An Arranged Marriage. Peggy MorelandЧитать онлайн книгу.
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,