“It would have been an adventure to run away,” she said.
“Our supplies got confiscated,” Ian explained. “We started hiding food, fruit and bread and milk, and it started to smell really bad. My grandmother’s cook found our stash and threw everything away.”
“There were times when I was a kid I wanted to run away,” she said. “My parents separated and my mother was…fragile. Needy. I raised myself and I’m not sure I did a very good job.”
Ian tipped her chin up and gently kissed her. “I think you turned out real nice.”
She giggled. “Thank you. And you turned out real nice, too.”
“Another reason why we’re perfect together,” he teased.
“We are perfect together,” she agreed. Marisol rolled over on top of him, stretching out until every inch of her naked skin was pressed against his. “See. We even fit perfectly.”
Ian clasped her hands and stretched his arms out above his head. They lay together for a long time, her cheek resting on his shoulder, his breath warm on her temple. There were moments when her choices seemed so simple-Ian, passion; Ian, a future. But instead of focusing on those choices, she’d been forced to make her choices with her father in mind.
Would she have to suffer the consequences for his actions? Would his desperation destroy her chance for happiness? If there was a simple way out, she’d grab it. But it was too late to give the painting back to her father.
“Why didn’t you read the file?” she asked. Marisol was afraid to look at him, afraid her question would open up another argument between them. “Didn’t you want to know what was inside?”
“Maybe I should have,” Ian said. “I guess I didn’t want to ruin the illusion. I didn’t want to trust what someone else had to say about you. I’d rather trust what I know.”
“And what is that?”
“That you’re beautiful and crazy and passionate. That you throw yourself into life like there’s no tomorrow.” He paused. “Up until a few weeks ago, I was waiting around for my life to start, waiting for someone to appear and suddenly everything would make sense. But when I met you, I realized I’d have to go out and grab it and make it happen.”
She untangled her fingers from his, then smoothed her palm over his cheek, kissing him, deeply and thoroughly. “You know I would tell you if I could,” she murmured against his lips.
“I know you would tell me if you trusted me,” he countered.
Marisol slowly drew away, smiling tremulously. “I should go.”
“Promise you’ll come back?”
She shrugged. “We’ll see.” She grabbed his robe and wrapped it around her naked body, then dropped one last kiss on his lips. “Go back to sleep.”
Marisol walked out of the bedroom and down the stairs. She found her clothes where he had dropped them on the kitchen floor. As she dressed, she thought about returning to his bedroom. After all they’d shared, why couldn’t she trust him? What was it that kept her from knocking down the last bricks in the wall she’d built around her heart?
It would be so easy to love Ian Quinn, like breathing, or smiling, no effort at all. Already, it felt as if he’d become a part of her life. She’d tried to sleep in her own bed, but it had become impossible. Having his arms around her, his naked body beside her, was stronger than any sleeping pill she could take.
Marisol tugged her dress over her head, then slipped her shoes onto her bare feet. “Don’t,” she murmured to herself, fighting the temptation to return to his bed. “Don’t let yourself fall in love with him. Not now, not yet.”
But as she walked into the quiet dawn, the sounds of the birds stirring in the trees, Marisol knew there wasn’t much fight left in her. Ian Quinn had chipped away at her doubts and insecurities and she’d surrendered her body to him. How long would it be before he’d own her heart?
IAN STARED UP at the ceiling above his bed, looking at nothing but a gray expanse in the darkened bedroom. The soft sound of Marisol’s breathing beside him did nothing to relax him. Sleep had eluded him once again and though his body was exhausted, his mind refused to go quiet.
Marisol lay naked next to him, her legs twisted in the sheets, her hair strewn about his pillow. For nearly a week, they’d been carrying on these midnight encounters, a physical relationship that was becoming more and more confusing with every day that passed.
What had begun a month ago as a normal little affair had turned into an intense, full-blown sexual obsession. For the past five nights, he’d indulged in nearly every fantasy he’d ever had, and some that he hadn’t. Each night, he’d go to bed and wait for Marisol to appear. She’d sneak into his house, climb the stairs to his bedroom, slip out of her clothes and crawl into bed beside him. After that, they’d lose themselves in a long, slow seduction, two people bent on carnal pleasure.
And every night, it got a bit more desperate, as if they both knew the end was coming. Ian couldn’t help but think they were simply avoiding the reality of their situation, both ignoring the lies that stood between them in favor of the passion that drew them together.
He’d reached the point where he was willing to have Marisol on her own terms, to enjoy what she offered without any thought to the future. They existed in some strange limbo, feeling emotions that would either gently die over time or burn them both up in white-hot flames. Ian couldn’t see a pleasant end to it, no matter how he twisted it around and tried to make it work.
So, what choice did he have? To maintain his own ethical standards, he needed to know the truth. He’d perfected his interrogation techniques on the job in Providence. Maybe he ought to use them here. But he’d have to get Marisol out of her comfort zone, to shock her into realizing that she had no other choice but to confess what was written in the file that Declan had given him.
He crawled out of bed and wandered over to the window, pulling the curtains back to peer out onto the quiet street in front of his house. If only he could keep her here, it would give him time to convince her he could be trusted. But as with the past five nights, she’d wake before sunrise and slip out of bed, silently dressing then walking out without a word or even a farewell.
Ian glanced over at the bedside clock. It was nearly 4:00 a.m. and she’d be waking soon. If he wanted to keep her here, to broach the subject once again, he’d have to come up with a plan. Ian walked over to the closet and grabbed his utility belt from the hook on the door. He found his handcuffs in a small leather case on the belt and pulled them out.
She’d teased him about using the cuffs before. Why not take her up on her suggestion? He walked to the bed and gently took her wrist, snapping the cuff over it. But when he tried to attach the other bracelet to the bedpost, it wouldn’t reach. In the end, he clipped it to his wrist, knowing she wouldn’t be able to leave without his cooperation.
Lying beside her he closed his eyes and for the first time in days, he was able to relax, to retreat into a dreamless sleep, certain when he awoke, she would still be there.
Ian had barely slept, perhaps just a minute or two, when he was jolted awake by a sharp slap to his chest. He groaned softly and opened his eyes. The clock read four thirty, so it had been much longer than he’d thought. He felt a tug on his arm and rolled over, dragging Marisol along with him. It was only then that he remembered the handcuffs.
“Wake up,” she muttered. “And get me out of these things.”
“No,” Ian said. “Go back to sleep.”
“What do you think you’re doing? You can’t handcuff us together.”
“I can and I did,” Ian said.
“It-it’s against the law. It’s…kidnapping or-or unlawful something or other. I could call the police.”
“I am the police, and if anyone asks, I’ll just tell them it was kinky sex gone a bit awry. Now, go back to sleep.”
She yanked on his arm again, forcing him to roll over and face her. She sat cross-legged on the bed, her hair tousled around her face, her color high. She’d never looked quite so beauti
ful and if this is what bondage did for her, then Ian was going to have to try it again.
“What do you expect to accomplish by this?” she asked, holding up her hand.
His arm dangled from hers and Ian grinned. “To keep you in my bed a little longer,” he said.
“Why?”
“So we can talk,” he replied. “You have some things to tell me and I’m not going to let you go until I have some answers to my questions. When I get those answers, I’ll unlock the cuffs and you can go home.”
“I thought you didn’t want to know,” she said.
He reached out with his free hand and stroked her cheek. “Now I do. I’m not going to pretend I don’t care about you, Marisol, because I do. And whatever you say to me won’t change how I feel. You have to trust me.”
She groaned then curled up beside him and buried her face against his shoulder. “Just let me go home.”
“You said you aren’t doing anything illegal, so why can’t you tell me?”
“Why not ask your brother? He’s the one who dug up all the dirt.”
“I want to hear it from you.”
A long silence grew between them and Ian wondered if she were actually considering his request. He’d told her it wouldn’t make a difference, that it wouldn’t change his feelings for her. But did he really know that? What if she told him something so shocking it changed everything?
“You have to promise you won’t interfere,” she whispered. “Promise me.”
Ian shook his head. “I can’t. I won’t. If there’s any chance you might get hurt, I’m going to interfere.”
She sat up, her hair falling around her face. Tears of frustration pushed at the corners of her eyes but she angrily brushed them away. “I want you to forget you’re a cop, just for the next five minutes. Just be the man I’m sleeping with and nothing more.”
“All right,” Ian said.
“What would you do, if someone you knew, someone you loved, had committed a crime?”
“Did you commit a crime?” Ian asked.
She blinked in surprise and stared at him for a long moment. Only then, did he realize what he’d implied. Was he in love with Marisol? Is that why this was bothering him so? He shook his head. “So, we’re speaking hypothetically?”
She nodded. “And suppose, your brother or your father, knew he’d made a mistake and he just wanted to fix it. No one has been hurt, it’s a-a-”
“A victimless crime?” Ian asked.
Marisol nodded. “Yes, I suppose.”
“Every crime has a victim,” Ian said.
“I’m sure you’d see it that way, but sometimes it’s not that way at all. I’m just trying to help straighten things out. To make things right so everyone will be happy.”
“For the person you love?”
She nodded.
Ian drew a deep breath, knowing what his next question would cost him. “For David Barnett?”
Marisol frowned. “No, for my father.”
“Then you’re not in love with David Barnett?”
“Of course not. He’s the one who got my father into this whole thing. I hate him. He’s-he’s self-absorbed and egotistical and condescending and he thinks he can do anything he wants without any consequences.”
Ian lay back on the pillows, a flood of relief washing over him. He chuckled softly. She wasn’t in love with David Barnett. She didn’t even like him. So just what was she hiding from him? “He got you into this trouble? Maybe I can help you get out.”
“Are you still the guy I’m sleeping with or are you a cop now?”
Ian pulled Marisol into his arms, molding her naked body to his, then kissed her forehead. “I’m the guy who cares about you.”
Over the next hour, as the sun slowly rose, Marisol told him the whole story, about her father and his past, about David Barnett’s scheme to sell forged paintings and about her rather risky plan to exchange the original for the forgery hanging in the Templetons’ library using one of her own paintings as a decoy. And when she finished, Ian was certain of only one thing. He was completely in love with Marisol Arantes and he’d do whatever it took to protect her.
“You can’t take the painting back,” he said. “It’s too risky. If you get caught, you’ll be in as much trouble as your father.”
“There is no other way. Not without involving my father. He’s a convicted art forger. If he gets caught again, he’ll probably spend the rest of his life in prison.”
“All right,” Ian said. “There has to be another way. I need a little time to think about it. Just don’t do anything rash.” He paused. “Where is the painting now?”
She smiled. “I shouldn’t tell you.”
Ian raised an eyebrow. “But you will.”
“It’s under your bed,” she said.
He stared at her in disbelief. “What?”
“I brought it over here the other night and left it in the kitchen. After you were asleep I put it under the bed. It seemed like the safest place and David would never think to look here. By the way, there’s a lot of dust under there. You really should vacuum once in a while.”
“So now I am in the middle of this, right along with you?”
“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I didn’t know what else to do. And I wasn’t going to tell you, so if you hadn’t handcuffed us together, you would have never known.”
“And you just planned to keep sleeping with me until it came time to retrieve the painting?”
“I wasn’t using you,” she insisted. “Believe it or not, I like sleeping with you-and all the other stuff, too.”
Ian laughed. “Do not try to sweet-talk me.”
“If you want, I’ll take the painting back to the gallery. You can forget it was ever there.”
“No,” he said. “Barnett tried to get it once. Who’s to say he won’t try again? I want the painting here and I want you here. I don’t trust him, Marisol. He’s got himself in deep shit and a man like him can get desperate. If he goes down, he’s going to take you and your father with him. We have to figure out a way to stop that.”
“We?” she asked.
Ian nodded. “We. You and I.”
A smile curled the corners of her mouth. “I like the way that sounds.”
Ian rolled on top of her, pressing his hips against hers, his shaft hard between them. “And I like the way you feel,” he teased. “All soft and sweet.” He nuzzled her neck. “Promise me you won’t do anything until you give me a chance to help you. Maybe I can work something out.”
“I promise,” she said, giggling. “Do you think you can unlock the handcuffs now?”
“No way. I’m keeping you in this bed as long as I want. In fact, I may just call in and take a day off.”
“Are you sure this isn’t against the law?” Marisol asked.
“Yes,” he murmured, kissing her neck. “But what I’m about to do to you just might be.”
8
IAN STOOD at the conference table in Declan’s office, staring at the painting he’d pulled from beneath his bed. It wasn’t much to look at, at least not compared to Marisol’s paintings. This seemed like a bunch of splotches on canvas.
All this fuss for something a kid might have painted. Though he’d learned to appreciate fine art, he still didn’t understand why it was worth so damn much. After all, this was maybe thirty dollars worth of materials. A nice car had more in it in parts, yet sold for a lot less.
“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
Both Ian and Declan stared in disbelief at Richard Christiansen, an art expert Declan had called in to meet with them. “What?” Ian gasped.
“Two hundred and fifty thousand,” Christiansen repeated. “If it were an original Emory Colter. But it’s not.”
“Of course not,” Ian muttered, covering his surprise. “What would I be doing with a painting worth that much?”
Dec watched from nearby, his gaze darting back and forth between Christiansen and the painting, his mind
obviously intent on figuring out what was going on.
“What can you tell us about it?” Dec asked.
The expert bent over the painting and examined it through a magnifying glass. “Where did you get this?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you that,” Ian replied. “It’s part of an ongoing police investigation.”
The elderly man stepped back and rubbed his goatee thoughtfully. “Well, it’s definitely a forgery. A very clever forgery.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m quite familiar with Colter’s work. In fact, I knew him very well before he died. He spent his summers in Newport and did some of his finest work there. I don’t want to brag, but I’m considered the leading expert on Colter’s early work.”
Ian smiled tightly. He’d asked Dec to find him an art expert, and as always, Dec had known exactly who to call. Leave it to him to find the one guy who just might ask too many questions along with the answers he provided.
“You know, it’s funny, but I was called upon to authenticate this very painting just last year. I couldn’t. I was out of the country.”
“So, you’re sure this is a forgery?” Ian asked.
Christiansen nodded. “Although I can’t tell you whoever did the painting had malicious intentions. Some collectors, especially corporations, have a copy done and they hang that in their corporate offices. The insurance is simply too high to put a valuable painting in a place that isn’t as secure as a museum. The public gets to enjoy what they believe is an original while the original is tucked away in a vault for investment purposes. I can’t say I approve of the practice, but it is done.”
“So who could do work like this?” Ian asked.
“There’s a number of artists. Do you want the artists operating on the right or the wrong side of the law?” he asked.
“Start with the wrong,” Dec said.
“No,” Ian interrupted. “I really don’t need to know. All I wanted was to learn if the painting was an original. I have my answer.”
Ian Page 15
