On his left stood the hay barn. Once it had housed the heavy bales of coastal hay his family had cut and baled to feed the cattle through the winter. Now the building stood empty, its wide doors open and sagging, its red-painted walls faded and, in some places, showing visible signs of rot. Loose panels of tin on the barn’s high roof flapped in the breeze, creating a mournful sound in the otherwise peaceful evening air.
Clay stopped in the middle of the pasture and turned slowly, silently acknowledging each sign of neglect and disrepair. As he did, he wondered what his parents would say if they could see the ranch now. Emotion clotted his throat as he realized the answer. If they weren’t already dead, he knew it would kill them.
His parents had loved this place, had put their hearts and souls into building their home and clearing the land for the cattle operation that would support their family. They’d done it for themselves, he knew, but they’d done it for him and his sister, as well. They’d wanted to leave their children a legacy, a dream to carry on.
And Clay had let them down.
At the time of the automobile accident that had taken their lives, he’d just been promoted into the Special Forces unit of the army. He was full of himself and his own importance, and eager to leave his mark on the world. Though he’d returned home for his parents’ funerals, he’d left afterward as soon as possible, leaving the handling of the estate in his sister Joanna’s capable hands. She’d wasted no time in selling the ranch. Not that Clay had blamed her. Joanna had never cared for the ranch; nor had Clay, for that matter. His love for the place and his appreciation for all that it stood for had come later. Almost too late.
It shamed him now to remember his youth. Growing up, he’d given the term “bad boy” whole new meaning. But no matter how much trouble he’d gotten himself into, no matter how many times he’d thrown his parents’ love back in their faces, they’d never given up on him. Even when he’d been accused of his girlfriend’s murder, they’d been there for him, standing firm in their belief of his innocence, their faith in him as an honorable man.
It was the memory of their unconditional love that had gotten him through the dangerous and hellish missions the army had assigned him. And it was the power of that love that had given him the strength and will he’d needed to survive mental and physical tortures unimaginable to most men. At his darkest moments, when he was sure the pain he was suffering at the hands of his captors would drive him insane, he’d focus his mind on home, on family and gird himself with the strength and peace that came from the level of unconditional love his parents had given him.
That was what had saved him.
And now he wanted to save the ranch.
Not just for himself, he thought, but for his parents. It was the only way he knew to honor their memory, to prove their faith in him, to carry on their dream. Throughout his darkest hours, the ranch had served as his light, a beacon in an otherwise bleak world, his reason for living. If he lost it now, he feared with it he would lose his last hold on all that was good and merciful.
But how could he hang on to it, he asked himself, feeling the frustration returning, when he could barely afford the monthly mortgage payments, much less take on the tremendous burden of upkeep on a place this size? The bottom line was, the ranch had to pay for itself or he’d lose it. Which brought him right back to his original question: how could he raise the cash he needed to make the ranch a profitable business again?
He dragged off his Stetson and raked his fingers through his hair. He knew the answer. Ford Carson had handed it to him on a silver platter not more than an hour ago. All he had to do was marry Carson’s daughter and the money he needed was his.
He slapped his hat against his thigh in frustration. But, dammit, he didn’t want to get married—especially not to a spoiled, rich girl like Fiona Carson. He’d been engaged to a woman who had enjoyed a privileged upbringing similar to Fiona’s, and he’d learned the hard way that that kind of woman didn’t stick and, more, that he didn’t belong in that world.
Clay didn’t believe in fate or luck. He’d been taught that a man created his own. But how else could he explain Ford Carson’s offering him a windfall right when he needed it most? All he had to do to collect the money was marry the man’s daughter.
Firming his lips, he slapped his hat back on his head and pulled his cell phone from the clip on his belt. “It’s a job,” he told himself as he punched in Carson’s private number. “Nothing but a job.”
At the sound of Carson’s voice, Clay narrowed his gaze on the dilapidated barn in the distance, imagining it as it had looked eight years before, and as he hoped it would look again.
“You’ve got yourself a deal.”
“Fiona, I need to talk to you.”
Her fingers already curled around the front door-knob of their family home, Fiona glanced over her shoulder to find her father standing in the doorway to his study. “Can’t it wait, Daddy? I’m supposed to meet Roger at the Empire Room at eight for dinner.”
“No, it can’t.”
She hesitated a moment longer, tempted to ignore the authoritarian tone in her father’s voice. She was an adult, after all, wasn’t she? She didn’t have to jump every time he snapped his fingers.
When she continued to hesitate, he lifted a brow—a slight movement, but one Fiona had learned meant business. With a huff, she dropped her hand from the knob and marched across the entry. “If this is about the car again…” she began irritably.
He stepped aside, allowing her to enter the study before him. “No. It’s not about the car.” He seated himself behind his desk and gestured toward the leather sofa opposite him. “Have a seat.”
She twisted her wrist and gave her diamond-studded watch a pointed look. “I’d rather not. I don’t want to keep Roger waiting.”
“Why not?” he asked dryly. “It’s never seemed to bother you before to keep a man waiting.”
Before she could respond, he held up a hand. “What I have to say won’t take long.” Frowning, he leaned back in his chair and studied her from beneath dark brows. “I’m worried about you, Fiona.”
She rolled her eyes, sure that she was in store for another lecture on her many shortcomings. “Daddy—”
“And about me,” he said, cutting her off. “My health, specifically.”
That silenced Fiona as nothing else could. She looked closely at her father, noting for the first time the floridity of his skin. “Is it your heart?” she asked, terrified that he might be suffering complications from the heart surgery he’d had several years before. “You’ve been taking your medicine, haven’t you?”
“Yes, I’ve been taking my medicine,” he snapped. “But I’m not getting any younger, Fiona, and neither are you. Unfortunately you aren’t showing the signs of maturity normally associated with a woman your age. You’re twenty-seven years old, unemployed and seem content to let me support you for the rest of your life.”
Fiona rolled her eyes again. “I’ve told you before, there isn’t any job that interests me.” She turned for the door. “We can talk about this later. I’ve got—”
“Hold it right there, young lady!”
When she turned, a brow arched in surprise at his angry tone, he pointed at the sofa. “We’re talking about this now.”
She hesitated, again tempted to defy him, then pursed her lips and flopped down on the sofa. “Okay,” she said, slapping her arms across her chest. “I’m sitting. So talk.”
He sank back in his chair, suddenly looking older than he should, defeated. “I’m worried what will become of you if something were to happen to me.”
She dropped her arms, tears springing to her eyes. “Oh, Daddy,” she said, scooting to the edge of the sofa. “Please don’t talk that way. Nothing’s going to happen to you.”
“But something could,” he insisted gruffly. “And frankly it concerns me that you are so ill prepared to take care of yourself.”
She stiffened in indignation. “I can take care
of myself!”
“How?” he challenged. “Where would you live? How would you support yourself? You’ve never worked a day in your life. I doubt you have even a clue how high maintenance you are.”
She sniffed, offended. “I had no idea you considered me such a burden. I thought you enjoyed having me around.”
“I do enjoy having my children nearby,” he said in growing frustration. “And believe me, I miss Cara now that she’s gone. But I’ve made it too easy for y’all.” He leveled a finger at her nose. “Especially you. I’ve allowed you to remain dependent on me, when you should have been out on your own years ago. But I’m rectifying that mistake.”
“Rectifying?” she repeated, fearing that her father had found her a job. “How?”
“I’ve arranged for you to be married.”
She shot to her feet. “Married!” she cried.
“Yes. Married. It’s the only way I can be assured you’ll be taken care of in the event of my death.”
She laughed weakly. “You’re kidding, right? You’re just trying to bully me into getting a job and moving out.”
He shook his head. “This is no joke, Fiona. I’m serious about this. Dead serious.”
She sank to the sofa, her knees suddenly too weak to support her. “Daddy, no,” she whispered. “You can’t do this to me.” She leaped to her feet as the ramifications of his announcement fully hit her. “You can’t force me to get married! I won’t do it.”
“You will. I’ve already made all the arrangements.”
Her chin jerked up. “And who, exactly, have you chosen for me to marry?”
“Clay Martin.”
“Clay Martin!” she echoed in dismay. “But he’s so…so…”
He lifted a brow. “Poor?” he offered.
She clamped her lips together, refusing to admit that was the very word she’d been searching for. “He’s a murderer,” she said, instead. “Do you hate me so much that you would marry me off to a murderer just to get me out of your house?”
“Clay isn’t a murderer. You know as well as I do that he wasn’t responsible for that girl’s death.”
Fiona turned away, wringing her hands, trying to think of a way out of this mess. When she couldn’t, she whirled and thrust out her chin again. “I won’t marry him, and there’s nothing you can do to make me.”
He lifted a brow and leaned forward to push a folder across the desk. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”
Fiona stared at the cream-colored folder, her stomach doing a slow, nauseating flip as she recognized it as the one in which her father kept her financial records. “What do you mean?”
“I’m canceling all your credit cards and closing your bank account. Plus, I’m notifying the bank that, in the future, you’re not to be allowed to write any more checks on my account. You, my dear daughter,” he said, looking a little too pleased with himself, “are broke. Penniless. Poor.”
She curled her hands into fists. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“Oh, yes, I would. I’ll continue to give you a monthly allowance, but it will be deposited into Clay’s account, not yours. He will have full control of the funds and will be instructed to dispense them to you as he sees fit.”
The idea of asking any man for spending money, especially Clay Martin, made Fiona positively ill. She searched her mind for an escape hole. “What about Clay?” she asked, grasping at the first thought that came to her. “Surely he hasn’t agreed to this ridiculous plan of yours.”
Ford stood, his smile smug. “Oh, but he has. In fact,” he added, his smile broadening, “he seems as anxious as I am for this marriage to take place.”
Two
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-b
ut 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.
An Arranged Marriage Page 2
