The Mighty Quinns: Ian

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.