Wild for You: Tropical Heat Series, #2

By Sophia Knightly

To Love, Honor and Protect

 

Detective Clay Blackthorne has his hands full when he promises to safeguard an old college pal's sister without letting her know what he's up to. He never imagines that lively Marisol Calderon will knock his socks off and put a ring on his finger--and all at his suggestion! Their marriage of convenience is meant to protect her and Clay doesn't plan on being hitched for long to the tempting beauty. But the honeymoon sure feels real to him...

Sassy Marisol is used to doing whatever she wants--and right now her plan is to shake up the hot detective's hard-edged demeanor. But the fun turns to danger when a mystery stalker bent on marrying her marks her as his prey. Temporarily becoming Clay's wife seems like a practical way to thwart the stalker. But as passion ignites and Marisol falls for the tender heart buried beneath the tough detective's chest, Clay's true identity is revealed and she begins to wonder who--if anyone--she can trust...

 

TROPICAL HEAT SERIES - Each book in the series is a standalone novel.
Wooed by You: Linc and Isabel
Wild for You: Clay and Marisol
Sold on You: Marcos and Gabriela
Kissed by You: Alex and Georgiana

Loved by You: Roman and Piper

• Language: English
• Publisher: Victoria Koch
• Release date: Mar 20, 2016
• ISBN: 9780988851153

Book preview

Chapter 1

F or Christ’s sake, Marcos, I'm a detective, not a babysitter, Clay muttered.

Marisol isn't a baby, as you'll soon find out. Dr. Marcos Calderon’s features tightened as he leaned forward on the leather stool in the cool, dim bar. I wouldn't be asking you to watch over my little sister if I didn't think she was in danger.

Detective Clay Blackthorne took a swig of beer and studied his longtime pal. Marcos’s eyes were grim and his normally confident tone sounded weary. Something was off. When Marcos had texted him to meet at the Grove Bar, Clay had thought it was to catch up over a few beers, like old times. He hadn’t seen him since Marcos had moved from Miami to Naples, Florida.

Why do you think she’s in danger? Clay asked.

She let it slip that she’s been getting weird messages from some anonymous guy. When I pressed for details, she clammed up. I'm sure she doesn’t want me to get involved. She never does. Marcos let out an exasperated breath. It was a lot easier to keep an eye on her when I lived here.

Clay hunched forward and contemplated Marcos’ request. Six years older than his sister, Marcos was fiercely protective of her, especially since she’d moved to the States from Argentina. In the past, Marcos had talked about Marisol, but Clay had never met her.

Clay took another swig of beer and wiped the froth from his upper lip. Where does she work?

She owns the Villabella Beauty Salon in South Beach.

Sounds like a prissy salon. I’ve never set foot in one, but I’ll stop by. I can ask for a haircut and get her talking.

Good idea. Marcos eyed Clay’s ponytail. His cropped brown hair was much shorter than Clay’s. Going shorter?

Clay nodded. Yeah, I don't need long hair for undercover now that I’m working homicide.

It shouldn't be too hard to gain her confidence. Marisol is outgoing and friendly. Flirting comes as naturally to her as breathing. When it comes to men, she’s a magnet, Marcos said with a wry twist of his lips.

I’ll keep that in mind. It sounded like Marcos wanted to warn him off. Why? Clay wondered. He wasn’t interested in going after Marcos’ kid sister.

Don’t let her playful side fool you. She’s smart, sassy and used to getting her way. And damned stubborn, Gator. Marcos had begun calling Clay Gator when they were roommates in undergrad, and he’d learned Clay was a native Floridian.

Let me get this straight. Your sister is playful, sassy, a male magnet and damned stubborn. Anything else you want to warn me about?

Clay’s comment was meant to be flippant, but Marcos looked solemn as he said, I think that about covers it. He gave Clay a measured look. Will you do it?

Sure, you can count on me. The tension eased from Marcos’ face as he finished his beer with a satisfied gulp. You've never asked me for a favor, even though I sure owe you one.

You don't owe me anything. I really appreciate it, man, Marcos said, giving him a hearty clap on the back. Thanks. Now that I know she’s in good hands, I can get back to my patients. He paused. There’s one more thing you should know. Marisol is impulsive and that often lands her in trouble.

I’m sure I can handle her, Clay said in a dry tone.

Good. Marcos threw some cash on the counter. My treat. Later, Gator.

Clay downed his beer and left with him. Marcos seemed overly concerned about Clay getting along with his sister.

How much trouble could one girl be?

---

Marisol Calderon studied the strong, lean planes of her client's face. A tiny shiver teased her spine when she glanced at his intense black eyes, deep set and heavily rimmed by thick black lashes. Shoulder-length, pitch black hair was secured in a ponytail and a small scar marked his sharp left cheekbone on deeply tanned skin.

He was looking at her as if he knew something private about her and it was a bit unsettling.

He looked so out of place in her salon it was almost comical. He sat before her with corded arms folded over his chest, faded Levi's and a black T-shirt that stretched across a hard-muscled chest and shoulders. His lean body oozed sinewy strength. Was he the guy who’d been bothering her with anonymous messages lately? When he’d entered her salon, Marisol had noticed his guarded stance and dark, watchful eyes. He’d asked for her in a smoky voice and the skin on the back of her neck had prickled.

Mentally shaking off her trepidation, she draped a plastic cape over his broad shoulders and slid the rubber band from his ponytail. No sense in getting spooked before she knew what he was about. She took a wide-toothed comb from her apron and ran it through his thick strands before generously slathering it with her homemade conditioner.

His head whipped around. Hey, what are you doing?

Oops, I guess I should have warned you it would be cold. I keep the mix in the fridge so it won’t turn brown.

He went still. What’s the green slime you’re putting on my head? he asked, not amused.

Marisol had been thinking how hot he looked with his hair down, when that low, gravelly voice hit her below the knees. Get a grip, he’s watching you.

She patted his rigid shoulder. Chill. It's my special all-natural conditioner. Your hair looked a little dry when you came in, she lied. In truth, it shined like volcanic glass.

I asked for a haircut, not a beauty treatment, he said in a blunt tone.

Don't worry. This amazing conditioner is my special this week. It’s included in the haircut and won't cost you a penny extra.

She normally didn’t do hair treatments before getting the client’s consent. She’d only done it to keep him there long enough to find out if he was the mystery guy. And now she’d managed to annoy him.

I'm not worried about the cost. His lips formed a straight line. What's in it? It stinks.

Mashed avocado and olive oil, she said, smiling as she applied more conditioner.

He snorted. Avocados are for eating.

I couldn’t agree more. I love guacamole. Marisol squelched a grin at the sight of his tough, rangy body confined in the pink leather chair. Better start asking questions, he looks ready to bolt.

Did you say your name was Clay earlier? She lightly massaged his scalp.

Yeah.

What do you do for a living?

Marisol! the receptionist at the front desk called out. Phone call.

Marisol smiled. Don’t go away. I’ll be right back.

Clay’s striking black eyes sent her an uncompromising message. Hurry back or I'll wash it out myself.

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, she 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 fragrantly feminine. Two other stylists were busy with clients. A manicurist done up like a beauty queen worked 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, he strode toward the reception desk where Marisol was yakking on the phone again.

Marisol’s eyes widened when she saw him and 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. He leveled a stern look at her. No cap and no hair dryer.

You have a great voice, she observed with an effervescent grin. Sounds like gravel rubbing against marble.

He let out a strangled groan. Get this goop out of my hair. I feel like a walking salad and it’s dripping down my neck.

Oh, sorry about that. She wrapped a clean towel around his neck and glanced at her watch before leading him to the shampoo station. Come with me. You can sit here 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. Cool. 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 products made from fruits, herbs and vegetables. She gestured 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 drawled.

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. Do you like your job?

He shrugged. Yeah. 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?

I got a late start.

What kind of law?

Criminal. I plan to be the best damned prosecuting attorney in Miami, he said, meaning every word. Isn’t it time to wash out the guac?

It is. Marisol turned on the water. Lean your head back so I can shampoo your hair. Clay enjoyed the feel of her fingertips on his scalp, but the way her shapely bosom hovered above his face turned him on. He closed his eyes against the tempting sight and breathed in deeply.

That feels great.

I’m glad. She massaged his head, applying just enough pressure at his temples to relieve the built-up tension.

Marisol turned off the water and wrapped Clay's hair in a pink 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. Would you like an espresso or a cappuccino? She gestured toward the back of the salon. We have an 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. OK, but we'll keep your sideburns the same length. Your hair is straight and thick, so any style will look great. She combed his hair and divided it into sections with clips.

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 before walking out.

Ooh, flowers! Marisol’s face lit up with a dazzling smile. I’ll be right back, she said, leaving Clay with wet hair divided into sections held by bright colored metal clips.

She was a male magnet all right, he thought taking 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 how her delight quickly turned to disgust.

When she returned to his side 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 outgoing 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. He says it's urgent.

Marisol groaned. OK, be right there. She smiled at Clay. I'm sorry about all the interruptions. Laila is new and 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. You’re MINE. Marry me.

The odd 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 I can’t seem to get rid of.

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, OK?

Sure. What are you doing tonight after you close shop?

I haven’t decided yet. Why?

Would you like to have dinner with me? It was time to test how trusting and naive she was.

Marisol stared at Clay’s firm lips as they parted to reveal strong, white teeth. The corners of his mouth slid upward and grooves on either side deepened into dimples. Dimples. Mother Nature had played a fast one on him. Such alluring indentations on an austere face. It caught her off guard. Entranced, she took in the invitation glowing 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. Clay was a