The Mighty Quinns: Ian

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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.”

“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.

“I have to take a shower,” she said. “And I don’t have anything to wear.”

Sascha raised her arm and a garment bag dangled from her finger. “I know,” she said. “You love me. It’s from Bergdorf and you’ll look fabulous in it. And don’t think of combing your hair. The bed-head look is perfect for you. It makes you seem just a tiny bit eccentric and they’ll love you for it.” Sascha handed her the garment bag. “Now, get ready. We’re leaving in fifteen minutes. And try to look like you’re going to enjoy yourself, darling. You need to work up some buzz about the gallery opening.”

Marisol gave Sascha a reluctant smile, then ran upstairs to change. The silky slip dress was beautiful. Instead of the usual black, Sascha had chosen a lovely champagne color with delicate beading around the low neckline and on the tiny straps.

She stripped off her T-shirt and capris and slipped into the dress. It clung to every curve so underwear was impossible, but the skirt was just long enough to provide modest coverage. A pair of strappy ecru heels from her closet finished off the look. She searched through the boxes of clothes for her black pashmina shawl and threw it around her shoulders.

As she applied a bit of lipstick, Marisol paused and stared at herself in the mirror, her gaze falling to her mouth. She touched her lips, remembering the feel of Ian’s mouth on hers, the taste of his tongue and the warm damp that he’d left behind. His skills hadn’t stopped there and a warm sensation pulsed through her blood as she remembered the shattering orgasm she’d enjoyed.

Until a week ago, her life had been so sedate. But now, she had a new place to live, a new business to run and a new lover. A tiny shiver skittered down her spine. When would she see him again? Would he call her or were they supposed to meet by chance? Perhaps he’d walk by her gallery tonight with another excuse of insomnia.

She’d have to make sure Sascha didn’t keep her out too late. If she saw him tonight, Marisol had every intention of finishing what they had begun that morning.

“Hurry,” Sascha shouted up the stairs.

Marisol grabbed a small clutch and stuffed her lipstick and a comb inside, then gave herself one last look. Too bad Ian wasn’t here, she mused. He’d definitely appreciate the dress, and the naked body beneath it. This was an outfit that could get a girl laid and she didn’t want to waste it on the Town & Country set.

Sascha was waiting at the door when Marisol came back downstairs. She pointed at the crate. “Something new I haven’t seen? Remember, I have first dibs on all your work.”

“My father sent it,” Marisol said as she searched for her keys. “I think he might be painting again.”

“I’ve always loved his work,” Sascha said. “If he needs a place to show, I’m sure I could find—”

Marisol giggled. “You and my father. You’d eat him alive. Besides, I don’t think he can work at the pace that your considerable sales skills require of an artist.”

Sascha’s Volvo station wagon was parked out front, but Marisol insisted on taking her car, knowing she could leave whenever she wanted. She wrapped her shawl over her hair and tossed the ends around her shoulders, then started the car and pulled it out into traffic.

After a week, she’d learned enough about the area to find her way over the bridge and into Newport. But as she steered the car around a wide curve in the highway just outside of Bonnett Harbor, she heard a siren. Glancing into the rearview mirror, Marisol saw a squad car following her, lights flashing.

“Oh, shit,” Sascha said. “What is this all about? You weren’t speeding. Well, not that much.”

“Don’t worry,” Marisol said. “This won’t be a problem.”

She pulled over to the side of the road and put the car in neutral, then waited. Marisol watched in the rearview mirror as Ian approached, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, his face a mask of authority. She pushed the shawl off her hair and smiled up at him. “Hello, Officer,” she said with a teasing tone. “I’m beginning to think you really are following me. I may have to get a restraining order.”

Ian chuckled. “Yes, restraint. I think we could both use a little of that, don’t you agree?”

“Was I breaking some law?”

“Are you aware that you were driving over the speed limit? I’m afraid I’m going to have to give you a ticket.”

“Oh, dear,” Marisol sighed, sending him a playful pout. “Another ticket. Well, we know how this went the last time you gave me a ticket. Can I count on it going the same way?”

A boyish smile quirked at the corners of his mouth and she knew exactly what he was thinking. He glanced up and down the road, then squatted down beside the door of her car. “I don’t think that’s appropriate for this location, Miss Arantes. We’d need a bit more privacy.”

He pulled out his little ticket book, but this time she wasn’t going to let him use it. There had to be some benefit to their “friendship.” Marisol reached out and grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him closer until his face was just inches from hers. “You moved my sculptures,” she whispered.

“You ripped up my citation. I figured I was keeping you out of further trouble.”

Marisol let go of his shirt, but he didn’t step back. She smoothed her hand along his chest, toying with a button on the front of his uniform. “I put them back in the window where they belong.”

Ian shrugged. “Then I’ll be back to write you another ticket.”

“Why waste your time writing out tickets? You’re far more successful at other efforts,” she said.

He took off his sunglasses and Marisol caught her breath as his gaze met hers. Those eyes, she mused. Every desire he felt was reflected in the blue depths. “Where are you going in that dress, Miss Arantes?” His gaze dropped to her chest. “Because that dress is definitely against the law.”

“To a cocktail party. Would you like to come?” She paused. “To the party, I mean?”

“I’d love to come,” he replied, making a careful examination of her lips. “To the party. But I’m not dressed for a party.”

“Then go home and get dressed. I’ll put your name on the guest list. It’s in Newport at George and Cheryl Templeton’s estate.” She turned to Sascha. “Do you have the invitation?”

Sascha stared, confused and utterly speechless at the exchange between them. She fumbled in her purse and withdrew an envelope. Marisol handed the envelope to Ian. “Don’t wear the uniform,” she said. “But bring the handcuffs.”

He grinned, then slipped his sunglasses on and walked back to the squad car. Marisol watched his retreat in the rearview mirror, admiring his easy stride and the fit of his uniform. A lot of men had modeled for her during her career so she’d become rather immune to the male form. But Ian’s body intrigued her. She’d touched him, but she hadn’t had a chance to just look…to breathe him in and let the beauty of his body burn into her brain. She’d had several very vivid fantasies about what might lie beneath the uniform and suddenly she felt desperate to know for sure.