Unsure of his reception, he turned away and continued on to his room. By the time he reached it, he’d convinced himself that the entire weekend had been nothing more than a dream, a moment stolen out of time. The luxurious fantasy suite, with all its soft candlelight and romantic music, had seduced them both into believing they were really husband and wife, and they’d succumbed to its spell.
Depressed by the thought, he didn’t bother turning on the light, but dropped his suit jacket on the floor and tugged his shirttail from the waist of his slacks as he crossed to the bed. Shrugging off his shirt, he unfastened the waist of his slacks one-handed, while peeling back the covers with the other. Just as he reached for his zipper, the overhead light flashed on. He whirled, throwing up a hand to shade his eyes.
Fiona stood in the doorway, her hand poised over the light switch, her curves a seductive silhouette beneath a silk-and-lace gown the color of a summer sky. Her hair, mussed from sleep, hung past her shoulders. One strand curled above her right breast, looking like an upside-down question mark against her porcelain skin.
She lifted a brow. “Is the light too bright?”
He dropped his hand to his side and shook his head. “No. Just took a minute for my eyes to adjust.”
She dragged a finger over the switch, plunging the room into darkness again. It took another moment for his eyes to readjust to the change. By the time they did, she had moved and was now standing directly in front of him, an ethereal shadow of pulsing sensuality and erotic scents that swirled around him and clouded his brain.
“Was everything okay at the club?”
He prayed that she would touch him, absolve the doubts that kept him from reaching out for her. When she didn’t, he said, “One of the waitresses was mugged. Ginger Walton,” he clarified. “Some guy put a knife to her throat.”
“Oh, my God,” Fiona said, sounding truly concerned. “Was she hurt?”
“No. Just shook up pretty bad.”
“Did you catch the guy?”
“No. By the time I got to her, he was gone. She was able to identify him, though. The police have already picked him up.”
She stepped closer, so close he could feel the warmth of her body, a wave of heat surging against his.
“That’s good,” she murmured softly. “I’m sure she’ll sleep better knowing her attacker is behind bars.”
“Fiona,” he began, wishing to God he had the courage to touch her, to make that first move.
She eased closer, her face tipped up expectantly to his. “Yes?”
It was then that he saw the uncertainty in her eyes, the same doubts that he was sure were mirrored in his. He caught her elbows and drew her against him, wrapping his arms around hers. “Oh, Fiona,” he said, releasing a shaky breath. “I was afraid…”
She pulled back to look up at him. “Afraid of what?”
He laughed softly, embarrassed to admit his fears. “Nothing, really. It was just that I thought that you…well, that you might’ve had second thoughts. Regrets,” he added cautiously.
She moved her hands to frame his face. “I thought the same of you,” she admitted. “I heard you stop at my door, but when you didn’t come in, I was convinced that you regretted our weekend together.”
He slid his arms down her back and locked them behind her waist. “The only regret I have is that I couldn’t come home with you.”
Smiling, she looped her arms around his neck. “You’re home now,” she reminded him.
He grinned. “Yeah, so I am. Are you tired?”
“No. Are you?”
“Uh-uh.” He rubbed his groin across hers. “My bed isn’t equipped with any of those technological wonders like the one at the club, but it’s comfortable and there’s plenty of room for two.”
She arched a brow. “Is that an invitation?”
He lowered his head over hers. “Yeah,” he said, the admission a lustful sigh against her lips. “Are you accepting?”
The next morning Clay sat huddled with a group of FBI agents around a scarred table in an abandoned office of what had once been a thriving stone-cutting company on the edge of town. The business had gone under years before, and the FBI had commandeered the deteriorating building to use as a temporary control center, while they conducted their investigation of the Mayan artifacts being smuggled across the border from Mexico.
The men were a motley group, each bringing to the investigative team their own special talents. One, a man with international connections throughout the art world, looked more like a migrant farm worker than a highly renowned archeologist with a specialty in Mayan artifacts. But that was part of the plan. None of the men wanted to be recognized. Couldn’t afford to be. To do so would not only jeopardize the success of the investigation, but their safety, as well.
Clay wasn’t an official member of the team, but the men had called on him before when they needed information quickly, relying on his familiarity with the geography of the area and his knowledge of the townspeople.
Sean Collins, the agent in charge, shifted his gaze to Clay. “We understand that you were the first person on the scene when the waitress was mugged at the country club.”
Clay nodded. “Ginger Walton,” he said, supplying the woman’s name. “She was pretty shook up, but suffered no physical injuries, other than a bruise or two.”
“Do you know anything about her attacker?” another asked.
“Some. His name’s Pauley Rucker. He’s currently employed as a dishwasher at the country club, although he had a string of other jobs before this one. Basically he’s a drifter with an expensive drug habit. Nothing that’s gotten him in serious trouble,” he was quick to add. “Just petty stuff that’s earned him some jail time.”
“Do you think he’s involved in the smuggling ring?” one of the agents asked.
Clay pursed his lips, giving the question the consideration it deserved, then shook his head. “They’d never let him into the fold. He’s too big a screwup.” He huffed a laugh. “Hell, when he left the restaurant, he left a trail a blind man could have followed. And when the police hauled him in, he sang like a canary, letting them know real quick that the mugging wasn’t his idea. Swore he was hired by Erica Clawson to attack Ginger.”
“Erica Clawson?” one of the men asked in surprise. “The chick who’s been sleeping with Frank Del Brio?”
“One and the same,” Clay confirmed. “According to Pauley, Erica’s had her heart set on becoming Mrs. Del Brio for some time. Now that Frank’s the official head of the mob, she was looking for a way to endear herself to him a little more. She knew Frank was interested in Daisy, and that Ginger and Daisy had become friends. So she hired Pauley to pry what information he could from Ginger about Daisy so that she could carry it to Frank.”
At the mention of Daisy, the men around the table exchanged looks. Clay had suspected for some time that the agents had a connection of some kind with Daisy, one that had made him wonder before if she wasn’t a part of their team. He’d never asked, and they’d never offered any information. Which didn’t surprise him. The more people they included in their plans, the greater the chance of a leak. And leaks got people killed.
Having delivered the information they’d requested, Clay pushed to his feet and put on his hat. “I better get going. If y’all need anything else, just give me a shout.”
The leader stood and stuck out a hand. “We appreciate the help, Clay.”
Clay shook the offered hand. “Watch your backs,” he warned. “These guys play dirty. They’ve killed before and won’t hesitate to kill again.”
Sean Collins waited until the door closed behind Clay, then sat again and rested his arms on the scarred table, his expression grim. “Looks as if we’re going to have to escalate our plans a bit.” He turned to the man on his right. “Can you arrange to have Daisy wired with the miniature tape recorder again?”
The agent grinned. “Sure thing, boss. It’s still in the trunk of my car.”
“Good.
Let’s hope she can keep her identity a secret a little longer. At least until she’s able to get the information we need to nail the mob.”
Fiona moved from the den to the hallway, dragging the upright vacuum cleaner behind her and humming the tune to “Unforgettable,” one of the tunes she and Clay had danced to at the reception. As she stooped to plug the cord into the wall outlet beneath a window, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the glass and sputtered a laugh.
“Oh, if Anita could see me now,” she said, patting at the bandanna she’d wrapped around her head. Laughing, she straightened, switched on the vacuum and began to push it over the carpet.
If anyone had questioned her, she couldn’t have explained this sudden burst of domesticity. All she knew was that she’d awakened feeling more energized than she had in years. With no other outlet for her energy, she’d decided to clean house.
She had never cleaned house before, but she’d spent enough hours visiting with Anita while Anita went about her chores at the Carson estate that she had a fairly good idea what was required. She’d started by sweeping and mopping the kitchen floor, then wiped down all the countertops and washed and put away the cereal bowls left from her and Clay’s breakfast. With energy still to burn, she’d moved on to the den, vacuuming the carpet and dusting all the furniture.
She made the last swipe down the hallway and switched off the vacuum. Done, she thought proudly. What next? She eyed the closed door opposite her, knowing that behind it was Clay’s home office. Should she clean there, as well, before attacking the bedrooms? He’d never invited her into his office and kept the door closed at all times. She tried the knob and it turned in her hand. With a shrug she opened the door and walked in.
Boxes, stacked two and three deep, lined the walls. In the center of the room stood a gunmetal-gray desk, its top cluttered with a wild assortment of papers and files. A phone cord stretched from a wall outlet to a generic black phone propped on top of a telephone directory, both shoved to a far corner of the desk. Another cord led to a fax machine perched atop a box. Wads of paper littered the floor and overflowed a wastebasket.
“Heavens,” she murmured, unsure where to begin. “What a mess.”
Blowing out a breath, she crossed to the wastebasket and mashed down its contents, then started picking up the wads of paper and dropping them inside. Once done, she moved on to the desk, careful not to trip on the phone cord. She frowned at the clutter of paper and files scattered across the desktop, then pulled up the chair, sat down and began to shuffle them into separate groups. Folders went into one pile, loose papers into another, unopened mail into a third. It wasn’t much of a filing system, but she figured it was better than the disarray Clay had left behind.
When she’d finished, she stood, ready to vacuum. But as she turned, she inadvertently bumped the desk, and the tall stack of file folders began to teeter. With a cry of alarm, she lunged, wrapping her arms around the files and catching the bulk of them before they all slid to the floor.
With a sigh of relief she straightened the stack, then circled the desk and knelt to gather the fallen folders. Papers had slid from one and she quickly pushed them back inside and started to rise. As she did, she noticed a photograph lying on the floor. Shifting the folders to hold against her chest, she bent to scoop it up.
The folders slid to the floor forgotten as she stared at the child pictured there. “Oh, my God,” she moaned, gulping back the nausea that pushed at her throat. Bonelessly she moved back around the desk and sank onto the chair, her gaze riveted to the child’s broken and twisted body. Lifeless eyes stared back at her from a bruised and bloody face. A girl, she realized, noting the long blond hair matted with dried blood. She couldn’t be more than seven or eight.
Tears burned her eyes, stung her throat. She clapped a hand over her mouth to smother the sob that climbed higher with each gasped breath. But she couldn’t look away. Even when tears blurred the image, the horror of it held her rooted to Clay’s chair, her gaze frozen on the picture gripped tightly in her hand.
Clay found her there less than an hour later, her fingers still pressed against her mouth, her face pale, her eyes fixed on the picture she held.
Without looking, he knew what she’d found. He bolted across the room and dropped down at her side. “Fiona,” he said softly, easing the photo from her stiff fingers. “Let go, honey. You don’t need to see this.”
He tossed the picture aside and pulled her hand away from her mouth, gathering them both within his own. Her skin was cold, icy, her fingers stiff. “Fiona,” he said gently.
She turned her head slowly to look at him, but he wondered if she saw him at all, her eyes were so glazed.
“Fiona,” he said more urgently, chafing her hands between his.
Slowly she focused on him. Her lip trembled and her eyes filled with tears. “Clay?”
Her voice was scratchy, nothing but a hoarse whisper. She sounded as if she’d been screaming for hours. He wondered if she had.
Anxious to get her out of the room and as far away from the picture as he could, he caught her beneath the knees and stood, swinging her up into his arms. He strode for the door and out into the hall, his only thought to get her outside. Sunshine and fresh air. That was what she needed.
“Clay?”
“Shh,” he soothed, shouldering open the door and stepping out onto the front porch. He sat down on the top step and held her on his lap, cradled against his chest. He felt the trembles that shook her body, the clammy chill of her skin, and wished to God he’d had the good sense to put a lock on the office door.
He hugged her more closely to his chest, trying to warm her, then pressed his lips to the top of her head.
“I’m sorry, Fiona,” he murmured. “You shouldn’t have had to see that. No one should.”
She hiccuped a sob and turned her face into his chest. “Oh, Clay,” she cried softly. “She was so young.”
He set his jaw, knowing too well the details of the case. “Yeah, I know.”
She curled her hands into fists against his chest and pushed back to look at him, her face streaked with tears. “What kind of person would do that to a little girl?”
He fixed his mouth in a grim line and looked away, knowing that any explanation he offered wouldn’t come close to describing the man who’d brutally raped and murdered the girl. “A very sick man,” was all he said.
He felt her gaze on his face, sensed in the tightening of her fists against his chest her realization of exactly what kind of man would prey on a young girl and all that man had done to the child.
“Where were her parents?”
He glanced at her, then away again, narrowing his eyes at the pastures. “Parent,” he corrected. “Her mother was raising her alone. Her father skipped out on them years ago.”
“Well, where was her mother, then? She should’ve been taking care of her. Protecting her.”
He heard the anger in her voice, the accusation. He might’ve reacted in much the same way if he hadn’t met the girl’s mother, spent hours trying to console the grief-stricken, guilt-ridden woman. “She was at work.”
Fiona shot off his lap and whirled to face him, her hands balled at her sides. “Do you mean to tell me that she left that poor baby all alone?”
He heaved a sigh. “It’s not that simple, Fiona. She—”
“It is that simple,” she cried, cutting him off. “She was her mother, for God’s sake, and responsible for the child’s safety.”
Something inside Clay snapped. He stood and shoved his face in front of hers. “Not everyone is lucky enough to live the same privileged lifestyle as you.”
She drew back, looking wounded. “What do you mean?”
“Hell, Fiona,” he said, gesturing wildly, “that woman lives at the poverty level. She was putting in twelve-hour days just to keep a roof over their heads and food on their table.”
“She should have arranged for child care. No child should be left alone.”
&
nbsp; “And how was she supposed to pay for it?” he returned. “Child care costs money. Money she didn’t have.”
“Surely there are agencies,” she began.
“There aren’t.”
“Programs for single mothers?”
“Nope.”
Her anger returned, staining her cheeks a dark red, setting her eyes aflame. “Well, there should be. If the government can find the funds to send a man to the moon, then it should be able to provide child care for parents who can’t afford it.”
“Why put the responsibility on the government?”
“Well, somebody should do something!”
He folded his arms across his chest. “Yeah, somebody should.”
She drew back. “Why are you looking at me that way?”
“What way?”
“As if I’m that somebody.”
“What else have you got to do with your time?”
She pushed out a hand, backing away from him. “Uh-uh. Not me. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
He dropped back his head and laughed.
She stopped to peer at him. “What are you laughing at?”
“You. You’ve spent your entire life getting people to do what you want. Why not put that skill to good use for a change?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
He caught her hand and drew her back to the steps, tugging her down to sit beside him. “It’s not as if you have to take on world hunger. Start right here in Mission Creek. You’ve got the contacts. You know the people with the money. Hit ’em up for a donation to build a child-care facility right here in your own home-town.”
An Arranged Marriage Page 14
