“I knew that.”
“You did?” he asked in surprise.
“Yes. Clay told me. But why do you have the money and not him?”
He lifted his hands. “The damn fool gave it back. Refused to keep it. Said he’d never felt right about taking it in the first place. Told me to give it to you for the child-care center.”
Tears filled her eyes. “Clay said that?”
Her father held up a hand as if taking an oath. “Every word, or my name isn’t Ford Carson.” His expression growing serious, he leaned over and laid a hand on her knee. “Fiona, what happened? I thought the two of you were getting along just fine.”
The tears spilled over onto her cheeks. “I thought we were, too. Then one day he came home and said he wanted a divorce.”
“Maybe if I were to talk to him…”
She shook her head. “No. Please, don’t. It’s over. It was never meant to be anything but a temporary marriage from the beginning. It’s best that I accept the fact that he doesn’t want me and get on with my life.”
Fiona stepped out of the lobby of the Lone Star Country Club and stopped beneath the portico to turn her cell phone back on. She’d just had lunch with her mother in the Empire Room, and after the second time her cell phone had rung, interrupting their meal and conversation, her mother had insisted that she turn the blasted thing off.
Fiona chuckled, remembering her mother’s exasperated look, then sighed and turned her face up to the sun. She was so lucky, she told herself, to have such loving and supportive parents. Though she tried her best to hide her feelings from them, they sensed her pain over the breakup of her marriage to Clay and were doing everything in their power to help her deal with it.
The thought of Clay brought the sting of tears, and she shoved on her sunglasses and headed for the parking lot.
“Fiona!”
She stopped and turned, then smiled when she saw Spence Harrison loping toward her. She waved, waiting for him to reach her, whereupon he wrapped her in a big bear hug. Laughing at his exuberant embrace, she stepped from his arms. “What are you doing in town?”
He gestured toward the clubhouse. “Hoping to see Flynt. Is he here?”
She glanced over her shoulder. “I think so. At least, Mother said she was planning to drop by the office to see him.” She turned back to him and smiled. “You look wonderful, Spence. Marriage must agree with you.”
He beamed. “I couldn’t be happier. I have a wonderful wife, a terrific son. And I’m thoroughly enjoying life on the farm.”
Fiona shook her head, amazed by the change in him. “Well, it shows.”
His smile slowly faded and he caught her hand, gave it a squeeze. “I was sorry to hear that your and Clay’s marriage didn’t work out.”
She felt the familiar rush of tears and stiffened her shoulders, forcing the emotion back. “Thanks, Spence. That means a lot.”
He gave her hand another squeeze, then released it, shaking his head. “I told Clay that it was a damn good thing he asked me to buy into his ranch rather than handle his divorce case, because I sure as hell wouldn’t have wanted a part in ending the marriage of two good friends.”
She looked at him with puzzlement. “You invested in Clay’s ranch?”
He winced. “Sorry,” he said guiltily. “I assumed you knew.”
She shook her head. “No, but then I haven’t spoken with Clay since he told me he wanted a divorce.”
He firmed his lips. “The two of you should talk. If you did, maybe you could work out your differences.”
Fiona smiled sadly. “There aren’t any differences to work out. At least, not on my part.”
Spence looked at her curiously. “You were happy with Clay?”
“Very. But obviously he wasn’t happy being married to me.”
He snorted a laugh. “Could have fooled me.”
“What?” she asked in confusion.
He held up his hands. “I’ve said enough. Talk to Clay,” he advised, then gave her another quick hug. “You might discover that there’s a lot in your marriage that’s worth saving.”
Fiona watched Spence walk away, numbed by what he’d said—and what he hadn’t said. Was it possible that Clay still cared for her? she asked herself. She stared after Spence, considering the possibility, then shook her head and turned for the parking lot again.
No. Clay didn’t love her. Probably never had. He’d only married her to get his hands on the money he needed to save his ranch. She jerked to a stop. But he’d given back the money her father had paid him to marry her. And he’d sacrificed a portion of his ranch when he’d asked Spence to go into partnership with him.
She shook her head and started walking again. That was all fine and good, she told herself. But it still didn’t explain why Clay had wanted a divorce.
Clay raked a weary hand through his hair, then donned his hat, before climbing into his truck. What a day, he thought. He’d started the morning off by snapping at the secretary at headquarters and making her cry. If that wasn’t bad enough, he’d then given Todd, the Texas Ranger wannabe, a tongue-lashing, when the patrolman had inadvertently contaminated a piece of evidence. By the time Clay had gotten through with him, the poor guy looked like a whipped pup. Neither of the two had deserved Clay’s anger. The secretary and Todd had just happened to be in the wrong place at the right time—a time when Clay needed to unload some of his anger and frustration.
His shoulders weighted with guilt, he put the truck in gear and headed for the ranch.
With each mile that brought him closer to home, dread twisted tighter and tighter in his gut. The place that had once been his refuge, his oasis in a cold and uncaring world, no longer held the appeal it once had. He found it more and more difficult to enter the house and, as a result, stayed outside working until darkness drove him inside. By then, he was too exhausted to do anything but shower and crawl into bed.
But sleep was always a long time coming—if it came at all. Fiona haunted his days, his nights. She was everywhere he looked, everywhere he turned. Every time he opened the refrigerator door, she was there before him, looking the way she had that morning he’d come so close to kissing her, wearing that scrap of nothing, her fingers searing his chest. And the den. He never stepped into the room any longer without seeing her sitting on the floor, surrounded by mounds of wrapping paper and ribbon, her face wreathed in smiles.
His bedroom. That was the worst. He could see her sleeping beside him, feel the comforting warmth of her body curled against his, the silkiness of her touch. She’d left her scent on his pillow, in his bathroom, on his clothes. Every breath he took was a reminder, another dagger in his heart.
He pulled up beside the house and stared at it, knowing he couldn’t go inside. Not yet. Maybe not ever. She was there inside waiting for him. Her memory. Her ghost. Opening her arms to him, holding him close. Kissing him, touching him. Smiling at him. Laughing with him. Her voice echoed in the empty rooms, taunting him with his loss, his misery.
Swearing, he shoved open the door and climbed out of the truck, slamming the door behind him. Without a backward glance at the house, he strode for the pasture and opened the gate. After shutting it behind him, he shoved his hands into his pockets and began to walk, no destination in mind, just escape. He didn’t want to think about her any longer. If he did, he feared he’d go mad.
But her image was there waiting for him at the back fence, poised before a post, a hammer clutched in her fist. She turned, as her name whispered past his lips, and smiled. He could feel the warmth of it on his face, in his heart. He closed his eyes on a groan and spun away. Turning his face to the sky, he dropped to his knees and let out a long, mournful wail.
He’d thought that bamboo cage and the tortures he’d suffered at the hands of his captors was hell, but they didn’t come close to matching the pain he felt now.
Loving Fiona and knowing he could never have her was far worse torture. He’d welcome death now, just to escape the
pain of losing her, of looking for her but finding nothing but memories.
Fiona sat at the breakfast bar in her condo, staring at the school picture she held. Sara’s mother had given Fiona the photograph earlier that afternoon. Fiona intended to have the image of the precious little girl engraved on a brass plaque that would be hung on the front of the child-care center. Sara’s Dream, she thought proudly, pleased that she could honor the child’s life in a way that might save other children from suffering a similar fate.
Setting aside the photo, she rose and wandered aimlessly around the living room, dragging her fingers along the back of the leather chair she had brought with her, then straightening the silk shade of a table lamp. This was her home now, but it didn’t feel like home. But neither did her parents’ home when she visited them there. Her heart yearned for Clay’s small stone ranch house, with its faded linoleum floors and its beige-painted walls. She laughed softly, remembering her horror when Clay had pulled up in front of the house after the drive back from Mexico, and the car’s headlights had shone on the exterior. She’d followed him into the house, praying the interior held more promise. It hadn’t.
But sometime during the weeks that followed, she’d developed an affection for the house, and its drabness had no longer bothered her. Not that she wouldn’t change a thing or two if she had continued to live there, she told herself. And the first thing she’d do would be to paint those hideous walls.
But she didn’t live there any longer, she reminded herself, nor would she ever live there again.
Saddened by the thought, she stopped in front of the wall of built-in bookcases and folded her arms across her chest, studying the titles of the books she’d placed there. Her gaze settled on the spine of the leather photo album her parents had given her and Clay. Though she knew looking at the pictures inside would be painful, she reached up and pulled the album from the shelf.
Tucking her feet beneath her, she sat down in the leather chair and opened the album over her lap. The first picture drew tears. She touched a finger to Clay’s cheek, remembering every detail of the evening. The way he’d looked striding toward her, his gaze fixed on her as if she was the only person in the room. The shock she’d felt at that first kiss. The melting of her body against the muscled wall of his when he’d pulled her into his arms for the first dance. “Unforgettable.” That was the song they’d danced to and it perfectly described the rest of the weekend.
She dashed away the tears beneath her eyes and turned the page, her heart breaking a little more as she remembered her wish at the fountain. Happiness. Such a simple wish. And for a while, she’d thought they were happy.
She stared at the picture, remembering her conversation with Spence and wondering again what he’d meant when he said, “Could have fooled me.” Had Clay been happy married to her? If not, he’d certainly fooled her, as well.
Then she remembered Spence’s parting comment, urging her to talk to Clay. What would it help? she asked herself miserably, then tensed.
But what possible harm would it do if she did talk to him?
She closed the album and set it aside, then rose, her mind whirling. She wouldn’t call him, she told herself as she paced. A conversation as important as the one she planned to have with him required nothing less than a face-to-face confrontation. Should she go to the ranch and talk to him there? Frowning, she shook her head. He’d never let her past the front door.
She snapped her fingers, an idea coming to her, and turned for the breakfast bar where she’d left her cell phone. She’d need help to pull it off, she told herself. Lots of help. And she’d start with her brother, Flynt.
Fiona gave the ends of the plush robe’s belt a tug, cinching the garment at her waist. With one last look in the mirror to check her appearance, she grabbed the boom box and headed for the lobby of the spa. In the doorway she paused, looked both ways, then darted out into the night.
She wove her way along the path that led to the adult pool, staying close to the shrubbery and the concealing shadows they offered. She didn’t want to be seen. At least, not yet.
She arrived at the pool on schedule and used a key to unlock the iron gate. Once inside, she crossed to the edge of the pool, then turned to make sure she had a good view of the security light in the parking lot.
She knew she’d spend the rest of her life returning the favors she’d gotten for this one night. Her brother, Flynt, alone would make her pay dearly for his part in making the call to Clay and asking Clay to meet him at the Men’s Grill. Then there were the staff members of the club whom she’d persuaded to help her with her plan. They’d provided keys to the spa and the security gate at the pool, lent her the robe she was wearing and promised not to breathe a word of her scheme.
But the success of her plan hinged on timing. She gave her watch a nervous glance, then craned her neck to peer at the golden glow of the parking lot’s security light again. When the light went out, then came back on, it would be her signal that her performance was to begin.
Wiping her hands down her robe to remove the nervous perspiration from her palms, she began to pace. He’d come, she told herself. She just knew he would. There was no reason for him to refuse Flynt’s invitation. Clay liked Flynt and Flynt liked Clay. And there was no reason for Clay to suspect that Fiona was behind the invitation. Why would he? She hadn’t seen or spoken to him in the six days since he’d told her to move out.
She caught herself wringing her hands and forced them to her sides. Enough, she told herself, and marched to the boom box. If her plan worked, it worked. And if it didn’t…
She gave the knob on the boom box an angry twist and loud music blasted from the built-in speakers. She wouldn’t think about what would happen if her plan didn’t work, she told herself, straightening. She’d worry about that tomorrow.
She crossed back to the edge of the pool and turned to watch the light. She concentrated hard on not blinking, fearing she would miss the dimming of the light. When her eyes began to burn, she blinked quickly, then focused them again.
The light went off and she held her breath, waiting for it to flash on again. When it did, she whipped off the robe and dived into the pool.
Twelve
Clay walked slowly along the stone pathway that led to the Men’s Grill, his hands shoved deeply into his pockets. He’d been tempted to tell Flynt that he couldn’t meet him at the grill and offer some flimsy excuse for his inability to do so. But in the end, he’d agreed, deciding that anything was better than staying at home.
As he passed by the row of shrubbery that separated the pathway from the adult pool, he glanced in the direction of the pool and frowned at the loud, heavy-metal music coming from within the enclosed area.
“Crazy kids,” he muttered under his breath, and swung around, heading back for the gate to the pool area. By golly, as soon as he met up with Flynt at the grill, he was going to insist that Flynt have the club install a higher security fence around the pool or increase the number of guards on patrol, before somebody was hurt and the club was slapped with a hefty lawsuit. Teenagers were dumber than cows and rarely thought about safety. More than likely those in the pool now were half-soused and looking for ways to get themselves into trouble. But Clay knew he’d never be able to live with himself if he ignored their blatant disregard for the rules posted in plain sight for everyone to see and one of them drowned.
When he reached the gate, he braced a hand on it, intending to vault over, but nearly fell on his face when the gate swung open beneath his hand. Surprised that one of the staff members had forgotten to lock the gate when they closed the pool for the day, he stepped out onto the flagstone skirt surrounding the pool. He frowned up at the sky, wishing there was a full moon to offer him some visibility.
With a shrug, he turned and followed the sound of the music to a boom box propped on the end of a lounge chair. He switched it off, then cautiously approached the edge of the pool. He heard the soft splash of water, but couldn’t make out the
shapes in the pool.
Cursing his lack of a flashlight, he squared his shoulders. “Everybody out,” he said in a voice he knew from experience had the ability to make hardened criminals sing like birds. “The party’s over.”
“Clay? Is that you?”
His heart slammed against his chest. He focused on the spot where he’d heard the voice and squinted against the darkness, sure that his ears were playing tricks on him. “Fiona?”
“Yes, it’s me.”
He could just make out the shape of her head and shoulders above the dark water. “What the hell are you doing in there?”
“Swimming. Want to join me?”
A vision formed in his mind of another time he’d caught Fiona swimming here. Then she’d been nude. He prayed to God she wasn’t now.
“No, I certainly don’t. Now get yourself out of there before someone comes along and sees you.”
“Uh-uh.”
Already turning away, Clay spun back around, stunned that she would defy him. “What did you say?”
“I said, uh-uh.”
He set his jaw. “Fiona, get out of that pool, and I mean now.”
“Uh-uh.”
His blood began to boil. “I don’t know what you’re trying to prove with this crazy stunt, but I want you out of that pool by the time I count to three. Understand? One. Two—”
“Clay?”
“What?” he snapped in frustration.
“If you want me, you’re going to have to come in and get me.”
He curled his hands into fists at his side. “Damn you, Fiona. I ought to—”
“Clay?”
He dropped his head to his hand on a groan and rubbed at the headache that had throbbed to life between his eyes. “What?”
“Remember the last time you caught me here swimming?”
Able to recall every intimate detail of her nude body, he shuddered. “Yes,” he murmured wearily. “I remember.”
“I wasn’t wearing a swimsuit.”
An Arranged Marriage Page 17
