Wild for You (2 page)

Clay downed his beer and left with him. Marcos seemed overly concerned about Clay getting along with his sister.

How much trouble could one girl be?

* * *

Marisol Calderon studied the strong, lean planes of her client's face. A tiny shiver teased her spine when she glanced at his intense black eyes, deep set and heavily rimmed by thick black lashes. He was looking at her as if he knew something private about her and it was a bit unsettling.

The guy looked so out of place in her salon it was almost comical. He sat before her with strong arms braced on the armchair wearing snug, faded Levi's and a black T-shirt that stretched across a hard-muscled chest and shoulders. His body exuded power in a sinewy way, not like a beefed up gym rat. His shoulder-length, pitch black hair was secured in a ponytail and a small scar marked his sharp left cheekbone on tanned skin.

She wondered if he was the guy who'd been bothering her with anonymous messages lately. When he'd entered her salon, Marisol had noticed his guarded stance and dark, watchful eyes. He had asked for her in a smoky voice that snared her attention.

Mentally propelling herself into action, she draped a plastic cape over his broad shoulders and slid the rubber band from his ponytail. She took a wide-toothed comb from her apron and ran it through his thick hair before generously slathering it with her homemade conditioner.

His head whipped around and firm lips parted to reveal strong, white teeth when he asked, "What are you doing?"

"Oh, sorry. I should have warned you it would be cold. I keep the mix in the fridge so it won't turn brown."

He went still. "What's the green slime you're putting on my head?" he asked, not amused.

Marisol had been thinking how hot he looked with his hair down, when that low, gravelly voice hit her below the knees.
Get a grip, silly, he's watching you
, she told herself.

She patted his rigid shoulder. "Hey, chill. It's my special all-natural conditioner. Your hair looked a little dry when you came in," she lied. In truth, it shined like volcanic glass.

"I asked for a haircut, not a beauty treatment," he said in a blunt tone.

"Don't worry. This fabulous conditioner is my special this week. It's included in the haircut and won't cost you a penny extra."

She normally didn't do hair treatments before getting the client's consent; she'd done it to keep him there long enough to find out if he was the mystery guy.

"I'm not worried about the cost." He looked suspicious. "What's in it? It stinks."

"Mashed avocado and olive oil," she said, smiling as she applied more conditioner.

He snorted. "I'd rather eat avocados."

"Me, too. I love guacamole." Marisol squelched a giggle at the sight of his tough, rangy body confined in the pink leather chair.
Better start asking questions
, she thought,
he looks ready to bolt.

"Did you say your name was Clay?" she asked, lightly massaging his scalp.

"Yeah."

"What do you do for a living?"

"Marisol!" the receptionist at the front desk called out. "Phone call."

Marisol smiled. "Don't go away. I'll be right back."

Clay's striking black eyes sent her an uncompromising message. "Hurry back or I'll wash it out myself."

Marisol tossed her short tumble of blond-streaked, honey-brown hair and shrugged her shoulders. He heard her mumble something in Spanish about him being impatient as she brushed by, pert backside swaying.

Clay observed Marisol from across the gleaming, art-deco style pink and black room as she chatted on the phone. When a male customer walked in, she hung up and greeted him with a kiss on the cheek before leading him to one of the stylists.

With head-turning curves sheathed in a tangerine mini dress and golden tanned legs perched on high-heeled sandals, there was nothing demure about Marisol as she flitted around the salon. Petite and practically bouncing with energy, Marisol seemed younger than twenty-nine. She had a heart-shaped face with sparkling amber eyes, a tiny cleft in her chin and a rosebud mouth that naturally curved upward giving her a decidedly mischievous air.

That one was going to be a handful.

Clay took inventory of the surroundings. Villabella Salon was spotlessly clean and smelled of fragrant candles. There were two other stylists busy with clients and a manicurist who was done up like a beauty queen working in the back of the small, thriving salon that also sold costume jewelry, hair accessories, and beauty products.

When the first drop of mashed avocado oozed down his neck, Clay squared his shoulders and rose from the chair, side-stepping the potted philodendron to his right as he strode toward the reception desk where she was yakking on the phone again.

Marisol's eyes widened when she saw him and she wisely terminated the call. "Sorry that took so long." She picked up a flowered plastic cap from the counter and walked toward him. "Let's put this cap over your hair and get you under the hair dryer to speed things up."

"Very funny. No cap and no hair dryer," he said, leveling a stern look at her.

"You have a great voice," she observed with an effervescent grin. "Sounds like gravel rubbing against marble."

Clay let out a strangled groan. "Get this stuff out of my hair. I feel like a walking salad and it's dripping down my neck."

"Oops, sorry about that." She wrapped a clean towel around his neck and glanced at her watch. "Come with me. You can sit there for the last five minutes of the treatment."

Clay lowered himself into the chair as she stood beside him and gave him her full attention. "How'd you find my salon? Did somebody recommend me?"

"No. I picked up one of your flyers in the lobby where I live. I was curious about the organic hair products you use," he said nearly choking on how silly that sounded.

She looked delighted. "Great! Where do you live?"

"A development called Porto Sereno. Do you know it?"

"Yes," she said after a pause.

He was glad when she didn't tell him that she also lived at Porto Sereno. Marcos would be relieved to hear she was being cautious. Clay wasn't keen on deceiving her, but Marcos had been adamant that Marisol not be told of their connection so she wouldn't refuse his help.

"Many of my beauty treatments come from the finest salons in Buenos Aires. We use natural beauty products made from fruits and vegetables," she said, gesturing to the glass shelves beside her. "Our customers always return for more. You'll see how shiny your hair is after just one treatment!"

"I can hardly wait," he grunted unenthusiastically.

Marisol chuckled. "I'll bet. You have a nice tan. Do you work outdoors?"

"Sometimes. I'm the new security director at Porto Sereno."

She looked surprised. "You are? Have you worked there long?"

"No. I was hired this month."

"The social director there is a client here. Maybe you know her. Sylvia Jennings?"

Smart girl, she was testing him. "No. Bill Gomez is the social director. From what he told me, he's been there since it was built."

"Really? Then Sylvia must work for him," Marisol said, smoothly covering up. "Do you like your job?"

He shrugged. "Yeah, sure. But I won't be there for long."

"Why not?"

"I recently took the Bar exam."

She gave him a dubious look. "You're a law student?"

"Yeah, I got a late start."

"Why do you want to be a lawyer?"

"I plan to be the best damn prosecuting attorney in Miami," he said, meaning every word. He crossed his arms over his chest and asked, "Isn't it time to wash out this goop?"

"It is," Marisol said, turning on the water. "Lean your head back so I can shampoo your hair." Clay enjoyed the feel of her fingertips on his scalp as they worked the last of the conditioner out in circulating movements.

"That feels great."
At least she gives a good shampoo
, he thought as she massaged his head, applying just enough pressure at his temples to relieve tension.

Marisol turned off the water and wrapped Clay's hair in a pink cotton towel, turban style, which he promptly pulled off. "Come," she said, motioning for him to follow her. She pointed to an empty chair. "You can sit there."

He tore his gaze from her undulating, shapely backside and followed her.

"Would you like an espresso or a cappuccino?" She gestured toward the back of the salon. "We have a fancy Italian machine that makes delicious coffee. Laila will be glad to make you one."

"No coffee, thanks. Just a haircut."

"Do you want to keep it long enough to pull back?"

"No. The ponytail goes. Give it a good trim."

Marisol stood behind him and scrutinized his features in the mirror before them. "Okay, but we'll keep your sideburns the same length. Your hair is straight and thick, so any style will look great," she said, combing his hair and dividing it into sections.

"Marisol!" the receptionist called out. "You have a delivery."

They watched as a deliveryman handed the receptionist a large bouquet of orchids and birds of paradise and walked out.

"Ooh, flowers! I'll be right back," Marisol said, leaving Clay with wet hair divided into sections held by bright colored metal clips.

She was a male magnet all right
, he thought, agreeing with Marcos as he took note of Marisol's provocative strut. The sassy sway of her perky bottom drew too much attention for her own good. Clay forced his gaze away to concentrate on her face as she read the card attached to the flowers. He noted with interest how her delight quickly turned to disgust.

When she returned clutching the card in her hand, he said, "Is today your birthday?"

"No." Marisol's top teeth dug into her lower lip as she opened the drawer before him and placed the card inside, facedown.

"Are the flowers from your boyfriend?" he asked casually.

"I don't have a boyfriend. They're from a friend." She avoided his probing gaze and Clay surmised she wasn't comfortable fibbing. With her gregarious personality, she was most likely an open book about everything.

"Marisol," the receptionist called out again. "You have a call."

"Take a message, Laila," Marisol said. "I'm busy."

"But it's your landlord and he says it's urgent!"

Marisol groaned. "Okay, be right there." She smiled at Clay. "I'm sorry about all the interruptions. Laila is new and she seems to think every call is urgent."

Clay leaned back in the chair. "No worries. Take your time."

Marisol hurried to the reception area and took the call.

While her back was turned, Clay reached inside the drawer and read the florist's card silently:

You're HOT and you're MINE. You will marry me.

The message was typed on a plain white card with no name of the florist shop. Clay put the card back in the drawer before Marisol could catch him reading it.

She returned a few seconds later, amber eyes flashing with annoyance.

"What's wrong?" Clay asked.

She swallowed. "It wasn't the landlord—it was the guy who sent the flowers."

"Didn't you say they were from a friend?"

She gave a dismissive wave of her hand. "They're not. I told you a little white lie," she said, sounding unrepentant. "That guy is no friend of mine. He's a pest and I can't seem to get rid of him."

"Who is it?"

"I don't know. Some coward hiding behind games, I guess. He's really beginning to annoy me," she said, reaching for her scissors.

"Have you contacted the police?"

"No, maybe I will later." She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin as she began to cut his hair. "I'm not going to let him ruin my day. Let's talk about something else, okay?"

"Sure. What are you doing tonight after you close shop?"

"I haven't decided yet. Why?"

"Would you like to have dinner with me?"

Marisol stared at Clay's firm lips as they eased upward and the grooves on either side deepened into dimples.
Dimples
. Who knew? Mother Nature had played a fast one on him by bestowing alluring indentations on an otherwise austere face. Entranced, her gaze gravitated to the invitation in his dark eyes and she almost agreed on the spot.

"Thanks... but I can't accept." She smiled to soften the rejection. "You seem nice, but I hardly know you."
Nice
was too mild a description for someone so formidable; she'd only said it to be polite.

Clay's smile faltered. His impromptu invitation had been out of character for him
,
she noted, intrigued.

"Ask me questions. Anything you like," he said calmly, not taking his eyes off her.

"Are you married?" He wasn't wearing a wedding band, but you never knew these days.

Black fire glistened in his eyes. "I wouldn't ask you out if I was."

"Glad to hear it."
More than glad,
she thought, surprised at the sharp look he'd shot her. So this one had integrity... any other time she would have accepted right away, but she had to be more cautious now. Clay's enigmatic presence fascinated her and she wanted to know more about him. "What's your last name?"

"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?"