Wild for You (5 page)

"Let the answering machine take it," he said.

Marisol swallowed hard as they listened to the muffled, guttural message:

"Did you like my presents? I'm getting hard just thinking of you squirming and begging."

Marisol clasped her shaking fingers on the table until her knuckles turned white.

Eyeing her hands, Clay refilled her wine glass. "Here, have some to calm your nerves," he said, dialing Alan again. When he finished questioning him, he hung up and turned to Marisol. "Alan hasn't admitted any visitors who weren't invited into the building since his shift started. And he didn't notice anyone strange leaving the building since I called him earlier. Your stalker might live in this building. Did you ever consider that?"

"Yes. The thought has crossed my mind," she admitted, quaking at the thought.

Clay's big hand covered her tightly clasped ones as he said soothingly, "I'm going to stay and protect you tonight."

Marisol gawked at him. "Do you honestly think I'd let you spend the night here?"

Clay patted her cold hands before removing his warm touch. "You'd be wise to accept."

"You're crazy. You know that?" she said, not wanting to admit she sure could use a bodyguard.

"Sunshine, you're crazy if you think I'm leaving you at the mercy of some pervert tonight. Lock your bedroom door and I'll sleep on the sofa."

She wished she could agree, but this was one time she wouldn't be rash about things. "I wouldn't consider letting a stranger sleep in my living room unless it was a matter of life and death."

"It could be a matter of life and death. You don't want to know how many stalkers hunt their victims down. Some end up murdered," he said grimly.

Murdered?
A chill ran up her spine, making her wish he hadn't said that. "I still don't know enough about you," she said, looking away so he wouldn't see how his strong, solid presence was unraveling her objections.

Clay noticed Marisol looked like she wanted to accept, but she didn't trust him enough. They'd just met and she was probably hesitating because of the undeniable pull going on between them. He decided to take another tactic to ease her mind and get her to agree more readily.

"I'm not a stranger. I'm only interested in your safety. You don't have to worry about me trying to seduce you. I prefer tall brunettes with long hair," he said, feeling like a callous ass when he said it.

That seemed to knock the air out of her sails. Marisol glowered at him. "Frankly, I don't care what you prefer or if you even find me attractive." She turned and she stiffly carried the dishes to the kitchen sink.

"Hey, don't get upset. I didn't say you're unattractive, just not my type," he said, regretting every word. Marisol was so damn appealing, he had to look away or she'd realize he was lying. "Let me protect you tonight. It's my job and you need a bodyguard."

She gave him a scornful look. "Bodyguard? You don't even have a weapon," she said, putting the left-over pizza in a zip-lock bag.

Clay's lips lifted into a humorless smile. "Trust me, I don't need one."

Marisol's fiery eyes squinted with suspicion. "Maybe I should be afraid of
you!"

Clay scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous. Tomorrow you should get a double bolt locks installed on your doors."

Her pretty face took on a mulish look and Clay remembered Marcos telling him his kid sister had a stubborn streak. "You don't have to worry about my safety. I'll tough it out tonight until I get the double bolt locks installed. And another thing," Marisol said, lifting her chin haughtily. "I've never cared for
older,
dark men myself. I prefer the blond surfer type."

"You're foolish not to take me up on my offer," Clay said, helping her clear the rest of the table, toting the dishes to the sink, while she carried the wine glasses.

"Maybe, especially since I'll be extra safe now that I know your preferences," she retorted.

He chucked her underneath her thrust-out chin. "Hey, now. If I'd known you'd take my comment so personally, I wouldn't have said it."

Marisol moved away from his touch. "Forget it. I guess I'm not used to your blunt style."

"Aren't you going to make coffee?" he asked, trying to stall long enough to convince her.

"Sorry, not tonight. You should leave now," she said, wiping the table in short jerky motions. When the phone rang, she dropped the cloth and stared at Clay, wide-eyed.

"Don't answer," Clay said and they listened as the caller's message kicked in:

"Bitch. I know you're not alone. Get rid of him. NOW."

The blood drained from Marisol's face as she hit the disconnect button and blurted out, "I've changed my mind. You can stay and protect me tonight."

"Good girl," Clay said, glad he'd won that battle. "Why don't you have caller ID?"

She gave him a look that said, "duh, what do you take me for, a fool?" as she put her fists on her hips. "I do have caller ID, but somehow he blocks it." Without elaborating, she went to her bedroom and returned with a set of sheets and two pillows and handed them to Clay.

"Good night. If I don't go to bed, I'll be worthless tomorrow." Nose in the air, Marisol picked up her discarded high-heeled sandals and retreated into her bedroom, firmly shutting and locking the door behind her.

Clay shook his head as he watched her strut away, her cute ass beckoning a second look. Alone in the living room, he threw the sheets and pillow on the sofa and sprawled on them. He lay back with his arms folded behind his neck and stared at the ceiling. It was only ten o'clock and he was restless.

Clay heard Marisol in the next room as she got ready for bed. The shower turned on for ten minutes, followed by the whirring sound of a hair dryer. Then silence. He wondered how she looked scrubbed clean of makeup and what she was wearing—a silk nightie or a T-shirt and panties?

A vision of her small pink tongue darting out to lick a spot of tomato sauce from her lower lip invaded his peace. He'd like to kiss her lush mouth until it was rosy and puffy and he got a good taste of her.

He punched the pillow. Damn it, he was getting hard just thinking about her. Marisol was too distracting and too desirable, a risky combination since she was also Marcos' kid sister and off-limits.

Clay hadn't been able to reach Marcos earlier and now it would be impossible to call him. Tomorrow would be soon enough to report his progress. He heard the sound of a TV playing behind Marisol's closed door and glanced at the TV set in front of him, but decided against turning it on. It was too early for the local news and he hated inane reality shows. He noticed a few fashion magazines and
The Miami Herald
in a large straw basket, but decided to forego reading.

He'd had a long day and it felt great simply to lay back and relax. He tried to fight the drowsiness overcoming him, but he eventually dozed off.

* * *

Clay awoke with a start and checked his watch. Ten-twenty-nine, and Marisol's television was still on. Feeling thirsty, he headed to the refrigerator and remembered how Marisol had abruptly ended dinner after he'd insisted on staying the night. He had wanted a cup of coffee, but she had cleared the table in a snit after what he'd said about preferring tall brunettes. Truth was Marisol's short, tousled locks suited her sassy personality perfectly and the way it tapered at the back of her neck left her delicate nape temptingly bare. Smiling to himself, he poured himself a glass of iced tea and then went over and knocked on Marisol's door.

"Hey, are you awake?"

"What do you want," she called back sweetly.

"Do you have any books or magazines I can read, other than the ones in the basket?"

"You'll find more magazines inside the ottoman beside the sofa."

"Thanks," he said, returning to the couch and lifting the ottoman's lid. Underneath the beauty and hairstyle magazines, he found an assortment of business magazines
.
Just as he reached for the
Business Week,
the lights went out and darkness engulfed the room.

Clay adjusted his eyes to the sudden darkness. Ears cocked, he listened intently. No sound came from Marisol's room. Concentrating on the shapes in the living room, he crept to the sliding-glass doors leading to a small balcony and peered outside. The whole building appeared to be blacked out.

Clay went back to Marisol's door and said, "Hey, you okay in there?"

There was silence on the other side of the door. Maybe she was in the bathroom. He waited a minute and then knocked harder. When she didn't answer, he tried the handle, only to remember she had locked the door hours earlier.

"Marisol, open the door," he said, knocking on it.

He waited a few seconds and when she didn't answer, he banged on the door. "Marisol, answer me, damn it!"

When she remained silent, Clay reached down and withdrew the semiautomatic 9 mm. Beretta strapped to his ankle. Backing up, he prepared to break the door down.

* * *

Immobilized by the pitch black darkness that engulfed the room, Marisol sat in bed and listened to Clay on the other side of her door and recalled how she'd been startled when she'd found him waiting at her door earlier tonight. She should have never let him inside her apartment. Come to think of it, she never even asked for his identification.

The minute he'd walked into her salon, she'd been drawn to his dark good looks; she'd found him mysterious in an exciting way, not a worrisome one... until now. What if Clay was a con artist? Or worse yet, what if he was dangerous? She shouldn't have let him talk her into spending the night. She hoped her impulsiveness hadn't landed her in hot water.

She broke out in a cold sweat when she remembered his boast, "Trust me, I don't need a weapon." What had he meant by that?
Calm down, don't panic
, she told herself. Alan had vouched for him. He'd said that Clay had been hired to beef up security and he had many years of experience to back him. Clay had been with her when the guy had called after sending the flowers to the salon and the package to her apartment. And Clay did not seem like a pervert. Not at all.

But what if he and Alan were in cahoots? The guy who called her at the salon today while Clay was waiting for a haircut could have been Alan! What did she really know about Alan? He'd only been working there less than a year.

Think fast!
She had to protect herself. Marisol's hands fumbled as she reached into her nightstand for a flashlight and her weapon. She almost tripped on her way to the door.

"Quit banging on the door," she called out before opening it.

Chapter 3

Marisol aimed her flashlight at Clay and her heart slammed against her chest when she saw the gun in his hand. She instantly zapped him with her stun gun and nearly fainted with relieve when he toppled forward like a palm tree in a hurricane.

The heavy flashlight wobbled in her trembling hands as she pointed it to where he lay face down on the carpet. Keeping her eye on him, she transferred her stun gun to the hand holding the flashlight and carefully removed Clay's pistol from his grip, putting it on the floor beside her. She tossed her stun gun on the bed before taking Clay's wallet from his back pocket and flipping it open as she aimed her flashlight at his identification.

A police I.D.!

Blessed relief washed over her. At least he wasn't the stalker.
Or was he?
A fresh wave of panic hit her.
It could be a fake I.D.
Marisol debated what to do: call the police and ask for information regarding Clay, or call Alan downstairs and have Clay physically removed. The second option seemed the most sensible, except what if she couldn't trust Alan either?

If she had Clay physically thrown out, she wouldn't get the answers she needed from him. While she stewed over what to do next, the power returned and Clay began to stir. She picked up his gun and tried to steady the tremor in her hands as she aimed it at his heart and waited for him to regain full consciousness.

After several long moments struggling to come to, Clay leaned on his forearms, causing his biceps to bulge as he lifted his body to a sitting position. "Put down the gun," he said with a harsh grunt, the veins in his corded neck straining.

"Not until I get some answers," she said, her voice coming out in squeaky pants between shallow breaths.

"If you can't control the shake in your hands, then slowly,
very slowly
, put the gun down on the bed and I'll answer your questions," he said, his voice low and rough.

"You can start by explaining your police I.D. You've been lying to me all along!" Marisol waved the gun at Clay. "Security director for this complex. Hah!"

Black fire radiated from his eyes. "Put down the gun.
Now
. I can arrest you for threatening an officer with a loaded firearm."

Well, she sure as heck didn't want to get arrested, she thought with disgust. Marisol put his gun down beside her and snorted when she heard Clay forcefully expel his pent-up breath.
He deserved what he got after the scare he'd just given her
, she thought, rejecting a pang of guilt as she observed him struggling to regain his strength. What could have prompted him to draw his gun?