A muscle ticked in Clay’s jaw. "Unfortunately, it's true. Even though aggravated stalking is considered a felony in Florida, sending flowers and notes doesn't constitute a crime unless there's proof that the person is out to physically harm you."
"You sound like the detective I talked to," she muttered. "Anyway, after that depressing bit of information, I regretted accepting your dinner invitation so impulsively." She paused and studied his impassive face. "I decided to ask the doorman about you first."
"How did I check out?"
"Pretty good, considering you’re new, but you’ll still have to prove yourself," she said lightly.
Clay gave a muffled snort.
Marisol smiled. "Actually, Alan raved so much about your qualifications, I couldn't shut him up."
"Alan's a good guy. Aren’t you going to open your door?" he inquired calmly.
Marisol’s hand fumbled inside her handbag. "I need to clean out this purse." After a few moments rummaging for her keys, she smiled triumphantly. "Here they are!" When she leaned down to pick up her dry cleaning, her left leg almost buckled when she put weight on her foot. "Whoops. I'd better get off these heels."
"Here, lean on me," Clay said, picking up her dry cleaning and holding his arm out for her.
"No, thanks. I’ll take that," she said, taking the plastic bag from him. She waited for him to leave before she unlocked the door.
"You can't even stand without hurting your foot. Let me help you inside and I’ll order pizza for us."
Marisol started to say no, but her growling stomach won out. "Okay, but only because Alan vouched for you." She braced her weight on her uninjured foot and opened the door. "Come in."
Clay folded the dry cleaning over one arm, and then lifted her in his arms and effortlessly carried her inside.
"Hello? Aren’t you overdoing it a bit? I can walk you know," she protested, even though the ride in his strong arms made her pulse race. God, he smelled delicious—the heady mixture of evergreen and maleness sent lusty shivers skittering through her. Her face was close to Clay’s lean jaw and she was sorely tempted to run her finger along the groove next to his mouth just to see it deepen into a dimple. What a beautifully sculpted mouth, she thought, perfect for slow, deep kisses…
Clay closed the door with his foot and glanced around her living room. "You like color, huh?"
"Yes, lots of it," she said, chasing away her hot fantasy with a gesture toward the lemon colored walls.
He strode to the center of her living room and plunked her down on the sea grass green sectional.
Marisol kicked off her high-heeled sandals and wiggled her toes. "Ah, what a relief!"
Clay sat beside her and stretched his legs in front of him, crossing one ankle over his knee as he observed Marisol from beneath hooded lids.
"Would you like a glass of wine?" she asked. "I don't have any beer, but I can offer you Merlot or Malbec."
"Malbec sounds good. Stay put and rest your foot. I'll get it when I order the pizza. What do you want on it?"
"Everything, including anchovies. That is, if you like them, too."
"I do." Clay ordered the pizza and then joined her on the sectional. "How's your foot?"
Marisol stood to test it. "Much better now that I’m off the high heels. Not even a twinge." She went to the kitchen and returned with two glasses of wine, aware of Clay's leisurely scrutiny of her body.
Talk about a once-over, she thought, her skin heating up everywhere Clay’s glance had grazed. If his dark-eyed perusal made her tingle warmly, how would his large hands feel on her body?
"Why are you looking at me that way?" she asked, calling him on it.
Clay took the wine glass from her and drank deeply before setting it on the coffee table. "I was just thinking how small you are without your high heels."
"Oh, that," she said, deflated. She wrinkled her nose and waved a hand in dismissal. "I hate being short, so I wear high heels."
He looked perplexed. "There’s nothing wrong with your height," he said, pleasing her. "I don't see why you bother."
"You would if you were just five two, instead of six two," she replied, grinning. "On high heels, I don't feel at such a disadvantage next to the fashion giraffes. That’s what I call the models who come into my salon."
"I have a feeling you can hold your own with those giraffes, but I see your point." His expression suddenly grew somber. "Did you check to see if you have any messages?"
"Not yet. I'll check my answering machine later. I don't feel like dealing with another weird message."
"What does the anonymous caller’s voice sound like?"
"It’s always muffled, but sometimes it’s high-pitched and nasal and other times it sounds deeper. For the past few weeks, he's called my home number and left messages on my recording machine. I changed my number, but he somehow got my unlisted one. Today was the first time he called me at work."
"What did he say on the last call?"
She grimaced. "What he always says. That I belong to him and he’s going to marry me. It’s bizarre and creepy."
"Do you ever talk to him?"
Did he think she was dumb? "Of course not! I always hang up on him."
Clay nodded. "Good."
Marisol sighed. She didn’t want to waste the evening discussing the anonymous guy complicating her life. All she wanted to do was curl up on the sofa and get to know the hot guy looking at her with gleaming black eyes. "You can take your shoes off, too, if you like. Get comfortable."
"Don't you have any idea who it might be?" he asked, sticking to business.
Marisol shrugged and took a sip of wine. "Not a clue. I meet a lot of people at my shop and at the gym where I work out. I can't narrow it down to any guy in particular." She paused and regarded him with a warm smile. "You seem very interested in whoever is harassing me."
"It's my job."
Marisol tilted her head and peered at him through her lashes. "Is that all?"
"Yes." Liar. He was downplaying it, but she could see the spark of attraction in his eyes when he thought she wasn’t looking.
She rose from the couch and noted how his dark gaze migrated to her breasts when she put her hands on her waist and arched her back in a long stretch. "The pizza should be here soon. Time to get the table ready," she said, and walked to the kitchen.
He followed her and said, "Need any help?"
She smiled as she reached for her iPod. "Nope, but thanks for offering. You can keep me company while I make the salad." Marisol connected the iPod to the speaker and pressed play. "Shakira always gives me a boost of energy."
Marisol sang and grooved to the music while she prepared a mixed baby greens salad with cherry tomatoes, fennel and kalamata olives and drizzled it with honey Dijon balsamic vinaigrette.
"Looks good. Do you like to cook?"
"Sometimes, if I get inspired. I learned from the best, my Abuelita Coqui."
"Who’s that?"
"My grandma in Buenos Aires. She’s my dad’s mom." Marisol sighed wistfully. "I miss her most around the holidays. She makes the best empanadas at Christmas time."
"What kind?" he asked, surprising her that he wanted to know about the empanadas.
"Flaky oven pastries filled with savory meat and raisins and olives." Marisol tossed the salad and tasted a baby green lettuce leaf, thinking the dressing came out just right. "Last year I couldn’t go home for Christmas because I’d just opened my business." The melancholy memory tugged at her heart. "I wish she could visit here more often, but even though she’s eighty-three years young, the long plane ride over is tough on her. We usually Skype on Sundays, but it’s not the same as being able to pop in and visit her."
"Do your parents live in Argentina, too?"
"No, but we’re not close anyway. My mom left us when I was little. She ran off with my dad’s best friend."
He regarded her with a pensive look. "That must have been rough on you."
Marisol shrugged. "I was li
ttle. Papi remarried a woman who didn’t want kids either, like my loving mom didn’t." She made a wry face to cover up how much it hurt her to admit. She’d been lucky to have a loving grandmother raise her. "My brother witnessed most of their fights and would have been shipped off to boarding school if Abuelita hadn’t intervened and taken us in." She noticed he was staring at her as if trying to figure her out. "I know it sounds like I had a tragic childhood, but it wasn’t like that."
"I didn’t think so." The corners of Clay’s firm mouth twitched. "You’re too cheerful for someone who had."
"That’s my natural disposition. Anyway, I was too young to notice all the bad stuff going on. Papi lives in Spain now with his new trophy wife and I’m embarrassed to tell you that my dear Mama’s taste in men has turned cougarish," she said with a pained expression.
Marisol refrained from revealing that after she’d broken up with her ex-fiancé, her indiscreet mom had chased after him. It was way too much information. She later learned they’d had a brief fling, too. That’s when she stopped communicating with her toxic mom and life improved. "Now that I’ve aired my family’s dirty laundry, tell me about yours."
Clay looked about to say something when the doorbell rang.
"Ha, saved by the bell," Marisol said, as she put the salad bowl in the center of the table. Clay answered the door and shoved a few extra dollars into the pizza delivery man's hand. He returned with the large carton and set it on the end of the table.
Marisol peeked inside. "Looks delish. I’m famished, let’s eat."
She served Clay a slice and helped herself to another. As she chewed, she noticed him watching her lips beneath hooded lids and when his midnight eyes met hers, a warm flush spread through her making her breath quicken. She looked away from his seductive eyes and busied herself filling their salad bowls.
"Where do you live?" she asked.
"In this building, actually."
He lived in her building? Why hadn’t she noticed him before?
"My apartment is one of the perks of the job. I live on the ninth floor and the view is amazing," he said, gesturing toward the balcony overlooking a pristine lake surrounded by massive banyan trees and royal palms.
"I love living here. My brother and I own this apartment and another one in the building."
"You must be close. Do you see him often?"
"No, Marcos lives in Naples now."
Clay gave her a quizzical look. "So which brother lives in Miami?"
"I only have one brother." Marisol’s face heated with embarrassment when he cocked a thick eyebrow and waited for an explanation. "Oops, I told you a little white lie when I said I had a brother who lived here."
"You seem to have a penchant for telling little white lies, sunshine," he said, his cool black eyes assessing her.
"I usually tell the truth. No really, I do," she insisted when she saw his doubtful expression. "I only tell white lies when I absolutely have to. Don’t look at me that way, Blackthorne. I knew next to nothing about you. A girl can’t be too careful," she said, serving them another slice of pizza.
"Damn right," he said forcefully. "But now that you know I’m not the bad guy, you can start telling the truth."
She made a wry face. "Eh, now you sound like Marcos and I don’t mean it as a compliment."
"Thanks."
"Don’t get me wrong," she said, smiling at his gruff tone as she refilled their wineglasses. "I love my brother, but he still bosses me around even though I’m twenty-nine. When I was studying at the University of Miami, he was doing his residency there. Abuelita Coqui told him to keep an eye on me and he took his job too seriously."
"Must have been a dream job for him," Clay said with a snort.
Marisol chuckled. "He used to grumble about my constant partying at night, but he had no idea I was really going to beauty school. I kept it a secret."
He gave her a curious look. "Why?"
"He wouldn’t have approved of me opening a salon in Miami and living here all alone. After I got my BA in business and a beautician's license on the side, I had already inherited part of my grandfather's trust fund, so I started my business."
"Just like that? You make it sound easy."
"It wasn’t. First I went back to Buenos Aires and got an apprenticeship at a top beauty salon working on models and telenovela actors. That's where I met Gabe."
"Who's Gabe?" He put his wine glass on the table and regarded her with expectant eyes.
"My ex-fiancé who is an actor. When Marcos found out we were engaged, he had Gabe investigated. Abuelita was in on everything, I’m sure of it. Even my mom got in on the act." In more ways than one, she thought with distaste. "Anyway, I didn't believe the negative report my brother showed me, so I kept dating Gabe until I realized Marcos was right about him."
"Good thing you didn’t marry him," Clay said, digging into the salad with a shake of his head.
"Amen to that. I found out he was a real snake. But when I joined Marcos to live in Naples, I realized I had to move. Even though he’s a busy obstetrician, his need to watch over me is a real pain in my colita."
Clay responded with a short laugh. "That bad?"
"Yeah, that bad." She rolled her eyes. "I love my brother, but Marcos thinks all guys are players like he is."
"If I had a little sister as cute as you, I’d probably be worse than your brother," he said and looked like he meant it.
"You’re not gaining any points by admitting it," she said, discouraging his chauvinism. "Argentine men can be possessive of the women in their lives, especially their sisters. I wish he would find a woman to monopolize his attention and give me a break."
The phone rang, interrupting their conversation. Marisol answered and listened for a few moments, then slammed down the receiver and dashed to the door.
Clay was beside her in a flash. "What is it?"
She opened the door and pointed to a small, wrapped parcel lying on the floor. "Look."
Clay bolted down the hall toward the elevator, scanned both sides of the hallway and then returned looking annoyed.
"Whoever dropped this off is long gone. Next time let me check the door first," he said curtly. He carried the package to the table with Marisol in tow. "I'll call and alert Alan to check for an intruder. In the meantime, open the package."
Marisol stood beside Clay as he made the call and when he hung up, she said, "I don’t want to."
Clay handed her the package. "Aren't you curious about what's inside?"
She gingerly held it as if there was a bomb inside. "I guess…but if I open it now, it'll ruin our evening."
"Then I'll do it," he said decisively, reaching for the package.
"No, let me." Marisol held on to it, not wanting to appear like a scared ninny. "I’m not going to wimp out now," she said with more guts than she felt as she tore open the package and looked inside, gasping when she parted the black tissue paper and found red satin-covered handcuffs and a dog collar inside.
She gulped and looked into Clay’s keen eyes with despair. "Now’s he’s getting kinky." An eerie sensation crawled over her skin when she saw the card nestled inside the box.
"Let me read it," Clay said, reaching for the card. "You look too spooked."
Marisol squared her shoulders and put some starch in her spine. "No, I will," she said bravely, but her blood ran cold as she read the menacing message out loud:
I’m going to strip you naked and put the cuffs and doggy collar on you. You. Are. MINE.
Marisol dropped the note as if it were in flames.
Click the Cover to Read More of Clay and Marisol’s Love Story in WILD FOR YOU.
Books by Sophia Knightly
Check out the TROPICAL HEAT SERIES
Linc and Isabel
Linc and Isabel
Marcos and Gabriela
Alex and Georgiana
Check out the HEARTTHROB SERIES
Nick and Veronique
Ian and Natasha
&nbs
p; Alec and Kate
Cameron and Evie
Leo and Teddy
About the Author
New York Times & USA Today bestselling author, Sophia Knightly cooks up hot romance and delicious humor in her sexy contemporary romances that pair hot, alpha heroes with strong, smart women and throw them on a challenging emotional journey. Published by St. Martin's Press, Kensington, and Samhain Publishing, her popular Tropical Heat Series and Heartthrob Series have consistently been on multiple best selling lists.
Sophia loves writing books that end with a sigh and a smile. In addition to traveling, foodie adventures, and enjoying the arts in all forms, one of her favorite pastimes is simply watching people--especially those in love!
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Wooed by You Page 21
