“Where do I sign?”
After indicating the place for her signature, the magistrate quickly moved out of her way. She scrawled her name, tossed down the pen, then marched from the room, slamming the door behind her.
Benito crossed himself, then looked at Clay, his brown eyes soft with sympathy. “May God be with you, my friend.”
Three
Fiona slept curled in the passenger seat, her head resting against the tinted window, her hands folded beneath her cheek. In sleep, she looked almost innocent. Angelic.
But Clay knew better. Fiona Carson was a spoiled little rich girl, who’d made a career out of breaking men’s hearts.
And now she was his wife.
Scowling, he turned his gaze back to the road. The ink wasn’t even dry on their marriage certificate, and he was already questioning his sanity in getting involved in this deal. If the past four hours were any indication of what he had to look forward to, he was going to earn every penny Carson had agreed to pay him.
Two months, he reminded himself, and he could divorce her and get on with his life. Two months weren’t all that long. He’d spent longer periods of time living in conditions unfit for a pig, endured tortures that would have killed a lesser man and lived to tell it.
And he’d survive marriage to a spoiled rich girl, too. He had to if he wanted to save his ranch.
A set of headlights appeared in the oncoming lane. Clay dimmed the Mercedes’s high beams, glancing to the left as the car passed by. Noting that the vehicle was a patrol car, he shifted his gaze to the rearview mirror just as the cop made a tire-squealing three-sixty and raced up behind him, red lights flashing. Frowning, Clay slowed and pulled onto the shoulder.
Fiona stirred on the seat beside him.
“Are we home?” she asked sleepily.
Clay lowered his window. “Not yet.”
Stretching catlike, she sat up with a groan. “Then why did you stop?”
His gaze on the rearview mirror, Clay jerked his head, indicating the car behind them. “Highway patrol.”
She glanced over her shoulder as the patrolman approached the driver’s-side window, flashlight in hand.
Clay recognized the patrolman as Todd Carey, a new recruit on the force and a Texas Ranger wannabe. The kid had the desire to make a good Ranger some day, but he lacked experience, a requirement he was actively pursuing while working for the highway patrol.
“What’s the problem, Todd?” Clay asked.
Todd directed the flashlight on Clay’s face, making Clay squint.
“Ranger Martin?” he said in surprise. “Is that you?”
Frowning, Clay shoved the blinding flashlight away from his face. “Yeah, it’s me. Is there a problem?”
Todd snatched off his hat and jerked to attention, revealing sandy-red hair shaved regulation short on the sides and a face full of freckles. He looked like Opie of Mayberry. “No, sir. At least, none that I’m aware of.” He peered around Clay to look at Fiona. “Just checking on Miss Carson.”
Fiona graced him with a smile that would’ve melted butter off a block of ice. “Hi, Todd. How are you?”
He blushed and shuffled his feet, obviously smitten. “Fine, Miss Carson. Just fine.”
“Still working the night shift, I see.”
“Yes, ma’am. Though I’m supposed to start pulling days next month.”
“Oh, no,” she moaned. “That means they’ll put Harley back on night duty, and he isn’t nearly as nice as you.”
Todd swelled his chest and gave his pants a cocky hitch. “Don’t you worry none about Harley. If he gives you a hard time, you just let me know. I’ll take care of him.”
She graced him with yet another dazzling smile and batted her eyelashes at him. “Thanks, Todd. You’re the best.”
Clay followed the exchange, amazed at Fiona’s ability to turn on the charm. Much more, and she’d have Todd drooling.
Todd took a step back from the car. “I guess I better let you folks be on your way.” He dipped his knees to look at Fiona. “You might want to give your daddy a call,” he warned. “He sounded pretty worried.”
“Will do. Thanks, Todd.”
Clay pushed the button to raise the window. “Call your daddy?” he repeated.
She brushed at a speck of lint on her slacks, avoiding his gaze. “Yes. He’s such a worrier. If I’m not home by the time he thinks I should be, he calls the police.” She huffed out a breath. “You’d think I was sixteen and late for a curfew, rather than twenty-seven and more than capable of taking care of myself.”
Clay shook his head as he unclipped his cell phone and offered it to her. “What a waste of the taxpayers’ money.”
She folded her arms across her chest, refusing to take the phone. “I couldn’t agree more.”
He looked at her in confusion. “Aren’t you going to call him?”
She turned her face to the passenger window, jutting her chin stubbornly. “Let him worry. Serves him right.”
With a shrug, Clay hooked the phone back to his belt, then put the car into gear and pulled back onto the highway. “Whatever you say.”
Fiona pressed her nose to the passenger window, only now becoming aware of her surroundings.
“This isn’t the way to my house,” she said.
Clay turned into the lane that led to his family’s ranch house. “No, but it is to mine.” He stopped in front, the headlights spotlighting the modest one-story ranch-style house, built of native limestone.
She stared, then slowly turned to look at him. “You expect me to live here?”
Though his pride took a hit at the disgust in her tone, Clay could almost understand her shock. Fiona had lived her entire pampered life in the Carsons’ palatial mansion, where the household staff outnumbered the family members by more than four to one. Hell, his house would fit in one wing of the Carson home with room to spare.
But this was his home, dammit, he thought defensively, and if it didn’t match up to her highfalutin standards, that was just too damn bad.
“Unless you’re planning on establishing separate residences, you are.” He switched off the ignition and climbed from the car. Without waiting to see if she followed, he headed for the back door.
Once inside, he flipped on the overhead light in the kitchen and tossed the car keys onto the breakfast table. As he did, he heard the familiar squeak of wood on the porch steps and knew that Fiona wasn’t far behind.
The slam of the door confirmed it.
“And what am I supposed to do for clothes and toiletries?” she demanded angrily.
He headed down the hall. “You didn’t mind swimming in the nude, so I’m sure you won’t mind sleeping that way, either.”
She sucked in a furious breath, then stalked after him, her hands fisted at her sides. “And a toothbrush? What am I supposed to do about that?”
He stopped at a narrow door, opened it and began pulling out linens. “Use your finger.”
“My finger?”
He brushed past her and started down the hall again. “Yeah. Your finger. That’s what folks use when they have to make do.”
Shaking with rage, she marched after him. “It wouldn’t have hurt you to stop by my house long enough for me to pack a bag.”
He shoved open a door and hit a light switch with his elbow before stepping inside. “It’s late and I’m tired.”
“Well, so am I!”
He tossed the linens and pillow onto a bare mattress. “Then you shouldn’t have any trouble sleeping.” He pointed to a door. “The bathroom’s through there. Towels are in the cabinet behind the door.”
He turned to leave, but she grabbed his elbow, stopping him. He set his jaw and slowly turned. “What now?”
“Where are you going?”
He jerked his elbow from her grasp. “To my room. Your daddy paid me to marry you, not to sleep with you. Any more questions?”
She folded her arms across her chest. “Just one. Who’s going to make my b
ed?”
“Sorry,” he said, brushing past her, “but it’s the maid’s night off. Guess you’ll have to make it yourself.”
Putting all her muscle into the effort, Fiona strained to pull the last corner of the fitted sheet over the edge of the mattress. She was within inches of succeeding when the band of elastic snapped from her hand. The loss of tension sent her stumbling backward, and she sat down hard on the floor.
Tears stung her eyes. I don’t know how to make a bed! she wailed silently. Anita, her family’s housekeeper, had always taken care of the household chores at the Carson estate, supervising the staff in the weekly changing of linens and the daily making up of the beds. Fiona wasn’t expected to do anything but stay out of their way, which she was more than happy to do.
She sniffed back the tears. But Anita wasn’t here, she reminded herself miserably, and if the bed was going to be made, she’d have to do it. Clay certainly wasn’t going to help her.
The tears burned hotter at the thought of Clay. She hadn’t given the details of their marriage much thought, hadn’t had the time, but it had come as a shock to discover that he intended for them to maintain separate bedrooms. Not that she wanted to sleep with him, she assured herself. In fact, she’d looked forward to setting him straight on that aspect of their marriage the moment he made the first move toward intimacy.
Unfortunately he’d robbed her of that opportunity…and wounded her feminine pride in the process.
She narrowed her eyes at the unmade bed, then snatched the sheet and pillow from the floor and pushed to her feet. Well, he’d learn soon enough that Fiona Carson didn’t accept that kind of treatment from any man, husband or not. She might be married, but that didn’t mean she had to act like a wife. In fact, she didn’t see any reason why her lifestyle should change at all. Her address and her last name might have changed, but she wasn’t changing.
Calmer now and feeling a bit more in control, she crawled onto the bare mattress, pulled the sheet up to her chin and snuggled her cheek against the pillow.
A hand closed over Fiona’s shoulder and gave her a hard shake.
“Time to get up.”
Startled awake, she flipped open her eyes at the unexpected male voice, then groaned, melting back against her pillow, when she recognized the voice as Clay’s and remembered where she was. Rolling onto her back, she pushed her hair off her face to squint up at him. “What time is it?”
“Seven.”
She rolled to her stomach with a groan and dragged the sheet over her head.
He gave her a slap on the behind. “Come on, Fiona. Up and at ’em. I’ve got to get to work.”
“So go,” she wailed pitifully.
“In case you’ve forgotten, we left my truck at the country club. Unless you want to be without wheels for the day, you’re going to have to take me to pick it up.”
Stuck out in the sticks by herself all day? She dragged herself from the bed. “Fifteen minutes,” she told him, as she stumbled her way to the bathroom.
“Make it five. I’ve got things to do.”
Fiona took twenty just to spite him.
Clay pulled up alongside his truck and parked. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his key ring. “I should be home about six,” he told her as he separated one key from the others. “Here’s the key to the house. Make yourself a copy while you’re in town.”
Fiona turned to look at him, but her gaze snagged on the sign in front of the car that pointed toward Body Perfect, the country club’s day spa. A day at the spa, she thought with a pleasurable shiver. God, that sounded marvelous. Already imagining herself stretched out on a massage table in one of the soothing, pastel-painted rooms, while Victor worked the weariness from her aching muscles with his clever hands, she turned up her palm.
“I’ll need money.”
“For what?”
“A massage.”
He lifted a hip and reached for his wallet. “How much?”
“Five hundred ought to do.”
His eyes rounded. “Five hundred dollars?”
She gave him a withering look. “No, pennies.”
Scowling, he pushed his wallet back into his pocket. “Not on my watch,” he muttered, and pushed open the door.
Fiona leaned across the console. “Your watch? What is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Just an expression.”
“Hey!” she called when he turned away. “What am I supposed to use for cash?”
He pulled out his wallet again, plucked out a bill and tossed it onto the driver’s seat. “Make it last,” he warned before slamming the door.
Fiona snatched up the twenty-dollar bill and slumped back into her seat, glaring at him through the windshield as he climbed into his truck and drove away. “Twenty dollars,” she muttered under her breath. That wouldn’t even cover her tips.
She slapped down the sun visor, then winced as she was confronted with her reflection in the vanity mirror. Drawing a tube of lipstick from her purse, she smoothed some over her lips, then angled her head and fluffed her hair, evaluating the admittedly weak attempt to improve her rumpled appearance. With a sigh of resignation, she dropped the tube back into her purse, pushed open her door and stepped out into the early-morning sunshine.
Shoving her sunglasses over the bridge of her nose, she strode across the parking lot and along the fragrant garden path to the frosted glass entrance of Body Perfect.
Ginger Walton, the attendant that morning, glanced up from the reception desk as Fiona breezed into the room. Though normally a waitress at the country club, Ginger looked comfortable filling in for the spa receptionist, who’d taken a leave.
“Well, good morning, Fiona,” she said in surprise. “You’re out awfully early this morning.”
Fiona blew a breath up at her bangs and pulled off her sunglasses. “Tell me about it.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but I was hoping you might be able to squeeze me in.”
Ginger picked up a pen and frowned over the appointment book. “We’re pretty well booked for the day, but I’ll see what I can do. What do you want to have done?”
Fiona pressed her hands against her lower back and the aching muscles a night sleeping on the lumpy, bare mattress had left her with. “The works, starting with a massage.”
“Lucky for you, Victor’s nine o’clock canceled. You can have your massage first, then I’m sure Lucille or one of the other girls can work you in for a manicure, if you’d like.”
“Marvelous!” Fiona headed for the dressing room to don one of the spa’s lush terry robes, but stopped, her hand on the door. “Oh, and Ginger,” she called over her shoulder. “Would you be a dear and order a grilled-chicken caesar salad and a glass of that yummy peach-flavored iced tea delivered here at noon?” She laughed gaily, her mood improved dramatically now that she knew she’d be spending the day at the spa. “And check and see if you can arrange for me to have one of those seaweed and herbal wraps. After the night I’ve spent, my body is just screaming for rejuvenation.”
Clay didn’t carry a Day-Timer or own a Palm Pilot. In his line of business, he found it safer—and a hell of a lot easier—to keep all his information in his head. Thankfully he’d been blessed with a razor-sharp memory and an uncanny knack for recalling series of numbers that made carrying around an address book and daily calendar unnecessary. Before going to bed each night, he’d simply think through the cases he was working on, make a mental list of the tasks he needed to accomplish and the people he needed to contact the next day, then close his eyes and enjoy a restful night’s sleep, confident that when he awoke, he had only to call the list to mind, and he was ready to hit the ground running.
His current caseload was heavy, as were those of most of the Texas Rangers, filled with everything from unsolved murder cases in his region of Texas to those dealing with international crimes. He did keep a set of files on both current and past cases, though he considered the required paperw
ork a royal pain in the ass. Those files he kept at home, in the bedroom he’d commandeered as his office, the one he’d slept in as a boy.
Though he was part of a specialized, statewide organization of law-enforcement officers, he usually worked alone. Personally he preferred it that way. As the old saying went about the Texas Rangers, “One riot, one man.”
After dropping off Fiona and picking up his truck, he wove his way through the club’s parking lot and pulled his to-do list to the front of his mind. His first order of the day was to track down Flynt Carson and pass on some information—information that had nothing to do with Clay’s job as a Texas Ranger and everything to do with helping Flynt save a man’s life.
Though Clay had no direct ties to Phillip Westin, the man Flynt and his buddies—Spence Harrison, Tyler Murdoch, Luke Callaghan and Ricky Mercado—hoped to rescue from a Central American prison where he was being held by terrorists, Clay understood the men’s loyalty to their former commander from the Gulf War. It was Westin who had devised the daring plan that had resulted in the five men’s escape after they were captured by the enemy and held captive underground for six weeks. Because of his own covert experience and time spent in captivity, Clay understood the kind of bond these men shared and their commitment to rescue their former commander.
But one detail about the exchange had altered overnight—a detail that made Clay hesitant to track down Flynt Carson and relay the information.
Clay had married Flynt’s kid sister.
Unsure if Flynt was aware of the deal Clay had struck with Ford Carson and concerned what Flynt would think of Clay marrying his sister, Clay pulled to a stop at the exit from the parking lot to reconsider his order of business for the day. The first thing he ought to do, he told himself, was call Ford and tell him the deed was done.
But he didn’t want to be the one to alert Ford to his and Fiona’s elopement, unsure of the man’s reaction. The rushed marriage was Fiona’s idea, not his, so she should be the one to take the heat, if her father was less than excited about the news.
An Arranged Marriage Page 4