Ian

by Kate Hoffmann

  “You know this guy?” Ian yelled.

  “Yes,” she said, nodding her head. “His name is David Barnett. Why is he in handcuffs?”

  “He was trying to break in.” Ian winced. “Can you turn off the alarm?”

  She disappeared, and a few seconds later, the alarm fell silent. When she returned, she stood in front of them both. “Who’s going to start?”

  “This idiot just knocked me over and put me in handcuffs,” Barnett explained. “I was knocking on the door, hoping you were still up and-”

  “He was messing with the lock,” Ian said. “How do you suppose he got the door open?”

  “It was unlocked already,” David said.

  “Bullshit,” Ian replied. “Marisol, did you lock the door?”

  “I-I thought I did,” she said. A frown wrinkled her brow. “But maybe I didn’t.” She ran her hand through her rumpled hair. “Just let him go,” she finally said.

  “I can’t do that,” Ian replied. “He was trying to break in.”

  “He wasn’t,” she said. “I-I asked him to come over and I forgot.”

  Ian could tell she was lying but he wasn’t sure why. With a soft curse, he unlocked the cuffs, leaning forward to whisper in Barnett’s ear. “We both know what you were doing,” he said. “I’d suggest you get out of town, before I find something else to arrest you for.”

  Barnett cursed, giving Ian a shove. “Marisol, I-”

  Ian went after him, ready to arrest him for assaulting an officer, but Marisol stepped in between them both. “Ian, wait here,” she ordered. She pointed to a spot near the door and Ian reluctantly did as he was told.

  Then she walked outside, closing the door behind her. But Ian pulled the blinds aside and watched her as she spoke with the guy she called David. They appeared to be more than just passing acquaintances, but it was obvious from the way she was gesturing to him, that they weren’t on good terms.

  He watched as the skinny strap from her nightgown dropped over her shoulder, revealing the soft flesh of her breast. She angrily pulled it up, but continued talking. He saw Barnett’s gaze drop to her breasts and fought back a surge of anger.

  When the guy reached out and took Marisol’s hand, Ian cursed softly, grabbing the door handle, ready to step between them. He shouldn’t feel this way, as if Marisol belonged to him. They’d known each other exactly one week. It wasn’t nearly enough time to consider her anything more than an extended one-night stand.

  But that wasn’t how he felt. In truth, he couldn’t recall ever feeling that way about her. From the very start, Ian had sensed that there was something more between them, something holding them together beyond basic lust and desire.

  Ian walked away from the door, convincing himself he didn’t care who the man was to Marisol, or how she felt about him. For now, Ian was in her life and he wasn’t about to be displaced by some smart-ass city boy in a fancy suit. The guy was up to no good, and tomorrow, he’d call his brother and ask him to cancel the background check on Marisol, and instead, concentrate on David Barnett.

  MARISOL STEPPED INSIDE the gallery and shut the door behind her, leaning back against it and closing her eyes. She’d planned to spend a quiet evening, catching up on her sleep and trying to put her troubles aside for just a little while. But the longer she had the painting in her possession, the more trouble seemed to find her.

  If David had been breaking in, then she knew exactly what he was looking for. He intended to steal the painting from her and sell it to his client. But once the sale was complete, then her father was just as culpable as David-if they got caught. Maybe she ought to just give it to him and be done with it, to take the chance and pray that the odds would be with her and no one would ever find out.

  “Is he gone?”

  Marisol looked up to see Ian standing in the shadows of the gallery, his frame outlined by the feeble light from the street shining through the transom windows. “Yes. He’s gone.”

  He slowly approached, stopping just far enough away that she couldn’t read his expression. “Would you like to explain to me what that was all about?”

  She shook her head. “Not now. I’m tired and I want to go back to bed.” She walked toward the back of the gallery, then turned. “Are you coming?”

  Ian cursed softly. “Who was that guy?”

  She didn’t care for the tone in his voice, but if answering his questions would get them to bed any faster, then she was willing to do it. “David Barnett. My ex.”

  “Ex what?” he asked, his voice tense.

  “Boyfriend,” she said. “Fiancé, actually. We were engaged for about six months.”

  Ian let the revelation settle for a while before he responded. “How long ago did you break up?”

  “Six months,” she said. “That’s why I decided I needed to get out of the city. To get away from him, to make a fresh start.”

  “Do you still have a thing for him?”

  “Why all the questions?” Marisol snapped. “He’s no longer in my life. Isn’t that enough?”

  He crossed the room, standing silently in front of her, staring down at her face. Then, he grabbed Marisol’s hand and drew it to his mouth, kissing the center of her palm. “Am I in your life, Marisol?”

  She drew a sharp breath, the question taking her by surprise. Was he? Even in the very early days of her relationship with David, she never felt the way she did when she was with Ian. Her heart beat ten times more each minute when Ian touched her and she always seemed to be a little breathless when he was near. And at times, she couldn’t think straight.

  He wasn’t just in her life. He’d carved out a corner in her heart and stolen a tiny piece of her soul. “Yes,” she finally admitted. “I guess you are.”

  At that, Ian pulled her into his arms and gave her a fierce kiss, his mouth covering hers until she had no choice but surrender. When he finally pulled back, Ian brushed her tousled hair from her eyes and smiled. “I was worried about you. He was breaking in and all I could think about was your safety.” He paused and frowned. “Why do you think he was doing that?”

  “I don’t know that he was breaking in,” she lied. “I saw him earlier today and told him I didn’t want to talk to him. Maybe he wasn’t ready to take no for an answer. And I’ve been so distracted, I probably did forget to lock the door.”

  Ian pulled her along to the rear of the gallery, then gently pushed her down on the sofa. He sat beside her, her hands folded in his. “Tell me,” he said.

  “Why? It’s over now.”

  “Humor me. I want to know who this guy is and what he meant to you.”

  She sighed. “He’s an art dealer in Manhattan. We met at a gallery opening two years ago, we moved in together a year ago, and six months ago, I caught him in our bed with a twenty-one-year-old Brazilian model. I kicked him out, he took his stuff, and I decided to move up here for a while.” The story made her sound like a gullible fool, but she knew Ian would side with her and consider David the enemy.

  “And that’s it? It’s over?”

  “For me,” she said. She stood and pulled him to his feet. “Completely over. Now, are you going to come to bed or are you going to continue to interrogate me? Because, if you’re going to continue with the questions, I might have to call a lawyer.”

  Ian grinned. “You’re not under arrest. You don’t need a lawyer.” He held up his handcuffs. “Unless you want me to put these on you.”

  She took them from his fingers. “What do I need to do to get you to take your clothes off?”

  Ian shrugged. “A kiss might work,” he said.

  She grabbed his face and pressed her mouth to his, then drew back. “How’s that?”

  “That’ll take care of my shoes.” He kicked off his Nikes and reached down to yank off a sock.

  Marisol grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him toward the back of the gallery. When they reached the stairs to her apartment, she stood on the step above him and kissed him again, this time teasing h
is mouth open with her tongue. For good measure, she dropped a trail of kisses along his jaw to a spot just below his left ear.

  Ian growled playfully. “That’s worth a sock and my shirt.” He pulled off the second sock and by the time he straightened, Marisol was already working on the buttons of his shirt. When she had the first three undone, he grabbed the hem and pulled it over his head, tossing it aside.

  “That was easy,” she murmured, running her hands over his broad shoulders. “What’s it going to take for you to get rid of the pants?”

  “Make me an offer,” he said.

  She slowly pulled him along with her, up the stairs. When they reached the landing, Marisol pushed him against the wall and pressed her lips to his chest. With her tongue, she traced a path to his nipple, then sucked on it gently until it rose in a hard peak. She drew back and blew on it and Ian groaned.

  “The pants?” she asked.

  “The belt,” he countered.

  “And the zipper,” she said.

  Ian removed his belt, then slowly lowered his zipper. He was already aroused, the little game they played silly, yet sexually charged. “Now what?” he asked.

  She stood staring at him, the beauty of his half-naked body capturing her complete attention. Suddenly, her desire to possess him dissolved, replaced by an equally burning need to paint him. Her gaze slid from his face to his chest and then to his belly and back up again. She grabbed him by the hand and started back down the stairs. “Hurry,” she murmured, desperate to get her vision down on paper.

  Ian held back, pulling her to a stop. “Where are we going?”

  “Just come with me,” she insisted. She hurried downstairs to the gallery and left him standing near one of the low benches that lined the walls. Flipping on a contractor’s light that hung from a cord on one of the pillars, Marisol aimed it at the wall. Then she grabbed her sketch pad and a piece of charcoal and perched on a nearby stool.

  “Take the rest off,” she ordered, staring down at the blank page and focusing on what she needed to draw.

  Ian chuckled. “You’re not going to draw me. Come on, Marisol, let’s go to bed. You’ve been working too hard.”

  Marisol turned and stared at him intently, her gaze skimming over his body from top to toe. Catching her lower lip between her teeth, she circled the charcoal above the paper. “I have to do this now,” she murmured. “I have to get it down before I lose it.” Tossing the pad and charcoal aside, she walked over to him and finished unzipping his pants, then drew them down to his ankles. His boxers followed.

  Though Ian had been naked with her before, undressing him now seemed almost improper. Marisol had leave to take in every detail and what she saw was stunning, masculine beauty that took her breath away.

  He reached for his pants, but she shook her head. “Please. It won’t take long, I promise. Then we’ll go to bed.”

  Reluctantly, Ian stepped out of his clothes. She walked over to the wall and braced her hands above her head, leaning forward. “Like this,” she said. “I want to see the muscles in your back.”

  Ian did as he was told and Marisol slowly walked around him, running her hands over his body, checking to see how the light and shadows played across his skin. “Relax. Like you’re standing in a shower with the water pouring down on you. Lean into the wall and put one foot forward a bit. And let your head drop slightly.”

  Though she wasn’t trying to excite him, she could see what her touch was doing. His shaft was stiff and ready, brushing against his belly. For a moment, she thought about easing his need first and drawing him later. But she cast the notion aside and continued to observe him.

  “How long will this-”

  “Shh!” she said. “Don’t talk.”

  Marisol grabbed her digital camera from the worktable and began to snap pictures of him, but he turned around and held his hand out.

  “What are you doing?”

  “It’s just to help me remember,” she said.

  “If those pictures get out, the folks in this town are going to demand my resignation.”

  She smiled, dropping her gaze to his rigid shaft. “I think they might be impressed rather than upset. Now turn around and let me do this.”

  Over the next hour, Marisol completed sketch after sketch of Ian, putting him in different poses and adjusting the light until it cast his beautiful body in sharp contrasts. They didn’t speak, Ian growing more comfortable with the task at hand and anxious to please her.

  Having him pose made the work so simple. They were lovers, so she didn’t have to worry about what she asked him to do, or how she touched his body. There had always been rules when she’d worked with nude models, but with Ian, there were no rules.

  She glanced up from the sketch pad and took a good look at him. He was lying on one of the low, upholstered benches, one leg hanging off the side, the other bent. His head was tipped back, his arm carelessly covering his eyes.

  “Can you make yourself hard again?” she asked.

  His arm dropped away from his eyes and he turned and looked at her, as if he’d misunderstood. “What?”

  “Touch yourself,” she said. “I want you to be…aroused.”

  He smiled. “Why don’t you take care of that?”

  “I can’t,” she said. Marisol knew the moment she touched him in that way, she’d forget about her work and begin to obsess about the pleasures that his body offered. Even now, it would be difficult to just sit and watch him touch himself. But for this drawing, she needed to see his desire in order to draw it.

  He ran his hand over his chest, then his belly, but he stopped there. She waited. Finally, he closed his eyes and moved lower. Marisol watched as he stroked himself, curious and yet detached. She knew men pleasured themselves on a regular basis, but she’d never actually watched how it was done.

  He began slowly, wrapping his fingers around his shaft as she had done for him. It didn’t take long before he was hard and he stopped. By that time, she’d lowered her sketch pad, much more interested in watching him.

  “Don’t stop,” she murmured.

  He didn’t open his eyes, but merely smiled. Marisol set the sketchbook and charcoal down on the floor and slowly crossed to him, her eyes scanning his body, watching for the cues to his desire.

  Though he had to know she was near, he continued on, his head tipped back, his lips slightly parted. She reached for the straps of her nightgown, brushing them off her shoulders and letting the loose garment drop to the floor in front of the bench.

  Marisol reached out to touch him, but instead, let her hand hover close to his skin, feeling the warmth of his body and listening to his quickened breathing. She bent over him, her hair brushing along his chest, then touched the tip of his penis with her tongue.

  Ian moaned softly. She crawled on top of him, and a moment later, he slipped inside her. Only then, did he open his eyes and look at her. Marisol smiled, smoothing her hands over his chest. For a long time, they just stared at each other, unmoving, the silent communication more arousing than any foreplay they had enjoyed.

  He reached between them and touched her. Already, he was so familiar with her responses, so attuned to her body and ready to please her. Sex had become something more than just mutual gratification. Between them, it had become an expression of trust and understanding, a refuge from the troubles that invaded her life. She was safe with Ian.

  He arched against her and Marisol held her breath. Then, he sat up and grabbed her around the waist, swinging his feet to the floor. She felt him buried so deep inside her it made her ache. Ian looked up at her as she began to rock above him, his gaze taking in every reaction, the need beginning to spiral out of control.

  With every moment that she spent with him, this connection grew stronger, like strands being added to a rope. It had grown so quietly and now, Marisol couldn’t imagine any other man in her life. Everything that she needed was here. Though she didn’t know it for certain, she felt it, as if complete and utter happin
ess was lying just beyond her reach.

  But would she grab it and hold on? Or would she allow it to slip between her fingers? She didn’t want to fall in love, to turn her life over to an emotion she couldn’t control. It was far more sensible to distance herself from this man. Though her mind told her one thing, Marisol’s heart contradicted every fear.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and Ian buried his face between her breasts, the two of them now caught in the vortex of their desire. As her need began to build and her release grew closer, Marisol allowed both her body and her mind to surrender to him.

  Her orgasm came upon her slowly this time, a single shudder and then another. He buried himself even deeper inside her and then moaned and it was only then that she felt the explosion of sensation. Who was this man who made her feel so powerful, yet so completely defenseless?

  She nuzzled his soft hair, weaving her fingers through it and arching against him one last time. She couldn’t let herself love him, but Marisol was left to wonder if she already did.

  DECLAN DROPPED the file folder in the center of Ian’s desk, then took a seat in one of the office chairs. “It’s all there,” he said. “Marisol Arantes and David Barnett.”

  “When I called, I thought I told you I didn’t want you to do a check on her. Just on him.”

  Declan shrugged. “Well, I did it anyway.” He pointed to the folder. “Go ahead. Read it. I think you’ll be interested in what we found.”

  Ian pushed the folder back across the desk to his brother. “Nah. I don’t need to know anything about her.”

  “You’re a cop, aren’t you?” Declan replied, watching him shrewdly.

  Ian glanced up at his brother. “Why? Is she in trouble?”

  “Not in trouble,” Dec said. “More like, she is trouble.” He paused. “What is this woman to you?”

  “I don’t know,” Ian said. “I’m just curious. She’s been causing some problems in town. And I caught Barnett breaking into her gallery a few nights ago. She said they used to be engaged, but I think something’s going on there.”

  “I’d say more than something,” Dec replied.

  “What?”