"Just stalking someone is a first-degree misdemeanor. Aggravated stalking with the intent to harm, when the victim fears for her physical safety, is a third-degree felony."
"Does that mean jail?"
"Yes and a fine," he replied. "Before the bill was passed, the only protection was a restraining order, and when that expired, the stalker usually started up again on his victim."
"Why me?" she asked, shaken to the core by the stalker's latest threat.
A muscle ticked in Clay's taut jaw. "There's usually a pattern with the stalkers. They victimize somebody they think is unattainable and blame them for their failure in relationships or just life in general. I wish I could tell you this will be over soon, but I can't, at least not yet." He patted her shoulder with a gentle hand. "Check your whole apartment thoroughly for anything missing and concentrate on the bedroom area."
Marisol started systematically going through her apartment. "Clay," she called from the bedroom. "He stole my photo albums and some of my panties and bras!"
She came out to find him on the phone with Alan, questioning him. Clay's manner was terse and efficient as he focused solely on the crime. In grim silence, he installed the double bolt security lock on her front door.
"There," he grunted when he was finished. "Let's go."
"Where are we going?" she asked as he towed her down the hall and propelled her into the elevator. They got off on the ninth floor and Clay wordlessly led her down the corridor.
Marisol dug in her heels when they reached an apartment door. "Stop ignoring me," she ordered, irritated that he hadn't answered her question.
He looked surprised."I wasn't ignoring you. I want you to stay here in my apartment until I take this evidence into headquarters," he said quietly, opening the door.
"Oh, no, you don't. I'm going with you," she stated.
Clay mouth formed an intractable line. "No." He took her hand and led her inside.
"Why not?" she asked, releasing her hand from his grip.
"You'll get in the way."
"Who made you el jefe?" she said, annoyed by Clay's inflexible expression. "I'm the one being stalked. And I don't feel like staying here alone, Blackthorne!"
"Quit arguing." He leaned down to face her squarely, nose to nose. "Stay put till I get back. You'll be safer here." He handed her a small object that looked like a remote control. "This panic button is connected to the alarm. If you hear anything strange, press it and the police will come immediately." He kissed the tip of her nose, then turned his broad back and strode out of the apartment.
"Tyrant!" Marisol called after him as she kicked his black leather couch. She resented being left behind at such a crucial time and wanted to go to the precinct with him. As she tried to calm down, she considered what to do next. Circling the living room, she was surprised to note that it didn't look the least bit lived in. There were no homey touches, no plants, knickknacks or curtains.
Marisol entered his bedroom. On his dresser were two photographs. One was of a wedding picture of a smiling couple. The man looked like Clay, tall, broad-shouldered, and dark complexioned, but huskier. The slim woman beside him had black hair and smiling eyes, in a face made charming with deep dimples. They had to be Clay's parents.
Marisol turned her attention to the other photograph. She recognized Clay, at least twenty years younger, with his arm around Jimmy, who was a little boy in the picture. Her heart warmed at their expressions of brotherhood and strong, mutual love.
A surge of nostalgia welled up inside her as she suddenly missed her grandma and cousins in Buenos Aires. Marisol sighed deeply and wiped away the moistness from her eyes. There was no use in giving in to homesickness now. That would only weaken her resolve to make it on her own. She would make it a priority to try to Skype with Abuelita Coqui on Sunday.
Resuming her tour of Clay's apartment, she peeked into his closet. His clothes were hung up, but not in an orderly fashion. He definitely needed a woman's touch in his apartment. She was intrigued to find a sleek black guitar propped in the corner of the closet. His playing the guitar added another fascinating layer to his personality.
Marisol headed toward the bathroom to explore further. She lifted a bottle of aftershave from the counter, uncapped it, and inhaled deeply, remembering his heady evergreen scent. She closed her eyes. Last night Clay had kissed her until she thought she'd go mad wanting him, but he'd stopped short of making love to her.
Now he was acting like a general, giving orders and expecting them to be obeyed. He reminded her of an ornery, wounded bear and she wanted the old Clay back, cool, calm and in control.
She didn't know why she couldn't bring him around to her way of thinking. After all, she'd been handling an autocrat like Marcos all these years. Many times she had been a terrible nuisance, resenting the fact that he held the purse strings to her independence, but Marcos had usually given in as he strove to be fair.
Back in the living room, Marisol began to feel trapped by the stark white walls. No TV and nothing to do. She scrolled through her emails on her iPhone and answered them, but when she was finished, she got bored again. She had to get out of there or she'd go nuts. She wished she could get together with Zara and get her input on everything, but that was impossible. Zara was working her tail off because Marisol had run off and gotten married.
Grabbing her handbag, she made a split second decision. She would go for a drive to release some tension and return within an hour. Clay wouldn't even know she'd left. Taking one last look around, she dropped the panic button in her purse and left the confining apartment. Passing Alan on her way out, she told him she was going to run a quick errand.
As soon as Marisol got in her car, she opened the sun roof and drove until she spotted the Rickenbacker Causeway and crossed it, heading toward Key Biscayne. The surrounding ocean was a balm to her nerves as she turned up the volume of the radio and sang with Rhianna to lift her mood.
Miles and miles of blue water surrounded her on either side of the bridge making her feel a tad better. She envied the people basking in the sunshine on their colorful sailboats, seemingly oblivious to worries. Watching several small children playing along the shoreline, she wished for a child of her own with acute yearning.
Her thoughts turned to Clay and she figured she should call him to let him know she'd be back shortly. She glanced at her iPhone and saw it had run out of battery. She'd been in such a rush to leave to the hotel, she'd forgotten to pack her charger.
By the time she returned to Clay's apartment, a bit more than an hour had passed. She ran from the car into the building and got in the elevator, hoping she'd get there before him.
When she arrived, Clay stood in front of the door with a look of anguished fury. A tremor of guilt ran through Marisol, knowing it was her absence that had set him off.
"Where have you been?" he demanded. Thick brows drew together over piercing black eyes and anchored her with a look so incensed, she could barely hold his gaze and not squirm. "Why didn't you answer your phone?"
"I forgot to charge it last night and it ran out of battery. I was only gone for an hour," she said lamely, eyeing the thick vein throbbing in his neck.
"Come inside," he said through taut lips, opening the door for her.
She gave him an apologetic smile and hoped he'd cool down enough to listen to her. "I'm sorry I left, Clay, but I was feeling too claustrophobic cooped up in here." He remained silent, his gaze harsh. "I got in the car and it automatically led me to the beach. After that carefree drive, I feel better," she said, feeling like a dope when she realized how selfish that sounded.
"Do you have any idea how I felt when I didn't find you here?"Clay rasped low in his throat.
"I—" Before she could finish, he grabbed her shoulders and kissed her hard.
"Don't ever do that again," he gritted, releasing her abruptly.
Marisol's knees nearly buckled as she held onto his muscled biceps to steady herself. She dropped her gaze from the black fir
e in his eyes and softly mumbled, "Whoa." Her lips still stung from the onslaught of his possessive kiss.
He tilted her chin up and held her gaze. "This isn't a game, Marisol," he ground out. "I told you to stay put and I meant it. Your life is in danger."
"I was going insane locked up in here and bored out of my mind. How can you exist without a TV?" When he didn't answer, she stepped back. "Anyway, I took precautions. I have the panic button in my purse."
"It doesn't work outside the apartment."
"Oh, well, it's broad daylight. I wasn't planning on getting out of the car. I went for a short drive to clear my head."
With a look of disgust, he spoke in a low, controlled tone. "Do you know the range of a single slug? A rifle bullet can reach a target over a mile away. The stalker will try anything. Don't forget that for a minute."
"I didn't think he would shoot me! I had planned to be back before you returned."
"You should have never left. I can't protect you unless you do what I say." Releasing a harsh, ragged breath he rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head. "You're the only person I know who can bring me this close to losing my cool. In case you haven't forgotten, I'm your bodyguard and we're married." His hard countenance held no promise of softening. "I'm setting a few ground rules."
Defiance welled up inside Marisol as she lifted her chin indignantly. "What ground rules?" she demanded, stiffening before his towering form.
"Rule number one: you don't go anywhere without clearing it with me first. Rule number two: when I give you an order concerning your safety, you follow it. Otherwise, I'm outta here. You can find someone else to guard you."
Clay's hard stare convinced her that he was dead serious. She wanted to scream her frustration at taking orders from men. First Marcos, now Clay. She hated having to agree with his "ground rules", but she needed Clay more than ever—and not only as her bodyguard.
"As far as I'm concerned you can eat your ground rules," she said with more bravado than she felt.
Not backing down an inch, his tough gaze held her pinned. "Do you want someone else to take over this case, Marisol?"
"No," she said truthfully. He wasn't calling her sunshine anymore, not a good sign.
"Then?"
She sighed, knowing when she was beat. "Okay, I'll follow your damn rules, but only until this case is solved." She narrowed her eyes at him and asked, "Now, do I have permission to go to the bathroom, master?"
"Be my guest," he replied, making a sweeping motion to the bathroom door. His palm itched to smack her impudent little behind as she strutted by.
Marisol's impulsive little escape from his apartment had shaved ten years off his life, Clay thought, stunned by how much she meant to him. He'd be damned if he let her pull a stupid stunt like that again.
Once inside the bathroom, Marisol scowled at her image in the mirror. In the privacy of the bathroom, she regretted her reaction to Clay's justified anger. He was right; she had been reckless to go for a drive alone. She decided to apologize right away and smooth things over.
Entering Clay's bedroom, she found him sitting on the edge of the bed, organizing a black leather satchel.
"What are you doing?" she asked, sitting beside him.
"Restocking my evidence collection kit," he replied without looking up.
Marisol could see he was still angry with her. She touched his arm hesitantly, ready to make amends. When he turned to look at her, she gave him a contrite smile. "Clay, I acted rashly. I should never have left. It's just that I'm not used to checking in with anybody. I hate having to do that. I'm sorry."
Clay's gaze rested on Marisol's mouth for what seemed an eternity. "Apology accepted," he said finally and turned his attention back to his bag.
Marisol's hopes sank when he didn't kiss her. His eyes had practically devoured her mouth, yet he had pulled back with rigid control. She shifted her weight abruptly on the bed. "What are we doing today?" she asked brightly, ignoring his brush-off.
"I have work to do, but we'll go out to dinner tonight. Where do you go on the weekends?"
"That depends. If I want seafood, I head to Mack's in the Grove. It's cool that people can dock their boats and dine on the outside veranda. Have you ever been there?"
"No. Is that where your friends hang out?"
"Some of them." She gave him a curious look. "Why?"
Clay changed the roll of film in his camera. "That's where we'll go. Let's make it for seven."
"Okay, I need to call Zara and check on the salon. They were going to do makeovers this afternoon for a spread in Ocean Drive Magazine." When he didn't look up from his task, she said, "I'll use the phone in the kitchen."
The kitchen was a nice surprise because it was the only room in the apartment that wasn't impersonal. Sunlight streamed in over a row of fresh herbs in terra-cotta pots on the windowsill. At the end of the kitchen counter, a round wire basket brimmed with an assortment of plump peaches, plums, and ripe nectarines.
Marisol opened the refrigerator and found a gallon of low-fat milk, a pint of orange juice, green grapes, a wedge of provolone cheese and a loaf of pumpernickel bread on the shelves. Opening a drawer, she saw several raw vegetables, including some she didn't recognize.
She decided to get busy making lunch. She sliced the cheese put it on pumpernickel bread with a touch of Dijon mustard and then decorated each plate with a dill pickle spear. After rinsing the grapes, she placed them in a bowl and set it on the table.
When she finished making lunch, she called Zara, but Trini answered instead.
"I'm so glad you finally called in," Trini said, sounding impatient.
"Why? What's up?"
"Gabe called you this morning! I've been trying to reach you all day, but the calls are going straight to your voice mail."
"Sorry about that, my phone is out of juice." Marisol wondered if seeing Gabe at the restaurant last night hadn't been such a coincidence. "What did he say?"
"He wants to see you even though I told him you were married now. Don't worry, I didn't give him your new, unlisted number," Trini said.
"Good thinking."
"He was pretty insistent about wanting to see you."
Marisol groaned. "He's the last person I want to see. How are things going there?"
"We're good here. Kayla has been busy with the makeovers and Zara is doing a great job covering for you."
"Glad to hear it. Please remember to shut everything off when you lock up."
"Sure thing. How's your hot new husband?"
Marisol could just imagine the wicked grin on Trini's face. "He's wonderful," she said.
"Are you taking more time off for a honeymoon?"
"Eventually, but not now. We're having dinner at Mack's tonight and then we'll chill on the weekend."
"Chill? More like overheat," Trini teased.
Marisol laughed. "You're right about that. Tell everyone I say thanks for their hard work. See you all on Monday," she said before hanging up.
"Who were you talking about earlier?" Clay asked.
Marisol's head whipped around to find Clay standing behind her on bare feet. She hadn't heard him walk in during her conversation with Trini; the man moved like a phantom.
"Eavesdropping, detective?" she asked mildly.
"Who was it?" Clay asked, ignoring her bait.
"Gabe... my ex. Apparently he wants to see me."
"He could be the stalker."
"No way. He's too conceited and greedy. If he was sending me gifts and flowers, he'd want to take the credit for it. Gabe's a successful actor and a model now with a growing fan base."
Clay snorted. "How did you get mixed up with him in the first place?"
Marisol gave a dismissive shrug. "Who cares? It's over."
"Not exactly. He wants to make contact with you again," Clay reminded her. "Could be he's enjoying the cat and mouse game."
"Naaah, I don't think so," Marisol said dismissively.
"Where does he live?" Cl
ay asked.
"Last I heard he was living in South Beach. I'm pretty certain he's not the stalker. Besides, the voice over in the messages isn't his."
"There are ways to disguise your voice," Clay pointed out. "Why did you break off your engagement with him?"
Marisol shrugged. "He lured me in with his charm and good looks. Gabe is a professional gold-digger with a history of romancing wealthy women. And since my family is financially prominent in Argentina, he was interested... in my inheritance."
Clay's brows furrowed. "How did he know about it?"
Marisol merely shrugged. "I told him. We had talked about investing the money in a state-of-the-art beauty salon. I remember telling him that I would need at least two hundred thousand dollars to open the type of beauty salon I would be proud of. He offered to handle the business matters while I tended to the technical side of running the salon."
"What made you change your opinion about him?"
"I didn't want to believe the negative stuff Marcos had said about him, but a wealthy widow, old enough to be Gabe's mother, paid me a disturbing visit at the salon. She was in tears and blamed me for taking him away from her, even though he'd used up her money with his lavish spending habits. When I confronted Gabe, he laughed it off and said they'd only had a fling."
Marisol didn't let on that Gabe had had a fling with her mother, too, after Marisol had broken up with him. Whenever she thought of it, she felt betrayed, not so much by Gabe, but by her mother. Their affair was too disturbing to consider.
"What else?" Clay asked briskly.
"Around the same time, Marcos got evidence that Gabe was sleeping with a wealthy actress who was bankrolling his expensive tastes. So I dumped him."
"We'll soon find out if he's the stalker," Clay stated and then he eyed the sandwiches. "Looks good. Let's eat."
"Do you want a beer?" Marisol asked, handing him a cold Corona.
"Sure." Clay winked at her and consumed two sandwiches with gusto. When they finished lunch, he resumed working and Marisol cleaned up, relieved that Clay's mood had lightened.
Her thoughts drifted back to Gabe as she washed the dishes and dried them. She couldn't imagine why he would want to talk to her now. The last time she'd seen him, she'd made it clear that she never wanted to see or hear from him again.
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