First Night. Debra Webb
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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