“Just mmm,” she said.
“A dabbler?” Ian pressed.
Their earlier conversation echoed in her ears. Does that mean you trust me?
Yes.
I’m holding you to that, Lacey January Marsh Quinn
A threat.
Definitely.
Ian watched Lacey gnawing on the end of her brush and wondered why she was totally comfortable discussing painting yet flinched from discussing her grandfather who was also a painter—maybe. In any case, Ian decided with irritable satisfaction, at least he had her full attention now.
“So, he was a dabbler?” Ian repeated.
“You know how it is with art. One man’s Michelangelo is another man’s disaster.”
She bent and mixed red and blue together to create a purple that would look like black shadows when placed next to the green of the foreground. She wielded the long-handled brushes with an ease oil painters had in common, because they needed the extra length to stand back and judge the result as they painted.
After a few moments, Ian leaned back with a casual ease that had put more than one subject off guard. Interrogation was really a simple art. First you find out what people don’t want to talk about, and then you circle around and keep talking about it until something shakes loose. Waiting was the most important part of the art.
“Was he a Michelangelo to you?” Ian asked finally.
“Who?”
“Your grandfather.”
“He was Grandpa Rainbow. That’s all that mattered to me.”
“Sounds like you were close.”
“What do you mean?” she demanded, looking over her shoulder at Ian for the first time in twenty minutes.
“He left you his favorite pair of pliers.” Ian smiled. “I don’t know how women feel about it, but that adds up to ‘close’ in any man’s book.”
“He encouraged me to paint.” She turned back to the canvas as though ending the topic.
Ian remembered some of the conversations Lacey had had with Susa. “And your parents didn’t.”
“Mom thought it was a messy, downscale way to spend time. As a hobby, she tolerated it. As an avocation? Nope.”
“Maybe she’d had a bellyful of it while she was growing up with Grandpa Rainbow.”
Absently Lacey shook her head, already succumbing to the lure of the canvas. “Mom came from lawyers and judges and politicians.” She switched brushes, blended colors. “Grandpa Rainbow is my father’s father.”
“So your dad didn’t mind your painting?”
Her mouth turned down in an unhappy line. “He didn’t get along with his father. I was the only one who understood my grandpa.”
“And your grandpa was the only one who understood you.”
It wasn’t a question, so she didn’t answer. She simply slid deeper into the world she was creating, arcs of color that suggested sky and ocean and land stirred by wind, a day both wild and serene within its wildness. The houses along the coast were quick dashes of cream beneath dark eucalyptus trees bowing to their mistress the wind.
“What does your father do?” Ian asked after awhile.
“Law. He’s up for a judicial appointment.”
“Sounds like a good match for your mother.”
Lacey smiled. “It is. Living with either one of them would make me nuts, but they do real well together. Go figure.”
“Did your grandfather live with you?”
“On and off.”
“The way you paint, it must have been more on than off.”
She tapped the end of a brush against her chin and considered the painting. Despite the distraction, it was coming along faster than any she’d done before. More free. More evocative. More swirls and less angular strokes. More…reckless. She liked it.
Maybe she should have Ian breathing down her neck more often.
“Was he around a lot?” Ian asked, trying it another way.
“Who?”
“Your grandfather,” Ian said companionably, despite the impulse to clench his teeth.
He’d pried information out of more difficult subjects than Lacey by being the good cop. He’d hammered some out of others by being the bad cop. Whatever got the job done. Except he really didn’t want to badcop Lacey into telling him things for no better reason than his own curiosity about why a transparently honest woman invented a fake name and didn’t want to talk about her grandfather. Much better to keep casting the conversational lure until she rose to it freely. Then he would have proof of something that was only a gut certainty now.
Lacey had no more found those three paintings at a garage sale than his mother had found him under a cabbage leaf.
Newport Beach
Thursday night
26
Ian decided to be patient until Lacey was wholly lost in her painting before he brought up her grandfather again. Watching and waiting wasn’t exactly a hardship. Even the shapeless flannel rag she was wearing couldn’t hide the bare, feminine curve of her calves, the narrowness of her ankles, and the arch of her feet. He’d never considered feet particularly sexy before, but he found himself staring at hers. They seemed so naked.
Outside, the chill wind pressed against windows and the old frame house shifted and groaned.
“Aren’t your feet cold?” he asked finally, without meaning to. He should be talking about her grandfather.
She started. “Um, yeah, now that you mention it.”
“You have any slippers?”
“Beside the bed.” She tilted her head toward the end of the room.
He walked over, taking his time. The canvases propped up everywhere kept pulling at him. Some were like the ones she’d painted at the ranch, smaller rectangles thick with paint and vivid with energy—field studies created in the heat of the moment of first discovery. Other paintings were bigger, more polished versions of the smaller scenes. Again, he couldn’t choose between the two methods. Each drew him in a different way.
He finally spotted the slippers peeking out from beneath a pillow that had slipped off the bed. Black nose, eyes and ears, with pale curly wool everywhere else, the slippers looked like slightly tipsy lambs. Grinning, he picked them up and told himself he hadn’t seen the inviting disarray of the bed or smelled the fist-size candle that flickered silently on a small table nearby, infusing the air with spice and mystery.
Think of your cousin’s kids or Lawe’s nieces wearing these silly slippers. Now hold that picture.
It worked until Ian sat on his heels behind Lacey. It just wasn’t the same with a big girl as with a little one. Lacey’s feet were sexy. Very sexy. They had high arches and were attached to delicate ankles leading to long legs that vanished beneath folds of ragged, faded flannel into shadows that were perfumed with something as exotic and feminine as the candle burning by the bed.
Think nieces, Ian told himself.
Gently he lifted one high-arched foot to warm the cool flesh between his hands as he did for his nieces.
Lacey stopped painting and forgot to breathe. The feel of his big, warm hands wrapped around her foot made her heart turn over and her blood heat up.
It’s just my foot, damn it.
Yeah, and the Queen Elizabeth is just a ship.
When he eased her foot into the familiar slipper, she let out a long breath that she hadn’t even known she was holding. Then she found herself letting him warm her other foot and decided oxygen was overrated. She’d just close her eyes and breathe him in—gentleness and impatience, laughter and gun harness, smile like an angel and hands like the devil himself.
“Better?” he asked, still holding her other foot.
Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She swallowed and said, “Yes.”
The husk in her voice went straight to his groin. He told himself that he wasn’t going to give in to Susa’s obvious matchmaking.
Yeah. Sure. And he was going to fly to the moon without benefit of rockets.
He slid Lacey’s foot into the waiting
slipper, then trailed his fingertips up the smooth swell of her calf to the back of her knee, lingered, and then traced the lines of her leg between his thumb and his forefinger all the way down to her heel hidden in wool. And back up.
Lacey felt like she was falling into warm cream. She knew Ian wanted her, knew he was pissed off about it, yet he was so gentle with her that she wanted to give him…everything.
When the backs of his fingers slid up the inside of her thighs, the brush slipped from her lax fingers and fell across one of the plates with a clatter she didn’t hear and he ignored. She grabbed the heavy easel for support.
“Skin as soft and warm as your smile,” he said. He eased upward until he felt a different texture of silk, lingered, and then caressed down her legs again, up again, down. “Strong, long, beautiful. I want to feel your legs around me.”
Her knees trembled.
He felt it and smiled despite the claws of sexual need that were sinking into him, twisting. “Do you want that?”
She opened her mouth but all that came out was a low sound when his fingertip traced the crotch of her panties, then retreated.
The inner surface of the old flannel felt like silk to him. He decided she must be wearing a slip underneath the shirt, or a nightgown. He couldn’t wait to find out which. His hands eased back up her legs. “Do you want that, Lacey?”
“Y-yes,” she managed.
“Risky thing to say to me right now.”
“Yes.”
His laugh was like he was, tender and dangerous at the same time. “That’s one of the things I liked right away,” he said. “There’s nothing coy or cold about you.”
“A lot of my dates”—her voice broke as she felt her underwear being tugged down her legs—“would disagree with you.”
The smooth movement of his fingertips hitched as he understood what she was saying. Then the sight of silky underwear slithering down her legs made his mind go blank. Wine-colored. Sexy as her scent. Warm with the heat of her flesh.
Like feet, he’d never found underwear a particular turn-on. But as his fingers sank into soft, flimsy, girly cloth, he was thinking he’d been missing something good in life. The sight of the burgundy lace against the foolish slippers was so sexy he didn’t know whether to laugh or drag her down to the floor. He compromised by giving her a long, openmouthed kiss just below her knee.
“Lord, you’re sweet,” he said huskily.
As her knees turned to water, she wondered if even her sturdy easel could support her weight. When his hands circled her right ankle and began a slow, inevitable journey toward her center, she was afraid she was going to find out.
“Wait,” she said.
His hands froze.
She kicked out of her slippers and underwear. “Okay.”
“Does that mean I can undress you?”
“You already have.”
He nipped at the back of her knee while his hands caressed up her thigh. “I’ve hardly begun, darling. When I took off your coat at the restaurant and saw the neckline on your dress, I wanted to run my tongue around the edges and see if I could reach your nipples.”
She made a breathless sound when his tongue slid across the crease at the back of her knee. “It’s not too late.”
He lifted his head. “What isn’t?”
“I’m still wearing it. The dress.”
His hands hesitated, withdrew, and returned between the flannel and the silky garment he’d thought was a nightgown. “You’re right. It’s not too late. Are you really fond of this old rag?” he asked, turning his hands to tug at the flannel.
“I’ve got a closet full of rags.”
“Say good-bye to this one.”
He grabbed a double handful and yanked. The ancient cloth gave way almost gratefully, landing in a jumbled pile around her naked feet. He found himself about eye level with the hips he’d watched with an elemental male hunger as he’d seated her in the restaurant. It occurred to him that with very little effort he could pull her down over him, sink deep into her, and just plain enjoy a lapful of Lacey Quinn.
On a surge of power that was just short of violent, he came to his feet. If he stayed crouched on his heels one second longer, he knew the fun would be over way too soon. He wanted more from her than fast sex. He wasn’t sure what else he wanted, but he was damn sure that he was going to enjoy finding out.
Lacey turned toward him, lifted her hands to his face, and said, “Yikes! I can’t touch you. I’m covered in paint.”
“Cover me, too.”
“No, I’ll wash and…” Her breath backed up in her throat, cutting off her words. Ian’s tongue was tracing the neckline of her dress, probing, proving that not only could his tongue reach her nipple, his teeth could.
He bit her very delicately, sucked harder, nibbled gently again. “Gotta say, I love your taste in underwear.”
“I’m not wearing any.”
“Like I said.”
She laughed and reached for him. “You fond of this denim jacket?”
He smiled against her breast, licked, kissed. “Why? You going to tear it off my manly body?”
“I’m not that strong. But on my way to getting this jacket off you, I’m sure going to stain it up some.”
He nuzzled. “Have your way with me.”
“You do know how to tempt a woman.”
“Do I?” He lifted his head and looked at her. “You’re the first one to mention it.”
She rolled her eyes and began pushing the jacket off his shoulders. “Yeah. Sure. And you have a bridge to sell me.”
“No bridge. Just me.”
Her hands stopped as she met the clear, hot darkness of his eyes. “Sold.”
The smile he gave her was as sexy as the slow twist of his body helping her to pull off his jacket. She looked at the leather shoulder harness, supple and tough—and the gun, completely unknown.
“Um, is this thing on whatchamacallit—safety?” she asked.
His smile got hotter. “The one on my shoulder is. The other one is locked and loaded.” She looked down, then followed her glance with her hands, measuring his readiness. He took the sweet torture for a few moments before he dragged her hands back up his chest.
“Unless you have a hidden lust for sex with a fully dressed, armed man,” he said hoarsely, “we’d better take it easy on that one.”
“Okay.”
He told himself he wasn’t disappointed that she agreed. Then he felt her hands working on his fly and sucked at breath. “I thought you were going to take it easy.”
“I’ve never done things the easy way. Not the things that really mattered, the good things.”
“Now you’re the one tempting me.”
His hands reached down, slid up the inside of her thighs, and found her center. She was sultry, slick, open to him. The ripping sigh of her breath as he caressed her was like fire. The liquid heat of her response nearly brought him to his knees. He felt control slipping away and didn’t care. Her fingers had already undone his fly and freed him while he’d pushed her dress up to her waist and teased her.
“How sturdy is that paint table?” he asked, pointing his chin at the nearest one.
“I stand on it to change lightbulbs, why?”
With one arm he swept the plates, paint tubes, and used brushes aside. With the other he lifted her and put her bare bottom on the paint-covered edge of the table.
Her breath hissed in.
“Okay?” he asked.
“Cold,” she said huskily, “but you’re going to take care of that.”
She touched his erection with the tip of her finger. She liked the jerk of his response, the eager beat of his blood. She wanted more, much more from him than she’d had with anyone. And she wanted it from herself, too. Men who appealed to her enough to take a chance on sex with them had been real scarce in her life. She didn’t know how long Ian would be around, but she was absolutely certain that she wanted to explore the sensual recklessness he brought out in h
er.
Smiling, she shifted her thighs until he brushed against her slick core. Shivering with pleasure, she looked down. He was breathtakingly close—and not nearly close enough. She tugged at the front of his jeans until he just nudged into her.
Die in Plain Sight Page 17
