An Arranged Marriage

by Peggy Moreland

  She stirred and the question faded in importance as her knee nudged his lax manhood, urging it to life. He felt himself growing hard and wondered what she’d do if he were to wake her and make love to her again. Would she respond with the same level of passion she’d shown him the night before? Or would morning bring a different response entirely? Would she be horrified when she awoke and realized what they’d done? Would she have regrets?

  Of course she would, he told himself. If not now, then later. Deciding he wouldn’t wait around to witness her disappointment, he rolled over and sat up, intending to dress and leave before she woke up.

  But a hand settled lightly on his back, stopping him before he could stand.

  “Clay?”

  Her voice, husky with sleep, wrapped itself around his heart and squeezed. “What?”

  He felt the thin mattress give beneath him as she crawled to kneel behind him. She wound her arms around his waist and laid her cheek in the middle of his back. “Don’t go,” she murmured. She turned her lips to his spine. “Please?”

  He angled his head to look at her over his shoulder. The smile she offered him was sleepy, sensual.

  And he knew he wasn’t going anywhere.

  She lifted her arms and wrapped them around his neck, drawing him down with her, pillowing his head against her breasts. As she stroked her hands over his back, his mind emptied to all but her soothing touch.

  “Clay?”

  “Hmm?”

  “When were you injured?”

  He tensed, feeling her finger trailing along the scar that stretched down his back. “While I was in the service overseas.”

  “What happened?”

  Clay didn’t like thinking about that time. The memories were still too fresh, too painful. At times, as debilitating as the tortures themselves he’d endured. More than a year later, and her question had the power to thrust him back into the cramped bamboo cage his captors had imprisoned him in. The oppressive heat, the stench of rotten food and his own excrement, the burning slash of the whip they’d used to try to force him to talk.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the memories back into the deepest recesses of his mind and closing them off.

  “I was captured while on a mission.”

  Her hand froze on his back. “You were tortured?”

  He heard the shock in her voice, the horror, and tried to distill it by making light of what had proved to be a life-altering event. “I guess they grew tired of hearing my name, rank and serial number.”

  For a moment she was silent, still, then he felt the caress of her lips against his hair, the spread of her fingers over his scar, and absorbed the comfort and tenderness in each.

  He closed his eyes and burrowed deeper into her warmth. “You amaze me.”

  “And you disappoint me.”

  He twisted his head around to look at her in surprise. “Why?”

  “You thought your scars would bother me.”

  He scowled. “You wouldn’t have been the first.”

  Fiona stared, stunned by the feelings of jealousy and indignation that fought for dominance in her heart. “A woman?” she asked before she could stop herself.

  He turned away, dropping his head onto her breasts again. “She’s not important.”

  “She is if she was able to hurt you.”

  “Not any longer.”

  She caught her lip between her teeth, knowing she shouldn’t pry, but unable to stop herself from doing so. “Who was she?”

  “Celine Simone, a woman I dated when I was overseas.”

  She gulped, then asked, “Were you in love with her?”

  At first, Fiona didn’t think he would answer, then he said in a voice so low she had to strain to hear, “I thought I was. Even wanted to marry her.”

  “What happened?”

  “After my rescue I was in the hospital for a couple of weeks. When I was released, I went to see her and found out she was pregnant.”

  “Was the baby yours?”

  He snorted. “Yeah. It was mine, all right.”

  She heard the bitterness in his voice and wondered at it, but forced herself to listen as he continued.

  “I proposed, but she had other ideas.”

  “What?” she asked, unable to imagine anyone not wanting to marry Clay.

  “She had an abortion.”

  She heard the regret in his voice, the anger. “Oh, Clay,” she murmured. “Why?”

  “I can only guess—she never offered an explanation. But I figure it was because of the scars. She couldn’t handle imperfections of any kind. Took one look at me and hightailed it outta there. I learned about the abortion later, through friends.”

  Everything began to make sense to Fiona now. His reluctance to bare his back to her. His rejection of her when she’d discovered them.

  She pressed a kiss to his hair again. “And you thought I would react the same as she did to your injuries.”

  “I wouldn’t have blamed you. Still wouldn’t.”

  “Oh, Clay,” she said sadly. “I can’t believe that you’d think I’m that shallow, that cold.”

  He lifted his head to look at her. Seeing the hurt in her eyes, he pushed up on an elbow. When she tried to look away, he crooked a finger beneath her chin and held her face before his. “I’m sorry, Fiona. I misjudged you. But I won’t make that mistake again,” he said. “Promise.”

  She stared at him, unsure if he was sincere, then threw her arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. “I forgive you.”

  Chuckling, he slid an arm beneath her waist. “Like I said,” he murmured, “you amaze me.”

  “Better to amaze you than bore you.”

  He laughed and rolled to his side, snuggling her against his chest. “As if you could ever bore me.”

  “It’s possible,” she insisted.

  With his gaze on hers, he traced a finger beneath her eye and shook his head. “Never. Not in a million years.”

  Sunlight flooded the sitting room when Clay awoke the second time. But now he awoke with a start, his heart pounding against his chest, his body bathed in a cold sweat. He stared at Fiona as the thought that had jerked him from sleep screamed through his mind.

  He hadn’t used any protection. Hadn’t even thought about the need for protection.

  And prior to last night she’d been a virgin, which meant she probably wasn’t on the pill. Hell, there wouldn’t have been any reason for her to be!

  “Clay?”

  He glanced over to see that she was awake, too, and was peering at him, her brows drawn together in concern. Realizing that he had a death grip on her hand, he forced his fingers to relax. “Sorry.”

  “Is something wrong?”

  He hesitated, unsure how to resolve his fears without alarming her. He finally decided the direct approach was probably best. “Are you on the pill?”

  Her frown deepened. “Yes. For about six months. My gynecologist put me on it to regulate my periods. Why?”

  He dropped his forehead against hers, going weak with relief. “Thank God. I didn’t think to ask. And I… Never mind.”

  She pushed away from him and playfully thumped a fist against his head. “And Daddy thinks I’m irresponsible,” she muttered.

  Laughing, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her back to him. “I’ll be sure to tell him you passed the responsible-sex test.”

  She looked at him in dismay. “You wouldn’t!”

  Able to tease now that his fears had been put to rest, he arched a brow. “Wouldn’t I?” He reached out to twine a stray lock of hair behind her ear, then added, “Of course, first I’d want to retest to verify that my initial findings were correct.”

  She snuggled close. “Which means you’d have to seduce me, right?”

  He heaved a weary sigh. “I suppose so.” He leaned over to kiss her, but she slid a hand between their mouths, blocking his kiss.

  He drew back and frowned. “What?”

  “Would you mind if
we moved the test to the bedroom?” She wrinkled her nose. “It seems such a waste to conduct the test here on this flimsy bed when we have all that wonderful technology in the other room.”

  Remembering the controller and wondering what other devices it monitored, he rolled from the bed and to his feet, pulling her up with him. “Good idea.” He ducked a shoulder into her stomach and lifted her, locking an arm behind her knees.

  She squealed, laughing, as he loped to the bedroom, her head bumping against his back.

  Nine

  They feasted on caviar and champagne, slept, made love, slept some more, then made love again. They argued over what movie to order from the schedule listed on the television, then ended up not ordering a movie at all and made love instead.

  They tried out the Jacuzzi, giving each other sensual foot massages that led to more intimate and titillating massages on other body parts. Later, with their arms wrapped around each other’s waists, they watched the sun set over the manicured expanse of the golf course from the privacy of their balcony, then turned back into their room and ordered room service.

  They talked and laughed while feeding each other shrimp cocktail and broken bits of French bread they’d pinched from a warm loaf provided with their meal. Then they’d shoved aside the cart with the plates of prime rib and steamed vegetables, letting the food grow cold as they crawled back into bed and fed another hunger.

  They spent the next day similarly, ordering room service when they were hungry and making love for hours and hours. It was just after ten Sunday night before they were able to drag themselves from bed and dress for the drive home.

  Walking with Clay’s arm hugged against her side, Fiona stopped in the parking lot at the side of her car. Turning, she smiled up at him and rested her palms against his chest. “I wish we weren’t in separate cars.”

  Though Clay would’ve sworn his body was too weak to respond to the invitation in her eyes, the sultry tug of her voice, he found himself growing hard, wondering what pleasures she might’ve had planned for him on the drive home, if they hadn’t come to the country club in two cars. He cupped his hands low on her behind, dragged her closer and lowered his head over hers. “Yeah. Me, too.”

  But before his lips touched hers, a woman’s scream rent the air. He jerked his head up, searching the darkness for the source of the sound. He started to pull away, but Fiona tightened her hold on him.

  “Don’t go,” she cried. “The country club has a security officer. If there’s a problem, he’ll handle it.”

  Clay opened the door of her Mercedes and urged her behind the wheel. “He may need help,” he said, then dropped a quick kiss on her mouth. “Go on home. I’ll meet you there as soon as I can.”

  After locking and closing her door, he ran in the direction he thought the sound had originated. Ducking into the service alley behind the restaurant, he stopped and searched the shadows with his gaze, but saw nothing. A whimper came from a row of Dumpsters, and he ran toward the sound. He found a woman huddled between two of the bins, sobbing, her arms crossed protectively over her head.

  He hunkered down in front of her. “Ma’am? Are you hurt?”

  She looked up, and the one security light behind Clay revealed terror-filled eyes and a face streaked with tears.

  “Ginger?” he said, recognizing the young woman from the spa.

  Her sobs rose and she grabbed for him, throwing her arms around his neck and clinging. “Oh, God, Clay!” she cried. “He tried to kill me.”

  Clay patted her back, trying to calm her. “Who?”

  “Pauley. A dishwasher at the club. He ran when he heard you coming.”

  Clay forced her back to examine her. “Are you hurt?”

  She closed a hand around her throat and shook her head, her eyes raw with fear. “No,” she said, choking on a sob. “But he had a knife. When I stepped out the back door to take out the garbage, he grabbed me from behind and held the blade against my throat. He said he’d kill me if I didn’t tell him about Daisy.”

  Clay tensed at the name, knowing Ginger was talking about Daisy Parker, a waitress at the Lone Star Country Club. The same waitress the FBI seemed to have an interest in. “Daisy Parker?” he asked, to make sure he had assumed correctly.

  She nodded, then collapsed into sobs again. “I didn’t want to tell him,” she wailed miserably, “but I was so afraid.”

  “Tell him what?”

  “That Daisy is Baby Lena’s mother.”

  Clay slowly absorbed the importance of the confession as he drew her to her feet. “Let’s get you inside,” he said, guiding her toward the back door of the restaurant, “then I’ll call the police.”

  While Clay listened to Ginger repeat her story for the police, in another alley across town Pauley was telling Erica Clawson his own version of the mugging.

  “I swear,” he said, his breath coming in hard gasps. “That’s exactly what she said. Daisy’s the brat’s mother.” He glanced nervously around and stuck out his hand. “Now give me the money. I gotta split, ’fore the cops come looking for me.”

  Erica pressed a wad of bills into his hand. “Remember, Pauley,” she warned. “I had nothing to do with this.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, quickly palming the money. “If I swing, I swing alone.”

  “Exactly,” she murmured, as she watched him duck into the shadows. She waited until the sound of his footsteps faded, then stepped from the alley and entered the apartment building. Once inside the elevator and on her way to the top floor, she pulled a small container of perfume from her shoulder bag and spritzed behind her ears, between her breasts and up under her skirt. Obsession. It was Frank’s favorite fragrance.

  All but giddy with excitement, she stepped from the elevator and used her key to unlock the door. As she closed it behind her, Frank looked up from the bar. Frowning, he finished pouring his drink.

  “This better be good,” he warned. He lifted the glass, tossed the vodka back, then narrowed an eye at her. “You know I hate having my string jerked by some female.”

  Erica stared, growing wet just looking at him. Frank Del Brio was everything she’d ever wanted in a man. Handsome, wealthy, powerful. She’d had a crush on him for years, slept with him for the past two. She was sure that with this bit of information she would prove her loyalty to him and earn herself an engagement ring.

  With her gaze on his, she let her bag slide off her shoulder and started toward him, slowing unbuttoning her blouse. “There’s only one string of yours I’m interested in pulling, Frank.” Reaching him, she lifted her arms and wrapped them around his neck. She flicked her tongue at his lips and rubbed her bare breasts across his chest. She smiled, pleased, when he groaned and thrust his hips hard against her abdomen.

  His ability to go from zero to horny in a nanosecond was just another reason she loved Frank so much. Laughing, she pushed her hands against his chest. “Hold it, Italian Stallion. I’ve got some news you’re gonna want to hear.”

  He filled his hands with her buttocks and lifted her, holding her against him as he crossed to the sofa. “The only thing I want to hear is you screaming for more.” He dropped her to the sofa and followed her down, burying his face between her breasts as he fought to free his sex.

  “Oh, you’ll want to hear this,” she told him. “Daisy is Baby Lena’s mother.”

  He froze, then pushed back to look at her. “How do you know?”

  “Ginger. Daisy told her, but swore her to secrecy.”

  “And the chick just spills her guts to you?” He snorted and jerked up his zipper. “What—you take me for some kind of fool?”

  “No!” she cried, desperate to make him believe her. “Ginger didn’t tell me. She told Pauley, a dishwasher at the country club. I knew she had to know something, so I paid him to get her to talk.”

  He eyed her suspiciously a moment, then swooped down to kiss her with a fierceness that stole her breath. When he drew back, he was grinning from ear to ear. “So, did Gin
ger verify that Daisy is really Haley Mercado?”

  “What?” she asked dully.

  “Did Ginger verify that Daisy is really Haley?” he repeated, then frowned. “You did tell Pauley to find that out, too, didn’t you?”

  She shook her head. “Well, no. I just thought you wanted to know if Daisy was Lena’s mother.”

  He rolled off her and to his feet. “You stupid bitch!” He opened his hand and slapped her hard across the face. The whack of flesh striking flesh echoed viciously in the suddenly quiet room.

  “I don’t give a damn about the baby!” he shouted. “My only interest in the brat is if Haley is her mother.”

  Her ears ringing from the slap, Erica struggled to sit up. “I’ll find out,” she promised.

  “How? You gonna just walk up to her at work and say, ‘Oh, by the way, Daisy, are you really Haley Mercado?”’ Swearing, he snatched a vase from the end table and hurled it at the wall.

  Erica cringed as it exploded, shooting shards of glass halfway across the room. She eased to her feet and moved toward him, knowing she had to calm him down before he destroyed everything in her apartment. “We’ll kidnap her,” she said.

  He whipped his head around to frown at her. “Kidnap Daisy?”

  “No,” she said, relieved that she had succeeded in distracting him from his rage, and even more relieved that he hadn’t hit her again. “The baby. We can snatch her right off Carson ranch. If we do, and Daisy is really Haley, then she’ll be forced out of hiding.”

  Frank’s eyes narrowed as he considered the plan.

  Erica knew how to convince him to see things her way. She crossed to him and cupped him with her hand. “If anybody can steal something right out from under the Carsons’ noses, you can.” She rubbed her breasts against his chest. “You’re so smart, Frank. That’s just one of the reasons why I’m so crazy about you.” She squeezed her fingers around his quickly hardening arousal and smiled as she pressed herself closer to him. “This is another.”

  By the time Clay reached the ranch, it was well after midnight. He’d hoped to find Fiona waiting up for him and bit back his disappointment when he found the windows dark, the house quiet as a tomb. He hesitated at her closed bedroom door, wanting more than anything to slip inside, crawl into bed with her and pick up from where they’d left off in the parking lot. But doubts crowded his mind, keeping him from reaching for the knob. Would she still want him? Or had she, in the hours they’d been apart, realized that she’d made a mistake and now regretted having slept with him?