Ian

3

“HE CERTAINLY IS HANDSOME.”

Marisol nodded as she watched Ian converse with a small group of men. She wasn’t sure what they were discussing, but they seemed to be engaged in a very animated debate. In truth, she was surprised he fit in so easily. The society crowd could be closed-minded and judgmental at times. But Ian didn’t seem impressed by the wealth or position of the people around him and they didn’t question who he was or why he’d been invited to the party.

“I guess, when I moved to Bonnett Harbor, I really didn’t expect to find anyone that interesting,” she murmured.

“And is he interesting?” Sascha asked, raising an eyebrow inquisitively.

Marisol nodded. “He’s different. He doesn’t have an agenda, he’s just who he is,” she added.

“Unlike David?”

She winced at the mention of his name. “Maybe,” Marisol replied. “It really doesn’t matter, though, because I’m just using him for sex.” The minute the words were out of her mouth, she regretted saying them. Perhaps it was the truth, but she respected Ian enough not to take their attraction lightly. It wasn’t just the physical connection they shared that fascinated her. There was something more to this man, something hidden beneath the surface that she found undeniably attractive. She hadn’t known him long enough to define what it was.

Sascha took a sip of her champagne as she scanned the guests on the terrace. “Speaking of lying, cheating scumbags, I spoke with David a few days ago. He and the Brazilian have parted ways. He actually admitted that conversation with her was such a chore he couldn’t stand her any longer. And, he asked how you were doing. I think he might give you a call. In fact, I expected him to turn up here tonight.”

There had been a time, before she’d met Ian, when Sascha’s revelation would have thrilled her. But now, Marisol felt nothing but mild annoyance. How could she possibly care what David said or thought when she had Ian to occupy her fantasies? “When you see him again, tell him I’m not interested.”

Sascha frowned. “You said it yourself, Mari. This Quinn is a temporary thing, so why close the door on David? You two were so good together.”

“Looking back on it, I don’t think we were,” Marisol said. In truth, she and Ian were much better together and they barely knew each other.

“You’re just saying that because you’re all caught up in this new man. Everything is very exciting. But this passion will fade, you know it will.”

Marisol nodded, but she couldn’t completely agree with Sascha’s statement. There was something about the way Ian touched her, the way he made her feel, that seemed to hold so much promise. Their attraction was a mystery and no matter how she looked at it, it didn’t make much sense. He wasn’t the type of man she usually found herself falling for.

But then, maybe that was the answer. She wasn’t falling for him. She was simply infatuated, as Sascha had said, swept away by the growing intimacy between them and by the fantasies yet to be explored.

“Have I stayed here long enough?” Marisol asked.

“Have you talked to everyone, introduced yourself and told them about the opening?”

She nodded, then reached into her purse and found her car keys, handing them to Sascha. “Can you make it back on your own?”

“And how are you getting home?”

Marisol nodded to Ian. “Park the car in front of the gallery and put the keys behind the potted tree to the left of the door.”

Sascha leaned closer and gave Marisol a peck on both cheeks. “Be careful. You don’t know much about this man. Don’t trust him so easily, all right? After that mess with David, you didn’t work for three months. I can’t afford you falling into a funk-and neither can you.”

Marisol walked away from Sascha, her attention now fixed firmly on Ian. He looked so different in the jacket and pressed shirt. Though it wasn’t as sexy as the uniform, it made him look less imposing, more approachable. He’d combed his hair, but the evening breeze had messed it up, the dark waves falling over his forehead. As she joined him, she fought the urge to reach up and brush the hair out of his eyes.

“Has everyone here been introduced to Marisol?” he asked, resting his hand on the small of her back. He made a few introductions and she listened distractedly, her attention focused on his hand. The simple yet possessive gesture sent a rush of warmth through her body and she held her breath as he let his palm drift slightly lower.

As they listened to the conversation, she imagined his thoughts were on seduction and not on the subject of the discussion, the current state of the stock market. Ian’s hand drifted up and down her back as he smoothed his palm against the silk dress, the sensations driving her mad with the need to touch him in return.

“Will you excuse us?” she suddenly said, taking Ian’s arm. They hurried back toward the house, Marisol pulling him along behind her.

“Are we going to the bathroom again?” Ian asked, offering slight resistance.

“We’re getting out of here,” she replied. “I’m tired, my feet hurt, and I can’t talk about myself any longer. These people bore me to death.” She turned to him. “And I have this overwhelming need to get naked with you. You don’t bore me.”

It was so easy with Ian, she mused. She didn’t hesitate to tell him exactly what she wanted. Maybe it was because he wanted the same thing. But it wasn’t just sex and the act of pleasuring each other that she enjoyed. It was the intimacy, the feeling that at the very moment he surrendered, she knew him better than any woman on the planet.

When they reached the privacy of the house, Marisol wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, her tongue offering a taste of temptation, her body molding to his. “It was nice of you to come,” she said as his hand skimmed along her spine to cup her backside. “But I think we should leave now.”

“Are you sure?” Ian asked. He kissed her again and again, short, sweet kisses all around her mouth, his breath coming in little gasps, his eyes shadowed with desire. They stumbled back into a dark corner, laughing softly as Marisol’s hand brushed the front of his linen trousers.

“Positive.”

“We’d better get out of here before we get caught,” he murmured as spun her around. “I do have a reputation to maintain.”

“And I don’t?” Marisol teased.

“You make sculptures of naked men. And you don’t wear underwear. I think people expect you to be a little wild.”

“There’s only one thing to do then,” she said, turning away from him. “I must find a way to ruin your reputation.”

“There you are!” Ian and Marisol jumped apart as Cheryl Templeton hurried into the room, flushed from too much champagne. She grabbed them both. “You’re not leaving? It’s early.”

Ian cleared his throat, then moved Marisol in front him, obviously embarrassed by the erection that pressed against his trousers. “Marisol has a lot of work to do before her opening,” he explained. “And I have to get back.”

“Oh, pooh,” Cheryl said. “Well, before you leave, I have to show you our new acquisition. Come, it’s in the library.”

She hurried ahead of them and Ian took Marisol’s hand, weaving his fingers through hers. They walked past the bathroom beneath the stairs and Ian made to pull her inside, but Marisol sent him a warning glare and dragged him back into the hallway.

“George hates it, but I love it,” Cheryl said, staring at the abstract oil. “Emory Colter’s work has grown so much in popularity over the past ten years that we paid far more for it than we intended. But I don’t care.”

She stood in front of Marisol and Ian and chattered on and on about the painting, about their art collection, about the artists she’d entertained. He bent close and dropped a kiss on Marisol’s bare shoulder, his lips warm and damp. She pulled away, but Ian moved behind her and wrapped his hands around her waist, smoothing his palms along her hips, then around to her belly and lower.

The silk provided no protection from his touch, the heat of his hands burning into skin. Marisol closed her eyes and leaned back against him as his hands moved up to cup her breasts. She didn’t care that there was another person in the room, yet she was aware that any moment Mrs. Templeton would turn around and see what was happening.

Why was she so defenseless against his touch? When he put his hands on her body, she lost the ability to think for herself. He took control and she was happy to surrender. Through half-hooded eyes, she watched their hostess, waiting for her to move and recognize what was going on behind her.

Ian’s thumbs brushed across her nipples, bringing them to hard peaks. Marisol reached back and ran her hands along his hips, rubbing against his erection, the silk transmitting the warmth and feel of him.

Suddenly, she regretted her decision not to duck into the bathroom. Any show of resistance was silly at this point. The attraction between them had become wildly overwhelming and she loved the way it made her feel-alive with excitement, as if every breath she took was filled with a hunger that begged to be sated.

When he touched her, or simply looked at her, she could think of nothing but tearing his clothes off and enjoying the pleasure of his body. And there were many pleasures to enjoy-his wide shoulders and narrow waist, his flat belly with the tiny trail of dark hair that led to temptations below. He had a small birthmark above his right hip and a scar on his left shoulder, just a few details she remembered from their time in the bathroom. But Marisol wanted more that just a map of his body. She wanted the key to his passion.

What made his heart pound, what made his desire for her burn? Did he like to be kissed in a certain way, was there something in her touch that made him hard and ready? And what would he feel when he finally moved inside her, when his orgasm overwhelmed him?

There were so many things she needed to know and she was impatient to learn it all, first in bed and then by sculpting him. Already, she could imagine Ian standing before her, quiet, still, relaxed and completely naked. But this time, she could touch him as she worked, run her hands along his flanks, explore the perfect curve of his backside and examine the beautiful line from his hip to his ankle.

“Well, I’m sure I’m boring you both to death.” Mrs. Templeton slowly turned and Ian’s hands immediately returned to his sides. Marisol felt a warm flush creep up her cheeks and was glad for the low lighting in the room.

“It’s a lovely piece,” Marisol said.

“And I can’t wait to get a look at your new work,” Cheryl countered. “Your friend here has been singing your praises all night.”

“Yes, well, I’m not getting much done lately,” Marisol explained, surprised that Ian had been talking about her. “And I really should work tonight.” She held out her hand. “Thank you for everything and would you say my goodbyes?”

Cheryl nodded, and when Ian reached around Marisol, she took his hand as well, then led them both out to the foyer before bidding them good night.

Ian and Marisol stood at the driveway while the valet retrieved Ian’s car, their fingers tangled together, Marisol’s thoughts focused on the rest of the evening. She was past playing coy games. When they got back to the gallery, she’d take him inside, tear his clothes off and force him to make love to her. She smiled to herself. She couldn’t imagine that he’d refuse.

When the valet pulled up in front of them, Ian walked around to the passenger side of the convertible and helped her in. They drove out the driveway and through Newport in silence, the warm night air soft on her skin. Marisol glanced his way every so often, trying to discern his thoughts. A tiny smile was the only hint he gave and she nervously toyed with her evening bag, snapping the clasp open and shut.

If everything followed as it had begun, he would stay with her tonight-and it would be wonderful, their naked bodies lying together, hands and mouths exploring until they both reached the point of no return and then the wild rush of pleasure as he moved inside of her.

Marisol took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She’d drunk too much champagne, but her head felt perfectly clear, every sense piqued, every nerve on edge.

“Are you tired?” he asked.

Marisol turned to find him looking at her. “No. Not at all.”

“So, you need to work tonight?”

“No,” she murmured. “I was just saying that because I wanted to leave.”

His smile widened and he fixed his gaze on the road ahead. Marisol didn’t even notice when they reached Bonnett Harbor or when he turned down Bay Street to the gallery. When the car stopped, she waited for Ian to come around and open her door.

He grabbed her hand and pulled her out of the car, then held out his hand. “Keys,” he said. But he didn’t wait for them. Instead, he pulled her into the shadows of the doorway and kissed her. “Keys,” he repeated.

Marisol drew back to search through her purse, then remembered. “No keys,” she said. “I gave them to Sascha.” She moaned. “And she likes to be the last one at the party. We’ll have to go back and get them.”

“No time,” Ian said, his voice low and seductive. “Come with me.”

“Where are we going? We can’t go to your place. You have your reputation to protect.”

“I know a place.”

They got back in the car and Ian drove toward the water. When they reached the bottom of Harbor Street, he turned left and drove along the docks, then turned again in front of a sign that advertised Quinn’s Boatworks. “My father’s business,” he said, nodding at the sign. When he reached a chain-link gate, he hopped out of the car and unlocked it, then drove the car through.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“Wait,” he murmured as he locked the gate behind them.

They pulled over a small rise and Ian turned off the lights and the ignition, then coasted to a stop. She stared out across the waters of Narragansett Bay. In the distance, the lights of Newport twinkled. Just above the horizon, the moon shone brightly.

“We’re alone,” Ian murmured as he jumped out of the car. “This is the boat landing for my dad’s boatyard. The only way down here is through that gate. It’s completely private.”

He helped her out. “It’s beautiful,” Marisol said.

They walked around to the front of the car and Ian lifted her up to sit on the hood. He stepped between her legs and took her face in his hands. “You’re beautiful.” He kissed her gently. “And you’re making me crazy, Marisol,” he continued, his breath hot on her neck. “All I do is think about you…about this. All day long, I can feel you on my hands and taste you in my mouth.”

“I’m sorry,” Marisol said, arching back, her hands braced behind her.

“Don’t be.” He yanked her closer, then ran his hand from her collarbone to her belly and back again. “I can’t stop touching you. I don’t want to.”

She closed her eyes. “Maybe we shouldn’t do this. Maybe it’s too soon.” But her words weren’t a warning, simply a test to see just how far he was willing to go for pleasure. She reached for his belt and began to work at the buckle.

“I’m the one who shouldn’t do this,” he said, brushing the straps of her dress aside. “I made a deal with my brothers.”

She yanked the belt out of his pants and tossed it over her shoulder into the car. “You made a deal?”

“No sex, no women for three months. My idiot brother thought it would be a good idea.” He pressed her back on the hood and kissed her neck, trailing kisses across her shoulder. “He thought it might help us understand women.”

“And has it worked?”

“No.” Ian reached down for the hem of her dress and drew it up, then groaned softly. “Do you ever wear underwear?”

“Only when absolutely necessary,” she said. She furrowed her fingers through his hair and pulled him into another kiss, her head spinning. Every nerve in her body was on fire and his touch was the only thing that could soothe the burn.

He found the spot between her legs and she groaned, watching him in the moonlight. “You don’t need to stop having sex to understand women,” she said. “I think you understand woman just fine.”

“Do I?” He slipped his finger inside of her, once and then twice, and then began a tantalizing rhythm, teasing at her clitoris with each stroke.

“You know what I want, don’t you?” she said in a ragged voice.

“I do,” he replied. “I’m just not sure when.”

“Now would be good,” she said. She slid off the hood of the car and stood in front of him, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. Marisol smoothed her hands over his chest, a light dusting of hair slipping between her fingers. “I came prepared,” she said. She walked around the car and fetched her purse, then pulled out a condom.

Chuckling, Ian reached for his wallet and retrieved a plastic packet. “So did I.”

She snapped her purse shut and tossed it back into the car, then grabbed the condom from him. Holding it between her teeth, she finished undoing his trousers, desperate to feel him inside of her. Marisol didn’t want to bother with foreplay, not now. She hooked her fingers in the waistband of his boxers and pulled them down.

When he was exposed to the night air, she tore the condom open and then deftly sheathed him, his penis hot and hard. He closed his eyes and held his breath, as if he were already close to the edge. Then, grabbing the lapels of his jacket, Marisol pushed him down on the hood of the car and straddled him.

For a long moment, she waited, knowing that if she wanted to stop now, she could. But that was as far as her control went, just a casual thought and nothing more. His erection brushed against her damp entrance and Marisol’s need overwhelmed her. Slowly, she lowered herself, burying him inch by delicious inch, deep inside of her, in one long, sensuous movement.

There was just enough light to watch his face, to see the odd mixture of pain and pleasure etched across it. This was what she had wanted from the moment she’d set eyes on Ian Quinn, but now that she had it-had him-Marisol was afraid to move, afraid that the reality wouldn’t live up to her fantasies.

Ian grabbed her hips and silently begged her to keep still. But she rocked forward to kiss him and he slipped out of her. Marisol sighed as she sank down on top of him again, acutely aware of every sound, his breathing, the low moans he made as she moved, the crickets chirping and the waves against the concrete apron of the boat landing.

“Wait,” he murmured, holding her back again. “Slower.”

She sat up, then tipped her face into the moonlight. He filled her so completely, so perfectly that with every stroke, he brought her closer to the edge. She reached down and grabbed the hem of her dress and pulled it up over her head, the warm breeze caressing her naked skin.

Ian let out a long slow breath and stared at her, his expression cast in dark shadows and soft light. He reached between them and touched her and Marisol moved again, this time more carefully, so they could both enjoy the pleasure they were giving each other.

As she drove him deep inside her, Marisol let go of conscious thought and focused on the desire building. Instinct took over and she moved toward it with a single-minded urgency, pulling Ian along with her. And then, in a split second, she was there on the edge. She opened her eyes and looked down at him, only to find his gaze fixed on her face.

Like a wave washing over her, knocking her off her feet, the pleasure was nearly unbearable. A spasm rocked her body and she arched against him and Ian joined her, holding her still as he came. It had taken so little time, yet Marisol had never experienced such a powerful reaction with a man.

Their orgasms seemed to last forever, Ian shuddering beneath her until he was completely spent. He threw his arms over his head and groaned softly as she continued to move. Then Marisol collapsed on his chest, her fingers and toes tingling and her mind hazy.

Ian raked his fingers through her hair, pulling it away from her face so he could kiss her forehead. “Are you all right?” he asked, his heart thudding wildly beneath her ear.

“Mmm,” Marisol murmured. “I’m perfect.”

He stared up at the sky, slowly stroking her back. “You are,” he whispered. “Perfect for me.”

Marisol pushed up on her elbow and dropped a gentle kiss on his lips. “If I ask you something, will you promise to say yes?”

“Yes,” Ian said. “Now tell me what I’ve agreed to.”

“I want you to pose for me. I want to sculpt you. Will you do that?”

“Will I have to take my clothes off?”

“Of course,” Marisol said.

“All right. But only if you agree to take your clothes off, too.”

“I’m not sure we’d get a lot done if we were both naked.”

Ian chuckled and ran his finger along her bottom lip. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that. We seem to do our best work with our clothes off.”

MARISOL STOOD in front of the easel, staring at the canvas, a stream of sunlight spilling into the gallery from the windows along the back wall. She’d been working on the painting since Ian had left her in the early-morning hours before dawn. She’d expected to be exhausted by the passion they’d enjoyed with each other, but the moment he drove off, Marisol felt exhilarated, as if all her energy had been recharged.

Funny what a few really good orgasms could do for a girl, she mused, unable to keep from smiling. And they had been good, deep, powerful and mindless, shaking her to her very core. Even now, thinking of what they’d shared, Marisol’s blood warmed and her pulse quickened. She could live like this forever, without sleeping, needing only her work and sex with Ian Quinn to sustain her.

She thought back to the kiss he’d given her at the door, knowing it would have to last her at least another twelve hours. Now every minute away from him seemed empty and unexciting.

Their affair had begun as a playful little game between two consenting adults, simple and easy sex, nothing serious. But after last night, Marisol had been forced to reevaluate. She’d never been with a man who’d made her feel the way Ian did. And it wasn’t just the orgasms. It was the way he looked at her and touched her, as if she were the perfect woman for him, the only woman who could bring him to complete satisfaction.

So many of the men in her life had tried to change her, to make her into someone who played by the rules. Even David hadn’t been satisfied, constantly harping on her crazy work schedule and chaotic approach to her art and her distaste for self-promotion. In all truth, he’d never wanted to be with a working artist, he’d wanted an interesting woman on his arm, someone who could talk the talk that he enjoyed so much.

It was nice not to have to discuss her work with Ian. He saw it, he admired it, and that was all. She dabbed a bit more blue on her brush and added a touch to the eyes. It wasn’t a realistic representation of a man, but an abstract figure that mirrored her emotional reaction to their passion.

She’d painted him as she’d seen him last night, standing before her in the moonlight, naked and unfazed, his gaze downcast, his head tilted slightly. Marisol was amazed at how easy it had been to meld color with form, the memory of him burned into her brain like a sharply focused photograph.

In real life, he looked like a modern-day Greek god, all muscle and sinew, hard angles and strong curves. On the canvas, he was brilliant color and vibrant slashes of paint, seductive strength and devastating power.

As she stared at the painting, she couldn’t help but think of the man and wonder what he was doing at that moment. Was he thinking about her? Did her taste still linger in his mouth? Could he still feel the imprint of her hands on his body? Had thoughts of their night together plagued his day as they had hers?

The buzzer sounded at the gallery’s front door and Marisol turned and smiled, then wiped her paint-stained fingers on her dress. “Just in time,” she murmured.

She ran to the door and threw it open, anxious to kiss him, to slowly undress him and make love for the next five or six hours. But she didn’t find Ian waiting. Instead, Sascha stood in the doorway, staring at her over the top of her Chanel sunglasses. “I brought you lunch, though it’s nearly dinner time.” She swept past Marisol then turned and frowned. “What have you done to your new dress?”

Marisol glanced down, not realizing that she’d forgotten to change. Globs of paint clung to the pale silk, red and orange and black, the colors of desire. “Oh, no. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. As soon as I got home I started to work and I-” She rubbed her hands over the spots, then tried to chip them off with her fingernails. But the silk was ruined. “I’ll pay you for the dress, I promise.”

Sascha waved her hand. “Let me see what you’ve been doing.” She followed Marisol over to the painting, then studied it. “It’s quite good.” She drew a deep breath, then sighed. “It’s very good. It’s…stirring.”

“It is, isn’t it,” Marisol said, excitement filling her voice. “I think it’s the best work I’ve done in a long time. I really captured the essence of masculine power. It just seems to vibrate from him, don’t you think?”

“Are we talking about the painting or Ian Quinn? Or are they one and the same?”

“Don’t say it like that,” she said, pouting. “Like he’s some bad habit I ought to break. I have everything under control. Besides, I think this might be good for me. I feel energized. I can hardly wait to get to work.” Marisol walked over to the crate her father had sent her and ran her hand along the top edge. “Maybe he’s my muse.”

“Please,” Sascha scoffed. “You’ve never believed in that.”

“I’ve never had a muse before,” Marisol countered. “All I know is that after I’m with him, my work is more…focused. All my insecurities are gone and I can just create without even thinking. He makes me believe I’m a good painter and a good sculptor. And as long as that continues, I’m happy.”

Sascha wandered over to stand next to her, bending down to peer through the slats of the crate. “What do you suppose is inside?”

Marisol shrugged. “I’m almost afraid to look. If it’s bad, I’ll have to lie to my father and tell him it’s good. And if it’s good, I’ll tell him it’s good and he’ll refuse to believe me.”

Sascha walked over to the worktable and grabbed the small crowbar that hung from the edge. “Let’s put an end to your misery right now.” She pried off the front of the crate, then removed the four-by-four-foot canvas, carefully brushing aside the packing material. As the layers of paper fell away, Marisol could see the basic colors and outlines of the painting and a sick feeling began to grow in her stomach.

“Oh, shit,” Sascha murmured, when the last bit of wrapping was brushed aside. “I know this painting.”

Marisol slowly dropped to the floor, running her hand over the surface of the canvas. “Oh, Papi, what have you done now?”

The signature on the painting was unmistakable and could lead her to only one conclusion. The Emory Colter hanging in the Templetons’ library was a clever forgery and her father, until recently, had been in possession of the original.

“It’s the same, isn’t it?” Marisol murmured, desperate to have Sascha contradict her.

“It looks like your father might be up to his old tricks again,” Sascha said.

“It’s not just the second in a series?”

Sascha shook her head. “No, this is the same painting that Cheryl Templeton was showing off last night. Everyone at the party saw it. I can’t believe that was a forgery. My God, if your father painted the fake, it’s an amazing job. Emory Colter is not an easy artist to forge. His brush strokes and the application of paint to the canvas are so unique.”

“This could be the forgery,” Marisol said. “We don’t know for sure.”

“Why would your father send you a forged painting?” She shook her head. “You picked a bad time to start hanging around with a cop,” Sascha commented. “And there’s more bad news.”

Marisol covered her eyes with her hands. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“David is the one who sold the Colter to the Templetons.”

“You think he and my father are working together?”

“He’s the one who authenticated it, Mari. Either he’s slipping at his job, or he and your father are in this together. I’d put my money on the latter.”

Marisol pushed to her feet and began to pace the floor in front of the painting. “I’m not going to jump to conclusions. I don’t know that the painting in the Templetons’ library is a fake. This could be the copy. And who knows why he painted it?” She groaned, then covered her face with her hands. “What am I going to do? Papi must have sent it here to hide it. Fake or real, if he gets caught with this, he’ll be sent back to jail in a heartbeat.”

“What are you going to do? This is not your problem, Marisol, it’s your father’s.”

She grabbed Sascha’s arm and squeezed it tight. “You have to promise not to tell anyone about this. Not until I figure out how to fix it.”

“What can you do? You have to get rid of the painting. You can’t keep it here.”

“It’s an Emory Colter, maybe. I can’t sell it, I won’t give it away, and I certainly will not destroy it. There’s no way to get rid of it. Unless…”

“Unless?”

“If it is the real thing, I could exchange it for the fake,” Marisol said. “I could find a way to get into the Templetons’ estate and switch paintings. Then I could destroy the forgery and they’d be left with the real one. It wouldn’t be difficult. It would take me just a few minutes to switch them.”

“What if they have security?” Sascha said. “You don’t think that painting is wired to some alarm? They have at least a couple million in artwork in that house and it’s certainly not hanging there ready to be plucked off the wall.”

“I could just leave it at the front door. And they’d figure it out.”

“Your father’s fingerprints could be all over that canvas. You need to exchange the two if there’s any chance of keeping him out of this. But until you know which is which, you’d better stay away from Ian Quinn.”

At that very moment, the buzzer rang and they both turned to look at the front door, then looked at each other. “Do you think that’s him?” Marisol asked.

“Don’t answer it. Pretend you’re not here.”

“He knows I’m here. My car is parked out front. I’ll just talk to him for a minute and get him to go away. He saw the Colter at the Templetons’ and he’ll probably recognize it if he saw it again. You wrap it up and hide it in the storeroom and I’ll…get rid of him.”

Sascha picked up one of Marisol’s T-shirts and tossed it at her. “Put this on. You’ll never get rid of him wearing that dress.”

Marisol did as ordered, then hurried to the front door. She peered through the blinds to see that Ian was indeed standing in front of the store, a large grocery bag held in his arms. Her heart skipped a few beats and she took a deep breath to try to still her hammering pulse.

It wasn’t fair. She shouldn’t have to make this choice, between her father’s future and her affair with Ian. But there was no decision to consider. Her father was family. Ian was her lover, a man she barely knew.

“You can do this,” Marisol murmured to herself.

IAN STOOD ON THE SIDEWALK and waited for Marisol to open the door. At first he’d wondered if she was home, but then he saw her peek through the blinds. He’d been waiting all day to get back to her, and though he was exhausted from lack of sleep, he had no intention of spending his evening home alone.

The door slowly opened and he smiled as she poked her head out. “Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” he replied. He looked at her for a long moment, his gaze taking in all the tiny details of her face. When they’d first met, he’d considered her beautiful, but the more he got to know Marisol, the more he believed that he’d never meet another woman quite like her. “I brought dinner.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I-I’d ask you in, but I’m in the middle of something.”

“Work?”

“Yes. Work.”

She seemed nervous, uneasy in his presence. “Are you all right?” he asked. “You’re not-”

“What? No, I’m fine. Everything is fine,” she said. “I’m just tired. And busy. With work.”

“Well, maybe you should take a break,” Ian suggested. “Why don’t you come out with me? We’ll walk down to the waterfront and have a picnic. I have sandwiches and root beer.”

“I’m really not dressed. And I look terrible.”

“You look lovely,” Ian said.

“I-I suppose you could come in for just a while. But then I really have to get back to work.” She opened the door to let him pass. The front of the gallery was dimly lit, but light streamed in through the transoms above the door and the display windows, sending shafts of sunlight across the wood floor.

He set the bag down, then turned to Marisol, frowning. “You seem-”

“What? I’m fine,” she said.

“Preoccupied,” he finished. “If there’s something wrong, we should probably talk about it. You can be straight with me Marisol. We’re certainly not in a position where we have to hide anything from each other.”

She laughed softly, but the sound was forced. “There are always things to hide.”

“Do you regret what happened last night?”

Marisol shook her head. “No. Not at all.”

A rush of relief came over him and Ian crossed the distance between them and took her in his arms. “Good.” He bent and kissed her and she offered no resistance. Instead, she seemed to melt against him. Her lips parted and he drank deeply of her taste, like a man dying of thirst in the desert. When he finally drew back, Ian noticed that her face was flushed and eyes clouded with desire.

“You look tired,” he said.

“I haven’t slept since you dropped me off.”

Ian frowned. “You’re going to run yourself down and then you’re going to get sick.” He took her hand, then grabbed the bag. “Come on. Let’s get you some dinner and then I’m going to put you to bed.”

“I can take care of myself,” Marisol said.

“I’m sure you can. But you aren’t.”

She grabbed his arm and pulled him back, then practically jumped into his arms and kissed him. Ian couldn’t explain her odd behavior except that she did look exhausted. He dropped the bag on the floor and slipped his hands around her waist, picking her up off her feet until her body slid along his.

He felt himself grow hard with just the brief contact and he pressed her back against the wall and skimmed his hands over her body, his mind already on the pleasures of sex with Marisol Arantes.

She wore an odd mix of clothing, the silk dress from the night before and the paint-stained T-shirt he’d found her in the morning they’d first been intimate. When he tried to take them off, she pushed his hands away and Ian decided maybe there was something wrong.

Last night, she’d responded without hesitation or inhibition, but now she seemed to be a bundle of jittery nerves. Was this just a passing mood or was he supposed to read more into it? “Do you want me?” he asked, his mouth trailing down to the soft spot at the base of her neck.

She ran her fingers through his hair. “Oh, yes.”

“Then say it,” he demanded.

“I want you. I do. It’s just-”

“What?”

“There’s someone here.”

The words hit him like a punch to the stomach. Someone? Another man? Was that why she was so edgy? He drew back and looked down into her eyes. “Right,” he murmured, nodding his head. “I’m sorry. I should have called first.”

“No, it’s not another man. It’s Sascha. You met her at the party last night. She’s upstairs. We’ve been…working.”

He scolded himself for jumping to conclusions, angry that he’d even allowed a bit of jealousy to creep in. Hell, this wasn’t supposed to get so serious, so fast. He glanced over at the door, suddenly anxious to leave. “Ah, business. Well, I’d better let you go then.” He kissed her forehead, then picked up the bag and placed it in her arms. “Eat something. And then get some sleep. I’ll see you…when I see you.”

“Yes,” Marisol murmured. “Me, too.”

Ian walked to the door and pulled it open, then took one last look at her.

“You’re still going to pose for me, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Call me,” he said.

The door closed behind him and Ian drew a deep breath, then slowly let it out. What the hell was going on? He’d never in his life had that kind of reaction, that immediate rush of jealousy. He barely knew Marisol Arantes and he was worried about the other men who might be interested in her. This was getting out of hand fast and the only way to stop it was to put some distance between the two of them.

Ian grabbed his cell phone from his pocket and hit the speed dial for Marcus, hoping that his brother would be free. He needed to enjoy a few beers with a dispassionate buddy. If his younger brother couldn’t snap Ian back to reality, then no one could.

Marcus didn’t pick up, but Ian left a message on his voice mail, then headed back to the station. He’d finish the paperwork waiting on his desk and hopefully, by the time he was ready to head home, he’d hear from Marcus.

Anything to take my mind off Marisol, he mused as he drove toward the station. After all they’d experienced together, it was odd that a tiny sliver of jealousy had struck him so hard. But then, she could have been with another man. Marisol was a very sexual woman, a woman who acted on her desires. How did he know there wasn’t another man who might be better at satisfying those desires than he was?

When he pulled the squad car into the station parking lot five minutes later, he noticed his brother’s truck parked out front. Ian hopped out of the Mustang and strode inside. Marcus was chatting with Sally at the front desk, deep into a discussion of hull design and sail dimensions.

“I was just going to call you,” Sally said. “Your brother is here.”

“I can see that.” Ian beckoned for Marcus to follow him back to his office. Marcus, dressed in a faded T-shirt and baggy shorts, flopped down in the guest chair and idly began to flip through a copy of Law Enforcement Monthly.

“I just left a message on your cell,” Ian said.

“I know. I was talking with my new boss, Trevor Ross, and couldn’t put him on hold. I figured I’d come over here and see you since I thought we might go out for a pint or two.”

“So, how’s it been going, baby brother?” Ian asked.

“I’ve been living like a monk, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m moving out to the boat tomorrow. How are you doing?”

“Great,” Ian said. In truth, he felt as if everything he’d enjoyed over the past few days had suddenly gone bad. What had begun as a simple sexual relationship, had grown more serious than he was willing to admit. He considered Marisol his, exclusively, though nothing had been decided between them.

“No women?” Marcus asked.

“I plan to win this bet. Piece of cake.” Ian didn’t like lying to his brother, but better to keep him in the dark for now. The whole pact had been a ridiculous idea from the start, so if he accidentally broke it, his brothers would have to understand. Having sex with Marisol hadn’t really been an accident. It had been a premeditated act of desire, one that he’d thought about from the very moment he’d met her.

“I’ve been thinking this probably isn’t going to work,” Ian said. “How are we supposed to learn anything about women if we stay away from them?”

“Celibacy is supposed to give us perspective,” Marcus said, peering over the top of the magazine.

“Why do I need that?”

“Maybe you’ll figure out why you behave the way you do around women?”

“But what if the perfect woman came along and everything was just right and I knew she was the one. And then, I had this stupid pact to think about. Would you pass up your one chance at a woman like that?”

Marcus thought about his answer for a long time, then shrugged. “How would you know she was perfect? Are you talking about someone who is really hot? Or someone you’d want to spend the rest of your life with?”

“Both,” Ian said. “Hypothetically. I mean, would you walk away from someone like that?”

Marcus sat up and tossed the magazine aside. “I don’t know. I suppose if I really believed she was the one, then you and Dec would understand. And what’s the point of letting the right one get away just because of some silly pact. It defeats the purpose, don’t you think?”

“Exactly,” Ian said.

Marcus nodded. “But you haven’t met the one yet, have you?”

“No. I just met this woman the other day and got to thinking. She was pretty enough, but I met her on the job and-”

“No mixing business with pleasure?” Marcus asked.

A long silence grew between them, both of them deep in thought. At least Marcus would understand Ian’s choice. And Declan wasn’t the kind of guy who’d begrudge any family member a bit of happiness. Ian glanced over at his brother as he considered telling him the truth about the past few days.

But instead, Ian decided to bring up a different subject. “Have you ever been jealous?”

Marcus frowned. “Of what?”

“Jealous. Of another guy.”

“I was wicked jealous of Steve Fillinger after he got that Corvette for high school graduation. I remember telling him the year before, when we got our driver’s licenses, that it was my dream car and he convinced his da to buy it for him just to piss me off.”

“That’s not really jealousy,” Ian said. “That’s envy. I’m talking about when a woman you’re with shows an interest in another man.”

Marcus shook his head. “Not really. I guess I’ve never really cared about someone enough that it bothered me.”

“Me, neither,” Ian said.

So did that mean that he was beginning to care for Marisol? Even now, he recalled the fierce reaction he’d had when he suspected she was entertaining another man. Was it because he was afraid of losing her for good, or simply losing her for that night? He’d gone over there hoping for a repeat of their previous encounter but would have been satisfied to spend a few hours talking to her. But then, suddenly, everything had become more complicated.

He wanted to discuss it all with his brother, but though they often talked about women, they’d never really discussed the frustrations of trying to navigate a real relationship. Probably because neither one of them had ever had one. Ian was in strange, new territory here and he didn’t like how it felt.

Marcus stood and stretched his arms over his head. “Let’s go get ourselves a pint and drown our sorrows.”

Ian nodded. A pint or two sounded just fine to him. But he wasn’t sure he had any sorrows to drown just yet. He wouldn’t know that until the next time he saw Marisol Arantes.