Bits of baby’s breath peeked from the loose curls she’d piled on top of her head, and a band of tiny seed pearls circled the smooth column of her neck. She wore no other adornments. But she didn’t need any. Her beauty alone created more dazzle than a million precious stones.
He’d expected to find her storming around, cursing his very existence. Instead, she appeared to be enjoying the attention showered on her. But as he started toward her, he had to reconsider that first assessment. He detected a strain in her smile, a slight tremble in the fingers she curled around a glass of champagne, a sheen to her eyes that looked as if she were dangerously close to tears.
She was scared, he realized with a start. Terrified that he wasn’t going to show up and she would be humiliated in front of the entire town.
He ought to turn right around and leave, he told himself. Let her suffer whatever social disgrace his absence might cause her. Maybe that would knock her off her high horse, drain a little air out of that inflated ego of hers.
But then he caught a glimpse of the plastic bandage wrapped around her thumb and saw her again as she’d looked the day before, squared off before that post, her lip caught between her teeth in determination as she prepared for the first swing. She’d probably never held a hammer in her life, but that hadn’t stopped her from accepting his challenge. If she’d accomplished nothing else that day, she’d proved to him she was no prima donna. She was spirited. Gutsy. Determined.
And, at the moment, scared to death.
He couldn’t walk away, he told himself. Not when she looked so frightened, not when she looked so much like a bride.
Carson had paid him to do a job, he reminded himself. And though playing the role of the loving groom had never been part of their agreement, by God, he’d play the part tonight.
“There he is!” he heard someone shout. “The groom finally decided to show up!”
Fiona snapped up her head at the announcement, and their eyes met across the crowded room.
“Clay,” she murmured, going all but limp with relief as he reached her. “You came.”
He didn’t bother to respond, but took the champagne glass from her hand and curved an arm around her waist. With everyone in the room now watching, he bent his head over hers, bowing her back, and kissed her with a passion that had every blue-haired woman in the room clucking her tongue—and every young one sighing with envy.
As he slowly straightened to meet her gaze, he dragged a hand down her arm and laced his fingers with her. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, surprised to find his voice husky.
She stared up at him as if dazed. “I…it doesn’t matter.”
He bent to touch his mouth to hers again, this kiss briefer than the one before, yet degrees more intimate. “You look beautiful,” he said, and gave her hand a squeeze.
She gulped, staring. “Thank you.”
He shifted, keeping an arm around her waist, and turned to face the guests that had gathered around. He lifted the glass of champagne.
“I’d like to make a toast,” he said, raising his voice to reach the far corners of the room. He waited until the music had stopped and the guests had quieted. “To the most beautiful woman in the world,” he said, then looked down at Fiona. “My wife, Fiona Carson Martin.”
He watched her eyes fill and knew that he’d chosen just the right words, just the right way in which to put her fears of social disgrace to rest. He took a sip of the champagne, then held it to her lips for her to drink.
As he did, the orchestra struck up again. Clay recognized the song as one Nat King Cole had made famous. “Unforgettable.” That was exactly what he planned to make this night for Fiona.
He passed the glass to the man standing next to him. “Would you mind holding this for me? I think they’re playing our song.”
With his gaze on Fiona’s, he drew her arm through the bend of his. The crowd parted, creating a pathway for them as he escorted her to the dance floor. Holding her hand above her head, he spun her in a dizzying pirouette, then swept her into his arms.
Breathless, she cupped her fingers at his neck, then laid her cheek against his. “Thank you,” she whispered.
He heard the tremble in her voice, the gratitude, and swooped her low in a heart-stopping dip over his knee. “Just part of the job, ma’am,” he replied with a wink.
But as the night wore on, Clay began to feel less and less as if this was a job. And he didn’t feel so much like an actor in a well-staged play, either. Standing with his arm draped around Fiona’s shoulders or twining his fingers through hers or stealing a kiss felt natural somehow. Right.
And by the time he cut a slice of the towering wedding cake her mother had custom-ordered and flown from an exclusive bakery in New York and fed a piece of it to Fiona, he was sure he felt every emotion a real groom must feel at that moment. Happy. Giddy. Expectant. Laughing as he’d watched her lick from her lips the globs of icing he’d purposely smeared there. Feeling the slow spill of desire through his groin when their gazes met over matching silver goblets, their arms linked in a symbol of unity, as they’d toasted their future together with champagne.
And later, when the lights had dimmed and they’d danced again beneath a canopy of stars in the garden, their bodies swaying sensually, he’d experienced a contentment that had permeated his entire body, wrapped itself around his heart.
For a moment, the length of one magical evening really, Clay felt like a man in love and Fiona his adoring bride.
As was expected as the guests of honor, Fiona and Clay were the last guests to leave the party.
Fiona’s mother called to them just as they reached the door. “Just a minute, you two!”
They turned in unison and waited while she hurried toward them.
“I haven’t had a chance to say two words to you all evening,” she complained good-naturedly. She smiled and lifted her hands to frame her daughter’s face between her palms. “My baby,” she murmured, tears filling her eyes. She pressed a kiss to Fiona’s cheek, then caught her hand and squeezed. “I’m so happy for you, darling. So very, very happy.” She turned to smile at Clay, including him in her good wishes. “For both of you.”
She reached to clasp Clay’s hand. “I’ve always liked you, Clay,” she said, and gave his hand an affectionate squeeze. “And I want you to know that I’m honored to have you as my son-in-law.”
Clay wasn’t sure what to say. The woman was acting as if this was a real marriage. Hadn’t Carson told his wife the details of their arrangement? “Thank you, Mrs. Carson,” was the only reply he could think to offer.
“Mrs. Carson,” she repeated, clucking her tongue. “We’ll have none of that. You’ll call me Mother the same as my other children.” She laughed. “You may not realize it yet, but when you marry into the Carson clan, you get the whole dang family, warts and all.”
Clay stared, stunned by her warmth, her sincerity.
She gave their hands one last squeeze, then released them. “I’m sure you’re both exhausted and anxious to be on your way, but I have a little surprise for you.” She pulled a white silk ribbon from beneath the gauzy folds of the collar of her blouse and lifted it over her head. A gold key dangled at its end.
She smiled and pressed the key into Clay’s hand. “I know you two haven’t had a chance to take a proper honeymoon yet, so I thought you might enjoy a weekend in the country club fantasy suite as a gift from Ford and me.”
Clay stole a look at Fiona, but she was already reaching to give her mother a tearful hug.
Grace drew back, sniffing, then pushed her hands at the two of them, shooing them away. “Go on now,” she ordered, “and don’t worry about a thing. I’ve had the suite completely outfitted with everything you will need.”
Clay slid the key into the lock, then twisted the knob and pushed open the door. The sound of soft piano music and the fragrance of roses drifted out to greet them.
He didn’t dare look at Fiona. If he did, he was afraid he’d get suc
ked right back into the bride-and-groom fantasy that had woven itself around him during the reception. When she didn’t make a move to enter, he placed a hand low on her back to nudge her into the room. She balked.
He looked down at her. “What?” he said in frustration.
“You’re supposed to carry me over the threshold,” she whispered, and tipped her head discreetly in the direction they’d come.
He glanced to his left and saw a couple in the hallway, poised before another door, watching and waiting expectantly.
Muttering a curse under his breath, he stooped, caught her beneath the knees and swept her up into his arms.
She looped an arm around his shoulders, fluttered two fingers at the couple, then rested her head on his shoulder with a dramatic sigh.
The feel of her in his arms was almost too much. He bolted across the threshold, kicked the door closed behind them and plopped her down on her feet.
“Oh, look!” she cried, and rushed across the room to bury her nose in a cloud of white roses that filled the cut-crystal vase perched on a linen-draped table in front of the French doors. Lifting her head with a sigh, she moved to look down at the gardens and fountain below. “Isn’t the view gorgeous?” she said dreamily, hugging herself.
Clay stood rooted to the spot, wishing he was anywhere but here. If he lasted ten minutes without consummating this marriage, he’d consider himself lucky. He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it over a chair. “It’s all right.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Well, don’t get too carried away.”
Scowling, he tugged at the knot of his tie, loosening it. “Couldn’t we just go home? Your mother would never know the difference.”
“She’d hear about it before we made it to the front gate,” she informed him. “Staff talk.”
He groaned and ripped the tie over his head, knowing she was right.
She lifted her hands. “Why not just relax and enjoy yourself? That’s what I plan to do.” She turned and pulled a bottle of champagne from a silver ice bucket. With a nod of approval at the vintage, she plunged the bottle back into the ice and moved on around the table.
“Mother even ordered caviar,” she said, laughing with delight at the discovery. She scraped a cracker over the glistening black mound and popped it into her mouth, then glanced back at Clay. “Want some?”
He stuck his hands in his pockets and shook his head. “No thanks.”
She lifted a shoulder, then left the table to explore the rest of the room. She opened a door and peeked inside. With a squeal, she darted through the opening and disappeared from sight. “Oh, my God, Clay!” she cried. “Come quick! You’ve got to see this.”
He closed his eyes, offered up a prayer for self-control, then crossed to the doorway. “Fiona…” he began, hoping there was still a chance he could convince her to leave.
The words dried up in his mouth at the sight that greeted him. She lay in the middle of a huge round bed, propped against a mountain of white pillows, her hands folded behind her head, her feet bare, her legs crossed at the ankles.
He tore his gaze away to look around the room. Candlelight flickered from every surface, while shimmering gold fabric draped the ceiling and walls, giving the room the illusion of a tent spun from gold.
“Isn’t this terrific?” she exclaimed. “It’s like something from Arabian Nights.”
Before he could answer, she waved a hand at his feet. “Take off your boots.”
Without questioning why, he tugged off his boots and socks and tossed them aside. He bit back a groan as his feet sank into the plush carpet.
“Doesn’t it feel as if you’re walking on air?” Smiling, she stretched out on her stomach, pushing her legs out behind her, and splayed her hands over the thick, white fur that covered the bed. She moaned, burying her face in the luxurious pelt. “This is positively decadent.”
She lifted a hand, gesturing blindly for him to join her. “You’ve got to try this,” she said, her voice muffled by the spread, then rolled to her back and closed her eyes with a sigh. “It’s like floating on a cloud.”
When he didn’t respond, she craned her neck to look behind her and held out a hand. “Come on,” she urged.
Though he was sure he’d regret it later, Clay found himself crossing the room and placing his hand in hers. She looked up at him and smiled. At that moment he knew he never stood a chance.
Upon reflection, he could see that the whole evening had built to this moment, weaving him in a fantasy of brides and grooms and weddings. He felt like a groom on his wedding night, had the needs of a groom. And before him lay his bride. He dropped onto a knee on the mattress and lay down beside her.
“Wait,” she said.
She scooted to the opposite side of the bed, retrieved something from the end table, then lay back down beside him, a controller gripped in her hand. “Watch this,” she whispered, and pointed the device at the ceiling.
Though he would have preferred to look at her, Clay shifted his gaze and watched the ceiling part, gliding silently back on hidden tracks and revealing a blue-black sky filled with twinkling stars.
“I’d heard about this,” she murmured, her voice soft with wonder, “but I’ve never seen it before.”
Clay felt a slight movement, then the slow, silken slide of her fingers linking with his. He turned his head to peer at her and emotion filled his throat. “Fiona?”
She pressed another button and the mournful wail of a sax spilled from speakers hidden somewhere in the room, blending with the heady scent of roses and molten wax that already filled the air. She pushed yet another, and the bed began to slowly turn. Clay had felt off balance before. Now he felt as if he were free-falling, without a parachute to break his fall.
“Fiona,” he said again, her name a hoarse whisper that scraped along his raw throat.
She turned her head to the side, her lips curving in a slow smile as she met his gaze. “It’s magic,” she whispered. “You feel it, too, don’t you?”
Lifting himself to an elbow, he plucked a pin from her hair, then brought his gaze back to hers. “The only thing I want to feel right now is you.”
Eight
Her smile slowly melted as he found another pin, removed it and tossed it aside. Another, and her hair tumbled to her shoulders. He pushed his fingers through the tangle of curls, holding her face to his, and lowered his head. He touched his lips to hers once, retreated, then touched them again. He sipped slowly, tenderly, then, sensing her acceptance, opened his mouth over hers and drank deeply. Her flavor slid through him in waves, an intoxicating blend of tastes and textures that left him aching for more. He shifted higher, forcing her head back against the pillows, and deepened the kiss, giving, taking, wanting more. Always more.
He dragged his fingers from her hair, smoothed them down the side of her neck, her skin like satin, soft, sleek, warm beneath his callused hand. He shaped his fingers around her throat, felt the thrum of her pulse in the hollow that lay beneath his palm.
Her lips parted on a moan, and he swallowed the sound, then thrust his tongue into her mouth, probing, teasing, tasting. He found her tongue, mated it with his, then plunged deeper. He felt her arch beneath him and reveled in the feel of her body reaching hungrily for his.
Dragging his mouth from hers, he dipped his head lower. “More,” he whispered, and opened his mouth over her breast. She gasped, fisting her fingers in his hair as he swept his tongue across her covered nipple.
Frustrated by the fabric that kept him from tasting her fully, he sat up, drawing her up, as well. He saw the wonder in her gaze, the passion. Humbled by it, he touched his hand to her cheek, the caress reverent, tender. Then slowly he let his hand drift down, his fingers skimming over her breasts, gliding over her abdomen, until they rested on the bunched fabric of her dress at her knee. He gathered the fabric in his fist, pushed it along her thigh. When she shivered, her eyes shuttering closed, he captured her mouth again, soothing her, teasing her, as
he eased the dress from beneath her hips.
He broke the kiss only long enough to tug the dress over her head, then found her mouth with his again and filled his hands with her breasts. He groaned at the softness, the fullness that strained against his hands, the turgidity of the nipples that stabbed at his palms. Desperate to taste her there, as well, he pushed her back on the bed and shifted his body lower. He blew a breath across her breast, warming it, then stroked his tongue across her nipple. She groaned, holding his head to her.
“You like that?” he murmured, raking his tongue across her nipple again. He felt the scrape of her nails against his scalp, her shudder, and smiled. “Yeah. Me, too.” He opened his mouth over her breast, then closed his lips around the rosy, sweet center and suckled, drawing her in.
She bucked wildly beneath him, his name rushing past her lips on a gust of air, a whimper, a plea. He felt her hands on his back, the impatient tug of her fingers as she tried to pull his shirt free from his slacks. As anxious as she to get rid of the barrier, he reached over his shoulder and dragged the shirt over his head. The sleeves snagged at his wrists, held by the buttons that secured the cuffs. He jerked, and the buttons popped free, flying across the room.
He dropped the shirt over the side of the bed and sank back over her. “Now,” he said, with a sigh. He gathered her breasts between his hands and brought them together, feasting on first one nipple, then the other. He felt the shiver that rippled through her, and buried his face in the valley between. He inhaled deeply. “I love the way you smell,” he murmured, then rooted deeper to sweep his tongue along the narrow valley. He shifted higher, dragging his body up hers to touch his lips to hers. “And the way you taste.”
He felt the tremble in her arms as she wrapped them around him, the heat in each individual finger as she caressed the nape of his neck. Her touch was soothing, electrifying. It had been months since he’d experienced the pleasure of a woman’s hands on his flesh. Perhaps never at the depth with which his body was responding to Fiona’s. He felt a sudden, almost desperate need to wrap his arms around her and burrow deep inside, to soak up all the warmth and softness she had to offer, until their bodies and their hearts converged into one.
An Arranged Marriage Page 11
