First Night. Debra Webb
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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