An Arranged Marriage Page 3

  “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.