Wild for You (7 page)

"I didn't say you do it on purpose. Just modify it. It's my job to protect you."

"Yeah, right," she mumbled.

When they reached the entrance, Marisol went to the locker room, leaving him behind. "I'll see you on the floor," she called out. "Kickboxing starts in five minutes if you care to join me."

Clay nixed it in favor of keeping a watchful eye on her from the office while he spoke to the receptionist. He got a computer printout of the male members who had come in that morning. When the class was over, he hung around the juice bar and watched Marisol through a glass wall. She seemed to know everyone in the free-weight room as she interspersed her workout with socializing.

It was obvious that Clay wasn't the only guy who found her appealing. Marisol was too damned cute for her own good. Her smile was infectious and her genuine friendliness, irresistible. She was also an outrageous flirt. When he noticed she had stopped working out and was surrounded by three guys, Clay decided she'd spent enough time socializing. His jaw tightened when he saw one of the bodybuilders reach over and pat Marisol's shapely hip. She grinned and said something to him and they laughed together. If he didn't intervene, that ape would have his paws all over her.

Clay walked up to them and placed a possessive arm around Marisol's slim waist. "Hey, baby
,"
he said, emphasizing the endearment with a gentle squeeze. "Finished with your workout?"

Marisol gave Clay a forced smile. "Oh, hi. I was wondering where you'd gone to. Guys, this is Clay, my... my boyfriend," she said, stumbling on the words. She glanced up at him and said, "Clay, meet Joe, Tony, and Pete," indicating each one with a casual wave of her hand.

"Hey." Clay nodded to them and gave Marisol's waist another gentle squeeze. "Let's go, hon."

"Okay." Turning to her friends, she said, "'Bye, guys, see you on Friday." Once out of their sight, she shrugged Clay's hand off her waist and walked ahead of him toward the locker room. "I can be ready in half an hour. How about you?" she said over her shoulder.

"Ten minutes. I'll read the paper while I wait."

A half hour later, showered and dressed for work, they headed for the parking lot where Clay gave Marisol safety precautions to follow throughout the day. "I need a complete list of the men who have been to your beauty salon this past month. Also, try to think of anybody you might have snubbed who would want to get back at you," he said.

"That's almost impossible. There are lots of guys whom I've dated only once and haven't wanted to see again. Problem is, I can't remember all of them."

Clay's straight black brows drew together as he regarded her with disbelief. "Are you telling me you randomly date and don't remember the guy's names?"

Marisol rolled her eyes. "Gosh, you make it sound so sordid. I don't go on
that
many dates. Sometimes, when I'm itching to dance, I go nightclubbing with Trini, the manicurist who works for me."

"I noticed her. The ex-beauty queen."

Marisol looked surprised. "How did you know?" When he didn't answer, she said, "Trini's had a really rough time getting over her break-up with her boyfriend, Ray. Since she loves to dance as much as I do, we've hit a few salsa clubs in South Beach. "

"Which ones?"

"I'll give you a list later. But any date I've been on, I've always insisted that the guy meet me where we're going," she said. "And I pay my own way the first time so he can't make any demands on me."

"Have there been many demands?" he asked, curious.

"That's none of your business."

"It is now," he said in a no-nonsense tone.

Marisol shrugged her slender shoulders. "If I don't like the guy, I don't give him my phone number. Since moving back to Miami, I haven't invited any of my dates over to my apartment." She heaved a weary sigh and said, "Listen, I'm not a floozy, but I'm no recluse either. I enjoy meeting new people and going to parties."

"Well, sunshine, you can kiss your party days good-bye."

Her mouth dropped open. "What does that mean?"

"You'd be asking for trouble if you went to a South Beach nightclub alone or even with your manicurist friend, now that this guy is obsessed with you. Try to think of anyone who's come on to you after you've said 'no'."

"There were some persistent ones, but I think we parted as friends."

Clay looked up at the sky and then back at her. "Get me a list of your male salon clients by this afternoon and we'll go over it after dinner tonight."

Marisol's face lit up."Oh? Are we having dinner together?"

"Yeah. I'll make you some of my famous stir-fry," he said.

"You're kidding."

"I never kid."

"No kidding."

Clay ignored her teasing remark. "Do you own a wok?"

"'Fraid not," she said with a sassy grin.

"We'll improvise. I'll be at your apartment at seven-twenty-nine tonight. In the meantime, here's where you can reach me if anything comes up." He handed her a paper with a phone number jotted on it. "See you tonight."

"Cool. I can't wait to taste your cooking. This bodyguard business has its perks." She turned and sauntered away and if he wasn't mistaken, she put a little extra jiggle in her dizzying saunter.

With a shake of his head to clear it, Clay watched Marisol get into her red convertible Audi and turn on the radio full blast as she backed out of her parking spot. He could hear her belting with Lady Gaga as she drove away. Clay trailed behind her and didn't miss the saucy wink she sent him as she glanced in her rearview mirror.

* * *

Late that afternoon in her salon, Marisol massaged the small of her back with both hands and stretched her neck from side to side. It had been a trying day. One of her clients had come in complaining that her husband hated her newly red hair and she wanted a refund. A model with baby-fine hair came in insisting on a choppy, layered cut that would work better on thick hair. When Marisol had tactfully explained that the cut wouldn't work for her type of hair, the girl had made a scene and accused her of being rude.

Marisol plopped down on the antique rose damask sofa in the waiting area and stifled a yawn. She hadn't slept much the previous night knowing Clay was in the living room. She should have slept soundly now that she had a bodyguard, but Clay's potent male presence had invaded her thoughts all night.

"Sometimes this job can really get to you," she said, doing a few shoulder rolls to ease the tension.

"I'm glad I just work here as a manicurist. I don't know how you can be polite to the rude ones," Trini said, from her nail station. "You should just tell them to bug off."

Trini was a former Venezuelan beauty queen who wore her long ebony hair in goddess waves and always had perfect make-up, including the feathery fake lashes that enhanced her big brown eyes. She was tall enough, but too plump, to make it as a fashion model, so she earned her living as a skilled manicurist and esthetician at the salon.

"If I did that we wouldn't have any clients left."

Trini shrugged. "Yeah, I guess you're right. I admire you for it."

"Thanks. Business is business and I can't afford to be sensitive. I plan to make this place a success, no matter who's against it."

Trini's eyes narrowed. "Who is against it?"

"Ivan the Terrible, our dear landlord."

"Oh him," Trini said, grimacing.

As soon as the words were out, Marisol regretted saying them. There was no sense in alarming Trini about her job. She had just broken up with her loser boyfriend, Ray, a month ago and had been despondent ever since. Marisol was glad Trini had finally left him, especially when his last vicious beating had landed her in the hospital. She hadn't had the heart to tell Trini that Ray had been at the salon recently, flirting with everyone, including her.

"Don't worry," Marisol said reassuringly. "I can handle Ivan even if he wants to practically double my rent when I renew the lease. He says he already has a client lined up for this space."

"Who?"

"He won't say, but I don't think he's bluffing."

"What are you going to do about it,
chica?
Why don't you ask your gorgeous brother for help?" Trini asked with a sly smile.

"I would never go to Marcos for something like this. I intend to fight back with some legal advice from an expert."

Trini's eyebrows arched upward, her curiosity piqued. "Who? Lawyers are expensive."

"Not this one. He just graduated from law school. I'm hoping I can get him to read my current lease as a favor. Then I'll know how to fight back."

Trini's eyes gleamed with interest. "Have I met him?"

"He's the hot guy I gave a haircut to yesterday. I don't know if you remember him, but he was the tall, dark and kinda mysterious looking."

Trini let out a whoop of delight. "I know exactly who you mean. And he is hawt!" She drawled, "Mami, he is sooo fine. Not like those
papi chulos
at the clubs. Next time recommend my services."

"Not this one, Trini, he's all mine. Besides, I don't see him going for a manicure." Marisol laughed at Trini's crestfallen expression. "When I get to know him better, I'll ask if he has a friend for you."

Trini's face lit up. "You do that,
chica.
I want one exactly like him."

"Who are you talking about?" Zara Griffin asked, entering the salon with a container of take-out food. Villabella Salon's most prolific hair stylist rocked a black, gamine hairstyle and an edgy little black dress paired with fishnet tights and high-heeled, black lace-up booties. Anyone else would have looked like a hooker in that get-up, but Zara managed to look like a chic waif.

"You're back again? Are you working late?" Marisol asked.

Zara flashed a broad, scarlet-glossed smile. "Yep, Felicia Todd is coming in at eight for the works—highights, lowlights and a new style."

"Nice," Marisol said, nodding with approval. Felicia Todd was a celebrity TV host and former fashion model. Money was no object for her as long as she left the salon looking fabulous.

"Score one for us. She dumped Randall's salon to join me here," Zara said, green eyes gleaming with triumph. "Ugh, how I hate calling it his salon!"

"I hear you," Marisol said sympathetically.

Emotionally and professionally gutted by her ex-husband Randall's betrayal, Zara had been hired by Marisol after she'd had to sell her half of the thriving beauty salon she owned with her ex when he divorced her for one of their clients. Out for revenge, Zara was determined to take back all her clients and stick it to Randall for being a two-timing jerk.

Marisol grabbed her overstuffed tote and headed toward the door. "I'm heading home, girls. Can you lock up for me, Zara?"

"Sure, but hold on. Who were you guys talking about when I got here?" Zara asked.

"Marisol has a new
lovee
," Trini teased in a sultry voice.

"Who is it?" Zara asked, turning to Marisol.

"Trini is exaggerating. I just met the guy, but he has promise," Marisol said lightly.

"Cool," Zara said. "Do you have a date tonight?"

"Kind of. I'll tell you more later." Marisol would have elaborated if she'd been alone with Zara, but she didn't because Trini adored gossip in any way shape or form. "Gotta go now."

"Bye," Zara called after her. "Have fun."

"Lucky you!" Trini added.

* * *

On the drive home, Marisol looked forward to Clay's meal. No guy had ever cooked for her. She envisioned kicking back and getting to know Clay a lot better.

Marisol was bent over her iPhone, distracted as she texted Laila and walked to her apartment door. When she reached the door, she stopped dead in her tracks at the dozen blood red roses lying in an open long white box on her doorstep.

"Read the card," a deep male voice grated behind her.

Chapter 4

Marisol lunged backward and stomped on his instep with her spiked heel. Several items hit the floor as she spun around and found Clay hunched over, clutching his foot.

"What the hell—" he roared.

"You!" she yelled and pushed his shoulder.

Clay teetered and reached for Marisol to steady himself, but she shook him off and they both toppled to the ground. Braced on his elbows above her, Clay's infuriated face hovered a few inches from hers. "Why did you do that?"

"You scared me!" she cried.

"I only asked you to read the message," he muttered, staring at her mouth.

Her heart pounded. "I thought you were the stalker! Did you send those roses?"
Of course he hadn't
, but she couldn't think of anything else to say as she licked her lips nervously.

"What do you think?" His gleaming eyes bored into hers and then returned to her moist mouth.

"I guess not." Her breathing turned shallow and erratic when she saw the blatant desire in Clay's midnight eyes.
Stay right there,
she ordered silently, savoring the heavy weight of his body pressed against hers. Breathless, she didn't move a muscle when his callused thumb stroked her cheek.

"I'm sorry I stomped on you, but your deep voice startled me," she whispered, wondering if he could hear her heart beating wildly beneath him.