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.
2
“I THINK WE GOT the raw end of the deal,” Declan said.
Ian stared into his coffee, waiting for the caffeine to kick in. He hadn’t slept at all last night. Instead, he’d stared at the ceiling, trying to figure out what the hell had happened between him and Marisol Arantes. It was as if the moment he met her, every rational thought in his head had just decided to take a vacation. She took his breath away, and his ability to control his desires.
Ian took a sip of his coffee, looking over the rim at his younger brother. “I know. It was a sucker bet. Marcus knew he’d be the one to win. He’s stuck all alone on that boat for the summer, anchored offshore. He might as well be living in a monastery in Tibet.” He set the coffee down and poured an extra measure of sugar into the cup, then slowly stirred it. “Maybe we ought to give up right now and pay him the money. Why torture ourselves?”
“No way,” Dec said. “We can’t let him win. We just have to last three months, until the end of the summer. If we manage for that long, then at least we’ll break even.”
“Why did we agree to this again?” Ian asked.
“We’re supposed to take the time to learn a little more about women,” Dec said. “And maybe a little bit about ourselves. A guy really doesn’t know himself until he faces adversity, right?”
“We’re not crossing the North Pole here,” Ian said. “Or climbing Mount Everest. You make it sound like celibacy is going to be life-threatening. There are a lot of guys in this world who go three months without having sex.” Hell, Ian had gone five months, until last night. Though, technically, last night hadn’t been full-on sex, the fantasy had been real enough when he’d found relief in the privacy of his own bedroom.
“Not by choice,” Dec said.
Ian had to give him that. He’d never in his life made a conscious decision to avoid women. In turn, he had always seemed to be surrounded by attractive ladies-until he moved back to Bonnett Harbor two years ago. Now, a day after he had vowed to give them up, Marisol Arantes waltzed into his life with her dark eyes and her kissable mouth and a body that begged to be touched.
The squawk of Ian’s radio interrupted his thoughts and he grabbed it from the clip on his shoulder and pushed the button. “Quinn,” he said.
“We’ve got a traffic problem on Bay Street,” Sally said. “Delaney is over there and he says he needs backup. Wilson is tied up with an MVA out on the highway. Can you go over there and help him out?”
“Tell him I’m just a couple minutes away.” Ian stood and grabbed his wallet from his back pocket, then tossed a five onto the table. “Duty calls,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”
The squad car was parked in front of the diner, and as promised, it only took a minute for him to pull out into traffic and head over to Bay Street. Sally had been right. Cars were jammed in both directions, odd for a town that had only three stoplights. He left the patrol car at the back of the jam and hopped out, then walked up through the crowd of people and cars.
The majority of the people were gathered around Gallerie Luna, Marisol’s shop. Ian groaned inwardly, surmising the cause of the congestion. As he approached, the crowd surged toward him, everyone talking at once, Mrs. Fibbler in the middle of the bunch. He held up his hands to quiet them. “I know what you’re going to say. And I’ll take care of it. Now everyone move along and get your day started.”
“It’s disgusting. Our children shouldn’t have to look at that!”
“It’s art!”
“Please. If that’s art, then that parking meter over there is art.”
“Ladies! Move along now. I told you, I’ll take care of this.”
When the crowd had cleared, he walked to the front door of the gallery and pressed the buzzer. At first, there was no answer, but then the door opened a crack and Marisol looked out. She smiled sleepily, squinting against the light. “Hi,” she murmured. “What time is it?”
Ian glanced at his watch. “It’s a little past eight.”
She frowned. “In the morning?”
“Yeah,” Ian said. “Can I come in?”
Marisol brushed her hair back, then rubbed her eyes. “Sure.”
She stepped aside, then closed the door behind him. She was dressed in an oversize T-shirt that nearly reached her knees, hiding the tantalizing curves of her body. The shirt was covered with splotches of brightly colored paint. Her legs and feet were bare.
Ian found himself reacting the same way he had the first time he’d walked into her gallery. But he fought against the fantasies that tickled at his desire and focused on the business at hand. It wasn’t easy. Marisol wore her beauty with a careless disregard for the effect it had on those around her. On him. Even in a T-shirt, with streaks of paint on her chin and hands, she was the most gorgeous creature he’d ever seen.
Dragging his gaze away from her face, Ian noticed the huge canvas propped up against the pillars in the center of the shop, and the ladder set in front of it. Wide swathes of orange and purple paint depicted a huge naked ass. “Nice,” he murmured. “I’m glad to see you’re trying something new.”
“I was inspired,” she said with a coy smile.
He thought back to the night before, to the intimacies they’d enjoyed, the crazy rush of passion that had swept them both away. Had he inspired her? “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to change the window display. Today. It created a traffic jam on the street out front and that can’t happen.”
“You can’t make me change it,” Marisol said, crossing her arms beneath her breasts and tipping her chin up defensively.
“Actually, now I can. It’s a hazard to drivers and pedestrians. I can ticket you and for every day you keep it that way, the fine will increase.”
Marisol gasped, then raked her hair out of her eyes. “You must be joking.”
“No,” Ian said. “I’m not. So, would you like me to write the ticket, or can I help you take those sculptures out of the window?”
She considered her options, glancing back and forth between him and the front window. Then, she sighed softly and held out her hand. “I’ll take the ticket,” she said.
“It’s fifty dollars.”
She glared at him, anger snapping in her dark brown eyes. “A small price to pay to maintain my artistic integrity.”
Ian reached into his back pocket and withdrew his citation book, then wrote Marisol Arantes up on a violation of village ordinance 612.3. When he was finished, he handed her the ticket. “You can pay me right now, if you’d like. We take cash, checks or credit cards. Of course, you’re still going to have to take the sculptures out of the window.”
“I have no intention of paying you or removing the sculptures.” She held the ticket under his nose then defiantly tore it into tiny pieces. They fluttered to the floor at his feet.
“All right,” Ian said with a shrug. “Then I guess I’ve done my job.”
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“Too bad you can’t say the same for last night,” she muttered.
He stared at her, stung by the sarcastic challenge in her voice. “As I recall, that was a mutual decision.”
“Was it?” she said.
He cursed softly, then, only to prove his point, he yanked her against his body, the instinct to kiss her again completely overwhelming him. His mouth came down on hers and he ran his hands beneath the T-shirt until they circled her waist. To his surprise, she was completely naked beneath. His brain told him to stop, but then she moaned and pressed her body against his, surrendering to the kiss.
Her skin was as soft and smooth as silk, her limbs perfectly formed. The moment he touched her, Ian wanted more, craving the feeling of something new and different. He would never be satisfied until he touched every inch of her skin, explored every gentle curve and every warm pulse point.
As it had been the night before, all sense of reality and propriety seemed to vanish. He forgot the citation, her refusal to follow his request, the reason for his visit in the first place. Every thought was focused on her body, on her reaction to his touch. He became consumed with the need to possess her, whether it be with a kiss or a caress or something much more intimate. Ian really didn’t care. He wanted Marisol Arantes and whatever the consequences, he’d deal with them later.
Ian reached up and switched off his radio, then grabbed her waist and gently pulled her along to the worktable near the rear of the gallery. Without interrupting their kiss, he lifted her up on the table until she sat in front him. He drew back, then slowly pulled her T-shirt up and over her head.
The sight of her naked body took his breath away. He knew it would be perfect, but nothing had prepared him for the sheer beauty that she possessed. He reached for her breasts, cupping one in each hand and teasing at her nipples with his thumbs.
She watched him, her lips damp and slightly parted, her eyes half-closed. He ran his hands down her torso and over her hips, then reached behind her and shoved aside the papers and the tubes of paint scattered over the surface of the table. Gently, he pushed her back until she was lying in front of him.
He stepped between her legs, taking his time to explore her body with his hands and his lips. Marisol closed her eyes and surrendered to his touch, a smile curving the corners of her mouth. Ian wanted to strip off his own clothes and sink into her body. But he fought the temptation and instead, focused on pleasing Marisol.
He pressed a kiss to her belly, then moved lower, to the sweet spot between her legs. A tiny moan slipped from her throat as he ran his tongue along the soft folds of her labia. He parted her with his fingers then found her clitoris, gently caressing it with the tip of his tongue.
She arched against him, furrowing her fingers through his hair. He glanced up at her and saw the effect he was having, the flush of desire on her face, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Ian had always been generous to his partners in bed, but this was something different.
He wanted her complete surrender, to know that at any moment he could possess her and she could do nothing to stop herself. Marisol’s breath came in quick gasps, but Ian brought her along slowly, determined to prolong her pleasure.
And then, before he knew it, she was there, crying out as her body shuddered, grabbing the edge of the table with white-knuckled hands. Ian kissed the inside of each thigh, then took her hands and pulled her up. Gently, he smoothed the hair out of her eyes, tracing his fingers over the delicate arch of her eyebrow.
“Take me to bed,” she murmured.
“Where do you sleep?” he asked.
She pointed up. “I have an apartment above the gallery.”
Ian grabbed her T-shirt and tugged it over her head, then wrapped her legs around his waist and picked her up. He found the stairs behind the small kitchen. The apartment was sparsely furnished and filled with unpacked boxes. A rumpled bed stood in a corner below a bay window. He set Marisol on the mattress, then drew the covers up over her.
“Take your clothes off,” she said.
“I can’t,” Ian replied. He bent over and dropped a kiss on her forehead. “I’m on duty.”
Marisol groaned. “No, no. Call your boss and tell him you won’t be in.”
Ian chuckled. “I am the boss. I have to set the example. But I’ll be back. Later.”
Marisol rolled to her side and pushed up on her elbow, giving him a seductive smile. “We have some unfinished business.”
He nodded, then bent over her and kissed her. “Pay that ticket, Miss Arantes, or the next time I see you, I’ll have to slap the cuffs on you and drag you down to the station.”
“I’ll look forward to that,” she teased.
Ian walked to the door, then looked back once before leaving. Marisol had already curled herself beneath the covers, her eyes closed. He shook his head. This was a helluva way to start his day.
A PERSISTENT RINGING woke her up from a delicious dream. Marisol rolled over in bed, brushing her hair out of her eyes. She stared at the clock for a long moment, then flopped back down into the pillow. Four o’clock. By the light shining through the windows, she could assume it was p.m., not a.m., and she hadn’t missed the Templetons’ party.
She hadn’t slept so well in ages and there was no question about what had relaxed her. She smiled as she reached for the phone, hoping that it might be Ian. Perhaps she could convince him to return and finish what he’d begun. Marisol put the phone to her ear, expecting to hear his deep voice. “Hello?”
“This is National Express. We have a delivery for Marisol Arantes.”
“That’s me,” she said, stifling a yawn. “From who?”
“It’s a rather large crate, ma’am and we need your signature. We’re out front.”
Frowning, Marisol sat up. “I’ll be right down.” She wasn’t expecting anything. All her paintings and sculptures had been shipped from New York last week and had arrived the day after she had. She grabbed a pair of paint-stained capris and tugged them on beneath the T-shirt.
When she opened the front door of the gallery, Marisol found a man waiting, dressed in the navy uniform of the delivery service. He handed her a clipboard and she signed her name, then he helped her slide the crate inside the door. As she dragged the crate across the floor, Marisol noticed that the sculptures she’d placed in the windows were now sitting in a tidy row along the wall.
She chuckled softly as she ripped open the packing slip. Mr. Law-and-Order had obviously decided to do the job himself before he left that morning. She set the crate aside, then grabbed the sculptures and placed them back into the window. If she couldn’t win the battle between Ian and her body, then she wasn’t about to give up on this fight.
When she returned to the crate, she noticed her father’s name on the packing slip and smiled. Perhaps he’d changed his mind about showing his work in her gallery after all. Marisol ran her hand over the edge of the four-foot-square crate, then decided to open it later.
She was due at her very first Newport social event by 5:00 p.m., a cocktail reception at the estate of George and Cheryl Templeton. They’d been important clients of David’s, and when they’d heard that Marisol was moving to the area, they’d insisted on setting up a small reception for her.
Marisol detested the business side of the art world, content to close herself up with her work and let it speak for itself. But unfortunately, most of the major collectors insisted on trotting out “their” artists and promoting careers that, in turn, would increase the value of the art they held.
George and Cheryl had been kind to offer their patronage and Sascha Duroy, Marisol’s best friend, had promised to attend, so the evening wouldn’t be all business and boredom. Sascha had a way of making even the most stuffy events amusing with her colorful stories and ribald sense of humor. Still, given the choice, Marisol would have preferred to stay home in the hopes that Ian might wander by and finish what he’d started earlier that morning.
She scolded herself silently
. All her good intentions, all the promises she’d made to herself had suddenly evaporated in the presence of this man. But Marisol didn’t need to fall in love with him to have a good time. And there was no doubt that Ian would be a very good time.
She glanced at the clock on the wall in the back of the gallery. The party began at four, but as the guest of honor, she wouldn’t be expected to arrive before five. That meant she could stretch it to six.
The doorbell buzzed again and Marisol hurried back to the front of the gallery, wondering what the deliveryman had forgotten. Annoyance turned to anticipation as she realized Ian could be waiting, his workday over. But when she opened it, she found Sascha standing on the sidewalk, an impatient expression on her face.
“I knew I’d find you here,” she said, bustling past Marisol. “I told Cheryl you’d be late, that you’d have some excuse about getting caught up in your work. So I decided to make sure you didn’t embarrass us both by forgetting the party entirely. Get dressed. For once, I’m going to make sure you’re on time.”
Sascha Duroy was one of New York’s most successful gallery owners and had many up-and-coming artists hanging in her gallery. She’d claimed to be thirty-seven on each of her last four birthdays, so Marisol assumed she was past forty by now. But with the aid of a very skilled plastic surgeon and good genes, Sascha barely looked thirty.
No matter where she was going-to the grocery store or to a reception at MoMA-Sascha always looked perfect, her nails done, her hair in place, her clothes tailored to within a millimeter of her well-toned figure. Marisol always looked as if she’d just rolled out of bed, combed her hair with her fingers and threw on the first thing that didn’t have paint stains.
Ian Page 4
