CLUB TIMES

For Members’ Eyes Only

Bachelor Beware!

There must be something in the water to cause all these pregnancies and marriages in Mission Creek. I’ve done some initial testing in my love laboratory, but results are inconclusive. Oh, I’m pulling your leg, members. I’m no scientist, but I have put three of the LSCC’s cleaning ladies on “Wedding Ring Watch” to smoke out the bachelors. By the way, Clay Martin, we’re giving you a head start! Some lucky gal’s gonna lasso you sooner or later!

Isn’t Daisy Parker doing a swell job serving you all? Why, it seems only months ago we had a time of it understanding her Texas twang, and now she’s like family. Last thing, Daisy, we’d like to recommend Rosie’s hair salon near the edge of town. They do a great dye job on some of the local ladies, so you don’t have to worry so much about your roots.

I won’t name names, but the rascally daughter of Ford Carson was found in someone’s back seat the other night. An LSCC gardener was watering the rosebushes when he heard some giggling in the north parking lot. He’s been sworn to secrecy about the identity of the lady in question, but c’mon, we all know who it was….

As always, members, make your best stop of the day right here at the Lone Star Country Club!

About the Author

PEGGY MORELAND

published her first romance with Silhouette in 1989 and continues to delight readers with stories set in her home state of Texas. Peggy is the winner of a National Readers’ Choice Award, a nominee for the Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice Award and a two-time finalist for the prestigious RITA® Award. Her books frequently appear on the USA TODAY and Waldenbooks bestseller lists.

Though Peggy has written over thirty books for Silhouette, An Arranged Marriage is her first experience in coordinating her efforts with such a large number of talented authors. She found the process both intriguing and challenging, and enjoyed researching the duties of the Texas Rangers organization.

When not writing, Peggy can usually be found out on her ranch, tending the cattle, goats and other critters she and her husband raise. You may write to Peggy at P.O. Box 1099, Florence, TX 76527-1099, or e-mail her at peggy@peggymoreland.com.

An Arranged Marriage
Peggy Moreland

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Welcome to the

Where Texas society reigns supreme—and appearances are everything.

They came from very different worlds…but had more in common than they ever imagined.

Clay Martin: He’s the only man in Mission Creek who can rein in a bratty little princess. So when the great Carson patriarch makes him an offer he can’t refuse…an offer involving money, marriage and a beautiful future wife…Clay is definitely up for the challenge.

Fiona Carson: She’s spent her entire life getting what she wants, especially from her daddy. And although men have always fallen at her feet, her “husband” is not so easily swayed. Could it be that the spoiled heiress has met her match—and fallen head over heels in love?

Tyler Murdoch: A mercenary on a dangerous mission, he’s been sent into the jungles of Central America and must rely solely on his skills and courage to keep him safe. But will he also be able to protect the gorgeous Hispanic interpreter who’s been sent to assist him, and who has become a major distraction?

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

One

Mission Creek, Texas, was no booming metropolis by any stretch of the imagination. Tucked between Corpus Christi and Laredo, its origins dated back more than a hundred years, when it was nothing more than a trading post for the ranches surrounding it. In spite of its modest size and humble beginnings, the town was filled with enough crime, corruption and scandal to keep the scriptwriters for Law & Order in new material for years. Perhaps even enough to justify the filming of a Godfather IV, since the mob was involved in the majority of the shady goings-on around town.

Most of the dramas played out at the Lone Star Country Club, a two-thousand acre spread situated on land donated by the Carsons and the Wainwrights, two of the area’s earliest families to settle here. Oddly enough, the donation of the land might well have been the families’ last friendly venture, since the Carsons and the Wainwrights had been locked in a feud that stretched as far back as most folks’ memories.

The recent marriage of Matt Carson and Rose Wainwright hadn’t ended the feud or lessened the hatred, but it had served as a momentary distraction from a six-month-old mystery—or scandal depending on the results of paternity tests a certain golfing foursome was undergoing. Or at least three of them were. The fourth, Luke Callaghan, absent from that particular morning’s round of golf, was currently in a military hospital in Central America, recovering from injuries he’d received while trying to rescue his former military commander from terrorists, and was unaware that he’d been targeted for a paternity test.

A baby left on the ninth tee of the golf course for the father to find was shocking news even for a Peyton Place like Mission Creek. The note attached to the infant, with the only decipherable words being “this is your baby girl,” had everyone in town laying bets as to which one of the golfing foursome had sired the abandoned child and clucking their tongues over the unidentified mother’s lack of maternal instincts.

Murder? Corruption? An abandoned baby?

This wasn’t the Mission Creek Clay Martin remembered from his youth, and it certainly wasn’t the peaceful environment he’d sought when, disillusioned with life, he’d ended his military career early, accepted a job as a Texas Ranger and made the long trek back to Texas. But changed or not, Mission Creek was home, and Clay was determined to do his part in bringing law and order back to the town.

At the moment, though, he was officially off duty and nursing a beer at the bar in the Lone Star Country Club’s Men’s Grill. The building itself was a temporary structure built to replace the original Men’s Grill destroyed by a bomb several months prior. In spite of its stopgap status, the bar still managed to reflect the discriminating tastes of the club’s wealthy members.

Unfortunately Clay wasn’t one of them.

By all rights, he knew he could be arrested for trespassing. Only card-carrying, dues-paying members were allowed admittance to the prestigious country club’s facilities, and Clay didn’t have the pedigree or the portfolio to even apply—two small details he didn’t see changing any time in the foreseeable future.

The rich get richer, while the poor keep digging themselves deeper and deeper into debt, he thought with more than a little resentment. That was one thing about Mission Creek that hadn’t changed over the years.

The sharp clack of pool balls being hit carried from an adjoining room, followed by a loud whoop, grabbing Clay’s attention. The Billiard Room, he thought with a huff of disgust as his gaze settled on the stained-glass sign hanging above the arched opening. Why the hell couldn’t they call it what it was, instead of slapping a fancy, five-dollar name on it? It was a pool hall, the same as hundreds of other smoke-filled rooms he’d frequented around the world, where men hung out, drinking beer and shooting eight-ball with their buddies.

But those other pool halls hadn’t been outfitted with leather chairs, heavy brass light fixtures and etched glass, he reminded himself as he gave the room a cursory glance.

With a woeful shake of his head, he drained his beer, then lifted a finger, signaling the bartender to bring him another. Within seconds a pilsner of foaming beer was sitting in front of him. Clay chuckled as the bartender moved away.

Member or not, it seemed when a Texas Ranger asked for something, he got it. Fast.

With the exception of the money this particular Texas Ranger needed to hold on to his family’s ranch.

His amusement faded at the reminder of his current financial woes. Curling his fingers around the glass, he scowled at the golden liquid, wondering how in hell he was going to come up with the money he needed to turn his family’s ranch into a profitable business. Not on a Ranger’s salary, that was for sure.

If he’d been smart, he told himself, he’d have socked away more of the money he’d earned while serving in the Special Forces branch of the army. But, no, he’d foolishly squandered his pay trying to impress Celine Simone, a wealthy heiress, whom he’d even more foolishly made the mistake of falling in love with.

“Women,” he muttered under his breath. “Nothin’ but trouble.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

Clay glanced over to find Ford Carson sliding onto the stool next to his, his glass lifted in a silent toast of agreement. Clay tapped his glass against Ford’s. “You got women trouble, Mr. Carson?”

Frowning, Ford plucked the skewered olive from his drink and tossed it aside. “Daughter trouble, to be exact.”

Clay didn’t have to ask which of Carson’s twin daughters was causing him problems. Fiona’s escapades were known all over town. “And what has Fiona done this time?”

Ford’s face, already florid, flushed an unhealthier red. “The damn girl went out and bought herself a brand-spanking-new Mercedes. Didn’t even ask my permission. Just sashayed over to the dealership, signed a check on my account and drove the blamed car right off the lot!” Dragging a hand through his thick shock of white hair, he shook his head wearily. “I tell you that girl is going to be the death of me. I don’t know what the hell to do with her anymore.”

Ordinarily Clay would have let the comment pass without comment, but the thought of anyone frittering away tens of thousands of dollars when he was so desperately in need of money infuriated the hell out of him. “If she were my daughter, I’d cut off her access to my bank accounts, then march her butt right back down to that dealership and make her return the car.”

Ford angled his head to peer at Clay. “You would?”

Clay gave his chin a decisive jerk. “Damn straight. What she did was totally irresponsible and disrespectful of the privileges you’ve obviously allowed her.”

“And you think that would teach her a lesson?”

Clay lifted a shoulder. “Maybe. Maybe not. Fiona’s what? Twenty-seven?” At Ford’s nod, he shook his head. “Pardon me for saying so, Mr. Carson, but Fiona’s had things her way for so long it may take more than a slap on the hand to bring her around.”

Ford’s frown deepened. “You’re probably right. A headstrong young woman like Fiona won’t break easily.”

The two stared at their drinks, both silent as they contemplated their individual problems. After a moment Ford glanced Clay’s way. “I haven’t seen your sister, Joanna, around town lately. She hasn’t moved, has she?”

Smiling, Clay shook his head. “No, sir. She’s in Europe for the summer, touring with a group of her French students.”

“Glad to hear it. I’d hate for Mission Creek to lose such a fine teacher.”

“No worse than I’d hate losing my sister,” Clay replied. “She’s only been gone a week and I already miss her.”

Ford nodded slowly, then glanced Clay’s way again. “Didn’t I hear you bought back your family’s ranch?”

“Yeah,” Clay replied. “Though keeping it might present a problem.”

“How so?”

Embarrassed to admit to his strapped financial condition, especially to a man as wealthy and successful as Ford Carson, Clay kept his gaze on his beer. “Unless I can figure out a way to raise the cash to make the improvements needed to turn the place into a profitable business again, I stand to lose it.”

“I wouldn’t toss in my cards just yet,” Carson said.

Feeling the intensity of the man’s gaze, Clay glanced up to find Ford studying his reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

“What if I were to give you the money you needed to get started?” Ford suggested.

“Give me the money?” Clay repeated.

“Well, not give,” Ford amended. “A little trade.”

Clay snorted. “And what would you want of mine in trade? My truck? The shirt off my back? That’s about all I’ve got left, after buying back the home place.”

Ford flattened his lips in disapproval. “Don’t sell yourself short, son. You’ve got a lot to offer in trade. You’re responsible, hardworking, honest. And you’re tough and brave, to boot. You proved that during your stint in the army, and again when you chose to move back to Mission Creek. Not many men would’ve had the guts to return to the town that was ready to hang him.”

Clay stiffened at the reminder of the charges filed against him for the murder of his girlfriend when he was twenty-three. “I have nothing to be ashamed of. I didn’t kill Valerie. That was proved in court before I ever left town.”

“Just the same,” Ford maintained, “it took guts to come back here.”

Not liking the direction the conversation was taking, Clay asked impatiently, “What does all this have to do with you giving me money, anyway?”

“A trade,” Ford reminded him, then softened the reminder by clapping a hand on Clay’s shoulder and giving it a squeeze. “You have traits I admire, son. Traits I’m willing to pay for.”

Clay shook his head, wondering if the beer was clouding his thinking, or if Ford Carson truly wasn’t making a lick of sense. “Sorry, but I’m afraid I’m not following you.”

“I want you to marry my daughter,” Carson said, then held up a hand when Clay choked a laugh. “This is no joke, son,” he warned. “I’m willing to pay you a hundred thousand dollars if you’ll agree to marry Fiona and teach her the meaning of responsibility and commitment. Two months,” he said, before Clay could interrupt. “You have to remain married for two months—although it would probably be best if we kept that time restriction from Fiona. I’ll give you half the money once you’re legally married. The other half when the two months are up. At that time, if you choose, you’ll be free to file for a divorce and resume your bachelor life.”

Clay stared at Carson, unable to believe the man was serious. A hundred thousand dollars? he thought, trying to absorb the magnitude of the offer. A hundred thousand dollars would go a long way toward rebuilding his family’s ranch. And all he had to do to get the money was agree to marry Fiona Carson and stay married to her for two months?

It was insane, he told himself. Ludicrous. Fathers didn’t arrange marriages for their daughters anymore. Especially not when the daughter was Fiona Carson. She’d never agree to this, he told himself. Fiona was wild as a march hare and stubborn as a mule.

She was also Clay’s only viable hope of holding on to his family’s ranch.

“And Fiona will go along with this?” he asked doubtfully.

“She won’t have a choice,” Ford replied confidently, then chuckled. “Of course, she won’t know the real purpose of the marriage. She’s stubborn. Takes after her old man in that way. If she knew that I’d arranged for you to marry her to teach her responsibility, she’d dig in her heels so deep it would take a team of Clydesdales to drag her to the altar.”

“If not the truth, then what do you intend to tell her?”

Ford puckered his lips and thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Beats the hell out of me. But I’ll think of something.”

When Clay’s expression remained skeptical, Ford shot him a wink. “Don’t worry about Fiona, son. She’ll play along. I’ll see to that.”

Though probably a fool for not accepting the offer on the spot, Clay continued to hesitate. He’d always believed that a man made his own way in the world, never seeking the easy way out of a tight situation. And marrying a woman for money was definitely the coward’s way out of his current cash problem.

Frowning, he shook his head. “I don’t know, Mr. Carson. I need to give this some thought.”

Carson rose and tossed a business card onto the bar. It landed face up beside Clay’s hand. “Take all the time you need,” he said. “That’s my private number. Give me a call when you’ve made your decision.”

Dusk was settling over the countryside by the time Clay arrived home later that evening. Instead of going inside as he’d intended, he detoured to the gate that led to the back pasture. Bracing his arms along its top, he stared out across the land. Not so long ago, a herd of registered Brangus cattle would have been grazing there on fertile coastal grass. Now the pasture was empty but for the knee-high weeds that swayed gently in the soft evening breeze, and a scattering of young cedar and mesquite trees.

It hadn’t taken nature long to reclaim the land, he thought sadly. Eight years to be exact. He remembered well the backbreaking work it had taken to clear the pastures. Chopping down the cedars and mesquite trees that were such a nuisance to ranchers in this region of Texas. Shredding native brush high and thick enough to conceal a grown deer. Hauling away truck-loads of rock to clear the land for the equipment he and his father had used to prepare the soil for planting.

But most of all he remembered all the bitching and moaning he’d done because he’d been forced to help with the work.

With a regretful shake of his head, he opened the gate and started across the field, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. As he walked, weeds slapped at his legs, leaving the sticky seed pods of beggar’s lice clinging to his starched jeans. In the distance a line of fencing marked the back boundary of his family’s ranch. Choked with vines, the fence was held upright by an occasional mesquite or cedar tree that had woven its way up through the tangled strands of barbed wire.

On his left stood the hay barn. Once it had housed the heavy bales of coastal hay his family had cut and baled to feed the cattle through the winter. Now the building stood empty, its wide doors open and sagging, its red-painted walls faded and, in some places, showing visible signs of rot. Loose panels of tin on the barn’s high roof flapped in the breeze, creating a mournful sound in the otherwise peaceful evening air.

Clay stopped in the middle of the pasture and turned slowly, silently acknowledging each sign of neglect and disrepair. As he did, he wondered what his parents would say if they could see the ranch now. Emotion clotted his throat as he realized the answer. If they weren’t already dead, he knew it would kill them.

His parents had loved this place, had put their hearts and souls into building their home and clearing the land for the cattle operation that would support their family. They’d done it for themselves, he knew, but they’d done it for him and his sister, as well. They’d wanted to leave their children a legacy, a dream to carry on.

And Clay had let them down.

At the time of the automobile accident that had taken their lives, he’d just been promoted into the Special Forces unit of the army. He was full of himself and his own importance, and eager to leave his mark on the world. Though he’d returned home for his parents’ funerals, he’d left afterward as soon as possible, leaving the handling of the estate in his sister Joanna’s capable hands. She’d wasted no time in selling the ranch. Not that Clay had blamed her. Joanna had never cared for the ranch; nor had Clay, for that matter. His love for the place and his appreciation for all that it stood for had come later. Almost too late.

It shamed him now to remember his youth. Growing up, he’d given the term “bad boy” whole new meaning. But no matter how much trouble he’d gotten himself into, no matter how many times he’d thrown his parents’ love back in their faces, they’d never given up on him. Even when he’d been accused of his girlfriend’s murder, they’d been there for him, standing firm in their belief of his innocence, their faith in him as an honorable man.

It was the memory of their unconditional love that had gotten him through the dangerous and hellish missions the army had assigned him. And it was the power of that love that had given him the strength and will he’d needed to survive mental and physical tortures unimaginable to most men. At his darkest moments, when he was sure the pain he was suffering at the hands of his captors would drive him insane, he’d focus his mind on home, on family and gird himself with the strength and peace that came from the level of unconditional love his parents had given him.

That was what had saved him.

And now he wanted to save the ranch.

Not just for himself, he thought, but for his parents. It was the only way he knew to honor their memory, to prove their faith in him, to carry on their dream. Throughout his darkest hours, the ranch had served as his light, a beacon in an otherwise bleak world, his reason for living. If he lost it now, he feared with it he would lose his last hold on all that was good and merciful.

But how could he hang on to it, he asked himself, feeling the frustration returning, when he could barely afford the monthly mortgage payments, much less take on the tremendous burden of upkeep on a place this size? The bottom line was, the ranch had to pay for itself or he’d lose it. Which brought him right back to his original question: how could he raise the cash he needed to make the ranch a profitable business again?

He dragged off his Stetson and raked his fingers through his hair. He knew the answer. Ford Carson had handed it to him on a silver platter not more than an hour ago. All he had to do was marry Carson’s daughter and the money he needed was his.

He slapped his hat against his thigh in frustration. But, dammit, he didn’t want to get married—especially not to a spoiled, rich girl like Fiona Carson. He’d been engaged to a woman who had enjoyed a privileged upbringing similar to Fiona’s, and he’d learned the hard way that that kind of woman didn’t stick and, more, that he didn’t belong in that world.

Clay didn’t believe in fate or luck. He’d been taught that a man created his own. But how else could he explain Ford Carson’s offering him a windfall right when he needed it most? All he had to do to collect the money was marry the man’s daughter.

Firming his lips, he slapped his hat back on his head and pulled his cell phone from the clip on his belt. “It’s a job,” he told himself as he punched in Carson’s private number. “Nothing but a job.”

At the sound of Carson’s voice, Clay narrowed his gaze on the dilapidated barn in the distance, imagining it as it had looked eight years before, and as he hoped it would look again.

“You’ve got yourself a deal.”

“Fiona, I need to talk to you.”

Her fingers already curled around the front door-knob of their family home, Fiona glanced over her shoulder to find her father standing in the doorway to his study. “Can’t it wait, Daddy? I’m supposed to meet Roger at the Empire Room at eight for dinner.”

“No, it can’t.”

She hesitated a moment longer, tempted to ignore the authoritarian tone in her father’s voice. She was an adult, after all, wasn’t she? She didn’t have to jump every time he snapped his fingers.

When she continued to hesitate, he lifted a brow—a slight movement, but one Fiona had learned meant business. With a huff, she dropped her hand from the knob and marched across the entry. “If this is about the car again…” she began irritably.

He stepped aside, allowing her to enter the study before him. “No. It’s not about the car.” He seated himself behind his desk and gestured toward the leather sofa opposite him. “Have a seat.”

She twisted her wrist and gave her diamond-studded watch a pointed look. “I’d rather not. I don’t want to keep Roger waiting.”

“Why not?” he asked dryly. “It’s never seemed to bother you before to keep a man waiting.”

Before she could respond, he held up a hand. “What I have to say won’t take long.” Frowning, he leaned back in his chair and studied her from beneath dark brows. “I’m worried about you, Fiona.”

She rolled her eyes, sure that she was in store for another lecture on her many shortcomings. “Daddy—”

“And about me,” he said, cutting her off. “My health, specifically.”

That silenced Fiona as nothing else could. She looked closely at her father, noting for the first time the floridity of his skin. “Is it your heart?” she asked, terrified that he might be suffering complications from the heart surgery he’d had several years before. “You’ve been taking your medicine, haven’t you?”

“Yes, I’ve been taking my medicine,” he snapped. “But I’m not getting any younger, Fiona, and neither are you. Unfortunately you aren’t showing the signs of maturity normally associated with a woman your age. You’re twenty-seven years old, unemployed and seem content to let me support you for the rest of your life.”

Fiona rolled her eyes again. “I’ve told you before, there isn’t any job that interests me.” She turned for the door. “We can talk about this later. I’ve got—”

“Hold it right there, young lady!”

When she turned, a brow arched in surprise at his angry tone, he pointed at the sofa. “We’re talking about this now.”

She hesitated, again tempted to defy him, then pursed her lips and flopped down on the sofa. “Okay,” she said, slapping her arms across her chest. “I’m sitting. So talk.”

He sank back in his chair, suddenly looking older than he should, defeated. “I’m worried what will become of you if something were to happen to me.”

She dropped her arms, tears springing to her eyes. “Oh, Daddy,” she said, scooting to the edge of the sofa. “Please don’t talk that way. Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

“But something could,” he insisted gruffly. “And frankly it concerns me that you are so ill prepared to take care of yourself.”

She stiffened in indignation. “I can take care of myself!”

“How?” he challenged. “Where would you live? How would you support yourself? You’ve never worked a day in your life. I doubt you have even a clue how high maintenance you are.”

She sniffed, offended. “I had no idea you considered me such a burden. I thought you enjoyed having me around.”

“I do enjoy having my children nearby,” he said in growing frustration. “And believe me, I miss Cara now that she’s gone. But I’ve made it too easy for y’all.” He leveled a finger at her nose. “Especially you. I’ve allowed you to remain dependent on me, when you should have been out on your own years ago. But I’m rectifying that mistake.”

“Rectifying?” she repeated, fearing that her father had found her a job. “How?”

“I’ve arranged for you to be married.”

She shot to her feet. “Married!” she cried.

“Yes. Married. It’s the only way I can be assured you’ll be taken care of in the event of my death.”

She laughed weakly. “You’re kidding, right? You’re just trying to bully me into getting a job and moving out.”

He shook his head. “This is no joke, Fiona. I’m serious about this. Dead serious.”

She sank to the sofa, her knees suddenly too weak to support her. “Daddy, no,” she whispered. “You can’t do this to me.” She leaped to her feet as the ramifications of his announcement fully hit her. “You can’t force me to get married! I won’t do it.”

“You will. I’ve already made all the arrangements.”

Her chin jerked up. “And who, exactly, have you chosen for me to marry?”

“Clay Martin.”

“Clay Martin!” she echoed in dismay. “But he’s so…so…”

He lifted a brow. “Poor?” he offered.

She clamped her lips together, refusing to admit that was the very word she’d been searching for. “He’s a murderer,” she said, instead. “Do you hate me so much that you would marry me off to a murderer just to get me out of your house?”

“Clay isn’t a murderer. You know as well as I do that he wasn’t responsible for that girl’s death.”

Fiona turned away, wringing her hands, trying to think of a way out of this mess. When she couldn’t, she whirled and thrust out her chin again. “I won’t marry him, and there’s nothing you can do to make me.”

He lifted a brow and leaned forward to push a folder across the desk. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

Fiona stared at the cream-colored folder, her stomach doing a slow, nauseating flip as she recognized it as the one in which her father kept her financial records. “What do you mean?”

“I’m canceling all your credit cards and closing your bank account. Plus, I’m notifying the bank that, in the future, you’re not to be allowed to write any more checks on my account. You, my dear daughter,” he said, looking a little too pleased with himself, “are broke. Penniless. Poor.”

She curled her hands into fists. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, yes, I would. I’ll continue to give you a monthly allowance, but it will be deposited into Clay’s account, not yours. He will have full control of the funds and will be instructed to dispense them to you as he sees fit.”

The idea of asking any man for spending money, especially Clay Martin, made Fiona positively ill. She searched her mind for an escape hole. “What about Clay?” she asked, grasping at the first thought that came to her. “Surely he hasn’t agreed to this ridiculous plan of yours.”

Ford stood, his smile smug. “Oh, but he has. In fact,” he added, his smile broadening, “he seems as anxious as I am for this marriage to take place.”

Two

Judging by Fiona’s behavior that night at the Empire Room, no one would have guessed that her life was about to drastically change. Dressed in a form-fitting, black silk tank top and matching capris that revealed an enticing amount of cleavage and leg, she laughed and flirted with every man who stopped by the table she shared with her date, Roger Billings.

And after dinner, when she and Roger left the dining room to finish their bottle of wine by the adult pool, not a male in the place would have suspected that Fiona’s days as Mission Creek’s most sought-after female were about to end. Understandable, since their minds were dulled by the sensual sway of her hips as they followed her departure with their gazes.

Not so understandable was the fact that her date was unaware of her state of panic.

Stretched out on a lounge chair by the pool, Fiona glanced Roger’s way. No surprise there, she thought resentfully. Roger Billings was the most narcissistic man she’d ever had the misfortune to meet.

If she hadn’t already decided to dump him, his attentiveness that evening—or lack thereof—would have convinced her to end their two-week-old relationship. She never would have pursued him in the first place if she hadn’t overheard that snotty old Angela Forsyth bragging in the spa that she’d have him at the altar within a month of his divorce settlement, claiming that he was the catch of the year.

Catch of the year, my eye, she thought peevishly. The man was so tight he squeaked, and he was an unmitigated bore. When he wasn’t complaining about his ex-wife taking him to the cleaners in their divorce settlement or about the outlandish fees the court-ordered therapist was charging to counsel his three children, he was talking about himself, crowing about all his accomplishments.

She glanced his way again as he paused in his monotonous monologue long enough to drain the wine from his glass. When he reached for the bottle—the cheapest vintage listed on the wine menu, no less—to refill it, it was all she could do to keep from snatching the bottle from his hand and bopping him over the head with it.

Didn’t he realize she needed some help here? A distraction? Something, anything, to keep her mind off the bomb her father had dropped on her earlier that evening!

An arranged marriage, she thought furiously. How utterly archaic! And to Clay Martin, no less. Had her father lost his mind?

And why had he singled out her to inflict his cruelties on? Threatening to close her bank and credit-card accounts. Of all the nerve! There had to be something she could do to prevent him from doing this to her. But what? Though she’d thought of little else since he’d informed her of the ridiculous arrangement, she hadn’t been able to come up with a single workable plan.

Which was amazing, really, now that she thought about it. Ever since she was in diapers, she’d been able to find a way to get around her father. On those rare occasions when she couldn’t, she’d simply thrown a tantrum until he’d finally given in.

But she was too old to get away with holding her breath until she turned blue, she thought miserably. At any rate, she feared a tantrum wouldn’t work for her this time. When he’d delivered his ultimatum, she’d detected a distinct and unwavering resolve in her father’s voice that she’d never heard there before, one that had chilled her to the bone.

He wouldn’t back down this time, she told herself dejectedly. Her carefree days were about to end.

She lifted a brow. Or were they? There was a third party involved in this ridiculous scheme. Clay Martin. There was still a chance that he might change his mind—especially if she was to give him a little something to make him question his agreement to marry her. Something really risqué. Something downright scandalous.

And before her lay the perfect setting to create just such a scandal.

She sat up and turned to look at Roger, her face flushed with excitement. “Let’s go skinny-dipping.”

He choked on his wine. “Wh-what?”

“Skinny-dipping!” She swung her legs over the side of the chair and stood, reaching behind her to unfasten the waist of her capri pants, her enthusiasm for her plan building as she imagined Clay’s reaction when he heard of her latest escapade. And he’d hear about it all right. She’d make sure of that.

Roger stared, his eyes widening, as she wiggled her pants to her ankles and stepped out of them. Swallowing hard, he looked up at her. “B-but what if someone sees us?”

Pulling the tank top up and over her head, she shook out her long hair. Since she hadn’t bothered with a bra, she was left wearing nothing but a black lace thong. Curving her lips in a sultry smile, she braced her hands on the arms of Roger’s chair and leaned to press her mouth to his.

She withdrew slowly to meet his gaze, slicking her tongue over her moist lips. “That just adds to the thrill, doesn’t it?” she said huskily, then laughed and ran for the pool. At the edge, she executed a near-perfect dive into the crystal clear water and surfaced mid-pool, still laughing as she scraped her hair back from her face. Her laughter faded when she saw that Roger stood at the side of the pool fully dressed.

She treaded water. “Aren’t you coming in?” she asked in surprise.

He glanced uneasily around. “I don’t know, Fiona. If someone were to see us…”

“So what if they do?” she returned boldly. “We’re adults.” She rolled to her back and stroked farther away, sure that he would join her. When he didn’t, she treaded water again. Frustrated that he wasn’t cooperating, but confident that she could persuade him to join her, she purred. “Umm. The water feels absolutely decadent on my hot skin.”

She peeked through her lashes to check Roger’s reaction and saw that his face was flushed and his eyes were riveted on her breasts. Convinced that he was weakening, she pushed her arms out in a modified breast stroke and swam toward him. When she reached the side, she folded her arms over the tiled edge and looked up at him, tipping her head to the side. “Don’t you want to go swimming with me?” she asked, puckering her mouth in a Shirley Temple pout she knew from experience men found hard to refuse.

He swallowed hard, his gaze fixed on the mounds of flesh squeezed between her folded arms.

“Come on, Roger,” she coaxed as she pushed away from the side. “No one will see us. I promise.”

She watched his Adam’s apple bob again, then shrieked when he jumped in fully clothed, splashing her with a tidal wave of water. He surfaced several feet away.

“See?” she said, laughing. “Doesn’t the water feel marvelous?”

He didn’t reply. Instead, he started swimming toward her. It was then that Fiona noticed the feral gleam in his eyes. She pushed her arms against the water, backing away from him, wondering if perhaps she might have been a little impulsive. “Roger…” she warned as he neared.

He grabbed her, catching her by her upper arms.

“Roger!” she cried, struggling to twist free, as he pulled her to him. “What are you doing? Let me go!”

Instead of releasing her, he locked his arms around her, making escape impossible.

“If you don’t let go of me right this instant,” she said furiously, “I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” he challenged.

Before she could answer, he dropped his mouth down on hers, smothering any hope of a reply. Truly frightened now, she flattened her hands against his shoulders and shoved, but was unable to break his grip. She felt the ironlike jab of his arousal against her abdomen and fear iced her veins.

Remembering a defense technique her brother Matt had taught her, she lifted a knee and rammed it as hard as she could between his legs. He bent double, groaning and holding himself.

“How dare you!” she accused furiously, then spun in the water and swam for the side. She’d almost made it out of the pool, when he caught her arm and tugged her back.

She clawed at his hand, trying to pry his fingers loose. “Roger!” she cried. “Let me go!”

He swung around to brace his back against the side of the pool, pulling her with him, then locked his arms around her again. “Come on, Fiona. Just give me a little kiss.”

“Roger, please,” she begged, straining away from him. “Let me go.”

“You heard the lady. Let her go.”

Startled, Fiona glanced up and saw a man standing on the side of the pool directly above them, his legs spread wide, his hands braced on his hips. Although his face was shadowed by a silver Stetson, she knew her rescuer immediately. The khaki slacks with the knife-sharp creases. The starched white shirt with the silver Texas Ranger badge pinned to the front pocket. Dark brown cowboy boots with a shine so high she could see her reflection in them.

Clay Martin, she thought, relieved that she was being rescued. Then she realized her luck. She couldn’t have planned this better if she’d plotted for weeks!

“Get lost,” Roger growled, then jerked Fiona close again.

Instead of fighting him this time, she wrapped her arms around his neck, prepared to put on a show.

“What the—”

Fiona stumbled back as Roger’s arms were torn from her and watched wide-eyed as Clay hauled him from the pool by the back of his collar. She stared, stunned by the bulge of muscles straining beneath the sleeves of Clay’s shirt as he dragged Roger onto the tiled apron of the pool.

Cursing, Roger fought to sit up. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? We were just having a little fun.”

Clay planted a boot in the middle of Roger’s chest and pushed him back down. Folding his arms across his thigh, he leaned to peer down at him.

“Now, nobody enjoys a good time more than me,” Clay informed Roger in that slow Texas drawl of his. “But when there are two parties involved, and especially when one of them is a lady, both parties have to be having a good time before it can be considered as such. You may disagree with me, but it didn’t appear to me that Fiona was having much fun.”

Scowling, Roger shot a hand beneath his nose. “It was her idea,” he grumbled. “She’s the one who wanted to go skinny-dipping, not me.” He flung his hand in Fiona’s direction. “Ask her yourself if you don’t believe me.”

Clay angled his head to look at Fiona. The eyes that met hers were black as night and hard as stone. It was all she could do to keep from shrinking away.

“I don’t doubt that for a minute,” Clay said. He turned back to smile at Roger. “Fiona does seem to have a fondness for making a public spectacle of herself.”

She sucked in an indignant breath. “Now wait just a minute!”

Clay went right on talking as if she hadn’t spoken, as if she wasn’t even present. “But I do question her willing participation in what followed.”

“Well, what did she expect to happen?” Roger demanded. “Standing there buck naked and begging me to get into the pool with her. You tell me what you would’ve done, Ranger, if you were caught in a similar situation.”

Clay pulled at his chin thoughtfully. “Now, that’s hard to say, since a woman’s never objected to me kissing her.”

Roger huffed out a breath. “The mighty Texas Ranger,” he muttered. “The whole damn lot of you are nothing but a bunch of gun-toting, self-righteous, macho cowboys.” He gave Clay’s boot an angry shove. “Would you get your damn foot off my chest? You’re restricting my air supply.”

“I’ll be happy to oblige—just as soon as you give me your word that you won’t repeat what transpired here tonight.”

“And why the hell would I want to make a promise like that?”

“Because a lady’s reputation is at stake,” Clay replied. He turned his head and gave Fiona a long look, one that sent a shiver chasing down her spine, then added, “And that lady happens to be my future wife.”

Clay stood with his hands braced on his hips, watching to make sure Roger didn’t have a change of heart before he made it to the parking lot.

“Well?” came Fiona’s indignant voice from behind him. “Are you going to stand there all night or are you going to hand me a towel?”

Clay glanced over his shoulder to find her still standing chin-deep in water. Though her hair floated in wet, tangled clumps around her shoulders and mascara was smeared beneath her eyes, she still managed to look beautiful, regal. Untouchable. But then she always had been. Especially for men like Clay Martin.

“Depends,” he replied, and turned to fully face her.

“On what?” she snapped impatiently.

“On how nicely you ask me for that towel.”

She jerked up her chin. “I’ll turn into a prune first.”

He lifted a shoulder. “Suit yourself.”

She glared at him a full five seconds, then narrowed her eyes in challenge and began pushing her way through the water toward the steps. Clay watched as first her bare shoulders appeared above the surface, then her chest. Water sluiced down her pampered flesh, leaving droplets to cling to the tips of her nipples, making them glitter like diamonds in the moonlight. Shaking his head, he dragged a towel from the back of a chair and moved to the edge of the pool. As she climbed the steps, he spread his arms, holding the towel open for her.

She stepped onto the tiles, then turned and waited, her chin tipped high, as if she were a queen, the towel her royal robe and Clay a lowly servant there to do her bidding. With a slowness meant to infuriate her, he draped the towel around her shoulders and brought the ends together, tucking them between her breasts.

He heard her sharp intake of breath as his forearms grazed her nipples, felt the swell of her breasts beneath the thick terry cloth. Unable to resist, he cupped his hands over her shoulders and dipped his mouth close to her ear. “Cold?”

Though he could feel the tension in her, the awareness, her expression revealed neither as she turned slowly in his arms.

“No,” she said in a voice set on a seduction. “Actually, I’m rather hot.” She stepped closer and pressed a fingertip against the center of his chest. Tipping her head to the side, she looked up at him through lashes still spiked with water and smiled. “Want to cool me off, Ranger?”

Her voice was breathy, seductive, but Clay knew her too well to fall for the coquettish act. “I suppose I could throw you back in the pool,” he offered.

He caught the flash of temper in her eyes before she masked it. Pretending indifference, she flicked a nail beneath his chin and turned from his arms. “Your loss, Ranger.”

Clay watched her walk away, unable to help noticing the provocative sway of her hips beneath the damp towel. Feeling a pang of sympathy for Roger, he shook his head and followed. “What were you trying to prove, Fiona?”

She turned and let the towel drop. “When?” she asked innocently.

Though it was difficult, Clay managed to keep his eyes on hers and not follow the towel’s descent. “Earlier with Roger. You can push a man only so far, you know, before he’s gonna expect you to deliver the goods.”

She struck a seductive pose. “So what’s your breaking point, Ranger?”

Clay slid his gaze slowly down her body, noting the puckered nipples, the tiny V of damp black lace that clung to her femininity. He shifted his gaze back to hers. “I don’t know. Want to test me and see?”

She pursed her lips and studied him a moment as if considering, then fluttered a hand and turned away. “I would, but I’d really hate to ruin your macho image.”

He snorted a laugh. “Yeah, right.” Stooping, he picked up the towel and held it out to her. “Who was the show for, Fiona? Me or your father?”

She snatched the towel from his hand. “Who said I was putting on a show?”

Clay pinched his khaki slacks just above the knees and sank down onto the foot of the lounge chair. “Call it an educated guess, but when a woman strips down to her unmentionables and persuades a man to go skinny-dipping with her, then kicks up a fuss when he tries to score…” He lifted his hands. “Well, that would make a person question the woman’s motives.”

She whipped the towel around her and flopped down on the chair beside him, angrily tucking the ends between her breasts. “You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you.”

He bit back a smile as he leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, and looked out over the pool. “Doesn’t take a genius to figure that one out.” He spared her a glance. “So who were you trying to piss off? Me or your father?”

She dropped her gaze to her lap, frowning as she plucked at a loose loop of thread on the towel. “You,” she admitted reluctantly. “Daddy’s a lost cause. Once he’s made his mind up about something, there’s no changing it.”

Clay nodded slowly, knowing she wasn’t exaggerating. Fiona was famous for her stubbornness, but as her father had said, she’d come by it honestly. She’d inherited it from him. “Sure appears that way.”

She continued to pluck at the loose thread, then angled her head to look at him suspiciously. “The one thing I can’t figure out is how he talked you into going along with this insane scheme of his.”

Clay looked away, narrowing his gaze on the water, reluctant to admit that it was greed that had motivated him. But if nothing else, Fiona deserved honesty from him, at least on this one aspect of his and Carson’s agreement.

“Money.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “Daddy paid you to marry me?”

He nodded.

“How much?”

“A hundred thousand.”

She shot to her feet. “A hundred thousand dollars!” she exclaimed.

At his nod, she whirled and stalked away. She stopped at the edge of the pool and slapped her arms across her chest, smoke all but coming out her ears.

“You should have held out for more,” she called over her shoulder. “I bet he’d have paid much more than a piddling hundred thousand to get rid of me.”

Hearing the hurt in her voice, the bitterness, Clay remained silent, unsure how to respond.

She spun to face him. “So when are we supposed to tie the knot?”

Clay lifted a shoulder. “He didn’t name a date.”

“Then let’s do it tonight.”

“Tonight?” he repeated in surprise.

“Yes, tonight. If I know Daddy, he’ll want a big church wedding. It’ll serve him right if we spoil his fun.”

A big church wedding? Clay hadn’t considered that possibility when he’d accepted Carson’s offer. The idea of a church full of people witnessing him promise to love, honor and cherish Fiona until death do them part was an image too brutal to consider.

“We’d have to go across the border into Mexico,” he said, mentally thinking through the details required for a rushed marriage. “It would take days to get the blood tests and license required by the state.”

“Mexico doesn’t require those things?”

“Depends on who you know.”

Fiona strode back to the lounge chair and ripped off the towel. “Fine,” she said tersely, and snatched up her pants. “The sooner we get this over with, the better, as far as I’m concerned.”

Clay shifted in the leather bucket seat, trying to find a more comfortable position for his backside. It was impossible. Compared to his truck’s roomy bench seat, the bucket seats in Fiona’s car seemed the size of peanut shells.

He should have insisted on taking his truck, he told himself. But one look at his mud-splattered pickup and Fiona had refused to put a foot inside and had demanded that they take her car to Mexico, instead.

The Mercedes, he thought bitterly, flexing his fingers on the luxury automobile’s leather-wrapped steering wheel. How ironic. Here he was driving the very car whose purchase had put Ford Carson over the edge, provoking him into arranging a marriage for his daughter and sentencing Clay to a two-month stint as her warden.

He glanced across the console at Fiona. She still assumed the same angry posture she had throughout their trip, with her face turned to the passenger window, her arms folded across her chest and her left shoulder hunched high against him, warding off any attempt he might have made at conversation.

Fine, he told himself, as he turned his gaze back to the road ahead. Let her sulk. His job was to teach her responsibility, not to entertain her. Keeping one hand on the wheel, he pulled his cell phone from the clip on his belt and quickly punched in Benito’s number again.

“We’ve cleared the border,” he told his contact, whom he’d called earlier that night to make the necessary arrangements for the marriage. “What’s your twenty?” He listened, scanning the dark road ahead, then said, “Yeah. I see you. Lead the way.” He pressed the disconnect button, then clipped the phone back at his waist.

A truck swerved onto the highway from a side road ahead, its headlights slicing through the darkness as it fishtailed onto the lane in front of them. Clay slowed, giving Benito the lead. He followed the rattletrap truck through the quiet streets, down a narrow alley and braked to a stop behind it. He climbed out of the car, giving Benito and the man who accompanied him a nod of greeting as the two approached the car.

“Hey, amigo,” Benito said, grinning and giving Clay a slap on the back. “Long time no see.”

Clay nodded. “Yeah. It’s been a while. Is everything ready?”

“Sí,” Benito assured him. He gestured toward a heavy door, set into the adobe wall. “The magistrate, he is waiting inside.” Clay glanced at the shadowed entrance, then braced a hand on top of the car and leaned to peer inside. “Okay, Fiona. This is it.”

Without sparing him a glance, she pushed open her door.

Somewhere along the way, she’d primped a little, removing the telltale signs of her skinny-dipping adventure. Probably when she’d gone into the service station where he’d stopped for gas, Clay decided. Her hair was dry now and wound on top of her head, a silver comb holding it in place. She’d also removed the mascara streaks from beneath her eyes and had slicked her lips with some glossy kiss-me color.

But if she’d made the effort for Clay, she’d wasted her time. It would take a hell of a lot more than a hairstyle and makeup to impress him.

But Benito didn’t seem to need anything more. He watched her climb from the car, his mouth gaping. “Mi Dios,” he murmured, unable to tear his gaze away. “This one, she is beautiful.” He glanced at Clay. “How did you ever talk a beautiful señorita like this into marrying an old hombre like you?”

Scowling, Clay started for the front of the car to meet her. “It was her father’s idea.”

He took Fiona by the elbow, intending to escort her inside, but she jerked free of his grasp. After giving him a scathing look, she strode toward the heavy wooden door, her nose in the air.

Chuckling, Benito moved to stand beside Clay, as he watched Fiona storm away. “She is a wild one, sí, señor?”

With a grunt, Clay followed her. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

The room they entered was small, the only illumination provided by two fat columns of wax set in iron sconces on the far wall. A long wooden table stood beneath the flickering candles, a silver crucifix jutting from its center. To the right of the crucifix lay a couple of sheets of paper—the official marriage documents, Clay assumed. On the wall to Clay’s left, a colorful drape of fabric covered an arched doorway.

As he noted the covering, the drape was pushed aside and a short, dark-skinned man entered the room. Benito quickly made the introductions. Clay shook the magistrate’s hand, but Fiona kept her arms stubbornly folded across her chest and her gaze fixed on the wall, refusing to acknowledge the introduction.

With a weary sigh, Clay said, “Let’s get this over with.”

The magistrate gave him a curious look, but moved to stand before the table and gestured for the others in the room to gather around him. Once again Clay took Fiona by the elbow to guide her into place. This time, surprisingly, she didn’t pull away.

The magistrate slipped a small leather-bound book from the folds of his serape and began the ceremony. Clay focused his gaze on the crucifix, trying not to think about the promises he made, as at the magistrate’s prompting, he offered the appropriate “I do’s.”

“Usted puede besar a su esposa.”

Clay snapped his gaze to the magistrate, then stole a glance at Fiona, wondering if she understood enough Spanish to realize that the magistrate had just given Clay permission to kiss his bride. He didn’t have to wonder long. She seared Clay with a look that would have stopped a herd of stampeding cattle in their tracks, then pushed past the magistrate and snatched the papers from the table.

“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.”

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