Ian

4

MARISOL SNATCHED the jar of chocolate sauce from the shelf and distractedly read the calorie content, sighing softly. Nearby, another shopper studied the label on a bag of marshmallows. At 11:00 p.m. on a Friday night, they were a sorry bunch of souls, alone on a perfectly good date night, resigned to eating through whatever cravings they might have.

Her mind contemplated the uses for chocolate sauce and immediately bypassed ice-cream sundaes and settled on the sexual options. She lapsed into a fantasy in which she poured chocolate all over Ian’s body and then licked it off. But then, chocolate sauce would be so filling. Perhaps, whipped cream would be a better choice.

Marisol tossed the sauce into her cart, frustrated by her inability to decide what she really wanted-beyond sex. She’d already concluded there were no foods that could serve as a substitute, or even come in a close second. Butter pecan ice cream, Oreo cookies, barbecue potato chips might soothe the hunger, but never really get rid of it.

It had been three days since she’d last seen Ian. She remembered his parting words-call me. And though she’d been expected to make the next move, she’d been reluctant to do so. Sascha had been right. After what she’d discovered in the crate sent by her father, the last person she ought to be sleeping with was a police officer.

Still, her decision to avoid him hadn’t diminished her desire for Ian. She’d been edgy and restless, unable to focus on her work and constantly replaying the moments they’d spent together. Everything she started had been left half-finished and Marisol was growing increasingly confused about her feelings for the town’s police chief.

She hadn’t come to Bonnett Harbor looking to jump into a wildly satisfying sexual affair-she’d come here to work. The affair had just happened and for her part, she’d been glad for it. But now that she’d put a stop to it, Marisol realized she’d begun to need Ian for more than just sex.

As she strolled through the snack aisle again, Marisol looked over her shoulder and noticed someone following her. He’d been behind her for some time, a middle aged man in a nice suit and undone tie, mildly attractive, yet definitely not her type. Divorced, Marisol calculated, and searching for love at the supermarket. Or maybe just a simple one-night stand.

Ian hadn’t been her type, either, far from it. If she’d met him at any other time in her life she might have rejected him, as well, might never have experienced his touch or his taste, the sound of his voice or the scent of his skin.

Marisol continued her aimless stroll, heading toward the freezer section in search of her favorite banana cake. She turned the corner onto the dairy aisle, suddenly craving onion dip, then froze. Her cart slid to a stop in front of the cream cheese. Ian stood ten feet away, perusing the yogurt selections. She glanced back over her shoulder, wondering if she might be able to turn around without being noticed, but when Marisol looked up again, she caught him staring at her.

He wasn’t wearing his uniform. Instead, he was dressed in a faded T-shirt that advertised some fishing service, baggy shorts that hung down nearly to his knees and battered flip-flops. His hair, usually so neatly combed, looked carelessly rumpled. Marisol took in the paint-stained sundress that she’d chosen, smoothing her hands over the wrinkled skirt. Drawing a deep breath, she started toward him, prepared to nod and pass him by if he didn’t say anything to her.

For a long moment, he just watched her with an unreadable expression, a carton of yogurt clutched in his hand. Then, Ian stepped out from behind the cart, dropped the yogurt on the floor and walked over to her. In one easy movement, he captured her face in his hands and kissed her, his tongue immediately invading her mouth.

Marisol was so surprised that she didn’t have time to react. The contact sent a shock wave through her dulled senses, but then came that wonderful rush of heat that his touch always brought. Her knees wobbled and he caught her around the waist to steady them both. Slowly, the ache that had settled into her body since the last time he’d touched her began to abate and she sank against him.

“That’s better,” he murmured when he finally drew away. He pressed his forehead to hers and looked down into her eyes. “I’ve been thinking about you all week.”

“I-I’ve been thinking about you,” she admitted. She didn’t really want him to know that he’d plagued her thoughts, but what harm could it do. They’d both been honest about their desires.

“I’ve wanted to-”

She placed her finger on his lips. “I’ve wanted to call you, too, but I-”

“I wasn’t sure you’d want to-” He paused. “Maybe we should stop with the excuses now? So, what are you doing here?”

“Getting something for supper.”

He glanced in her basket, then frowned. “And what are you planning to make?”

Marisol smiled wanly at the collection of junk food in her basket. “It’s an old Portuguese dish passed down from my grandmother.”

He took her hand and pressed a kiss onto the inside of her wrist, his lips lingering over her pulse point. “Come on, leave the groceries. I’ll take you out for the best steak on this side of Narragansett Bay.”

Marisol grabbed her purse and followed him out of the store. They passed the man in the suit and he gaped at her, obviously thinking that he ought to have introduced himself sooner.

Ian’s car was parked on the opposite side of the lot and Marisol wondered if their meeting had been fate. In the end, she really didn’t care. She and Ian were together again and nothing else mattered beyond this burning desire she had for the man.

When they reached the car, Ian grabbed her again and kissed her, his fingers furrowing through her hair as he molded his mouth to hers. She felt the possibilities in his kiss, the certainty that, once alone, kissing would never be enough.

She opened to him, her tongue teasing at his in a silent assurance that they both wanted the same thing. The taste of him was like a narcotic, erasing her worries and doubts. She needed Ian in her life, regardless of the risks. And maybe it was just for physical release, but why should that make a difference? If he wanted her and she wanted him, then they could come to some understanding.

“You’re hungry?” he asked, his words tinged with another meaning.

She nodded. “Starved.”

Ian grinned then took her hand and helped her into his car. As they pulled out of the lot, Marisol tipped her head back and closed her eyes, letting the warm night breeze caress her face, suddenly anxious to rid herself of her clothes.

They only drove for a few minutes before Ian pulled into the driveway of a pretty clapboard bungalow on a tree-lined street. She glanced around. “Where are we?”

“My place,” he said.

Marisol glanced over at the house and then at him. They’d always indulged on her turf, on her terms, not on his. She had invited him into her life, for her own purposes, but this was different. He was inviting her into his life now. She sent him an uneasy smile. “I-I thought we were going to go get a-”

“I make a mean steak,” he explained as he hopped out of the car. He circled to her door, then opened it and helped Marisol out. He held her hand as they walked up the front steps to the door, then opened it and steered her inside.

The living room was furnished beautifully in an arts and crafts style, with Stickley-inspired furniture throughout. She walked over to a chair and ran her hand along the cherry finish.

“My brother Marcus and I made the furniture,” Ian said. “He’s kind of an expert with wood.”

One side of the room was lined with bookshelves and they were filled from top to bottom. Marisol crossed the room and studied the titles, surprised at the variety. There were classics and contemporary fiction, how-to books and biographies. “Have you read all these?”

Ian nodded. “Would you like something to drink? A glass of wine?”

“That would be nice.”

He disappeared into the kitchen and Marisol continued her study of her surroundings. As she looked at the bits and pieces of his life, she realized she didn’t know Ian Quinn at all. They’d shared the most intimate of experiences, yet they were little more than strangers. He returned a few moments later with a bottle and a glass. But instead of pouring her a drink, Ian took her hand and pulled her along with him up the stairs.

At first, Marisol thought they might end up in the bedroom, but to her surprise, he took her to the bathroom.

“What are you doing?” she asked, wondering if he was about to repeat what they’d shared in the Templetons’ powder room.

“I’m drawing you a bath. It’s about time someone took care of you.” As he bent over the huge claw-foot tub, her eyes fixed on his shoulders, the muscles moving beneath the T-shirt. A lock of dark hair hung over his collar and she reached out to brush it aside with her fingers. He glanced up at her and smiled as the hot water poured into the tub.

No one had ever taken care of her before, she mused. But it seemed to come so naturally to him, as if he’d accepted the responsibility without a second thought and was happy for it. Ian held up a bottle of bath salts and she nodded.

The scent of rosemary filled the air and bubbles floated on the surface of the water. “I wouldn’t think you were the type to take bubble baths,” she said, kneeling down beside him to swirl her hand through the water.

“My sister gave me these for Christmas last year. She’s into aromatherapy.” He leaned against the edge of the tub, his gaze skimming over her face. Then he suddenly stood and pulled her to her feet, his hands sliding down along her arms then lower, to the hem of her sundress. Marisol held her breath as he drew it up over her head.

His gaze raked along the length of her naked body and he laughed softly. “Forgot the underwear again, huh?”

“Yes,” she murmured, watching him watch her. She liked how it made her feel when he couldn’t keep his eyes off her, the little shiver of anticipation that ran through her. He wanted to touch her; she could see it in the way his fingers twitched. But he was doing his best to resist for now.

Marisol reached for his T-shirt but he gently took her hands and kissed them both. “Why don’t you relax? I’ll go start dinner.” Taking her elbow, he helped her into the tub, then handed her a sponge.

Marisol sank down into the warm water, sighing as she slipped beneath the surface. The scent of the bath salts filled her head and she closed her eyes and lay back, smiling to herself. How was it that he knew exactly what she needed? She hadn’t realized how tense she was until the warm water surrounded her.

Marisol opened one eye and found him still staring at her, his gaze lazily focused on her breasts. “Are you sure you don’t want to join me?” She held out her hand, beckoning him to come closer, inviting him to touch her. “It’s just a bath. And we have been naked before. Or almost naked.”

“I thought, after the last time we spoke, you wanted to slow things down.”

“It’s just a bath,” she repeated. But they both knew where it would lead.

“I don’t think it would be just a bath, Marisol.” He paused and shook his head, sending her a reluctant smile. Then he grabbed the hem of his T-shirt and pulled it off. Ian knelt next to the tub and took the sponge from her hand, then slowly ran it over her breasts. She reached out and drew a damp finger along his chest.

He did have the most incredible body, long limbed and lean, yet muscled in all the right places. There was a perfection about him that she’d never seen in another man, every part of him in balance, from his broad shoulders to his flat belly and narrow hips, and his long legs.

“That feels nice,” she murmured. Marisol leaned back and closed her eyes. She felt his lips on her breasts and she moaned softly. He kissed the curve of her neck. “I’ve missed you,” he said.

A tiny thrill raced through her and she opened her eyes. “You’ve missed me? Or the sex?”

“You,” Ian said as if insulted by her insinuation. He chuckled. “And the sex, a little bit.”

Marisol’s eyebrow shot up.

“All right, a lot.” He ran the sponge along her arms. “Funny. I can’t really remember why we decided not to see each other.”

“You said you’d call me and you didn’t,” Marisol said.

“No, I think you said you’d call me.”

In truth, she knew exactly why she hadn’t called him. And the reason was now hidden in the back of a storage room in her apartment. For almost a week, she’d been trying to contact her father about that damned painting, but it was as if Hector Arantes had dropped off the face of the planet. She’d left messages with his landlady, who had assured Marisol that her father was well. But that didn’t go very far to explain why he’d suddenly disappeared.

The more time that passed, the more Marisol thought she might have overreacted to the whole mess. After all, Ian wasn’t about to come banging down her door with a search warrant and a reason to arrest her. He knew nothing about her father and she wasn’t about to enlighten him. There were secrets in her life she wasn’t required to tell a lover-or even the man she loved.

“How is your work coming?” he asked, drawing the sponge over her shoulder, then following it with his mouth.

“Not well,” she said, enjoying the soft caress of his lips on her skin. “I’ve lost my momentum. I’m going to put off the opening for a few more weeks. I need one important piece and I don’t have it.”

“Is there something I can do?” he asked.

Marisol turned, stretching her arms along the edge of the tub. “You can make love to me,” she whispered, running her hand over his cheek. “That always helps.”

His gaze flickered, and for an instant, she thought he might refuse. “Is that all you want from me?” he asked, a sober expression clouding his face.

“What do you mean?”

He paused, as if he were carefully measuring his reply. Then Ian smiled. “Nothing,” he murmured. He bent closer and kissed her, his lips soft against hers, his tongue tracing the crease of her mouth.

Marisol smoothed her hands over his chest, the warm water of the bath heightening her sense of touch. Ian slipped his hands beneath her arms and pulled her up until she knelt in the tub. Slowly, he soaked the sponge and then squeezed water over her body, watching as it ran along her skin and between her breasts. Then, he leaned forward and captured her nipple between his lips, sucking gently until he brought it to a tight peak.

Marisol inhaled slowly and tipped her head back, a wonderful shudder running through her body. Her skin prickled with goose bumps as the air dried it, but she wasn’t cold. She reached down and ran her hand over the crotch of his shorts, his shaft growing hard at her touch.

She wanted to feel him inside her again. It would be so easy to crawl out of the tub and push him back on the floor, to sink down on top of him until he filled her completely. But when she moved to do just that, Ian sat back on his heels, his hand resting on his thighs.

“I think I’d better leave you to your bath,” he murmured. “I’ll go get supper started. You relax.” He grabbed the bottle of wine and poured her a glass, then set them both beside the tub.

A moment later, he was gone. Marisol stared at the door for a long time, trying to understand what had just happened. Until now, she’d been able to read Ian’s responses quite well. He’d always wanted her as much as she wanted him. Had something changed for him over the past few days? Had his desire ebbed?

She sank down in the water until it reached her nose, her hair floating up around her. This was not the way she’d anticipated the evening would go. But then, nothing had gone as planned from the moment she arrived in Bonnett Harbor.

IAN POKED AT THE CHARCOAL with an old spatula, sparks drifting up into the night air. He took a sip of his beer, then glanced over his shoulder at the light coming from the bathroom window. By all rights, he should be up there now, making love to Marisol. But from the moment he first saw her in the grocery store, his need was tempered by an odd new reality.

This wasn’t just about sex anymore. When he saw her, he felt more than just a physical reaction. He was genuinely happy to hear her voice and to see her smile. He found himself wanting to sit with her and talk, to learn more about the woman he knew so well, yet barely knew at all.

But the prospect of feeling something deeper for Marisol frightened the hell out of him. He’d never had a real relationship and wasn’t even sure what was expected of him. Suddenly, this affair was moving far too fast and he felt it was about to careen out of control.

Ian heard the back screen door slam and he waited. Marisol probably wasn’t aware what it had cost him to walk out of the bathroom and walk away from her. But he’d never cared about the women he’d been with in the past, not beyond the momentary pleasures they might have offered.

He slowly turned and watched her approach. Her hair was wet, the ends making damp streaks on his flannel robe. He thought about the body beneath the faded fabric, the body he’d grown to crave, and realized he liked her dressed in his clothes, bathing in his bathtub, walking through his house. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

She nodded and watched him as he tended the fire. “If you-” Marisol paused and took a deep breath. “If you don’t want me anymore you can just tell me. I’ll understand.”

Ian turned to stare at her, stunned by her statement. Was that what she thought? God, how could she ever believe that, especially after what they’d shared together? Ian doubted that he would ever stop craving her body.

“It’s all right,” Marisol said. “We both knew what we were getting into when we started this. And it was fun. But I really don’t want any messy endings. So please, just be honest.”

“You want the truth?” Ian asked.

She sent him a sideways glance, then looked back down into the fire. Her head bobbed in a reluctant nod.

Ian tossed aside the spatula and took her face in his hands, kissing her thoroughly. A tiny cry of surprise slipped from her lips, but then she gave herself over to him, opening her mouth and tasting him fully. He undid the tie on the robe and brushed aside the soft fabric, running his hands over her naked skin.

When he drew back, her lips were damp and her eyes half-shuttered. “My problem is that I want you too much,” he murmured. “Every second of my day is spent wondering when I’m going to be with you again and how it’s going to be between us. Does that scare you, Marisol? Because it sure as hell scares me.”

She laughed softly, her fingertips coming up to his face to touch his smile. “I’m not afraid,” she said.

“Then maybe I shouldn’t be, either.” Ian smoothed her damp hair back from her face and looked deeply into her dark eyes. How the hell was he supposed to know where this was going? And did it make any difference? He’d always imagined that falling in love was a leap of faith. Everyone knew the odds were fifty-fifty at best.

Throwing himself into a full-fledged love affair with Marisol Arantes was just as hazardous. This wasn’t a series of one-night stands for him. He wanted more, something concrete, defined. But what? Until he knew for sure, perhaps it was best to keep his real fears to himself.

“Sometimes I wonder if I can get through the day without kissing you or touching you or…or having you inside of me,” she said. “But there’s nothing wrong with wanting each other. It’s perfectly natural.”

His hands skimmed over her body, smoothing over the soft curves of her hips and buttocks. “Obsession is natural?”

“Are you obsessed?” she asked.

“It feels that way,” Ian admitted, as he pulled her against his body. “Hell, I’ve arrested guys for stalking and wondered how they could be so stupid, so weak. These last few days, I’ve had to fight the temptation to drive by the gallery, to knock on your door and see if you’re there, just for a chance to seduce you all over again.”

“Then do it,” Marisol challenged. “Seduce me.”

“No,” Ian said.

“No?”

He ran his thumb over her lower lip. “Not until you tell me three things about yourself that I don’t know.”

Marisol frowned. “Why?”

“Humor me,” he said.

“All right. But if I confess three things, then you have to confess three things, as well.”

“You start,” Ian said.

She thought for a long moment, then smiled. “I hate being tickled. That’s one.” She paused. “My favorite spot on a man’s body is that little indentation at the base of his spine. And…I like it when you whisper in my ear when you’re moving inside of me.”

His brow arched. “I thought maybe you might tell me your favorite color or your birthday or where you grew up. But I guess that will have to do for now.”

“Now you,” Marisol said. “And I don’t care about your birthday or your favorite color. I want to know intimate things.”

“I don’t like eggs for breakfast,” Ian began. “And I like it when you don’t wear underwear and I’m the only one who knows. And I love the way your hair brushes against my chest when you’re on top of me.”

She smiled. “And I like it when I first touch you, when I wrap my fingers around you and you stop breathing for a second.” Marisol reached out and slowly unbuttoned his jeans, then touched him.

Ian growled softly. “I like that, too.”

“Are you happy? Do you know everything you need to know?”

“It’s a start,” he said.

“Now will you seduce me?” Marisol asked.

Ian glanced around, then took her hand and led her to a hammock in a secluded corner of the yard. The high fence shielded them from the view of nosy neighbors and an old apple tree provided shadows in which to disappear. He helped her into the hammock, waiting until she was stretched out before he lay down behind her, cradling her body against his.

Ian ran his hands over her, touching her through the thin flannel. Slowly, he drew the robe up along her thighs and hips until he could slip his hands between her legs. His fingers brushed the tiny triangle of hair before slipping into the warm, damp slit beyond. When he touched her, her body belonged to him. He was the only one who could make her shudder with ecstasy.

Marisol moaned softly as Ian began to stroke her, back and forth in a gentle rhythm that made her writhe in his arms. Almost immediately, he saw the signs she was close to the edge and he slowed his tempo, willing to wait as long as he could.

She reached around to touch him, but his jeans got in the way. Ian took care of that with his free hand, releasing himself as he shoved the jeans and boxers down.

Marisol rubbed back against him and when she felt the heat of his erection on her skin, she shifted until he was pressed between the soft curves of her backside. Gently, she took him in hand and guided him between her legs. And then, suddenly, he was inside her.

Ian sucked in a sharp breath, the instinct to move almost overwhelming him. He knew he ought to use a condom, but the feeling of her body surrounding him, hot and damp and tight, was too perfect to resist. He slowly pushed forward, then drew back, knowing he was tempting fate.

“Don’t move,” he said, knowing it wouldn’t take much for him to come.

“I have to move,” Marisol replied. “It’s all right.”

He pressed a kiss into the curve of her neck. “Is it?” She nodded, reaching back to run her hands through his hair. Usually, Ian would never take the chance, knowing what an unplanned pregnancy could do to a guy’s life. “No babies?”

“No,” she said, moving against him. “That’s covered. And so are the other things.”

He’d never had sex without a condom, yet had always wondered what it would feel like, to touch a woman in the most intimate way, to leave part of himself inside her body. He slowly began to move again, indescribable sensations coursing through him as he sheathed himself in her heat.

The hammock pressed their bodies together and he could barely move his hips, but it was enough to bring him right to the edge. He reached around her and continued to caress her clitoris.

Ian nuzzled her ear. “You feel so good,” he murmured, his voice ragged.

She moaned softly and arched against him, her fingers tangling in his hair. He never changed his pace, but instead drove deeper with each stroke, withdrawing even more slowly. She whispered his name and the pressure to surrender grew inside him. Every movement sent a frisson of desire racing through his body, setting his nerves on fire until he knew he’d die if he didn’t come soon.

And when he felt her tense in his arms, he drew back and drove deep. The orgasm hit her hard and she cried out, her voice echoing in the night air. And then, buried inside her, he came, spasms of pleasure shooting through him.

Slowly, Ian began to move again, taking the last of his orgasm to bring her down from hers. But he continued on, long after they were both spent. To his surprise, he stayed hard and within minutes, brought her to another orgasm.

They lay snuggled in the hammock, Ian’s arms wrapped around her, their legs tangled together. “Even now, I want you again,” he murmured, trailing kisses along her shoulder.

“I don’t think it will ever be enough,” she said, turning so that he might kiss her mouth.

“I hope not,” Ian replied. He caught her lower lip between his teeth and bit gently. “I hope it’s never enough.”

THE SHRILL RING of the phone split the silence of the gallery. Marisol wiped the paint off her hands, then strolled to the worktable and grabbed the cordless phone. Ian had promised to call and make plans for dinner for that evening, but it was barely noon.

“Gallerie Luna,” she answered. “This is Marisol.”

Her father’s voice replied. “Mari?”

“Papi? Where are you? I’ve been trying to get hold of you for a week now!”

“I’m here, in this town of yours.”

“Don’t come here,” Marisol warned. “Not now. Tell me where you are and I’ll meet you.”

“There is a rest stop on the highway just north of town. Meet me there,” he said.

The line clicked dead and she stared at the phone for a moment, then dropped it on the table. Grabbing her car keys, Marisol raced to the door, then paused, tempted to get the painting and give it back to him. Her mother had begged her the first time her father had been in trouble to distance herself, but Marisol had stuck by him. She had more to lose this time, so much more. Was she willing to risk it for her father?

She locked the gallery door behind her, then hurried to her car, parked halfway down the block. Glancing over her shoulder, she pulled out into traffic, muttering to herself as she drove. As she headed out of town, she ignored the speed limit, deftly avoiding an elderly couple trying cross in front of the post office.

Marisol had spent a week trying to figure out what to do with the painting. If she could only be certain it wouldn’t be traced back to her father, then she’d simply drop it off at the front door of the Templetons’ Newport mansion. But when it came to art forgery, there would be very few suspects on the short list, a list that would inevitably include her father.

There was nowhere to turn for help. If David was involved, then he’d protect his own interests at all costs. He’d never been the altruistic sort. And she couldn’t possibly ask Sascha to endanger her reputation. There was no legal way to get the original back where it belonged, if she indeed had the original.

But there were some illegal ways, she mused. If art could be stolen, then it could be returned just as easily. And if she made friends with Mrs. Templeton, perhaps she’d gain a way inside. Now all she had to do was find a willing art thief who’d do his job in reverse. Perhaps her father could provide a name.

She was only a mile from the rest stop when she glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the police car following her. A sick feeling settled in her stomach and she waited, hoping that the officer was on another errand. But then he turned the lights on and blasted the siren and Marisol had no choice but to pull over.

She waited as the officer got out of the car then let out a tightly held breath when she realized it was Ian. He smiled as he approached, removing his sunglasses and squatting down beside the car. “Hey there,” he said. “This is becoming a habit.”

“Did I do something wrong, Officer?” Marisol asked, sending him a nervous smile.

“Actually, you did,” Ian replied. “You ran the stop sign on Perry Street and Vine. And then you didn’t yield to the pedestrians on the next block.”

Marisol gasped. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even realize.” She touched her temple. “I’m a little distracted. Tired, too.”

He frowned at her. “Is everything all right?”

“Of course,” she said in a cheerful tone. “I just-we just didn’t sleep much last night and I’ve been working since early this morning.”

Ian grinned. “Well, I guess since I’m the cause of your distraction, I really can’t write you up,” he said as he stood. “I’ll just give you a warning this time, but be more careful. I don’t want anything happening to you.”

“It won’t,” she murmured.

He reached out and ran his finger along her bare forearm, his touch sending a shiver through her body. “So, am I going to see you tonight? I have this thing with my brothers, but I can come over later.”

She nodded. “Call me.”

“I’ll do that.” Ian turned and headed to the police cruiser. He looked back once and Marisol waved, relief washing over her. This was only going to get more difficult if she didn’t find a way to solve her little dilemma. Ian waited until she pulled back into traffic, then followed her for a bit, before he made a U-turn and headed back into town.

As she drove the last mile to the rest stop, Marisol’s thoughts returned to the previous night. Every instinct told her she ought to put him out of her life, at least until she got rid of the painting. But it was no use. Her attraction to Ian Quinn was not something she could ignore or resist. Having Ian in her life, in her bed and in her body was the only thing she cared about, and it was worth the risk.

Marisol spotted her father’s car before she turned into the rest stop. She pulled into a parking spot about twenty feet away and then walked over to one of the picnic tables set beneath a large maple tree. A few seconds later, her father sat down beside her.

“I know what you are going to say,” he muttered, hanging his head. “And you would be right. I let myself get involved in something that might cause us both trouble.”

“Papi, why did you send me that painting?”

“I had to get rid of it. I couldn’t bear to have it around. I couldn’t even look at it. David said the FBI had come to him with questions about one of his clients. The client who paid for the painting. David has been waiting to smuggle it out of the country in one of his shipments, but it’s been too risky.”

“Then David is involved. Did he put you up to this?” Marisol asked.

Hector nodded. “I needed the money.”

“You could have come to me for help. I would have given you the money.”

“After all I have taken from you and your mother, I could not ask,” he said.

“And yet, you put me in the middle of this?”

“I didn’t know where else to turn. David asked me to hold on to the original. What choice did I have? But I decided I had to make this right. If we can switch the paintings, I can destroy the forgery before anyone finds out. David will be left to deal with his client.”

She shook her head, unable to believe that she’d once loved David Barnett. He was nothing more than a common criminal. “Then that is the original Colter.”

Hector nodded. “I painted a copy for him when he had the original in his gallery. That’s not my painting.”

“How did he make the switch without getting caught?”

“Before the sale. He authenticated the painting and he sold it, so there were no questions.”

“He knows the Templetons,” Marisol said. “They’d be stupid enough to trust him doing both. If there was only a way to get the forgery out of their house. Then we could switch the two and no one would have to know.”

“You can find a way. That’s why I sent you the painting.”

She stood up, her hands clenched at her sides. “I will find a way out of this. And you will find somewhere quiet where you can stay until I do. Don’t go back to your place, just keep driving north.” Marisol reached in her purse and grabbed her wallet, then pulled out three hundred dollars. “Go up to Maine and visit your old friend Edgar. Tell him you need the peace and quiet so that you can paint again. He’ll let you stay at the cabin for a month or two. I’ll send you more money once you get there.”

Her father stared down at the cash she offered, then reluctantly took it. “All right.” He slowly got to his feet and then made an attempt to hug her.

At first, Marisol drew away, but then her emotions overcame her and she threw her arms around his neck. “Go,” she said. “And don’t let anyone know where you are, not David, not anyone. I’ll contact you.”

She watched as her father walked toward his car. He seemed so old and frail now, nothing like the man she remembered from her childhood. Life had not been kind to Hector Arantes. He’d given everything to his art and no one had recognized his talent.

Tears pushed at the corners of her eyes and Marisol swallowed them back. How had she been so lucky? Everything had always come so easily to her. From the moment she’d started painting, people had taken notice. And when she’d tried sculpting, her popularity had increased even more. Some collectors could barely wait to see her new work and she’d already had three shows in prominent New York galleries.

But she’d put everything into her work, to the exclusion of a personal life. Even David had been a good business move at the time, although she hadn’t seen his true character until it was too late. Her father had tried to make a life for his family. Maybe a successful artist just couldn’t have both. Success required a selfishness that was in direct opposition to a happy personal life.

She’d convinced herself of that fact after she’d caught David cheating, finding it a convenient rationalization for her pain and loneliness. But now that she’d met Ian, Marisol had begun to believe that things could be different, that she didn’t have to give up everything to enjoy success.

He made her feel anything was possible, as if work and life-and even love-might coexist. She turned and walked to her car, he mind filled with thoughts of him. Suddenly, she needed to know more, all the tiny details of his life, what he loved and what he hated. He’d been right last night. They didn’t know each other. There were so many questions yet to ask.

She sped down the highway toward Bonnett Harbor, the morning breeze blowing through her hair, exhaustion suddenly overwhelming her. She hadn’t slept much the previous night, making love in Ian’s bed until deep into the night before he returned her to the grocery store to pick up her car in the predawn hours.

Once she’d returned to the gallery, she’d jumped right into work without a thought to eating or sleeping. And now, it was catching up with her. But when she pulled up in front of the gallery, she noticed a familiar car parked across the street-a steel-gray Mercedes sedan. She groaned softly as she pulled into a vacant parking spot, then sat behind the wheel and waited.

He came strolling over to the car with his customary swagger, dressed in a finely tailored Prada suit and Italian shoes. There had been a time when his every move had enthralled her, but now she was just angry with him. Marisol pasted a smile on her face. “Hello, David. What are you doing here?”

He stood over her, the sun at his back. She couldn’t see his face as she squinted to look up at him. But she knew he was smirking. “It’s been awhile,” he said, pulling open her car door. “I just thought I’d check in and see how things were going.”

“Everything is going just fine,” Marisol said as she got out of the car, avoiding the hand that he extended to help her. They both stood on the street, Marisol’s anger simmering.

“Your father has been keeping me up-to-date with what you’ve been doing,” he said. “But I haven’t talked to him in a few weeks. I thought maybe he was up here visiting.”

Marisol knew immediately what he’d come for. He needed his painting and he couldn’t find it. But he didn’t know she had it. “Don’t lie to me. I know what you’re here for.” She drew back and slapped him across the face, his head snapping to the side with the force of her blow. “That’s for the Brazilian bimbo in my bed. And no, there’s no chance that I would ever want you back in my life. So turn around and go back to New York.”

David’s friendly expression instantly turned hard. “You might not want to be so quick to judge me.”

“No?” she asked. “I’ve had six months to judge you, David, and I’m afraid you’ve come off looking like the biggest ass on the East Coast.”

He chuckled, the sound grating on her nerves. “I’m in town to see the Templetons, but I’m not due there until dinner. I’ve taken a room over in Newport. I thought I’d check out some of the other galleries in my spare time, look around for some promising new artists. I could use a tour guide.”

Marisol took care not to react when he mentioned the Templetons. Was he planning to steal the forgery and sell that to his client? If he was, then David had to be desperate. “I’m busy. I’ll be busy for the rest of the year. In other words, I really don’t want to spend any time with you, David. We have nothing more to say to each other.” She walked toward the front door of the gallery.

“Marisol, I know things didn’t end-”

“Stop!” she snapped, turning on him. “Nothing you have to say to me will make me change my mind about you. Go away, David, and leave me alone.”

She hurried to the door and unlocked it, then slipped inside. With a sigh, Marisol slid down to the floor and wrapped her arms around her knees, her back braced against the entryway wall.

She closed her eyes and wished that Ian were with her, to soothe her frayed nerves and to distract her thoughts, to make her feel safe and protected. But this was her problem to deal with, and unless she could solve it, there would be no Ian. If things fell to pieces, he would be coming to her door with his handcuffs-to arrest her.