"Blackthorne."
"Blackthorne. I like it. Makes you sound like a pirate." Marisol grinned at the face he made. "Hey, I saw you roll your eyes. Where are you from?" she asked, lifting strands of his hair and snipping them. "You look Spanish."
"I was born in Miami. My mom's from Spain and my dad was American."
She tilted her head and examined his features. "So that's where you got those sharp cheekbones and hawk nose from. Do you speak Spanish?"
"Some. What about you?"
"Claro que si," she said, saying "of course" in Spanish while giving him an incredulous look. "Can't you tell by my accent? I was born in Argentina, but I went to college in Miami, and then moved to Naples, Florida. I moved back here last year."
"Why'd you move back to Miami?"
"It was too quiet there. Naples is a seasonal resort town where mostly senior citizens and young families vacation. Do you have any family here?"
"One younger brother. You?"
"An older one who watches over me like a hawk. I call him my smother brother." She enjoyed hearing Clay's snort of laughter. It was best to let him believe she had a protective brother living in Miami and not in Naples. "Are you really a law student?" she asked, thinking he looked to be in his mid-thirties.
"Yes, I already graduated."
"Good. Maybe you can give me some advice on how to handle my greedy landlord."
He nodded. "We can discuss it over dinner tonight."
She'd love to, she thought, inescapably drawn to him. Clay was dark, handsome and compelling and smart—a too tempting combination. Marisol made him wait for a response while she blow-dried his hair, brushing the sides back to blend in with the hair over his neck, which she'd left slightly longer. When it was dry, she dipped a large sable brush in talcum powder and swept it across the back of his neck.
Handing him a round mirror so he could see the back of his hair, she asked, "How do you like it?"
He barely glanced at it. "Looks fine. What time do you close here?"
"Seven o'clock on week nights."
"Do you like Thai food?"
"Love it," she said, drawn into his inky black eyes.
"Good." He got up and handed her the plastic cape that had covered his shoulders. "There's a good Thai restaurant on Lincoln Road. How about I pick you up here at seven?"
Standing beside her, he towered over her by a foot. Not waiting for her answer, he ambled toward the reception area with pure masculine grace, his stride powerful, yet agile.
Marisol hastened to match his long strides. "I haven't said I'll go out with you."
He turned to face her and there was that maddening smile, deeply dimpled and impossible to resist.
"Will you?" he asked, quirking a thick brow.
Marisol looked away from Clay to collect her wits. He wasn't like anyone she'd ever dated. He was all alpha male and totally out of place in her salon, yet he'd been a good sport and tolerated the avocado conditioner. She wouldn't allow some guy's anonymous messages to make her paranoid; it wasn't in her nature. .
She smiled at Clay. "Yes, thanks, but we go in separate cars."
Clay nodded. "Fine."
"Until seven then." Marisol turned away and greeted her next client.
Clay paid the receptionist and stepped out into the blistering July afternoon. Heading toward the parking lot behind the salon, he pulled on aviator sunglasses to block the bright sunlight. Visions of Marisol invaded his mind as he got into his black 1980 Firebird. He had never met anyone so lively, with such an infectious grin. Despite her predicament, Marisol's personality was incredibly upbeat.
Clay's sunglasses fogged up when he got in the steamy interior of the car, but he smiled wryly at the real reason for misty sunglasses—his recent session with the cute blonde. During the shampoo, his body had reacted instantly to Marisol's round breasts hovering mere inches from his face. He'd closed his eyes, but all that charm packaged in a petite figure was too tantalizing to ignore, even with his eyes shut.
From the minute he'd set eyes on her, Marisol had bombarded his senses like a warm, bright ray of sunshine. Her lilting Argentine accent was melodious and damn sexy. Clay's sex stirred at the hot memory of her pulse-pounding little strut and then he stopped cold. Knock it off. Marcos asked you to watch over his kid sister, not seduce her, he reminded himself.
A sexy, but naïve kid sister, he added wryly. Marisol might be good at running her business, but in her personal life, she was naïve. She'd agreed to go out with him too readily, without knowing who he was. Sure, she'd asked a few questions, but for someone getting anonymous flowers and messages from a potential stalker, she was too damned trusting.
Marcos wouldn't be happy to hear about it, Clay thought as he reached for his iPhone to call him. He glanced at his watch—four hours left before he was to meet her at the salon.
* * *
Clay returned to Marisol's salon that evening and almost mistook the receptionist, Laila, for Marisol as she locked the front door of the salon. There was a striking similarity in their hairstyles and coloring, but the resemblance ended there. When he reached her side, Clay noticed Laila had a fuller figure and was taller than Marisol.
"Where's Marisol?" he asked.
"Ack!" Laila whirled around with a hand on her heaving chest. "You scared me. You shouldn't sneak up on people like that," she said, staring at his feet. "I didn't even hear you walk up!"
"I wasn't sneaking up on you. I'm Clay Blackthorne," he said, smiling so she'd calm down. She was probably skittish because of Marisol's anonymous messages and gifts.
Laila gave him a small, hesitant smile. "I remember you were here this afternoon."
"That's right. Marisol and I made plans for dinner. Is she inside?"
"No. Uhm." Laila's brown eyes flickered uneasily. "Marisol left about fifteen minutes ago with a terrible migraine. She said she was going to run an errand before going home to lie down."
"Did she leave a message for me?" he asked, exasperated by the obvious—Marisol had changed her mind and stood him up.
Laila nodded. "She said she'd take a rain check on dinner with you."
"All right, I'll come by tomorrow. Thanks for the message."
Clay drove directly to Marisol's apartment, thinking if he hurried, he might intercept her at the door and get some answers. She'd been too lively earlier to suddenly have such a bad headache that she had to go home and lie down. Why had she stood him up? The thought of foul play nagged at him.
He stood outside her apartment and jabbed her doorbell several times. No answer. He folded his arms and leaned his shoulder against the door frame. Twenty minutes later, he heard the elevator doors open and shut and then the sound of high heels tapping on the tile floor, signaling Marisol's arrival.
* * *
When Marisol caught sight of Clay, she turned and headed back to the elevator.
Clay caught up with her in seconds.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, taking a step backwards. She lost her balance and landed smack on her behind on the dry cleaning she'd just picked up. Mortified that she'd probably flashed him a good view of her lace panties, she grasped the hem of her short skirt and yanked it down to cover her thighs.
Clay helped her up. "I work here, remember? Laila told me you canceled because you weren't feeling well, so I came by to check on you."
Goose bumps teased her arm where Clay's warm, steady hand held her. "Laila told you where I live?" she asked incredulously.
"She didn't have to. I know all the tenants' names." Still holding her arm, he gently pulled her closer. "Why did you stand me up tonight?" His low, rough-edged voice made her nerves tingle.
Stepping back from Clay's unsettling nearness, she winced when pain jabbed her foot. "Ouch. I must've twisted my foot when I fell down. My head hurts, too," she added, so he wouldn't think she'd made it up. "Didn't Laila tell you I have a migraine?" She walked to her door, trying not to put pressure on her sore foot.
"That's wh
at she said, but you don't look sick to me." Clay got to the door before she did and waited, with crossed arms and a challenging look in his intense, dark eyes. "What's going on?"
Marisol sighed. Clay didn't look like he planned on budging from the door until she gave him some answers. "Well, if you must know, the weirdo called me again after you left. I called the police, but nobody there took me seriously. Apparently, the anonymous caller hasn't done anything illegal until he threatens bodily harm."
A muscle ticked in Clay's jaw. "Unfortunately, it's true. Even though aggravated stalking is considered a felony in Florida, sending flowers and notes doesn't constitute a crime unless there's proof that the person is out to physically harm you."
"You sound like the detective I talked to," she muttered. "Anyway, after that depressing bit of information, I regretted accepting your dinner invitation so impulsively." She paused and studied his impassive face. "I decided to ask the doorman about you first."
"How did I check out?"
"Pretty good, considering you're new, but you'll still have to prove yourself," she said lightly.
Clay gave a muffled snort.
Marisol smiled. "Actually, Alan raved so much about your qualifications, I couldn't shut him up."
"Alan's a good guy. Aren't you going to open your door?" he inquired calmly.
Marisol's hand fumbled inside her handbag. "I need to clean out this purse." After a few moments rummaging for her keys, she smiled triumphantly. "Here they are!" When she leaned down to pick up her dry cleaning, her left leg almost buckled when she put weight on her foot. "Whoops. I'd better get off these heels."
"Here, lean on me," Clay said, picking up her dry cleaning and holding his arm out for her.
"No, thanks. I'll take that," she said, taking the plastic bag from him. She waited for him to leave before she unlocked the door.
"You can't even stand without hurting your foot. Let me help you inside and I'll order pizza for us."
Marisol started to say no, but her growling stomach won out. "Okay, but only because Alan vouched for you." She braced her weight on her uninjured foot and opened the door. "Come in."
Clay folded the dry cleaning over one arm, and then lifted her in his arms and effortlessly carried her inside.
"Hello? Aren't you overdoing it a bit? I can walk you know," she protested, even though the ride in his strong arms made her pulse race. God, he smelled delicious—the heady mixture of evergreen and maleness sent lusty shivers skittering through her. Her face was close to Clay's lean jaw and she was sorely tempted to run her finger along the groove next to his mouth just to see it deepen into a dimple. What a beautifully sculpted mouth, she thought, perfect for slow, deep kisses...
Clay closed the door with his foot and glanced around her living room. "You like color, huh?"
"Yes, lots of it," she said, chasing away her hot fantasy with a gesture toward the lemon colored walls.
He strode to the center of her living room and plunked her down on the sea grass green sectional.
Marisol kicked off her high-heeled sandals and wiggled her toes. "Ah, what a relief!"
Clay sat beside her and stretched his legs in front of him, crossing one ankle over his knee as he observed Marisol from beneath hooded lids.
"Would you like a glass of wine?" she asked. "I don't have any beer, but I can offer you Merlot or Malbec."
"Malbec sounds good. Stay put and rest your foot. I'll get it when I order the pizza. What do you want on it?"
"Everything, including anchovies. That is, if you like them, too."
"I do." Clay ordered the pizza and then joined her on the sectional. "How's your foot?"
Marisol stood to test it. "Much better now that I'm off the high heels. Not even a twinge." She went to the kitchen and returned with two glasses of wine, aware of Clay's leisurely scrutiny of her body.
Talk about a once-over, she thought, her skin heating up everywhere Clay's glance had grazed. If his dark-eyed perusal made her tingle warmly, how would his large hands feel on her body?
"Why are you looking at me that way?" she asked, calling him on it.
Clay took the wine glass from her and drank deeply before setting it on the coffee table. "I was just thinking how small you are without your high heels."
"Oh, that," she said, deflated. She wrinkled her nose and waved a hand in dismissal. "I hate being short, so I wear high heels."
He looked perplexed. "There's nothing wrong with your height," he said, pleasing her. "I don't see why you bother."
"You would if you were just five two, instead of six two," she replied, grinning. "On high heels, I don't feel at such a disadvantage next to the fashion giraffes. That's what I call the models who come into my salon."
"I have a feeling you can hold your own with those giraffes, but I see your point." His expression suddenly grew somber. "Did you check to see if you have any messages?"
"Not yet. I'll check my answering machine later. I don't feel like dealing with another weird message."
"What does the anonymous caller's voice sound like?"
"It's always muffled, but sometimes it's high-pitched and nasal and other times it sounds deeper. For the past few weeks, he's called my home number and left messages on my recording machine. I changed my number, but he somehow got my unlisted one. Today was the first time he called me at work."
"What did he say on the last call?"
She grimaced. "What he always says. That I belong to him and he's going to marry me. It's bizarre and creepy."
"Do you ever talk to him?"
Did he think she was dumb? "Of course not! I always hang up on him."
Clay nodded. "Good."
Marisol sighed. She didn't want to waste the evening discussing the anonymous guy complicating her life. All she wanted to do was curl up on the sofa and get to know the hot guy looking at her with gleaming black eyes. "You can take your shoes off, too, if you like. Get comfortable."
"Don't you have any idea who it might be?" he asked, sticking to business.
Marisol shrugged and took a sip of wine. "Not a clue. I meet a lot of people at my shop and at the gym where I work out. I can't narrow it down to any guy in particular." She paused and regarded him with a warm smile. "You seem very interested in whoever is harassing me."
"It's my job."
Marisol tilted her head and peered at him through her lashes. "Is that all?"
"Yes." Liar. He was downplaying it, but she could see the spark of attraction in his eyes when he thought she wasn't looking.
She rose from the couch and noted how his dark gaze migrated to her breasts when she put her hands on her waist and arched her back in a long stretch. "The pizza should be here soon. Time to get the table ready," she said, and walked to the kitchen.
He followed her and said, "Need any help?"
She smiled as she reached for her iPod. "Nope, but thanks for offering. You can keep me company while I make the salad." Marisol connected the iPod to the speaker and pressed play. "Shakira always gives me a boost of energy."
Marisol sang and grooved to the music while she prepared a mixed baby greens salad with cherry tomatoes, fennel and kalamata olives and drizzled it with honey Dijon balsamic vinaigrette.
"Looks good. Do you like to cook?"
"Sometimes, if I get inspired. I learned from the best, my Abuelita Coqui."
"Who's that?"
"My grandma in Buenos Aires. She's my dad's mom." Marisol sighed wistfully. "I miss her most around the holidays. She makes the best empanadas at Christmastime."
"What kind?" he asked, surprising her that he wanted to know about the empanadas.
"Flaky oven pastries filled with savory meat and raisins and olives." Marisol tossed the salad and tasted a baby green lettuce leaf, thinking the dressing came out just right. "Last year I couldn't go home for Christmas because I'd just opened my business." The melancholy memory tugged at her heart. "I wish she could visit here more often, but even though she's eighty-three years
young, the long plane ride over is tough on her. We usually Skype on Sundays, but it's not the same as being able to pop in and visit her."
"Do your parents live in Argentina, too?"
"No, but we're not close anyway. My mom left us when I was little. She ran off with my dad's best friend."
He regarded her with a pensive look. "That must have been rough on you."
Marisol shrugged. "I was little. Papi remarried a woman who didn't want kids either, like my loving mom didn't." She made a wry face to cover up how much it hurt her to admit. She'd been lucky to have a loving grandmother raise her. "My brother witnessed most of their fights and would have been shipped off to boarding school if Abuelita hadn't intervened and taken us in." She noticed he was staring at her as if trying to figure her out. "I know it sounds like I had a tragic childhood, but it wasn't like that."
"I didn't think so." The corners of Clay's firm mouth twitched. "You're too cheerful for someone who had."
"That's my natural disposition. Anyway, I was too young to notice all the bad stuff going on. Papi lives in Spain now with his new trophy wife and I'm embarrassed to tell you that my dear Mama's taste in men has turned cougarish," she said with a pained expression.
Marisol refrained from revealing that after she'd broken up with her ex-fiancé, her indiscreet mom had chased after him. It was way too much information. She later learned they'd had a brief fling, too. That's when she stopped communicating with her toxic mom and life improved. "Now that I've aired my family's dirty laundry, tell me about yours."
Clay looked about to say something when the doorbell rang.
"Ha, saved by the bell," Marisol said, as she put the salad bowl in the center of the table. Clay answered the door and shoved a few extra dollars into the pizza delivery man's hand. He returned with the large carton and set it on the end of the table.
Marisol peeked inside. "Looks delish. I'm famished, let's eat."
She served Clay a slice and helped herself to another. As she chewed, she noticed him watching her lips beneath hooded lids and when his midnight eyes met hers, a warm flush spread through her making her breath quicken. She looked away from his seductive eyes and busied herself filling their salad bowls.
Wild for You Page 2