An Arranged Marriage Page 5

  A truck whizzed by on the drive before him, headed for the club. Recognizing the vehicle as Flynt’s, Clay decided this was as good an excuse as any to put off calling Fiona’s father for a while. He flipped on his directional signal, turned into the drive and followed Flynt to the club’s entrance. He pulled to a stop behind him just as Flynt jumped down from the truck’s cab.

  He rolled down his window. “Hey, Flynt!” he called. “Got a minute?”

  Flynt turned, a brow arched in question, then lifted a hand in greeting when he recognized Clay and headed his way. “Morning, Clay,” he said.

  “Mornin’. How’s the baby doing?”

  Flynt snorted. “Which one?”

  Clay laughed, having forgotten that Flynt’s new wife, Josie, was pregnant. “Both, though I was asking specifically about the one you have temporary custody of.”

  “Lena’s doing fine. Spoiled rotten,” he added, “but healthy as a horse and happy as a pup with a new bone. I tell you, it’s going to be hard as hell for Josie and me to turn the kid over to her father once his identity is established.”

  Aware of the DNA testing Flynt and his golfing buddies were undergoing to discover which of the four was the baby’s father, Clay said, “Yeah, I imagine it will be. It’s a shame your DNA didn’t match. Then you could just keep her.”

  “Amen to that,” he agreed. “We’ve ruled out Spence, Tyler and Michael O’Day, although we all figured there wasn’t much chance Michael’s would match, since he isn’t a regular in our golfing foursome. That just leaves Luke to be tested.”

  “Speaking of Luke,” Clay said, his expression growing serious, “I might have something for you.”

  Flynt stepped closer to Clay’s truck. “What?”

  “That little problem you have in Central America?” he said, clueing Flynt in to the topic and the necessity for secrecy.

  Flynt glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot. “Yeah. What about it?”

  “I have someone who might be able to help.”

  “In what way?”

  “I spent a couple of months in Central America myself several years ago and made a few friends. I know one of ’em ought to be able to fix Tyler up with a guide, someone who can show him the lay of the land, if you get my drift.”

  In spite of the fact that Clay had kept his comments purposely vague, Flynt’s eyes sparked with interest, indicating his understanding. “He’d appreciate that,” he said, then added in a low voice, “We all would.”

  Clay opened his glove compartment and pulled out a pad. “Here’s the number of the embassy,” he said, jotting it down. He tore off the sheet of paper and passed it to Flynt. “Tell ’em Cowboy sent you. That’s the name they know me by,” he explained at Flynt’s questioning look.

  Nodding, Flynt folded the paper and slipped it into his shirt pocket. “I appreciate the help, Clay.”

  Clay shifted into Reverse, preparing to leave. “No problem.”

  Flynt’s cell phone rang and he held up a finger, indicating for Clay to wait while he took the call.

  “Flynt Carson,” he said into the receiver. He listened a moment, his eyebrows gathering into a frown.

  “No, Dad,” he said into the receiver. “I haven’t seen her.” He listened again, then said, “I’m at the club right now, talking to Clay Martin, but my business here shouldn’t take long. Just have to sign off on a few new-member applications, then I can head back to the ranch and help you chase her down.”

  Uh-oh, Clay thought. Busted.

  Flynt listened again, then looked at Clay and shook his head, chuckling. “Dad, I really don’t think it’s necessary to involve the Texas Rangers. Fiona will show up. She always does.”

  His smile faded to one of puzzlement and he held the phone out to Clay. “He wants to talk to you.”

  His gut knotted in dread, Clay took the phone. “Good morning, Mr. Carson,” he said into the receiver.

  “Is my daughter with you?”

  Clay winced at the anger in Ford’s tone and cut an uneasy glance toward Flynt. “She was. I just dropped her off at the club.”

  “Am I to assume that she was with you all night?”

  Clay watched Flynt ease a step closer to the truck, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

  “Yes, sir,” he said into the receiver, but kept a watchful eye on Flynt’s expression before saying more. He debated his chances of rolling up the window and locking the door before Flynt threw the first punch. Flynt was Fiona’s older brother, after all, and a protective one at that, if the rumors he’d heard about their relationship were true. “We drove to Mexico last night and got married.”

  Clay watched Flynt’s eyes round, then narrow to thin slits.

  “Good,” Ford snapped. “Now you can worry about her. I’m through.”

  There was a click and the phone went dead. Clay returned it to Flynt.

  “Do you want an explanation?” he asked Flynt. “Or do you want to just go ahead and beat the crap out of me?”

  Flynt closed his hands over the open window and squeezed until his knuckles turned white, an obvious attempt at self-control. “You eloped with my sister?”

  Clay nodded.

  “Were you drunk?”

  “No.”

  “Was she?”

  Clay snorted a laugh, but shook his head. “No. We were both sober.”

  His eyes still narrowed dangerously, Flynt flexed his fingers on the open window, as if anxious to take that punch. “Is she pregnant?”

  That question caught Clay off guard. “No,” he said quickly, then added more cautiously, “at least, I don’t think she is.”

  Flynt flexed his fingers again, his gaze fixed on Clay. After a moment he dragged his hands from the window and took a step back. “You better be good to her,” he warned, “or you’ll have me to answer to.”

  Clay jerked his chin in acknowledgment of the warning as he put the gearshift into Reverse. “I’m no wife beater, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “It’s not her physical safety I’m worried about,” Flynt replied. “It’s her heart that concerns me.”

  Fiona slipped her feet into her sandals, taking a moment to admire the candy-apple shade of red Lucille had painted her toenails. With a laugh of delight, she rose and headed for the reception desk out front, energized after her day at the spa.

  “All done?” Ginger asked as Fiona approached the desk.

  “Yes, and I feel like a new woman, thanks to Body Perfect’s talented staff.”

  “We aim to please,” Ginger replied as she flipped through the day’s invoices, searching for Fiona’s.

  “Add thirty percent to the total, please,” Fiona said, feeling generous. “Everyone was so kind to work me in.”

  Ginger made the notation at the bottom of the slip. “Do you want me to put this on your father’s account?” she asked.

  “Yes. Please.”

  Ginger pulled the keyboard in front of her and typed the information into the computer. Her brow wrinkled, as she studied the screen that popped up.

  “Problem?” Fiona asked.

  “I don’t know,” Ginger said. “I typed in your number correctly, I’m sure, but the computer won’t let me access your father’s account.”

  Dread rushed through Fiona, leaving her palms damp and her stomach queasy. Surely her father hadn’t already made good his threat, she thought wildly. She pasted on a smile to hide her fears and plucked a platinum card from her purse. “Must be a glitch in the system.” She passed the card to Ginger. “Just put it on this.”

  Holding her breath, she watched Ginger slide the credit card through the machine, praying that her father hadn’t had time to cancel her cards, as well.

  Ginger passed the card back to Fiona, but kept her gaze averted, as if embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Fiona, but your credit card was refused.”

  Mortified, Fiona searched her mind for some way to explain this humiliating circumstance. She thumped her palm against her forehead
. “Silly me,” she said, laughing. “Of course, it was denied! I canceled the card this morning when I ordered a replacement with my married name on it.”

  Ginger looked at her then, her jaw sagging. “You got married? To who?”

  Fiona laughed again, pleased that she’d thought of such a plausible explanation so quickly. “Clay Martin.”

  “Clay Martin?” Ginger repeated, obviously shocked.

  “Yes. Clay Martin.”

  “Oh, my God!” Ginger exclaimed, placing a hand over her heart. “You lucky dog. That man is to die for!”

  Irritated that Ginger thought she was the lucky one in the union, rather than Clay, Fiona had to work to keep her smile in place. “Aren’t I, though,” she replied sweetly. She plucked the invoice from the desk. “If it’s all right with you, I’ll just drop by tomorrow morning and take care of this little bill.”

  “No problem.”

  Fiona turned to leave, but stopped when Ginger called her name.

  “Yes?” she said.

  Ginger offered her an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, Fiona. I was so surprised by your announcement that I forgot to offer my congratulations. I hope you and Clay will be very happy together.”

  It was all Fiona could do to keep from throwing up. “Why, thank you, Ginger,” she said, with a politeness her mother would be proud of. “I’m sure we will be.”

  Four

  On the drive back to the ranch that afternoon, Clay recalled Flynt’s last words to him that morning.

  It’s her heart that concerns me.

  Heart? Clay thought, snorting a laugh. He wasn’t sure Fiona even had one. She was capable of breaking them, though. He’d heard stories of her escapades for years, and if what he’d heard was correct, her record as a love-’em-and-leave-’em kind of gal trailed all the way back to her junior-high days, when girls and boys first discovered the opposite sex.

  Some attributed her fickleness to the fact that she was an identical twin, claiming her sister, Cara, had received all the good genes, leaving Fiona with all the bad. Whether or not the gene pool was to blame, Clay wasn’t sure, but there was definitely a startling difference between the two sisters’ personalities. Cara was known for her kindness, sweetness and nurturing spirit, while Fiona was heralded as a selfish, conniving, coldhearted tease, the classic “rich bitch.”

  And wasn’t that just his luck, Clay thought grimly. He’d married the evil twin.

  He made the turn into the drive that led to his house and spotted Fiona’s Mercedes parked by the back door. Accustomed to coming home to an empty house, he felt odd knowing that someone was inside, awaiting his arrival. Unsure if he liked the feeling or not, he climbed down from his truck and headed inside.

  As he reached the back porch, the door flew open and Fiona stormed out.

  “Where have you been?” she demanded furiously.

  He drew back in puzzlement. “I told you I’d be home at six.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s only five after. What’s the big deal?”

  She spun back into the house, then whirled to face him when he followed her inside, her face red with fury. “I’ll tell you what the big deal is! I couldn’t pay my spa bill. Daddy blocked my access to his country-club account and canceled my credit cards.”

  Clay wrinkled his brow, trying to find the crisis in that announcement. “So?”

  She balled her hands into fists at her sides. “So!” she screeched loudly enough to make his ears bleed. “Is that all you can say is so? I was humiliated! Mortified! If you could have seen Ginger’s pitying look when she told me my credit card had been denied.” She covered her face with her hands, as if the image alone was too much for her to bear. “I’ll never be able to show my face at the country club again,” she wailed. “Never!”

  Not at all clear about what was going on, Clay took her by the elbow and guided her to the table. Easing her down onto a chair, he dragged up another and sat down in front of her. “Maybe you better start at the beginning and tell me what happened.”

  She dropped her hands to fist them in her lap, her eyes dark with accusation. “It’s all your fault! If you’d given me money this morning when I asked, none of this would have happened.”

  Clay pushed back in his chair as if to distance himself from the blame. “Now wait just a damn minute. I gave you money.”

  “Twenty measly dollars? That wasn’t even enough to cover my tips!”

  “Maybe you should have thought about that before you ran up a big bill.”

  “I did think about it,” she all but screamed. “But it never occurred to me that Daddy would’ve had time to make good his threats.”

  “Threats?” Clay repeated. “What threats?”

  She covered her face again and bent double, moaning.

  “Fiona?” he prodded. “What threats?”

  She lifted her head, her eyes swimming with tears. “He told me he was going to close my bank account and cancel my credit cards.”

  “And knowing that, you tried to use them, anyway?”

  “Well, of course I did! I couldn’t just walk out of the spa without paying!”

  “So how did you pay?”

  She shot to her feet, her knees knocking against his, her eyes wild. “That’s just it! I couldn’t! I had to promise Ginger I’d return tomorrow morning and take care of my bill, which means I’ll have to suffer the humiliation all over again.”

  “And how do you plan to get your hands on the money between now and morning?”

  She sniffed. “My monthly allowance. Daddy said he was going to deposit it into your account.”

  Carson hadn’t mentioned that little detail to Clay. “How much does he usually give you?”

  “Two thousand dollars.”

  “A month?” he asked, shocked by the amount.

  “Yes. A month.”

  “Do you have to pay any bills with that money?”

  She shook her head. “No. Daddy pays all my bills—or he did,” she added, tears filling her eyes again.

  Clay puffed his cheeks and blew out a long breath. He certainly had his work cut out for him, no question about that. And it looked as if the lessons in responsibility he’d agreed to teach Fiona were going to start sooner than he’d anticipated.

  Catching her hand, he pulled her back down to the chair. “Daddy’s not paying your bills anymore,” he informed her.

  Her chin quivered. “I know.”

  He dragged a pad from the table and propped it on his crossed knee. “The first thing we need to do is establish a budget.”

  “A budget?”

  Sighing, he drew a pen from his shirt pocket. “Yes, a budget.” He held the pen poised above the paper. “What are your fixed monthly expenses?”

  She looked at him blankly.

  “You know. Housing, transportation, food, fuel—stuff like that.”

  She shook her head. “I live at home. Or, rather, I used to live at home,” she amended, her chin trembling again. “So I don’t have any housing expenses. I paid cash for my car, so—”

  “Your daddy paid cash for your car,” he reminded her.

  She pursed her lips. “Okay, so Daddy paid for my car. But the bottom line is, I don’t have a car payment. And since I always ate my meals with my family, I didn’t have any food expenses, either.”

  Clay reared back in his chair and looked at her in disbelief. “You’re telling me that your father gives you two thousand dollars a month just to blow?”

  She lifted her chin. “Well, I wouldn’t call it blowing, but yes, that’s the amount I receive.”

  Clay tossed the pad and pen to the table. “Okay,” he said, dragging his hands down his face. “So how much do you owe the spa?”

  She reached for her handbag, which was sitting on the table and pulled out the invoice to verify the total. “Four hundred seventy-eight dollars and twenty-nine cents.”

  His eyes shot wide at the amount. “What did you do? Get a face-lift?”

  Glaring at him, she stuffed th
e invoice back into her purse. “I had the works,” she informed him coldly, “which, for your information, is a massage, a manicure, a pedicure and a herbal seaweed wrap. Plus, I had lunch delivered from the Empire Room.”

  “That totaled up to almost five hundred dollars?”

  “After the tip.”

  “Tip?”

  “Yes, I had Ginger include a thirty percent gratuity.”

  “A thirty percent tip,” he repeated. He stood, dragging a hand over his hair. “Man, I’m in the wrong business.”

  He pulled out his wallet and tossed a twenty and a one onto the table, then dug in his pocket and counted out seventy-one cents in change and dropped it on top of the bills.

  Fiona shifted her gaze from the miserly pile to peer at Clay in confusion. “What’s this for?”

  He looked down his nose at her. “That, my dear, is what’s left of your weekly allowance.”

  “But what about my bill at the spa?” she cried in alarm.

  “I’ll take care of it myself first thing in the morning. On second thought,” he said, and reached to pull the twenty from the bottom of the stack. “That’s what’s left of your allowance,” he said, indicating the dwindling pile. “I forgot that I gave you a twenty this morning.”

  Having spent a sleepless night, Fiona lay on the bare lumpy mattress, her throat clogged with tears. She heard the slam of the back door, and knew that was the sound of Clay leaving for work. He was mean, she told herself. Cruel. How did he expect her to exist for a whole week on $1.71? It was impossible! Ludicrous!

  Especially since she no longer had her credit cards or her daddy’s bank account to fall back on.

  She stuck a finger between her teeth and bit it, refusing to give in to the tears. She wouldn’t cry, she told herself. And she wouldn’t beg, either. If this was a game her father and Clay Martin had devised to turn her into a sniveling, submissive woman, they were both in for a huge surprise. She’d die before she’d ask either one of them for a dime.

  In spite of the pain she inflicted on her finger, the tears pushed higher. Oh, God, she sobbed silently. She was poor! All but destitute! Here she was, the Fiona Carson, her luxurious lifestyle, her very existence whittled down to a bare mattress in a tastelessly decorated bedroom in an equally gauche house, stuck out on a rundown ranch miles from town.