An Arranged Marriage. Peggy Moreland
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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