Wild for You (13 page)

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.

"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.