Kate Hoffmann - Ian

“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.”