Читать книгу The Mighty Quinns: Ian - Kate Hoffmann, Kate Hoffmann - Страница 5

IAN SQUINTED against the sun, the glare from the windshield piercing his head like a sharp knife. He’d spent the previous evening with his brothers, drinking far too much beer. It wasn’t really a problem since it was Saturday, and as police chief of Bonnett Harbor, he was off the clock. Still, he had to keep an eye on things, at least until he got a cup of coffee and made plans for the rest of his day.

He glanced toward the back of the Mustang, its ragtop neatly folded behind the backseat. A little shade would probably help to get rid of his headache, but riding around with the top up was sacrilege on a beautiful June day like today. He pulled up to the light at Main and Harbor and waited to turn right, knowing it would take precisely thirty-two seconds to change.

“He’s doing it again.”

Startled, Ian jumped, then glanced over at the elderly woman leaning into the passenger’s side of his car. He groaned inwardly and rubbed his forehead. “Mrs. Fibbler. How are you today?”

“You said you’d talk to him,” she snapped. “But he’s still putting his trash on my side of curb.”

The pounding in Ian’s head intensified by a factor of ten. “Mrs. Fibbler, technically the land between the sidewalk and the curb isn’t yours. It belongs to the town. That’s why we can plant trees there without having to ask your permission. I know, you mow the grass there, and by doing that, you believe it’s part of your…domain. But I can’t stop Mr. Cuddleston from putting his garbage out where he wants. As long as it’s on the curb on Tuesday morning then we’re all happy.”

She frowned, her little flowered straw hat sitting crookedly on her head, giving her a slightly crazed look. “But you promised you’d talk to him.”

The light turned green and Ian stuck his hand out and waved the cars behind him ahead. “Did you ever think Mr. Cuddleston does this because he knows you’re going to come over and yell at him? I think he likes you, Mrs. Fibbler. And I think, if you were a little nicer to him, you two might…”

She gasped. “Chief Quinn! How dare you think that I would—”

“Become better neighbors,” Ian finished. “That’s what I was going to say.”

She stood up and smoothed her hands over her flowered housedress. “It’s only been five years since my Sherman passed on. I’m still in mourning.”

Ian sent her a disarming smile, one he’d used so often in his work as police chief. “You’re an attractive lady, Mrs. Fibbler. A man like Mr. Cuddleston would have to be blind not to see that.” He congratulated himself when a tiny smile crept across her stern expression. It was a wonder how little he used his police training here in Bonnett Harbor and how much he relied on his charm.

“Do you really think he’s—” She paused and pressed her palm to her chest, her cheeks coloring with a modest blush. “I—I suppose I could offer an olive branch. Perhaps invite him for dinner?”

“As chief of police, I’d have to say that’s a brilliant course of action, Mrs. Fibbler. Brilliant.”

The elderly lady bustled off down the sidewalk, a wide smile now beaming from her face, her shopping bag clutched to her chest. She turned back once and gave Ian a little wave and Ian returned the gesture with a weak smile.

“Another damsel in distress rescued from certain danger,” he murmured.

When he’d moved back to Bonnett Harbor from Providence two years ago, he’d never expected his social life to take such a hit. It had been easy to date in the city, the available women in endless supply. But here, everyone knew him. If he chose to date someone in town, the entire population knew the details within a day or two. The out-of-town affairs had been satisfying, though short-lived, since his work seemed to consume most of his free time. In the past year, he’d dated three women for a grand total of thirteen weeks.

Hell, he could almost imagine himself as Mr. Cuddleston in a few years, fighting over garbage simply to get a woman’s attention. He looked up at the light as it turned red again, then tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, impatient to get his coffee and escape before any other problems arose.

A small sports car pulled up beside him and he looked over at the Triumph Spitfire. Racing green, he mused. Ian had always appreciated vintage cars and this one was one of his favorites. He glanced at the driver, ready to nod his approval, but his breath caught in his throat and suddenly he felt as if he’d been run over by a truck.

Her long dark hair whipped in the breeze, the sun shining on a perfect profile. She tipped her face up and it caught the light just right and Ian continued to hold his breath. She was beautiful. No, more than beautiful. He searched for the appropriate word, but he’d never been much of a poet. Ravishing didn’t seem to fit. Stunning wasn’t descriptive enough. He swallowed hard. “Breathtaking,” he murmured to himself. It was the best he could do.

She wore a dress made of some fabric that clung to her body like a second skin. Tiny straps held it up, but the neckline dipped low, revealing the tops of perfect breasts. He craned his neck to look more closely, his gaze drifting down to where the dress revealed a long length of leg.

Ian glanced down at his lap, stunned to see he’d become aroused. The woman continued to wait for the light to change. And then, as if she’d felt his eyes upon her, she glanced over at him. They stared at each other for a long, intense moment and the air between them seemed to buzz and crackle, as if a lightning bolt had just struck the space between their cars.

She brushed her hair back from her face, then, slowly, lifted her sunglasses, the smile still twitching at her mouth. Her lips were painted deep red and her eyes were as dark as her hair and ringed with thick lashes. She pursed her lips slightly, as if to blow him a kiss, then let her glasses drop back down.

A moment later she was gone, the car speeding off down Harbor Street. At first, Ian wasn’t sure what to do. Then he quickly read the license plate number, committing it to memory. He yanked the steering wheel to the left, determined to give chase and find an excuse for stopping her later. But he popped the clutch too quickly and the Mustang stalled. With a curse, he tried to start the car again. When it finally rumbled to life, she was gone.

As he pulled onto Main Street, Ian grabbed his cell phone and dialed the station. “Sally, I need you to run a plate for me. It’s a New York plate. T-B-7-8-4-1?”

“10-4, Boss,” Sally said.

“Pull her registration and get me a license, as well. Anything else you can find. I’m on my way in.”

“Mr. Cuddleston called this morning. It seems he found his trash cans emptied on his front lawn. He wants you to charge Mrs. Fibbler with trespassing and vandalism.”

“I think I’ve got that problem solved,” Ian said. “Just get me that information.”

He drove the rest of the way to the station caught up in a fantasy about the woman he’d just seen. He’d always played by the rules and just the thought of pulling her over for no good reason went completely against his grain. But she was different from the girls he usually found attractive, coy blondes with sexy bodies and healthy sexual appetites. Here was a woman who, while equally sexy, could only be called…exotic. His curiosity was piqued and that so rarely happened anymore.

Ian pulled the Mustang into the parking lot behind the station, then hopped out, his thoughts completely occupied with finding her. But as he turned to slam the car door, he stopped short, a dim memory from the previous night floating to the surface of his thoughts.

The celibacy pact. “Oh, hell,” he muttered. He shouldn’t even be thinking about women, much less chasing one around town! Just last night, he and his brothers had made a pact to swear off women for the next three months. It had been a silly idea and Ian wasn’t even sure why he’d agreed to it. He probably wouldn’t have if his love life hadn’t been pure crap lately. But it was a serious promise, sworn by all three brothers on the gold medallion that had been a holy relic to them since their childhood days in Ireland.

Maybe the plan wasn’t such a bad idea. If he stopped looking for the right woman, the right woman might come along. Not that the woman in the green Triumph was the right woman. From the look of her, she didn’t belong in Bonnett Harbor—or in his bed.

Besides, he did have his reputation to protect. Though he was a healthy, thirty-one-year-old male, he might as well have been the town minister. Why couldn’t the citizens of Bonnett Harbor understand he was just a regular guy who wore a uniform and badge to work? He wasn’t always a paragon of integrity and honor. On occasion, he enjoyed being just a tiny bit bad—and sometimes, on occasion, there was a woman involved.

The interior of the police station was cool and quiet as Ian walked inside. The only sounds came from the ring of the phones and the hiss of the air-conditioning. Sally Hughes, the desk clerk, smiled at him as he strolled in.

“Morning, Chief,” she said, holding out a blue file folder. “The car is registered to a Marisol Arantes. Address in Manhattan. Pricey neighborhood in SoHo from what I can tell. No criminal record. She doesn’t own property in the county, at least not in her name. So what did she do?”

“Nothing,” Ian murmured. “So she’s not a local?”

Sally shook her head. “Nope. Maybe she was here visiting friends. You want me to dig a little deeper?”

“Thanks,” he said, closing the folder. “But there’s no need.” Ian walked back to his office. Bonnett Harbor was a small town of about 2,500 year-round residents and a full-time police force of eight officers. Nothing much happened beyond a few noisy parties each weekend and the occasional traffic stop. Seeing Marisol Arantes was the most interesting thing that had happened to Ian in at least the past month or two.

He sat down at his desk and opened the folder, pulling out the enlargement of her driver’s license photo. Even the DMV had gotten it right. She stared out at him with a sultry look, her lashes lowered, her smile so—He sighed. What would it be like to have a woman like that in his life…in his bed? To have the time to explore her passionate side, to learn every curve and angle of her body, memorize the nuances of her voice and her touch.

“There is one other thing,” Sally said, poking her head in the office door.

Ian slammed the folder shut and looked up at her. “It’s Saturday. This is my day off, isn’t it?”

“You’re here, aren’t you? I tried to give this to one of the guys on patrol, but they both agreed you ought to handle it since it wasn’t an emergency situation and you have a way with people.”

“Right,” Ian said, standing. He tucked the folder under his arm. “What is it?”

“There’s a new tenant over on Bay Street, in that shop with the two little pine trees in front of it. A few members of the biddy brigade have called in to complain there’s something obscene displayed in the front window.”

“Obscene? Like what?”

“They couldn’t bring themselves to say. My guess, a naked breast. They practically died of the vapors when Carmen at the video store put up that poster for that French movie. You know, the one where the lady’s dress was half on and half off.”

“All right,” Ian said. “I’ll go check it out, but then I’m done for the day. Understand? Anything else comes in and the boys handle it.”

Sally gave him a smart salute as he walked back through the front doors. “You got it, Chief. Enjoy your weekend.”

Ian walked back out to his car, then noticed the folder he still carried in his hand. He opened it up and pulled out the photo once more. There had to be a way to meet this woman again. He shook his head. He’d never been so captivated by a woman before, and never by a perfect stranger.

Ian groaned. Hell, for all he knew, she could be a complete ditz, or a raging harpy, or she could be happily married with three children. Which would probably be for the best considering the most he could manage right now was an affair in mind only. He’d made his brothers a promise, sworn on the gold charm, and he had two weeks’ pay riding on three months of complete celibacy.

He leaned against the Mustang and studied her features for a moment longer, wondering just what it was that made her so attractive. Finally, he slipped into the car and tossed the folder on the passenger seat. He’d never see her again, so what was the point in thinking about her?

Ian put the car into gear and steered out of the parking lot, turning toward Bay Street. Running parallel to Main Street, Bay had a small collection of shops and boutiques as well as a few art galleries. More and more of the buildings were being renovated and rented out to businesses that appealed to the summer crowd. Before long, Ian expected that Bonnett Harbor would be second only to nearby Newport as a tourist destination.

He parked the car in the first available spot, then got out, not bothering with the meter. Ian scanned the windows up and down the street as he walked, searching for something that might be considered “obscene.” A moment later, he came to a stop in front of the two small pine trees. Three sculptures stood in the plate glass display window, each perched on a stark white pedestal. And they all featured the naked male form between the waist and the thighs.

The sculptures, though fashioned out of clay, looked disturbingly lifelike. They weren’t technically obscene, just very detailed and realistic. And fairly well endowed. He walked to the door and peered inside through blinds half-shut. The interior was in disarray, as if the new tenant was just moving in. Paintings were leaned up against the walls and other sculptures sat on pedestals, covered in bubble wrap. Ian tried the door and was surprised when it opened.

As he walked inside the cool interior, sounds of an opera aria echoed through the shop, the soprano voice sweet and soothing. “Hello,” he called. “Anyone here?”

A few seconds later, he heard footsteps on the polished hardwood floors. And then, as if by magic, she appeared. The woman in the green Triumph. He frantically tried to recall her name. Marisol…Marisol Arantes. But then, he wasn’t supposed to know her name. Ian sucked in a quick breath as he watched her approach, her thin silk dress molding to her slender body as she walked.

“Can I—” She paused. “It’s you,” she said. “From the stoplight.”

Ian nodded and pulled his badge from his jeans pocket. She remembered him, as well. That was a good sign. “Ian Quinn,” he said. “I’m chief of police here in Bonnett Harbor. And you’re…”

“Marisol,” she replied, her whiskey-tinged voice sending a shiver down his spine. “Marisol Arantes.” She didn’t offer her hand and Ian found himself disappointed. Her fingers were long and slender, tipped by short, unpolished nails. He noticed a streak of blue paint just below her wrist and fixed on it for a long while.

She cleared her throat, jerking him out of a study of her left forearm. “Is there something I can do for you? I believe I have all of my permits in order, don’t I?”

He met her gaze. “I’ve been asked to come here to discuss the pe—” Ian paused. “The…art in your front window.”

She stared at him in a very disconcerting way and Ian shifted, unable to read her expression. Women usually found him charming, but he sensed that Marisol Arantes was used to getting more from her men than a winning smile. He was seriously out of his league here.

“You’ve been asked?” She took a step toward him, observing him shrewdly, then slowly circled him, her eyes raking his body as she moved. “Do you always do what people ask of you, Mr. Quinn?”

“Miss Arantes, this is a very small town. And though your sculptures and paintings might be…fascinating to big city folks, people around here find them a little unnerving.”

“Do you find them unnerving?”

He chuckled softly as she circled back in front of him. “Do you always ask so many questions?” he countered.

She smiled. “I’m curious. What do you think of my art?”

“I don’t know much about art,” Ian admitted, taking in the paintings and sculptures scattered about. She was standing so close he could smell her perfume, even feel the heat from her body. “I know the Mona Lisa is good and Elvis on velvet is bad, but beyond that, I can’t offer an opinion.”

“Ah, but it’s not an opinion I seek,” she said, her voice taking on a seductive tone. “But your reaction.” She placed her palm in the middle of his chest. “How you feel right now? Physically? Emotionally?”

If she wanted to know, he could tell her. His heart was pounding so hard he could hear it in his head. His fingers itched to reach out and touch her, to skim his palms over her arms, to circle her waist and pull her against him. And he was afraid to look down, afraid that he was having the same reaction to her that he’d had in the car. Beyond that, he wondered just what, if anything, she was wearing under the flimsy dress.

If she knew the effect her touch was having on his body, she didn’t show it. Ian tried to moderate his breathing, tried to appear calm. But he was finding it nearly impossible now that the warmth of her hand had seeped into his skin. He scanned her features, taking in the heart-shaped face and the lush lips, the wide eyes and the thick dark hair.

If he just leaned forward a bit, if she gave him the tiniest hint of interest, he’d be forced to kiss her. Once he did that, they could put all this small talk behind them and get down to the business of this crazy attraction between them. There was an attraction, wasn’t there? He wasn’t reading the signs wrong.

“Well? Are you feeling anything?” she asked.

Ian drew a deep breath and cleared his throat, trying to focus his thoughts. “Yes,” he murmured, his voice cracking. Confusion, exhilaration, insecurity. He’d made love to his fair share of women, but suddenly, he felt like a complete rookie. If he could barely talk to her, then how the hell did he expect to seduce her?

“They make me feel…inadequate,” he said as he stepped away. He wandered over to another sculpture. Ian studied it for a moment, then winced, the instinct to avert his eyes a bit too ingrained in his psyche.

“I know,” she said with a wicked smile. “Sometimes it’s difficult for men to appreciate my work at first. But you have to get over that whole urinal thing.”

He gasped. “What thing?”

“You need to see the cock as a work of art,” she said. “Not as some kind of yardstick you all measure yourself against.”

Her use of a nonmedical term for the male anatomy only added to the desire racing through his body. The word sounded so tantalizing coming from her lips. “A yardstick would be overkill for most men.” Ian pointed to the sculpture. “This isn’t all there is to the male body.”

“But it’s the most important part,” she said, her tone becoming passionate. “It all comes to this, don’t you agree? Life, death, love, hate, fidelity, betrayal. This is the essence of what it is to be a man. This is what drives you, what makes you who you are, right?”

“No,” Ian said. “Well, not entirely. I mean, not all the time. Though most women would like to believe we think with our…penises, it’s not true. We do use our brains on occasion.”

What the hell was he doing, discussing penises with this woman? How had they managed to take a very promising meeting and turn it into some psychological examination of men’s libidos?

Marisol reached out and ran her hand over the sculpture, her fingers caressing the sculpted penis as if it were real. Ian’s reaction was immediate and intense, the blood rushing to his crotch. It didn’t take much imagination to see how she might touch warm, living flesh. His warm, living flesh. He could almost feel it now.

Ian turned and walked away again, afraid his reaction would become increasingly apparent. As he crossed the gallery to a large painting on the wall, Ian tugged at his T-shirt, until it covered his groin. Everywhere he turned there were penises, in all different sizes and colors, some attached to men’s bodies, others just floating in space. “Why are you so fascinated by this subject?” He glanced over his shoulder and watched her approach.

“Fascinated, curious, mystified,” she said, her eyes fixed on the painting. “Sometimes bothered.”

“Perhaps a bit obsessed?” Ian added.

“It’s a curiosity. I don’t have one, so I’m left to wonder how it all works, how it feels, the power that this thing has over a man’s psyche. I think by painting them, I’m searching for understanding.”

“Did one of these units—” He paused. “Did one of these guys do you wrong?”

She tipped her head to the side as she stared at the painting, her pretty face taking on a distant look. “I suppose you could say that. In the end, it came down to this.” She shrugged. “He found someone he desired more.”

“I’m sorry,” Ian said.

“There is nothing to be sorry for. Why would I want a man who didn’t want me?” She shook herself out of her daydream and glanced over at him. “Well, I’ve revealed all my secrets to you, now you need to tell me one of yours.”

“I don’t have any secrets,” Ian said.

“And I don’t believe you,” Marisol replied. “But if you’re too afraid to tell me, I’ll understand. It’s probably your job that makes you so uptight? The badge, the uniform, all the laws to follow. It’s probably why all of this makes you so uneasy.”

Ian bristled at her comments. What was wrong with being a stand-up guy? People trusted him, they looked to him to know what was fair and right. He’d learned early to take responsibility, and though it may be oppressive at times, that didn’t mean he’d turned into Dudley Do-Right. “Listen, I understand this subject is important to you. But do you have any other pieces you could display in the window? Maybe a nice cat or a bowl of fruit? A horse?”

She stood by his side, shaking her head. An impulse skittered through him and he fought it back. He wanted to kiss the curve of her neck and he wondered how the skin would feel against his lips. But rather than give in to his impulses, he would take care of business and get out of this shop.

“This is my work now,” she said, her voice calm and even. “If people have a problem with it, then they don’t have to look. An artist has every right to express herself in any way she chooses, don’t you think?”

Did that go for the man standing beside the artist? What if he chose to express himself by yanking her into his arms and kissing her? Or by brushing the straps of her dress off her shoulders and letting it slip to the floor? Or by laying her naked body across one of the padded benches and losing himself inside her? Surely if she expected him to accept her personal expression, she would be willing to accept his.

“There’s no law against it,” Ian admitted. “After all, it is free speech. But I can’t say it won’t cause problems. If I don’t do something about it, then the village board probably will.”

“Good. Then you can tell these people we spoke and that I won’t be taking my sculptures out of the window.” Marisol grabbed his arm and walked Ian to the door. “I should get back to work. My opening is in another few weeks and I have a lot to do. It was a pleasure, Mr. Quinn.” She met his gaze and Ian saw a flicker of desire there, a subtle shift in her expression that revealed more than words could say.

“You wanted to know how all this makes me feel?” Ian asked.

She nodded.

Ian drew a deep breath, then slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her against him. A moment later, his mouth found hers, and he kissed her, slowly and deliberately, mustering every ounce of skill he’d ever possessed. When he finally drew back, he watched her eyes flutter open, then grow wide with shock.

“I—I see,” she murmured.

“I’m glad,” he said. He turned and opened the door, then stepped out onto the sidewalk. An instant later, the lock clicked behind him.

Ian walked back down the street to his car, satisfaction slowly growing inside him. He’d handled that quite well. Though it wasn’t the most auspicious beginning, it was a beginning. But as he got closer to his car, the reality of what he’d just done began to sink in.

“What the hell was I thinking?” he muttered. He’d been at her gallery in an official capacity and he’d forgotten every rule of law enforcement because of what was going on in his jeans.

Maybe Marisol Arantes was right. Maybe it was all about a guy’s penis—and the woman who controlled it. Well, at least he’d have a chance to prove her wrong. In fact, he hoped like hell she’d keep her naughty little sculptures in the window. Now that the object of his sexual obsession was living in Bonnett Harbor, he’d have plenty of opportunities to see her again.

“YOU REALLY SHOULD be getting back, Papi. It’s a long drive into the city and it’s late.” Marisol watched as her father wandered around the gallery, stopping in front of each of her paintings, examining them with a discerning eye.

She’d never been bothered by the critics and their opinions of her work. But when it came to her father, his was the approval she sought. In truth, the reason she’d first grown interested in painting was because of him. He’d had aspirations to become a famous artist at one time, but the public had not been kind to Hector Arantes. Though he’d had some success in Europe, he’d hoped for even more in the U.S. So he’d brought his wife and his five-year-old daughter from their home near Lisbon to New York. And from the very moment they’d landed, things had begun to go wrong.

The critics had been brutal and her father, desperate to provide a living for his family, had fallen in with some unscrupulous men, swindlers who had offered him a great deal of money to take part in their schemes.

Though he hadn’t possessed a talent for his own work, Hector Arantes had an uncanny ability to copy the work of other artists. She hadn’t been aware of it at the time, but her father had become notorious for forging little-known works by well-known artists to feed a market in the Far East. When he’d been caught seventeen years ago, it had cost him a prison sentence. He’d been gone from the time Marisol had been nine until she was nearly nineteen. She and her mother, a former Russian ballerina, had struggled, living in a tiny flat in SoHo while her mother taught children’s classes at a small community center.

For all those years, Marisol refused to put him out of her life and when her own art began to gain recognition, she’d refused to heed the advice of her friends and change her last name. The Arantes name had become infamous in the art world, for all the wrong reasons. Still, it was her name, a name she wore proudly.

“Maybe you should start to paint again,” Marisol said. “The market has changed and your work might be accepted now.”

Hector shook his head. “No, it is too late for me to make a career. I have my life in the city, my students, a few friends. I paint murals for rich people’s houses and they appreciate my work. I am the poor man’s Michelangelo. I want nothing more.”

Her father was a proud man, even after he’d been beaten down by life. Marisol had tried to make his life more comfortable, but he’d refused all help. And her mother had put him out of her life the day he’d been convicted. Marisol had been left to keep the shreds of her family together.

“So what do you think?” Marisol said. “It’s a nice space, no?”

“I don’t understand why you moved out of the city, Mari. What is out here but a bunch of bourgeois suburbanites who buy their art to match their sofas?”

That’s what Marisol had thought when one of her patrons had first offered her the chance to have her own gallery. But after yesterday’s encounter with the village police chief, she’d been forced to alter her opinion of Bonnett Harbor. A shiver prickled her skin and Marisol rubbed her arms, making a note to adjust the air-conditioning in the gallery. But even she could admit that her reaction had nothing to do with the room temperature.

Ian Quinn had been invading her thoughts from the very first moment she’d seen him yesterday. How many times had she sat at a stoplight and glanced over to look at the driver beside her? Hundreds, probably thousands. And how many times had that driver been a man who’d been the embodiment of every fantasy man she’d ever had? Only once.

After she’d driven off, Marisol had been certain he would follow her, certain that he’d felt the same intense attraction. And when he hadn’t, she’d accepted the fact that her imagination had been playing tricks on her. Perhaps the stress of opening the gallery and working until all hours of the night had made her delusional.

But after his visit yesterday morning, Marisol knew the attraction was very mutual. In truth, it was more than just an ordinary attraction. When he was near, her body seemed to tingle with anticipation, as if indescribable pleasures were just a heartbeat away.

Marisol had always been quite comfortable with her sexuality. Through her art, she’d made a careful study of the male anatomy, but she’d also enjoyed the pleasures of a man’s body whenever the urge struck her. She’d had lovers in the past, some of them for a night, others for a much longer time. But she’d kept to one philosophy—sexual attraction, especially one as strong as she felt for Ian Quinn—deserved to be satisfied.

“Mari? You’re not listening.”

She sent her father an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I have so much on my mind. What were you saying?”

“I was asking what this place has that the city doesn’t.”

Besides Ian Quinn? “Well, Papi, right across the bay is Newport. I have several clients who summer there and they’ve promised to introduce me to their friends. And Sascha is still showing my work at her gallery in SoHo. I’m just expanding my clientele. Besides, it’s quiet here. No distractions.”

No David, she thought to herself. He’d been the sole reason she’d had to escape New York. What had begun as a wildly passionate affair had ended horribly. They’d moved in the same social and business circles so it had been nearly impossible to avoid running into him—and his new paramour, a twenty-one-year-old Brazilian model, lithe and leggy, and completely brainless.

He was supposed to have been the one, the man she could spend the rest of her life with, a passion that would never die. David Barnett was an art dealer and their careers had meshed perfectly, as perfectly as their bodies and their hearts had—or so she’d thought. She’d come home one day and found the Brazilian naked, in their bed, with David. And just as quickly as it had begun, it was over.

Now, as Marisol looked back on it, she wasn’t sure whether she’d loved David at all. Maybe she’d just been swept away by the need, by the way he touched her body and piqued her desire. Perhaps she’d confused those feelings with something deeper and more lasting.

She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. She’d learn to separate desire from emotion. And what better way than to test herself on Ian Quinn? He had almost everything she could possibly want in a lover—he was tall and dark, sexy and charming. It remained to be seen whether the sex would measure up, but that question could be quickly answered the next time they met.

“You’re right,” Hector said. “I should get back. It is a long drive.”

They silently walked to the door, then stepped out of the cool interior of the gallery into the humid night. Marisol threw her arms around her father’s neck and kissed him on both cheeks. “Drive safely, Papi. And call me when you get back. I’ll be working all night.”

She stood on the sidewalk and waved as her father drove off in his battered old car. It wasn’t until she turned to go back inside that she noticed the shadowy figure standing beneath a nearby streetlamp. Her Manhattan instincts kicked in and she hurried back to the door, ready to step inside and lock it behind her. But then she recognized the tall, lean form and the perfect profile.

“Are you spying on me, Mr. Quinn?” she asked, hitching her hands on her waist.

“I was just out for a walk,” Ian replied as he approached. “I couldn’t sleep.” He nodded toward the street. “So, you had a date?”

“Is this part of your job? To know everybody’s business in this town?”

“I’m paid to keep an eye on things,” he said, his gaze lazily raking her body.

Marisol felt a delicious shiver rush over her. She knew that look, that simple way a man had of acknowledging sexual need. Her immediate instinct was to rebuff the advance, to protect herself from the hurt she’d suffered at David’s hands. But she was most curious to see where this all might lead. Perhaps sex with Ian Quinn would be exactly what she needed to forget past mistakes. “On me?”

He nodded. “Now that you live here, yes.”

“Would you like to come inside?” she asked with a coy smile. “I can offer you a drink. It might help you sleep.” He paused for a long moment and she thought he might refuse. The invitation was so obviously transparent.

“All right,” Ian finally said. He followed her inside, then walked with her to the back of the gallery. A modern couch, upholstered in a pale green fabric was set against the back wall. Two armchairs that Marisol had purchased in New York were positioned across from it.

Ian sprawled on the couch, resting his arms across the back, his long legs stretched out in front of him. “So this guy you were kissing. Is he someone you’ve been seeing for a long time?”

“You might say that,” she replied. He was awfully nosy. Was he simply doing his duty as police chief or was he already jealous? “He’s my father. He drove out from the city to have dinner with me and to see the gallery.”

“It’s late for him to drive back.”

“We’re both night owls,” she said. “And he hates the traffic so he does his best to avoid it.” She wandered back to the small kitchenette and grabbed a glass, then retrieved a bottle of Scotch. “Is this all right?”

Ian nodded and Marisol poured him a glass, then sat down next to him on the sofa. “Why are you really here, Mr. Quinn?”

“I told you, I couldn’t sleep.”

Marisol took a sip of his whiskey, then handed him the glass. He really was stunningly attractive. His hair was dark, nearly black, but his eyes were a deep blue, a color that was a mix of azure and cobalt. She stared into those eyes, trying to memorize the exact hue so she might replicate it with her paints later.

His gaze dropped to her mouth and Marisol watched as he contemplated kissing her. But when he looked up again, she found herself overwhelmed by the prospect. One kiss and it would be all over between them. Choices she had now would be lost forever. She already knew the effect his mouth had on her and couldn’t imagine what his touch might do.

She slowly rose up from the sofa and walked over to a ladder she’d set beneath a row of track lights. Her breath was coming in short little gasps and she felt light-headed. Was it exhaustion or had he done this to her? Grabbing a lightbulb from the case she’d purchased, Marisol slowly climbed the ladder. When she looked over at him, he was still watching her with a lazy fascination.

So much for playing it cool. She might as well write Seduce Me in big letters across her forehead. Though he seemed to hide his interest behind a mask of indifference, Marisol knew the real reason he’d come to her. It was evident in the predatory way his gaze followed her.

“I have so much to do,” she said.

Ian slowly stood, then set his glass down on the coffee table. When he reached the ladder, he braced his hands on either side of her legs, trapping her where she stood. “Why don’t you let me do that?” he said. An instant later, his lips touched the soft skin behind her knee. It was such a silly spot to kiss, but the warmth of his mouth sent a thrill to her very core.

She closed her eyes as he lifted her skirt, moving higher and higher with his mouth, the trail of kisses damp on the back of her thigh. On shaky legs, Marisol slowly descended the ladder, the bulb still clutched in her hand.

He didn’t step away, and as she continued down, she found herself brushing up against his body, her backside coming into contact with his crotch. It was as if he were challenging her, tempting her to react. She slowly turned, leaning back against the ladder for support.

“I’m trying to figure out why I want to kiss you so much,” he murmured, leaning closer.

“Is it necessary to have a reason?” she asked.

“Don’t you think it might be dangerous not to?”

“Curiosity,” she said, running her fingers through the hair at his temple. “There’s a good reason.”

“All right,” he said. “Curiosity, it is.”

Closing her eyes, she parted her lips and waited, certain it would be wonderful. The moment his lips touched hers, a wave of pleasure washed over her body. His hands skimmed along her torso, then caressed the curves of her hips and waist. It had been six months since she’d felt this desire, since she’d been touched so intimately by a man. As his tongue dipped into her mouth, Marisol’s knees went weak. What Ian Quinn knew about kissing was a lot more than most men knew, more than any man she’d ever kissed knew.

He was gentle at first and then as she surrendered, his hands began to explore with greater intent. The silk dress was a feeble barrier to his touch, the warmth of his palms penetrating the fabric to leave a brand on her skin.

He drew back, then cupped her face in his hands, running his thumb along her jaw as he stared into her eyes. Marisol held her breath and waited. His gaze skimmed over her face, lingering on her lips, wet from his mouth. With each heartbeat that passed, she wanted it more, just one intense and intimate connection to ignite the spark between them.

“Remember how you said I was afraid to break the rules?” he asked.

Marisol opened her mouth to speak, but the answer died in her throat. Instead, she just nodded.

“Going any further with this would break a lot of rules.”

“They’re not our rules, are they?” Marisol asked. As far as she was concerned, there were no rules when it came to the desire between a man and a woman. They just needed to follow their instincts and let their needs guide them.

His mouth came down on hers again and this time the kiss was desperate and deep. Marisol wrapped her arms around his neck and furrowed her fingers through his hair, lost in the whiskey taste of him. Every tiny movement of his lips and his tongue was meant to tantalize and she couldn’t help but respond.

He grabbed her backside and lifted her up, wrapping her legs around his waist. Marisol let the lightbulb drop to the floor and it shattered behind him. But Ian didn’t react, so intent on ravaging her mouth.

He pressed her back against a pillar and then slid his hands along the length of her thighs, from her knees to her hips and then back again. The fabric of her skirt caught between them and Marisol tugged at it until it gathered around her waist.

The touch of his hands on her naked skin was almost more than she could bear. And yet, it wasn’t enough. She wanted to rid herself of the dress, to open her body to his caress and revel in the sensations that his touch elicited.

She was supposed to be invulnerable to a man’s charms, especially after what David had done. But all the promises she’d made to herself had simply vanished the moment Ian had kissed her. She needed to feel the rush of anticipation, the flood of desire and whirl of passion again. It would fill her up with heat and energy and she’d feel alive.

Marisol let her legs relax and slowly, she regained her feet. She reached between them and began to work at his belt. He offered no resistance and instead, bunched the fabric of her skirt in his fists, drawing it back up around her waist.

He nuzzled her neck, then whispered into her ear, “What are we doing?”

“I don’t know,” Marisol said. “But it feels good.”

“Mmm.” The sound was a low growl in his throat as her fingers moved to the zipper on his jeans. His hips pressed against her hand and she could feel the hard ridge of his erection between them. This was all happening so fast, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself.

His hand smoothed along the inside of her thigh, then back to her hip, brushing against the spot between her legs. The contact brought a moan to her throat and she tugged at the waistband of his jeans, exposing the boxers beneath. Suddenly, it all became so frantic and desperate, as if they were racing against some clock that might unexpectedly signal a return to reality.

Clothes were pushed aside, skin exposed, and Marisol wrapped her fingers around him and slowly began to stroke his stiff shaft. In turn, Ian tugged her thong down and slipped his hand between her legs, his fingers teasing at the soft folds of her sex. She moaned, but then he froze.

“Shit,” Ian muttered, collapsing against her. “I don’t have a condom.”

“You’re a cop,” she said. “Aren’t you supposed to be prepared?”

“That’s the Boy Scouts.” He buried his face in the curve of her neck. “I had one, but I took it out of my wallet.”

“Why would you do such a thing?” Marisol whispered, her fingers still gently stroking him.

“I just didn’t expect to—” He sighed. “It’s a long story.”

And then, the reality alarm rang. She didn’t expect this, either, this wild and irresistible attraction, this dangerous need to feel him buried inside her. “We can’t do this,” she said with a shaky voice. “I—I mean, we can, but we probably shouldn’t.”

He stepped back and nodded. “I usually don’t…I mean, this isn’t the way I…” He raked his hand through his hair, shaking his head. “I don’t know what happened here. I’m sorry, but I—”

“No,” she said, holding out her hand to stop his apology. “It was me. All of these things have been building up and I just needed—”

“It was me,” he insisted.

Marisol pressed her finger to his lips. “It was both of us. So there’s no need for apologies.”

He winced as he pushed himself back into his boxers, then zipped his jeans. Marisol smoothed her skirt down along her legs, pulled the straps back up on her shoulders, suddenly embarrassed that she’d let this all go so far. What had she been thinking? She hadn’t, that was the problem. Using Ian Quinn’s body to put David out of her mind wasn’t the smartest move in the world. She’d been desperate to prove she could enjoy sex without an emotional attachment. But the feelings running through her were proof that there was something more than just simple lust at work here.

“I’m going to go now,” Ian said.

“All right.” She watched as he walked to the door, a maelstrom of indecision swirling inside her. She didn’t want him to leave. She wanted him to strip off his clothes and make love to her, to ease this ache that had taken up residence deep inside her. And she wanted to fall asleep in his arms, wrapped in his embrace, and wake up in the middle of the night to do it all over again. “Good night,” she called, a bit too cheerfully.

He reached for the door, then froze. Slowly, he turned. In a few long strides he was back to her, sweeping her into his arms and kissing her again. It came so quickly, she barely had time to react and then it was over, her mouth damp with the taste of him, her lips bruised.

He pressed his forehead to hers and smiled. “This is going to happen between us,” he said. “It’s just a matter of time. You do know that, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she replied. “I know.”

He stole another kiss, then walked back to the door. “I’ll be seeing you, Miss Arantes.” He grinned, then disappeared into the night, the door swinging shut behind him.

Marisol drew a deep breath and closed her eyes. Her thoughts were filled with images and sensations, swirling together until she couldn’t think straight. His mouth on her throat, her fingers wrapped around his cock and the powerful current that had raced between them.

She’d always been comfortable with her desires and her ability to satisfy them when necessary. But before she fell into bed with Ian Quinn, she’d better be ready to handle what came after.