Wild for You (8 page)

Kiss me
, she urged silently, gazing into his eyes.

"It's the only voice I have. By now you should be familiar with it," he said gruffly, easing onto his side and bringing her with him. He cradled her body and slanted his mouth over hers without further hesitation. Marisol wrapped her arms around his neck and melted into the kiss, welcoming the pressure of his velvet soft lips on her mouth. She closed her eyes and sighed, as he held her face steady and made love to her mouth, tasting her thoroughly, deliberately. A sweet ache built inside her as she writhed under Clay's solid weight, inviting his tender assault.

Marisol thrust her fingers in his hair and returned his hungry kisses, vaguely aware of the groceries scattered around them and the fact that her skirt had risen indecently. She was conscious only of his hard chest resting against her soft breasts and his jean-clad thigh wedged between her bare legs. Clay's firm hand stroked her from nape to buttocks, learning her curves as he kissed her with bold intent. When she felt the thick evidence of his arousal pressed against her thigh, she closed her eyes and moaned, lost to everything but him and the sexual heat he radiated.

Just when she thought she'd climax from his kisses alone, he stopped and pulled back to look at her. Marisol felt a tremor run through him as he reined in his lust and she blinked at the erotic shock of it. Clay's jaw tightened and the sexual heat she'd felt earlier dissipated, replaced by near chilling restraint.
Something in him had changed
, she thought, noting the tautness of his arms and the way his mouth formed a straight line of self-restraint.

His face flushed darkly, Clay said, "You okay?" in a rough, strained voice.

No, she wasn't okay. She felt frustrated and every nerve of her body throbbed with unfulfilled lust.
Marisol exhaled an irritated breath and pushed at his chest. "Yeah, I'm okay. What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Clay swung his weight off her and rocked back on his heels to get up. Stunned by the sudden change in him, she stared at him, feeling awkward. He helped her up and silently refilled the bags with groceries while she adjusted her skirt. He put the box of roses on top of the grocery bags and said, "Open the door."

She opened the door and watched Clay hobble inside, feeling guilty as she followed him. "Please put the bags on the kitchen counter and I'll get some ice for your foot."

"Now I know the real reason you wear high heels. Who taught you a move like that?" he asked, warily eyeing her shoes.

When Marisol didn't answer right away, he guessed. "Big brother?"

"Yep."

"He taught you well. You're not only self-sufficient, you're fearless."

"Thanks, I'll take that as a compliment. Sit there," she said, motioning to the bar stool at her kitchen counter while she strove to collect her scattered emotions. He'd gone from hot to cold in the blink of an eye and she was still reeling from it.

"I'm getting the distinct feeling that you relish humbling me," he grumbled.

She grabbed a bag of frozen peas from the freezer and handed it to him. "I don't know what you mean," she said mildly.

"Yes, you do. First the green slime on my hair, then your stun gun, and now you pounce on my instep and knock me to the ground. What else are you planning?" His brusque voice held a mixture of mild annoyance and resignation.

"You'll have to stick around and find out," Marisol said, looking away so he couldn't see her hiding a grin.

"Great," Clay groaned as he held the frozen veggie bag pressed to his foot. "Time to read the note. Let's see what he has to say now."

Marisol cautiously opened the small white envelope and pulled the card out. She didn't object when Clay took it from her and held it out as they read it silently.

"WHORE, you belong to ME. See the big, sharp thorns on the roses? Want to feel them on your body? Get rid of him or I will."

Marisol's panicked eyes met Clay's incensed ones and he cursed under his breath. "Check the answering machine."

She did and there were no weird messages. Glad for that much, Marisol sat on the bar stool and asked, "What do we do now?"

"We eat and talk about it later. I need to put this problem on the back burner while I cook."

"How can you be calm? This guy scares me."

Clay's black eyes burned fiercely and his features were resolute when he stated solemnly, "You're safe with me."

"Thanks," she said, grateful this noble man had come into her life. She wished he hadn't stopped kissing her so abruptly because now she didn't know what to expect from him—or what he expected from her.

"I don't need this anymore," he said quietly, handing her the ice bag and going into her kitchen. "Where do you keep your frying pans?"

Marisol reached in the cupboard and handed him a large new Teflon skillet.

Clay's firm mouth quirked up at the corners. "Haven't had much use for it, have you?"

"I usually get home so late that I order in. But I love home cooking," she said, eager to taste his meal.

"Then you're in for a treat," he said with supreme male confidence as he unloaded the groceries and handed her some raw vegetables. "Here, slice these and I'll peel the shrimp."

"You're a tyrant even when you're cooking," she quipped.

"Two cooks are faster than one. You must be hungry like me, so get to work," Clay ordered in a mock stern tone as he took hold of her waist and turned her toward the counter.

She was hungry all right—for him. Marisol grabbed a kitchen towel and placed it around his waist, tucking the edges into the waistband of his low slung jeans. She fought the urge to wrap her arms around taut waist and lean her cheek against his back. Instead, she had to content herself with breathing deeply of his delicious male scent and that alone delighted her senses.

Clay turned and kissed the top of her head. "Thanks," he said as his keen gaze locked with hers briefly.

A jolt of pleasure tickled her spine as she stood beside him. "You're welcome," she replied huskily, disappointed when he returned to cooking. "I'll make some brown rice to go with it."

She poured water, rice, and salt into her rice cooker, and tried to concentrate on slicing the mushrooms and other vegetables, but Clay's strong, brown hands commanded her attention as they peeled the shrimp. They'd felt firm and supple over her dress as he'd stroked her during his hot and hungry kiss—
what would they feel like on her bare skin?
A lusty shiver of anticipation made heat rise to her face.

"What are you looking at?" he asked, interrupting her hot fantasy.

"Your hands. When did you learn Tai Chi?" she asked, striving for a nonchalant tone.

"Shortly after I turned ten."

"It's an unusual martial art form for a little kid to be interested in," she said, remembering how gracefully he'd performed the exercises.

"After Dad died, my mom remarried and we moved to a small town in North Florida. Mom enrolled me in Tai Chi because even though I was a skinny runt, I usually ended up in a fist fight when provoked. Unfortunately, that was often."

"Why?" she asked, puzzled. From what she'd observed about Clay, he was controlled and disciplined—almost too much.

"A group of kids used to make fun of my baby brother because he's mentally handicapped. It would really burn me up, so I used my fists a lot. My mom hoped the martial arts would teach me better discipline and self-control."

"Did it?"

His eyes turned brittle. "You bet. I won't tolerate anyone treating my brother, Jimmy, with anything less than respect. He's my one soft spot." A flash of raw pain briefly shadowed his face before his eyes turned tough and devoid of emotion.

Marisol would have liked to ask more, but Clay's shuttered expression stopped her cold. There was no sense in asking questions about Jimmy when Clay looked like he already regretted divulging his one weakness.

"The shrimp are ready now. Stand aside." Clay dumped the shrimp into the sizzling peanut oil and seasoned them while he stir-fried. When they turned pink, he emptied them into a bowl and stir-fried the vegetables. He tasted a snow pea and looked satisfied. "Perfect." Returning the shrimp to the frying pan, he added dry sherry and a delectable aroma rose from the pan. "Here have a taste." Clay speared a juicy shrimp and blew on it before he fed it to her. "Careful, it's hot."

She moaned in appreciation. "Mmm, delicious."
Like you
. "Can't wait to eat."

Marisol set the table and together they polished off Clay's meal. Satiated and delighted by his cooking skills, she patted her lips with a napkin. "That was the
best
shrimp I've ever eaten. Where did you learn to cook like that?"

"From a Japanese girl I dated a long time ago. I used to love watching her prepare terrific meals for me."

He sounded like he was used to having women cater to him.
Why had he mentioned the Japanese girl? Was he still pining for her?

"Want some mint chocolate-chip ice cream for dessert?"

"Sure and a cup of coffee, if you don't mind too much."

"Why would I mind?" she asked, perplexed.

"The last time we ate together you did."

"Oh that. I didn't appreciate your comment about only being attracted to tall brunettes with long hair," she said, making a face.

His face softened. "I only said it so you would think I wasn't attracted to you and then you'd feel safe."

"Is that really why?" Marisol asked, not taking her eyes from his.

He leaned forward and lazily stroked the tiny cleft in her chin with his thumb. "I think you're adorable."

Clay's molten eyes darkened with passion and her body flooded with desire. "You do?" she asked breathlessly.

"Absolutely," he murmured. He pulled her on his lap and stroked the sensitive skin at her nape as he deposited kisses on her neck, leaving tiny goose bumps in their trail. He held her face and kissed her deeply and Marisol snuggled against him, acutely aware of her round bottom and soft thighs resting on his steely thighs.

"Do you still want dessert?" she whispered, trying to catch her breath between kisses.

"Dessert can wait."

"Why did you end the kiss in the hall?" she blurted out, getting up and moving from his reach.

Clay followed her into the kitchen. "You shatter my self-control. I had to get up or we would have ended up having sex right there on the floor."

Marisol's face heated at the image he described and she was sure her cheeks were flushed tomato red. She lowered her eyes from the heat in his searing gaze.

Clay's lean fingers gently cupped her jaw and tipped her face up. "We're treading on dangerous ground."

"Because the stalker threatened your life, too?"

Clay let out a caustic snort of laughter and pulled her in his arms. "No, of course not. You're the only one I'm concerned about." He rested his chin on the top of her head and said, "I won't let anyone harm you, Marisol. I'll protect you with my life if necessary."

"Thank you," she said, deeply touched by the enormity of his words. The phone rang causing her to pull away from the warmth of his strong arms.

"Let me get it," Clay said, answering the phone. Seconds later, he handed it to Marisol. "He says he's your brother."

Frustrated by the interruption, she held the receiver to her ear. "Hey, Marcos. Why are you calling?"

"Who answered the phone?" Marcos asked, nosy as usual.

"My new bodyguard," she said, waiting for his explosive reaction.

"Bodyguard! What happened?"

"I reported the weirdo to the police and there's a detective already working on the case. You can stop worrying about me and get on with your life."

"Has anything else happened? If you're keeping something from me, I'll never trust you again."

"Don't be an idiot! When I contacted the police, I found out that other women in this building were having the same problem. A detective was already assigned to it undercover." It didn't matter that she'd changed the details, Marcos would never know.

"Really? What's his name?"

"It's nobody you know," she replied quickly.

"Okay," Marcos said with resignation. "I'm glad you're well-protected. Take care of yourself and
think
before you act."

"I always do," she said, ignoring his cynical snort. "You can get back to your patients now. They need your orders more than I do."

"Keep me posted."

"I will. Bye." Marisol hung up and turned to Clay. "I knew he'd check up on me. Maybe now he'll relax and back off."

"Why did you downplay the danger?"

"Because if Marcos even suspects things have gotten worse, he'll come here in a heartbeat and try to take over."

The phone call seemed to trigger a change in Clay's mood again, Marisol noticed as he retreated to the living room. "Why don't you relax on the couch while I change?"

Shortly afterward, Marisol returned to the living room wearing an orange tank top, tucked into a pair of fitted khaki cargo shorts. She sat next to Clay, who was examining the note she'd received that evening with the flowers.

"Where do we go from here?" she asked.

"I'll take this note in and have the police lab assess it along with the other ones. I need the list of your mail clients to cross-reference it with the list of members I got from the gym."

Marisol reached for her purse on the coffee table. She retrieved the list and handed it to Clay. "Here."

"Have you fired anyone this year who might have been coming on to you?" he asked, studying the list.

"No. There was only one stylist I had to let go because he was unreliable. Anyway, it couldn't be him because he's gay."

"What's his name?"

"Nicholas Ferrer."

"Did you call a locksmith today?"

Marisol grimaced and snapped her fingers. "Oops, I forgot. It was such a hectic day, the only thing that kept me going was thinking about the dinner you promised to cook for me."

"I'll have double bolt locks installed on your front door and extra locks on your balcony sliding glass doors. I'm spending the night on your sofa until those locks are installed."