* * *
Marisol froze when she felt the big hand on her shoulder. She opened her eyes and focused on Clay's face. "What are you doing here? Close your eyes!" she commanded.
"Hell, I have never seen such a sound sleeper," he grumbled, exasperated. "Didn't you hear me? I knocked on the door several times."
"Go away," she said, crossing both arms over her exposed breasts and drawing her knees up to hide her feminine parts from his line of vision.
Clay left and sprawled on the bed in frustration. He had only gone in to check on her because he'd thought something might be wrong. Marisol had been in the bathroom for nearly an hour, and after repeatedly knocking, she hadn't answered.
He tried to block out the vision of her creamy skin and the round, pink-tipped breasts cresting in the water. As he waited for her to emerge from the bathroom, he paced the room, his sex painfully hard with arousal as he imagined her naked body entwined with his.
Moments later, Marisol emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a white hotel robe.
"What's wrong? You look like a wasp stung your tail," he said, thinking she looked sexy in the oversized robe.
"I didn't expect to find you staring at me while I was stark naked in the tub. And don't talk about my tail. Good thing you didn't get a look at that, too," she added with an impish grin.
"I was not staring at you. If you didn't sleep like a dead person, I wouldn't have had to open the door in the first place," he said, defending his honor.
Marisol's eyes twinkled. "You're forgiven."
"I didn't say I was sorry."
"But you should have. I forgive you anyway." She perched beside him on the bed. "Is this for me?" she asked, reaching for a filled champagne flute.
"Yes."
"Thank you for spoiling me rotten with this beautiful room," she said, raising the glass in a toast.
"My pleasure," he said, his voice throaty as he clinked his glass with hers.
Marisol spread a bit of the creamy dulce de leche on a strawberry and popped it in her mouth. "This is sheer heaven. How did you arrange to have my favorite dessert here?"
He shrugged. "It wasn't too hard."
She finished her champagne and refilled their flutes. Lifting hers up high, she said, "Here's to you, Clay Blackthorne. You're more than a bodyguard. You're a treasure."
Clay gazed at her above the rim of the glass as he toasted, "And here's to you, Marisol. You fill every room with sunshine."
Marisol clinked her glass against Clay's and kissed his cheek. "Thank you." She closed her eyes and sipped the remaining champagne. Nibbling on a third strawberry, she asked softly, "Did you also arrange for the flowers?"
Clay gave a short laugh. "I guess I overdid the flowers."
"Not at all. They're exquisite. Thank you," she said, sighing happily. She refilled her glass of champagne. "Mmm, this is delicious. I've never felt so pampered."
Clay's hand detained Marisol's before the champagne flute reached her lips. "Better go easy on the champagne."
"Spoilsport," she protested, pushing his hand away. "We can't let this good bubbly go to waste." Marisol fanned herself. "Do you feel warm?"
"No," Clay lied, loosening his shirt around the collar. Truth to tell, he was hot all over just watching Marisol's moist, rosy mouth savor the ripe fruit. "Here, have another strawberry."
"I couldn't." Marisol patted her stomach and continued to sip the champagne. "I've had three already."
Marisol's seductive smile and her tawny skin looked golden against the white robe. Clay's gaze was drawn to her luminous amber eyes and her flushed mouth, devoid of lipstick and softened by champagne. He leaned forward for a taste of sweet strawberries, champagne, and Marisol's plush mouth. Her soft lips parted generously to allow the intimate stroking of his tongue on hers.
He leaned back against the headboard and pulled her up beside him, resting his hand on her bare thigh as his other stroked the velvety nape of her neck. Drawing her soft earlobe into his mouth, he sucked gently, smiling at her sharp intake of breath. He kissed her deeply, loving the way she moaned into his mouth and languidly rubbed her breasts against his chest.
"I'm wild for you," he rasped, inclining his head to kiss the top of her breasts.
"I'm wild for you, too," she whispered back. Clay's teeth lightly nipped her nipple over the robe's fabric and her back arched as she gave a shuddering moan. "I'm in the most wonderful dream and I never want to wake up," she murmured happily.
Clay's hands slid under the robe and gently squeezed her buttocks, enjoying her supple curves. His hands slid lower and clasped her thighs as his fingertips grazed the moistness at their juncture. With near savage urgency, he wanted her naked beneath him, to bury his hard erection deep inside her
Marisol's languorous eyes peered at him from beneath the veil of her long, curly lashes. "Make love to me," she said, her words a bit slurred.
Clay froze when he saw that her normally bright eyes were hazy. He wanted to make love to Marisol until she was limp and satiated, but she'd had three glasses of champagne in a row—too much for such a petite girl to handle at once.
Seeing she was vulnerable, he reined in his lust. "I can't, baby," he said reluctantly, removing his hands from her supple curves. Clay's brow beaded with sweat as he closed her robe before he gave into the temptation to part her sweet thighs and take her with slow, deep thrusts.
Marisol kissed his rigidly clamped jaw. "Why not?" she asked, gazing at him with wounded eyes. "Don't you want me?"
"More than you'll ever know." His throat felt clogged with despair as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. "But you've had too much champagne. If we continue, you'll regret it tomorrow and I'll hate myself for taking advantage of you," he said, calling on every ounce of discipline to hold back when she stroked his cheek with a feather light touch.
"You don't have to be so noble. It's not the champagne that's affecting me—it's you." Marisol placed her hands on either side of his face and kissed his cheeks, and then his eyes. "Make love to me, Clay," she urged.
Swearing under his breath, Clay rose from the bed and walked away, trying to tamp down the thick swell of desire. "Not tonight," he replied tersely, his back turned to her. He was damn hard and damn close to giving in to her request. Silence surrounded him while he reigned in his lust and when he finally turned to face her, Marisol was asleep.
Clay approached her, this time glad that she was such a heavy sleeper. He removed her robe and drank in the sight of her in a sheer white camisole and matching satin panties. His finger traced her red, swollen lips as his gaze slid over her round breasts down her taut belly to her slightly parted, creamy thighs. A sharp surge of lust nearly made him wake her up. Snatching his hand back, he drew the sheets over her and stalked to his side of the bed.
He stripped down to his briefs and remembered to keep his T-shirt on so she wouldn't see his tattoo. Climbing into bed, he lay beside her and smoothed back a silky strand of hair from her face. He caressed her slender throat and traced its delicate shape. It was agony not to strip her and caress her breasts or mold her round bottom with his hands. He wanted to see her nipples and feel them pebble under his tongue...
Abruptly, he jerked his hand back. He was out of control, damn it! Clay rose from the bed and paced furiously, refusing to glance at Marisol as she slept. He strode to the bathroom and took a long, cold shower and when he returned, Marisol was asleep on her stomach, oblivious to his torment.
Heaving a regretful sigh, Clay's thoughts turned to Marcos and how indebted he felt toward him for saving Jimmy's life. Years ago when Jimmy was having an asthmatic crisis, Clay had rushed him to the emergency room of Jackson Memorial Hospital where Marcos was a resident physician. Marcos had put Jimmy on a respirator immediately and he changed his medication. Later, he made changes in Jimmy's diet and encouraged him to take up swimming to strengthen his lungs. Now Jimmy participated in the Special Olympics, thanks to Marcos.
Clay lay awake for a long t
ime watching Marisol sleep. He had come to cherish everything about her, especially the way she interacted so lovingly with Jimmy. Her affection had been genuine, not patronizing, and Clay was touched at the normal way she interacted with Jimmy. He remembered her smiling at his little brother during dinner and telling him how happy she was that he was Clay's brother. At that moment, he had wanted to share the rest of his life with her.
She would make a wonderful mother someday.
His heart clenched into a painful knot in his chest at the reality of their situation. It rankled to admit that Marisol would have to marry someone else to have children. His gut twisted, reminding him that he would never have kids of his own. Jimmy was his only family now that his mother had passed away.
Clay squeezed his eyes shut to block the bitter memory of Jillian shouting at him, "It's not fair of you to blame me. You can't expect any woman to have your child with the genetic risk you carry!"
Sadly, he'd come to believe her callous prophesy.
Chapter 6
When dawn's first rays filtered through the sliver between the drawn curtains, Clay rose and dressed. He meditated and did Tai Chi, and then returned to the bedroom to find Marisol asleep on her stomach in the center of the bed, her satin panties molding her buttocks like a second skin. His gaze followed the graceful lines of her back as it dipped at the waistline before rising to the summit of her shapely tush and following the length of her legs. With one tawny leg bent at the knee, she clutched a pillow beneath her, curving her body over it.
Clay's blood heated at the sight and he grew hard, but he doggedly turned away and went to the living room to order room service. When it arrived, he returned and touched Marisol's foot to awaken her. When that didn't work, he tapped her upraised bottom. "Wake up."
Marisol buried her face in the pillow and ignored his summons. Another tap, this one more determined, got her attention. She turned over indignantly and sat up with the sheet pulled around her.
"A simple 'wake up' will do, Blackthorne," she chided before jumping out of bed and sprinting past him to the bathroom. "I'll just be a minute."
"Don't fall asleep or I'll come in and get you again." He chuckled when he heard her slam the door and lock it.
Ten minutes later, teeth brushed and face washed, Marisol joined Clay in the dining area. She took one look at the scrambled eggs and bacon and blanched, quickly covering them up. "I'll just have juice and black coffee."
Sipping the orange juice, she felt awkward beneath Clay's steady gaze. Oblivious to her discomfort, he polished off his breakfast with relish. How could he eat like that when her stomach was tied up in knots? Clay was acting as if nothing had happened last night, and she felt like screaming with frustration. She managed to scald her mouth and throat with a large gulp of coffee.
"Aren't you going to eat your eggs?" he asked mildly.
Marisol shook her head. "My stomach feels a little queasy."
Clay hitched a sardonic eyebrow. "Oh?"
"Yes, and don't say I told you so." Marisol's eyes focused on the delicate floral pattern of the coffee cup to avoid Clay's scrutiny. Seconds later, she looked up from her coffee cup and found him grinning openly. For someone so tough-looking, she seemed to easily coax a smile from him.
"Why are you smiling?" she asked, wondering how the evening had ended since she couldn't remember anything beyond his refusal to make love to her. She did recall feeling his hard erection pressed against her and that made it difficult to meet his gaze without blushing.
Clay's midnight eyes studied her with a familiarity that made her heart race. "How much do you remember about last night?"
"Enough to be slightly mortified. I should have listened to you. I don't handle that much champagne very well."
"You handled it beautifully." Clay reached across the table and held her cold hand in his warm one. "Don't worry. Nothing happened. You fell asleep before I could explain why we shouldn't make love." Black eyes met hers with regret. "One of the hardest things I've done was to turn away from you last night. But you had too much to drink and I didn't want to take advantage of you."
"I knew what I wanted," she said, refusing to deny it.
"I wanted the same, but we can't let that sidetrack us. Your safety is of utmost importance. If we step over that fragile boundary, there will be no turning back. We have to stick to business for now."
Feeling dejected, Marisol looked down and set her cup on the table. "I'll shower and get dressed so we can leave," she said with as much dignity as she could muster. She wouldn't let Clay realize how much his words had hurt her. The foolish optimist in her had hoped for more, a declaration of his feelings perhaps. But he hadn't uttered the most important words she'd wanted to hear and now she desperately needed to retreat to the bathroom to save face.
Marisol closed the door and squeezed her eyes shut as she leaned against it. When was she going to learn not to be so transparent? Why couldn't she have shown more restraint last night instead of throwing herself at Clay? She couldn't blame that on the champagne, regardless of its effect.
The truth, clearer now than ever, was that Marisol had wanted him with fierce desperation. In her opinion, lovemaking was the ultimate expression of love, yet if she said that to Clay, it would blow any chance of a relationship with him beyond his protection.
Marisol stepped inside the shower stall and soaped herself vigorously, then rinsed in the hot water, willing it to cleanse her feelings of rejection. By the time she emerged from the bathroom, she had changed into a yellow and white sundress. Wearing bright colors always lifted her spirits, and after thinking about it in the shower, she decided not to take his blunt words as a rejection and let them hurt her.
She would reach out to Clay and encourage him to open up to her. Only then would she understand what drove him to push her away whenever a glimmer of tenderness threatened his rigid emotional control.
She stepped out of the bathroom, aiming for a bright smile, even though she felt far from cheerful. "I'm ready. Let's go," she said.
Clay followed her lead, carrying their overnight bags out of the hotel. Marisol noticed that he seemed deeply preoccupied in his thoughts as he drove in silence. Stopping briefly at a hardware store, he purchased a double bolt lock for Marisol's front door and special locks for her sliding-glass doors.
Armed with the toolbox he kept in his trunk, Clay headed for Marisol's apartment with her trailing behind. When he reached her door, he stopped and placed a restraining arm across her chest, barring her entrance.
Marisol gave him a questioning look when he held a finger to his lips.
"Somebody picked the lock," he said in barely audible tone. "I'm going in first."
Every nerve in her body jiggled with fear as she nodded mutely and said a silent prayer for his safety.
Clay reached inside his jacket for his semi-automatic pistol. With the tip of the gun, he pushed open the door and cased both sides. He slid inside carefully and braced his legs apart, aiming his gun straight ahead. Clay motioned with his chin for Marisol to stay put. She stopped in midstride and waited as he searched her apartment.
Seconds later, Clay returned from the bedroom and came to Marisol's side. "Follow me, but don't touch anything."
The moment she entered her bedroom, Marisol blurted out, "Oh God, he was in my bedroom! I feel so violated."
She saw her ripped comforter on the floor and the eyelet-trimmed sheets shredded on her mattress. In the center of the rumpled bed was a broken Barbie doll, eerily clad in a torn, ivory dress, identical to Marisol's wedding dress. The doll's blond hair had been haphazardly chopped into a short do.
Her eyes, wide and unblinking, Marisol stared at the miniature replica of herself. She covered her mouth with shaky hands and she felt like she was going to be sick. "Look at the doll, Clay. It looks like me," she said anxiously. Her legs were leaden as she moved toward her bed, shock and pain reverberating through her quaking body.
Clay's jaw was granite. "Don't touch
anything," he said tersely. "Come on. I have to go home for my evidence kit. I'll call for a backup when we get there." He gripped her hand and practically dragged her outside.
When they returned to her apartment, Marisol's stomach churned with fear. She got busy making coffee so she wouldn't interrupt Clay while he and another tough-looking cop, Detective Payton worked the crime scene and dusted for fingerprints. Once Detective Payton completed a detailed report of the room and its contents, Clay dismissed him and joined Marisol in the kitchen.
"Has anyone visited you lately?" he asked taking a sip of the steaming mug of coffee she handed him.
"Only Laila and Trini have been here lately."
"I'll have to check their fingerprints against what I picked up, so I can isolate the stalker's prints."
"What else did you find?" Preparing herself for the worst, Marisol tried to keep her hands steadily wrapped around her mug of coffee.
"Another note," he bit out grimly.
Marisol took a deep breath. "Let me see it."
"Not now. It's in a plastic bag. I labeled all the items on your bed in bags for investigation."
The soft hairs at the back of her neck bristled ominously. "What did it say?"
Clay's face contorted with contempt. "It said that you're a slut for marrying me, and the only way you can escape being broken like the doll is to get out of Miami."
"That's bizarre. Now he wants me to leave Miami?" She chewed on her lower lip. "Was anything else on my bed besides the Barbie doll and the note?"
Clay hesitated. "Yes—a Polaroid of us when we arrived at the hotel last night. There was an X drawn over my face in what looks to be red lipstick."
She shuddered as horror mingled with outrage. "I'm fed up with this invasion of my life."
"Me, too. I won't stop until I catch the son of a bitch."
"Isn't there a law against stalking in Florida?" she asked.
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