Читать книгу An Arranged Marriage - Peggy Moreland - Страница 11

Judging by Fiona’s behavior that night at the Empire Room, no one would have guessed that her life was about to drastically change. Dressed in a form-fitting, black silk tank top and matching capris that revealed an enticing amount of cleavage and leg, she laughed and flirted with every man who stopped by the table she shared with her date, Roger Billings.

And after dinner, when she and Roger left the dining room to finish their bottle of wine by the adult pool, not a male in the place would have suspected that Fiona’s days as Mission Creek’s most sought-after female were about to end. Understandable, since their minds were dulled by the sensual sway of her hips as they followed her departure with their gazes.

Not so understandable was the fact that her date was unaware of her state of panic.

Stretched out on a lounge chair by the pool, Fiona glanced Roger’s way. No surprise there, she thought resentfully. Roger Billings was the most narcissistic man she’d ever had the misfortune to meet.

If she hadn’t already decided to dump him, his attentiveness that evening—or lack thereof—would have convinced her to end their two-week-old relationship. She never would have pursued him in the first place if she hadn’t overheard that snotty old Angela Forsyth bragging in the spa that she’d have him at the altar within a month of his divorce settlement, claiming that he was the catch of the year.

Catch of the year, my eye, she thought peevishly. The man was so tight he squeaked, and he was an unmitigated bore. When he wasn’t complaining about his ex-wife taking him to the cleaners in their divorce settlement or about the outlandish fees the court-ordered therapist was charging to counsel his three children, he was talking about himself, crowing about all his accomplishments.

She glanced his way again as he paused in his monotonous monologue long enough to drain the wine from his glass. When he reached for the bottle—the cheapest vintage listed on the wine menu, no less—to refill it, it was all she could do to keep from snatching the bottle from his hand and bopping him over the head with it.

Didn’t he realize she needed some help here? A distraction? Something, anything, to keep her mind off the bomb her father had dropped on her earlier that evening!

An arranged marriage, she thought furiously. How utterly archaic! And to Clay Martin, no less. Had her father lost his mind?

And why had he singled out her to inflict his cruelties on? Threatening to close her bank and credit-card accounts. Of all the nerve! There had to be something she could do to prevent him from doing this to her. But what? Though she’d thought of little else since he’d informed her of the ridiculous arrangement, she hadn’t been able to come up with a single workable plan.

Which was amazing, really, now that she thought about it. Ever since she was in diapers, she’d been able to find a way to get around her father. On those rare occasions when she couldn’t, she’d simply thrown a tantrum until he’d finally given in.

But she was too old to get away with holding her breath until she turned blue, she thought miserably. At any rate, she feared a tantrum wouldn’t work for her this time. When he’d delivered his ultimatum, she’d detected a distinct and unwavering resolve in her father’s voice that she’d never heard there before, one that had chilled her to the bone.

He wouldn’t back down this time, she told herself dejectedly. Her carefree days were about to end.

She lifted a brow. Or were they? There was a third party involved in this ridiculous scheme. Clay Martin. There was still a chance that he might change his mind—especially if she was to give him a little something to make him question his agreement to marry her. Something really risqué. Something downright scandalous.

And before her lay the perfect setting to create just such a scandal.

She sat up and turned to look at Roger, her face flushed with excitement. “Let’s go skinny-dipping.”

He choked on his wine. “Wh-what?”

“Skinny-dipping!” She swung her legs over the side of the chair and stood, reaching behind her to unfasten the waist of her capri pants, her enthusiasm for her plan building as she imagined Clay’s reaction when he heard of her latest escapade. And he’d hear about it all right. She’d make sure of that.

Roger stared, his eyes widening, as she wiggled her pants to her ankles and stepped out of them. Swallowing hard, he looked up at her. “B-but what if someone sees us?”

Pulling the tank top up and over her head, she shook out her long hair. Since she hadn’t bothered with a bra, she was left wearing nothing but a black lace thong. Curving her lips in a sultry smile, she braced her hands on the arms of Roger’s chair and leaned to press her mouth to his.

She withdrew slowly to meet his gaze, slicking her tongue over her moist lips. “That just adds to the thrill, doesn’t it?” she said huskily, then laughed and ran for the pool. At the edge, she executed a near-perfect dive into the crystal clear water and surfaced mid-pool, still laughing as she scraped her hair back from her face. Her laughter faded when she saw that Roger stood at the side of the pool fully dressed.

She treaded water. “Aren’t you coming in?” she asked in surprise.

He glanced uneasily around. “I don’t know, Fiona. If someone were to see us…”

“So what if they do?” she returned boldly. “We’re adults.” She rolled to her back and stroked farther away, sure that he would join her. When he didn’t, she treaded water again. Frustrated that he wasn’t cooperating, but confident that she could persuade him to join her, she purred. “Umm. The water feels absolutely decadent on my hot skin.”

She peeked through her lashes to check Roger’s reaction and saw that his face was flushed and his eyes were riveted on her breasts. Convinced that he was weakening, she pushed her arms out in a modified breast stroke and swam toward him. When she reached the side, she folded her arms over the tiled edge and looked up at him, tipping her head to the side. “Don’t you want to go swimming with me?” she asked, puckering her mouth in a Shirley Temple pout she knew from experience men found hard to refuse.

He swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on the mounds of flesh squeezed between her folded arms.

“Come on, Roger,” she coaxed as she pushed away from the side. “No one will see us. I promise.”

She watched his Adam’s apple bob again, then shrieked when he jumped in fully clothed, splashing her with a tidal wave of water. He surfaced several feet away.

“See?” she said, laughing. “Doesn’t the water feel marvelous?”

He didn’t reply. Instead, he started swimming toward her. It was then that Fiona noticed the feral gleam in his eyes. She pushed her arms against the water, backing away from him, wondering if perhaps she might have been a little impulsive. “Roger…” she warned as he neared.

He grabbed her, catching her by her upper arms.

“Roger!” she cried, struggling to twist free, as he pulled her to him. “What are you doing? Let me go!”

Instead of releasing her, he locked his arms around her, making escape impossible.

“If you don’t let go of me right this instant,” she said furiously, “I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” he challenged.

Before she could answer, he dropped his mouth down on hers, smothering any hope of a reply. Truly frightened now, she flattened her hands against his shoulders and shoved, but was unable to break his grip. She felt the ironlike jab of his arousal against her abdomen and fear iced her veins.

Remembering a defense technique her brother Matt had taught her, she lifted a knee and rammed it as hard as she could between his legs. He bent double, groaning and holding himself.

“How dare you!” she accused furiously, then spun in the water and swam for the side. She’d almost made it out of the pool, when he caught her arm and tugged her back.

She clawed at his hand, trying to pry his fingers loose. “Roger!” she cried. “Let me go!”

He swung around to brace his back against the side of the pool, pulling her with him, then locked his arms around her again. “Come on, Fiona. Just give me a little kiss.”

“Roger, please,” she begged, straining away from him. “Let me go.”

“You heard the lady. Let her go.”

Startled, Fiona glanced up and saw a man standing on the side of the pool directly above them, his legs spread wide, his hands braced on his hips. Although his face was shadowed by a silver Stetson, she knew her rescuer immediately. The khaki slacks with the knife-sharp creases. The starched white shirt with the silver Texas Ranger badge pinned to the front pocket. Dark brown cowboy boots with a shine so high she could see her reflection in them.

Clay Martin, she thought, relieved that she was being rescued. Then she realized her luck. She couldn’t have planned this better if she’d plotted for weeks!

“Get lost,” Roger growled, then jerked Fiona close again.

Instead of fighting him this time, she wrapped her arms around his neck, prepared to put on a show.

“What the—”

Fiona stumbled back as Roger’s arms were torn from her and watched wide-eyed as Clay hauled him from the pool by the back of his collar. She stared, stunned by the bulge of muscles straining beneath the sleeves of Clay’s shirt as he dragged Roger onto the tiled apron of the pool.

Cursing, Roger fought to sit up. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? We were just having a little fun.”

Clay planted a boot in the middle of Roger’s chest and pushed him back down. Folding his arms across his thigh, he leaned to peer down at him.

“Now, nobody enjoys a good time more than me,” Clay informed Roger in that slow Texas drawl of his. “But when there are two parties involved, and especially when one of them is a lady, both parties have to be having a good time before it can be considered as such. You may disagree with me, but it didn’t appear to me that Fiona was having much fun.”

Scowling, Roger shot a hand beneath his nose. “It was her idea,” he grumbled. “She’s the one who wanted to go skinny-dipping, not me.” He flung his hand in Fiona’s direction. “Ask her yourself if you don’t believe me.”

Clay angled his head to look at Fiona. The eyes that met hers were black as night and hard as stone. It was all she could do to keep from shrinking away.

“I don’t doubt that for a minute,” Clay said. He turned back to smile at Roger. “Fiona does seem to have a fondness for making a public spectacle of herself.”

She sucked in an indignant breath. “Now wait just a minute!”

Clay went right on talking as if she hadn’t spoken, as if she wasn’t even present. “But I do question her willing participation in what followed.”

“Well, what did she expect to happen?” Roger demanded. “Standing there buck naked and begging me to get into the pool with her. You tell me what you would’ve done, Ranger, if you were caught in a similar situation.”

Clay pulled at his chin thoughtfully. “Now, that’s hard to say, since a woman’s never objected to me kissing her.”

Roger huffed out a breath. “The mighty Texas Ranger,” he muttered. “The whole damn lot of you are nothing but a bunch of gun-toting, self-righteous, macho cowboys.” He gave Clay’s boot an angry shove. “Would you get your damn foot off my chest? You’re restricting my air supply.”

“I’ll be happy to oblige—just as soon as you give me your word that you won’t repeat what transpired here tonight.”

“And why the hell would I want to make a promise like that?”

“Because a lady’s reputation is at stake,” Clay replied. He turned his head and gave Fiona a long look, one that sent a shiver chasing down her spine, then added, “And that lady happens to be my future wife.”

Clay stood with his hands braced on his hips, watching to make sure Roger didn’t have a change of heart before he made it to the parking lot.

“Well?” came Fiona’s indignant voice from behind him. “Are you going to stand there all night or are you going to hand me a towel?”

Clay glanced over his shoulder to find her still standing chin-deep in water. Though her hair floated in wet, tangled clumps around her shoulders and mascara was smeared beneath her eyes, she still managed to look beautiful, regal. Untouchable. But then she always had been. Especially for men like Clay Martin.

“Depends,” he replied, and turned to fully face her.

“On what?” she snapped impatiently.

“On how nicely you ask me for that towel.”

She jerked up her chin. “I’ll turn into a prune first.”

He lifted a shoulder. “Suit yourself.”

She glared at him a full five seconds, then narrowed her eyes in challenge and began pushing her way through the water toward the steps. Clay watched as first her bare shoulders appeared above the surface, then her chest. Water sluiced down her pampered flesh, leaving droplets to cling to the tips of her nipples, making them glitter like diamonds in the moonlight. Shaking his head, he dragged a towel from the back of a chair and moved to the edge of the pool. As she climbed the steps, he spread his arms, holding the towel open for her.

She stepped onto the tiles, then turned and waited, her chin tipped high, as if she were a queen, the towel her royal robe and Clay a lowly servant there to do her bidding. With a slowness meant to infuriate her, he draped the towel around her shoulders and brought the ends together, tucking them between her breasts.

He heard her sharp intake of breath as his forearms grazed her nipples, felt the swell of her breasts beneath the thick terry cloth. Unable to resist, he cupped his hands over her shoulders and dipped his mouth close to her ear. “Cold?”

Though he could feel the tension in her, the awareness, her expression revealed neither as she turned slowly in his arms.

“No,” she said in a voice set on a seduction. “Actually, I’m rather hot.” She stepped closer and pressed a fingertip against the center of his chest. Tipping her head to the side, she looked up at him through lashes still spiked with water and smiled. “Want to cool me off, Ranger?”

Her voice was breathy, seductive, but Clay knew her too well to fall for the coquettish act. “I suppose I could throw you back in the pool,” he offered.

He caught the flash of temper in her eyes before she masked it. Pretending indifference, she flicked a nail beneath his chin and turned from his arms. “Your loss, Ranger.”

Clay watched her walk away, unable to help noticing the provocative sway of her hips beneath the damp towel. Feeling a pang of sympathy for Roger, he shook his head and followed. “What were you trying to prove, Fiona?”

She turned and let the towel drop. “When?” she asked innocently.

Though it was difficult, Clay managed to keep his eyes on hers and not follow the towel’s descent. “Earlier with Roger. You can push a man only so far, you know, before he’s gonna expect you to deliver the goods.”

She struck a seductive pose. “So what’s your breaking point, Ranger?”

Clay slid his gaze slowly down her body, noting the puckered nipples, the tiny V of damp black lace that clung to her femininity. He shifted his gaze back to hers. “I don’t know. Want to test me and see?”

She pursed her lips and studied him a moment as if considering, then fluttered a hand and turned away. “I would, but I’d really hate to ruin your macho image.”

He snorted a laugh. “Yeah, right.” Stooping, he picked up the towel and held it out to her. “Who was the show for, Fiona? Me or your father?”

She snatched the towel from his hand. “Who said I was putting on a show?”

Clay pinched his khaki slacks just above the knees and sank down onto the foot of the lounge chair. “Call it an educated guess, but when a woman strips down to her unmentionables and persuades a man to go skinny-dipping with her, then kicks up a fuss when he tries to score…” He lifted his hands. “Well, that would make a person question the woman’s motives.”

She whipped the towel around her and flopped down on the chair beside him, angrily tucking the ends between her breasts. “You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you.”

He bit back a smile as he leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, and looked out over the pool. “Doesn’t take a genius to figure that one out.” He spared her a glance. “So who were you trying to piss off? Me or your father?”

She dropped her gaze to her lap, frowning as she plucked at a loose loop of thread on the towel. “You,” she admitted reluctantly. “Daddy’s a lost cause. Once he’s made his mind up about something, there’s no changing it.”

Clay nodded slowly, knowing she wasn’t exaggerating. Fiona was famous for her stubbornness, but as her father had said, she’d come by it honestly. She’d inherited it from him. “Sure appears that way.”

She continued to pluck at the loose thread, then angled her head to look at him suspiciously. “The one thing I can’t figure out is how he talked you into going along with this insane scheme of his.”

Clay looked away, narrowing his gaze on the water, reluctant to admit that it was greed that had motivated him. But if nothing else, Fiona deserved honesty from him, at least on this one aspect of his and Carson’s agreement.

“Money.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Daddy paid you to marry me?”

He nodded.

“How much?”

“A hundred thousand.”

She shot to her feet. “A hundred thousand dollars!” she exclaimed.

At his nod, she whirled and stalked away. She stopped at the edge of the pool and slapped her arms across her chest, smoke all but coming out her ears.

“You should have held out for more,” she called over her shoulder. “I bet he’d have paid much more than a piddling hundred thousand to get rid of me.”

Hearing the hurt in her voice, the bitterness, Clay remained silent, unsure how to respond.

She spun to face him. “So when are we supposed to tie the knot?”

Clay lifted a shoulder. “He didn’t name a date.”

“Then let’s do it tonight.”

“Tonight?” he repeated in surprise.

“Yes, tonight. If I know Daddy, he’ll want a big church wedding. It’ll serve him right if we spoil his fun.”

A big church wedding? Clay hadn’t considered that possibility when he’d accepted Carson’s offer. The idea of a church full of people witnessing him promise to love, honor and cherish Fiona until death do them part was an image too brutal to consider.

“We’d have to go across the border into Mexico,” he said, mentally thinking through the details required for a rushed marriage. “It would take days to get the blood tests and license required by the state.”

“Mexico doesn’t require those things?”

“Depends on who you know.”

Fiona strode back to the lounge chair and ripped off the towel. “Fine,” she said tersely, and snatched up her pants. “The sooner we get this over with, the better, as far as I’m concerned.”

Clay shifted in the leather bucket seat, trying to find a more comfortable position for his backside. It was impossible. Compared to his truck’s roomy bench seat, the bucket seats in Fiona’s car seemed the size of peanut shells.

He should have insisted on taking his truck, he told himself. But one look at his mud-splattered pickup and Fiona had refused to put a foot inside and had demanded that they take her car to Mexico, instead.

The Mercedes, he thought bitterly, flexing his fingers on the luxury automobile’s leather-wrapped steering wheel. How ironic. Here he was driving the very car whose purchase had put Ford Carson over the edge, provoking him into arranging a marriage for his daughter and sentencing Clay to a two-month stint as her warden.

He glanced across the console at Fiona. She still assumed the same angry posture she had throughout their trip, with her face turned to the passenger window, her arms folded across her chest and her left shoulder hunched high against him, warding off any attempt he might have made at conversation.

Fine, he told himself, as he turned his gaze back to the road ahead. Let her sulk. His job was to teach her responsibility, not to entertain her. Keeping one hand on the wheel, he pulled his cell phone from the clip on his belt and quickly punched in Benito’s number again.

“We’ve cleared the border,” he told his contact, whom he’d called earlier that night to make the necessary arrangements for the marriage. “What’s your twenty?” He listened, scanning the dark road ahead, then said, “Yeah. I see you. Lead the way.” He pressed the disconnect button, then clipped the phone back at his waist.

A truck swerved onto the highway from a side road ahead, its headlights slicing through the darkness as it fishtailed onto the lane in front of them. Clay slowed, giving Benito the lead. He followed the rattletrap truck through the quiet streets, down a narrow alley and braked to a stop behind it. He climbed out of the car, giving Benito and the man who accompanied him a nod of greeting as the two approached the car.

“Hey, amigo,” Benito said, grinning and giving Clay a slap on the back. “Long time no see.”

Clay nodded. “Yeah. It’s been a while. Is everything ready?”

“Sí,” Benito assured him. He gestured toward a heavy door, set into the adobe wall. “The magistrate, he is waiting inside.” Clay glanced at the shadowed entrance, then braced a hand on top of the car and leaned to peer inside. “Okay, Fiona. This is it.”

Without sparing him a glance, she pushed open her door.

Somewhere along the way, she’d primped a little, removing the telltale signs of her skinny-dipping adventure. Probably when she’d gone into the service station where he’d stopped for gas, Clay decided. Her hair was dry now and wound on top of her head, a silver comb holding it in place. She’d also removed the mascara streaks from beneath her eyes and had slicked her lips with some glossy kiss-me color.

But if she’d made the effort for Clay, she’d wasted her time. It would take a hell of a lot more than a hairstyle and makeup to impress him.

But Benito didn’t seem to need anything more. He watched her climb from the car, his mouth gaping. “Mi Dios,” he murmured, unable to tear his gaze away. “This one, she is beautiful.” He glanced at Clay. “How did you ever talk a beautiful señorita like this into marrying an old hombre like you?”

Scowling, Clay started for the front of the car to meet her. “It was her father’s idea.”

He took Fiona by the elbow, intending to escort her inside, but she jerked free of his grasp. After giving him a scathing look, she strode toward the heavy wooden door, her nose in the air.

Chuckling, Benito moved to stand beside Clay, as he watched Fiona storm away. “She is a wild one, sí, señor?”

With a grunt, Clay followed her. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

The room they entered was small, the only illumination provided by two fat columns of wax set in iron sconces on the far wall. A long wooden table stood beneath the flickering candles, a silver crucifix jutting from its center. To the right of the crucifix lay a couple of sheets of paper—the official marriage documents, Clay assumed. On the wall to Clay’s left, a colorful drape of fabric covered an arched doorway.

As he noted the covering, the drape was pushed aside and a short, dark-skinned man entered the room. Benito quickly made the introductions. Clay shook the magistrate’s hand, but Fiona kept her arms stubbornly folded across her chest and her gaze fixed on the wall, refusing to acknowledge the introduction.

With a weary sigh, Clay said, “Let’s get this over with.”

The magistrate gave him a curious look, but moved to stand before the table and gestured for the others in the room to gather around him. Once again Clay took Fiona by the elbow to guide her into place. This time, surprisingly, she didn’t pull away.

The magistrate slipped a small leather-bound book from the folds of his serape and began the ceremony. Clay focused his gaze on the crucifix, trying not to think about the promises he made, as at the magistrate’s prompting, he offered the appropriate “I do’s.”

“Usted puede besar a su esposa.”

Clay snapped his gaze to the magistrate, then stole a glance at Fiona, wondering if she understood enough Spanish to realize that the magistrate had just given Clay permission to kiss his bride. He didn’t have to wonder long. She seared Clay with a look that would have stopped a herd of stampeding cattle in their tracks, then pushed past the magistrate and snatched the papers from the table.

“Where do I sign?”

After indicating the place for her signature, the magistrate quickly moved out of her way. She scrawled her name, tossed down the pen, then marched from the room, slamming the door behind her.

Benito crossed himself, then looked at Clay, his brown eyes soft with sympathy. “May God be with you, my friend.”