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?"
"One younger brother. You?"
"An older one who watches over me like a hawk. I call him my smother brother." She enjoyed hearing Clay’s snort of laughter. It was best to let him believe she had a protective brother living in Miami and not in Naples. "Are you really a law student?" she asked, thinking he looked to be in his mid-thirties.
"Yes, I already graduated."
"Good. Maybe you can give me some advice on how to handle my greedy landlord."
He nodded. "We can discuss it over dinner tonight."
She’d love to, she thought, inescapably drawn to him. Clay was dark, handsome and compelling and smart—a too tempting combination. Marisol made him wait for a response while she blow-dried his hair, brushing the sides back to blend in with the hair over his neck, which she'd left slightly longer. When it was dry, she dipped a large sable brush in talcum powder and swept it across the back of his neck.
Handing him a round mirror so he could see the back of his hair, she asked, "How do you like it?"
He barely glanced at it. "Looks fine. What time do you close here?"
"Seven o'clock on week nights."
"Do you like Thai food?"
"Love it," she said, drawn into his inky black eyes.
"Good." He got up and handed her the plastic cape that had covered his shoulders. "There's a good Thai restaurant on Lincoln Road. How about I pick you up here at seven?"
Standing beside her, he towered over her by a foot. Not waiting for her answer, he ambled toward the reception area with pure masculine grace, his stride powerful, yet agile.
Marisol hastened to match his long strides. "I haven’t said I’ll go out with you."
He turned to face her and there was that maddening smile, deeply dimpled and impossible to resist.
"Will you?" he asked, quirking a thick brow.
Marisol looked away from Clay to collect her wits. He wasn’t like anyone she’d ever dated. He was all alpha male and totally out of place in her salon, yet he’d been a good sport and tolerated the avocado conditioner. She wouldn’t allow some guy’s anonymous messages to make her paranoid; it wasn’t in her nature. .
She smiled at Clay. "Yes, thanks, but we go in separate cars."
Clay nodded. "Fine."
"Until seven then." Marisol turned away and greeted her next client.
Clay paid the receptionist and stepped out into the blistering July afternoon. Heading toward the parking lot behind the salon, he pulled on aviator sunglasses to block the bright sunlight. Visions of Marisol invaded his mind as he got into his black 1980 Firebird. He had never met anyone so lively, with such an infectious grin. Despite her predicament, Marisol's personality was incredibly upbeat.
Clay’s sunglasses fogged up when he got in the steamy interior of the car, but he smiled wryly at the real reason for misty sunglasses—his recent session with the cute blonde. During the shampoo, his body had reacted instantly to Marisol’s round breasts hovering mere inches from his face. He’d closed his eyes, but all that charm packaged in a petite figure was too tantalizing to ignore, even with his eyes shut.
From the minute he’d set eyes on her, Marisol had bombarded his senses like a warm, bright ray of sunshine. Her lilting Argentine accent was melodious and damn sexy. Clay’s sex stirred at the hot memory of her pulse-pounding little strut and then he stopped cold. Knock it off. Marcos asked you to watch over his kid sister, not seduce her, he reminded himself.
A sexy, but naïve kid sister, he added wryly. Marisol might be good at running her business, but in her personal life, she was naïve. She’d agreed to go out with him too readily, without knowing who he was. Sure, she’d asked a few questions, but for someone getting anonymous flowers and messages from a potential stalker, she was too damned trusting.
Marcos wouldn't be happy to hear about it, Clay thought as he reached for his iPhone to call him. He glanced at his watch—four hours left before he was to meet her at the salon.
Clay returned to Marisol's salon that evening and almost mistook the receptionist, Laila, for Marisol as she locked the front door of the salon. There was a striking similarity in their hairstyles and coloring, but the resemblance ended there. When he reached her side, Clay noticed Laila had a fuller figure and was taller than Marisol.
"Where's Marisol?" he asked.
"Ack!" Laila whirled around with a hand on her heaving chest. "You scared me. You shouldn't sneak up on people like that," she said, staring at his feet. "I didn’t even hear you walk up!"
"I wasn't sneaking up on you. I’m Clay Blackthorne," he said, smiling so she’d calm down. She was probably skittish because of Marisol’s anonymous messages and gifts.
Laila gave him a small, hesitant smile. "I remember you were here this afternoon."
"That’s right. Marisol and I made plans for dinner. Is she inside?"
"No. Uhm." Laila’s brown eyes flickered uneasily. "Marisol left about fifteen minutes ago with a terrible migraine. She said she was going to run an errand before going home to lie down."
"Did she leave a message for me?" he asked, exasperated by the obvious—Marisol had changed her mind and stood him up.
Laila nodded. "She said she'd take a rain check on dinner with you."
"Al
l right, I'll come by tomorrow. Thanks for the message."
Clay drove directly to Marisol's apartment, thinking if he hurried, he might intercept her at the door and get some answers. She'd been too lively earlier to suddenly have such a bad headache that she had to go home and lie down. Why had she stood him up? The thought of foul play nagged at him.
He stood outside her apartment and jabbed her doorbell several times. No answer. He folded his arms and leaned his shoulder against the door frame. Twenty minutes later, he heard the elevator doors open and shut and then the sound of high heels tapping on the tile floor, signaling Marisol's arrival.
When Marisol caught sight of Clay, she turned and headed back to the elevator.
Clay caught up with her in seconds.
"What are you doing here?" she asked, taking a step backwards. She lost her balance and landed smack on her behind on the dry cleaning she'd just picked up. Mortified that she’d probably flashed him a good view of her lace panties, she grasped the hem of her short skirt and yanked it down to cover her thighs.
Clay helped her up. "I work here, remember? Laila told me you canceled because you weren’t feeling well, so I came by to check on you."
Goose bumps teased her arm where Clay's warm, steady hand held her. "Laila told you where I live?" she asked incredulously.
"She didn't have to. I know all the tenants' names." Still holding her arm, he gently pulled her closer. "Why did you stand me up tonight?" His low, rough-edged voice made her nerves tingle.
Stepping back from Clay’s unsettling nearness, she winced when pain jabbed her foot. "Ouch. I must’ve twisted my foot when I fell down. My head hurts, too," she added, so he wouldn’t think she’d made it up. "Didn’t Laila tell you I have a migraine?" She walked to her door, trying not to put pressure on her sore foot.
"That’s what she said, but you don't look sick to me." Clay got to the door before she did and waited, with crossed arms and a challenging look in his intense, dark eyes. "What’s going on?"
Marisol sighed. Clay didn’t look like he planned on budging from the door until she gave him some answers. "Well, if you must know, the weirdo called me again after you left. I called the police, but nobody there took me seriously. Apparently, the anonymous caller hasn't done anything illegal until he threatens bodily harm."
Wooed by You Page 20
