Marrying for King's Millions / The Spanish Aristocrat's Woman. Maureen Child

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      Chapter One

      Marlie’s eyes popped open.

      Something had wakened her. What?

      And then she knew.

      Coming from nowhere, from everywhere, a soft, elongated groan seemed to fill the hotel room. With her heart slowing to a shallow, desperate chugging, Marlie held her breath, which wasn’t easy when what she really wanted to do was scream.

      Inch by cautious inch, she sat up to peer into the darkness, but only the clock on the bedside table had any substance. Twelve thirty-six, it declared precisely in bilious, luminescent green.

      Another soft groan floated into the darkness and Marlie gasped, yet squint as she might, she couldn’t see a thing.

      Clutching the blankets to her chin, she considered hurling them over her head. Hey, it worked, didn’t it? Certainly the maneuver had taken care of monsters when she was a kid.

      The eerie sound began again, starting on a soft note then gathering strength for another stretch of oral misery. Yep, she was heading under the covers.

      Suddenly, however, the building ooo-ooohs snorted and strangled and gasped themselves into an explosive and decidedly damp Ker-choo!

      Ghosts don’t sneeze!

      Without thinking, Marlie reached out a hand and switched on the bedside lamp.

      The room was empty.

      Her gaze swung to the door, but the chain was still on, the deadbolt still in place. The room’s one window was up, but only about three inches, the exact amount Marlie had raised it. Surely no self-respecting intruder would come through a window, then close it behind him once he was in the room. Besides, she was on the second floor.

      The second double bed, a match to the old-fashioned iron one she slept in, was a mess of sheets and blankets, the way it had been when she arrived only a half hour before. Marlie hadn’t minded.

      Her friend Jill’s blithe assertion that she wouldn’t need reservations had been sadly mistaken. A large amateur astronomy group was in the area and the stargazers who weren’t camping filled every available room in town.

      Marlie had tried every hotel in Fort Davis, but only Ann, the desk clerk at the Hotel Limpia, had taken pity on her after one look at Marlie’s exhausted face.

      By chance, the Limpia did have a room, Ann told her. It seemed its former occupant had checked in but left the room almost immediately. Unfortunately, he’d been involved in an automobile accident and was now in the hospital.

      Since the room had been secured with a credit card but not actually paid for, Marlie could have it if she didn’t mind it being briefly used by someone else and therefore not in the hotel’s usual pristine condition.

      Marlie didn’t mind, but would the former occupant?

      Ann had laughed, saying the man was a local and an old school friend who would like even less being charged for a room he didn’t use.

      Breathing a sigh of relief, Marlie took it.

      When she was shown to the room at the end of the old-fashioned hall upstairs—a double; the man, too, had taken what he could get—a duffel bag still sat on the floor beside one of the two beds. The bed itself was heavily disarranged, but when Ann went to straighten it, Marlie told her not to bother. She would be sleeping in the other one anyway.

      The desk clerk left, taking the man’s bag and toiletries with her and giving a last apology for the used towels in the bathroom. There were clean ones in the cabinet.

      By then so tired she felt like a wet noodle, Marlie simply pulled off her clothes, slathered herself with lotion and tumbled into the untouched bed. She was not so exhausted, however, that she hadn’t known for a positive fact there was no one in the room but herself.

      Yet the moan had sounded so close.

      Slowly, cautiously, Marlie leaned over the edge of her bed to peer under it.

      Nada. Not even a dust bunny.

      But while she was bent over, practically standing on her head with her rump still on the mattress, another massive sneeze made her jump so hard she had to catch herself to keep from tumbling onto the floor. She whipped upright, only to hear a sniff of what clearly had to be congestion…then, incredibly, the sound of someone honking into a handkerchief or tissue.

      Another moan, a short one this time. A sigh. Another sniff.

      Silence.

      And there was no one but herself in the room!

      Absolutely stunned, Marlie leaned slowly back against the pillows—and reality struck.

      This was an old hotel, built around the turn of the century, Ann had said. Old hotels had thin walls. A man—it was definitely a masculine sneeze—in the next room had a cold and didn’t mind moaning and groaning about it.

      Mystery solved.

      Letting out a relieved sigh and feeling a little foolish, Marlie clicked off the lamp and snuggled back under the warmth of the covers.

      But just as her eyes drifted blissfully shut, she heard a sniff and another low moan, though now the sounds seemed muffled, as if whoever it was had turned his face into a pillow.

      Thanks be for that, Marlie thought sleepily, and did no more thinking at all until she awoke early the next morning to the sound of birdsong and what Fort Davis called traffic.

      Caid swung his legs over the side of the bed and immediately clutched his head with both hands to keep it anchored to his shoulders.

      God, it hurt. He probably had a mild concussion.

      Too bad. He didn’t have time to see a doctor. What would a doctor tell him anyway but to stay quiet, drink plenty of liquids, etcetera, and don’t take any naps? But, though he didn’t remember actually getting into bed, he had slept and hadn’t wakened up dead, so no problem there except the headache from hell.

      And his allergies giving him fits.

      The thought of breakfast made him queasy, but he’d find coffee and an aspirin at The Drugstore before heading on to the bank and his appointment with Miles Durig.

      When he stood, however, the room tilted and it took a moment of standing with his eyes squeezed shut before the floor settled down.

      When he could open them, the first thing his gaze landed on was the clock. Holy smoke, it was 9:05! He was already five minutes late.

      Where the hell was his duffel bag? He needed fresh clothes. The shirt he’d worn yesterday had bloodstains all over the front and shoulders. So where was his bag, dammit? He’d left it by the bed before going back to the ranch yesterday afternoon.

      Striding to the old-fashioned wardrobe, swallowing bile induced by his pounding head, Caid yanked open one of its two doors.

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