club Cupid. Then she’d be back home supervising the rollout of the inventory prototype. After an entire year of putting the team together, training everyone and agonizing through the system analysis and design, she was stuck on a creaky love boat during the most important phase of the project.
Frankie carefully tidied the papers she’d removed from the portfolio, smoothing the furled edges of the flowchart, trying to squash her burgeoning frustration. She had a promotion riding on the successful presentation of the prototype—it had to be right.
After slipping the folder into the pocket of her black, soft-sided briefcase, she zipped the top and snapped down a covering flap for extra security. The packet of papers she carried—initial design, data flows and countless pages of handwritten notes from numerous meetings—were irreplaceable. She’d kept them with her during the entire cruise and had even stashed the briefcase under a pew during the wedding ceremony.
From another compartment, she withdrew a long menthol cigarette and smoked it down to the filter within two minutes, looking over her shoulder the entire time. She could just picture running into her cousin who’d promptly tattle to her parents. A ridiculous thing for a woman of thirty-two to be worried about, she knew, but she didn’t want or need a run-in with her fretful mother—or her overbearing father. Frankie made a face as she stubbed out the cigarette against the side of a metal trash can, then tossed the butt inside.
She’d quit smoking after the project ended.
After slinging the bag over her shoulder, she checked her watch. The ship sailed at two o’clock, so she had thirty minutes to find souvenirs for her folks.
Frankie pushed the hat back on her head. The sidewalks were packed, the crowd spilling into the narrow street, oozing between parked compacts and delivery vans. Bicycles appeared to be the favored mode of transportation. A calypso band played on the roof of a single-story building across the street, the singers’ gyrations hemmed in by an ornate wrought-iron railing, their shakers and bongos providing a beat to which the pedestrians’ feet kept time.
If the temperature was one degree, it was one hundred and one. The sun blazed down and the air hung heavy, pungent with the sweet smells of perspiration and incense. The collar of Frankie’s knit shirt clung to her sticky neck despite her having captured her long red wiry hair beneath the straw hat. She took a deep breath and entered the disjointed stream of lookers, buyers and sellers, focusing on making it to the leather-goods stand a few yards away.
“Pretty, pretty,” a mahogany-skinned man crowed, thrusting a strand of beads in her face. She blinked, then smiled and shook her head.
“Handmade sandals!” another man shouted, waving two pairs of canvas shoes. Frankie glanced down at her white feet shod in ancient penny loafers. They looked a little dorky, but they were soft and comfortable. Maybe her mother would appreciate a pair of the cloth shoes, since she stood all day at the restaurant.
Frankie edged closer to the stand, then pointed to the pair she wanted. But as she twisted to reach into her briefcase, a vicious jerk on her shoulder pulled her to the ground. She felt the strap of her briefcase being ripped off her arm. Disbelief rolled over her as her back hit the sidewalk hard, knocking the breath out of her.
She grunted and blinked, tilting her head to look at the retreating purse snatcher from her point of view on the pavement. Only a glimpse of his khaki-green T-shirt was visible as he fought his way through the crowd. Unsuspecting people in his path yelped as he pushed them aside, reminding Frankie that she too had a voice. “Help!” she screamed, struggling to get to her feet with the help of the sandal man. “He stole my purse!”
Outrage spurred her forward and she took off in the direction of the thug, yelling at the top of her lungs and desperately trying to keep him in view. The nimble thief scrambled across the hood of a parked car, darted across the street to the tune of screeching brakes and sprinted down the other side. Despite her best efforts, Frankie followed at a much slower pace, still pointing and yelling, and while many people stopped to look, no one seemed willing to join the chase.
Nearly a block later, the purse snatcher long gone, Frankie stopped, her chest ready to explode from exertion. She yanked off her crooked sunglasses, then held her knees, gasping for breath. Panic sprouted low in her stomach and billowed into her quivering lungs. Quickly she took mental stock of her losses: