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
