He reached for his pants, but she shook her head. “Please. It won’t take long, I promise. Then we’ll go to bed.”

Reluctantly, Ian stepped out of his clothes. She walked over to the wall and braced her hands above her head, leaning forward. “Like this,” she said. “I want to see the muscles in your back.”

Ian did as he was told and Marisol slowly walked around him, running her hands over his body, checking to see how the light and shadows played across his skin. “Relax. Like you’re standing in a shower with the water pouring down on you. Lean into the wall and put one foot forward a bit. And let your head drop slightly.”

Though she wasn’t trying to excite him, she could see what her touch was doing. His shaft was stiff and ready, brushing against his belly. For a moment, she thought about easing his need first and drawing him later. But she cast the notion aside and continued to observe him.

“How long will this-”

“Shh!” she said. “Don’t talk.”

Marisol grabbed her digital camera from the worktable and began to snap pictures of him, but he turned around and held his hand out.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s just to help me remember,” she said.

“If those pictures get out, the folks in this town are going to demand my resignation.”

She smiled, dropping her gaze to his rigid shaft. “I think they might be impressed rather than upset. Now turn around and let me do this.”

Over the next hour, Marisol completed sketch after sketch of Ian, putting him in different poses and adjusting the light until it cast his beautiful body in sharp contrasts. They didn’t speak, Ian growing more comfortable with the task at hand and anxious to please her.

Having him pose made the work so simple. They were lovers, so she didn’t have to worry about what she asked him to do, or how she touched his body. There had always been rules when she’d worked with nude models, but with Ian, there were no rules.

She glanced up from the sketch pad and took a good look at him. He was lying on one of the low, upholstered benches, one leg hanging off the side, the other bent. His head was tipped back, his arm carelessly covering his eyes.

“Can you make yourself hard again?” she asked.

His arm dropped away from his eyes and he turned and looked at her, as if he’d misunderstood. “What?”

“Touch yourself,” she said. “I want you to be…aroused.”

He smiled. “Why don’t you take care of that?”

“I can’t,” she said. Marisol knew the moment she touched him in that way, she’d forget about her work and begin to obsess about the pleasures that his body offered. Even now, it would be difficult to just sit and watch him touch himself. But for this drawing, she needed to see his desire in order to draw it.

He ran his hand over his chest, then his belly, but he stopped there. She waited. Finally, he closed his eyes and moved lower. Marisol watched as he stroked himself, curious and yet detached. She knew men pleasured themselves on a regular basis, but she’d never actually watched how it was done.

He began slowly, wrapping his fingers around his shaft as she had done for him. It didn’t take long before he was hard and he stopped. By that time, she’d lowered her sketch pad, much more interested in watching him.

“Don’t stop,” she murmured.

He didn’t open his eyes, but merely smiled. Marisol set the sketchbook and charcoal down on the floor and slowly crossed to him, her eyes scanning his body, watching for the cues to his desire.

Though he had to know she was near, he continued on, his head tipped back, his lips slightly parted. She reached for the straps of her nightgown, brushing them off her shoulders and letting the loose garment drop to the floor in front of the bench.

Marisol reached out to touch him, but instead, let her hand hover close to his skin, feeling the warmth of his body and listening to his quickened breathing. She bent over him, her hair brushing along his chest, then touched the tip of his penis with her tongue.

Ian moaned softly. She crawled on top of him, and a moment later, he slipped inside her. Only then, did he open his eyes and look at her. Marisol smiled, smoothing her hands over his chest. For a long time, they just stared at each other, unmoving, the silent communication more arousing than any foreplay they had enjoyed.

He reached between them and touched her. Already, he was so familiar with her responses, so attuned to her body and ready to please her. Sex had become something more than just mutual gratification. Between them, it had become an expression of trust and understanding, a refuge from the troubles that invaded her life. She was safe with Ian.

He arched against her and Marisol held her breath. Then, he sat up and grabbed her around the waist, swinging his feet to the floor. She felt him buried so deep inside her it made her ache. Ian looked up at her as she began to rock above him, his gaze taking in every reaction, the need beginning to spiral out of control.

With every moment that she spent with him, this connection grew stronger, like strands being added to a rope. It had grown so quietly and now, Marisol couldn’t imagine any other man in her life. Everything that she needed was here. Though she didn’t know it for certain, she felt it, as if complete and utter happiness was lying just beyond her reach.

But would she grab it and hold on? Or would she allow it to slip between her fingers? She didn’t want to fall in love, to turn her life over to an emotion she couldn’t control. It was far more sensible to distance herself from this man. Though her mind told her one thing, Marisol’s heart contradicted every fear.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and Ian buried his face between her breasts, the two of them now caught in the vortex of their desire. As her need began to build and her release grew closer, Marisol allowed both her body and her mind to surrender to him.

Her orgasm came upon her slowly this time, a single shudder and then another. He buried himself even deeper inside her and then moaned and it was only then that she felt the explosion of sensation. Who was this man who made her feel so powerful, yet so completely defenseless?

She nuzzled his soft hair, weaving her fingers through it and arching against him one last time. She couldn’t let herself love him, but Marisol was left to wonder if she already did.

DECLAN DROPPED the file folder in the center of Ian’s desk, then took a seat in one of the office chairs. “It’s all there,” he said. “Marisol Arantes and David Barnett.”

“When I called, I thought I told you I didn’t want you to do a check on her. Just on him.”

Declan shrugged. “Well, I did it anyway.” He pointed to the folder. “Go ahead. Read it. I think you’ll be interested in what we found.”

Ian pushed the folder back across the desk to his brother. “Nah. I don’t need to know anything about her.”

“You’re a cop, aren’t you?” Declan replied, watching him shrewdly.

Ian glanced up at his brother. “Why? Is she in trouble?”

“Not in trouble,” Dec said. “More like, she is trouble.” He paused. “What is this woman to you?”

“I don’t know,” Ian said. “I’m just curious. She’s been causing some problems in town. And I caught Barnett breaking into her gallery a few nights ago. She said they used to be engaged, but I think something’s going on there.”

“I’d say more than something,” Dec replied.

“What?”

His brother stood and nodded at the folder. “Just read it. I think you’ll find that Marisol Arantes is connected to some pretty shady characters, the kind of characters that the police chief of Bonnett Harbor might take a particular interest in.”

With that, Dec turned and walked out of Ian’s office, leaving the folder sitting on the desk. Ian reached out and ran his hand over it, tracing the logo of Dec’s company with his fingertip. Did he really want to know what was inside? Or was it better to just let it go?

This was his fault. He could have insisted that they learn more about each other, that they at least spend a day or two discussing their pasts. But it seemed that the moment he saw Marisol, all he could think about was sex. If he spent as much time getting to know her as he did trying to seduce her, he could probably write her biography.

But did he really care about the silly details of her past? What counted was the time they spent together in the present. And in the present, she was the perfect woman for him-no matter what Declan thought.

Ian grabbed the folder and shoved it into the top drawer of his desk, then strode out of the office. But halfway down the hall, he turned around and went back to retrieve it. If he was going to allow himself to need this woman, then he deserved to know everything about her-the good and bad. And if the bad was very bad, then he’d be better off knowing.

With the folder tucked under his arm, Ian walked to the front desk and grabbed a radio, then told Sally to call him if he was needed. He decided to walk the seven blocks to Gallerie Luna, hoping the exercise would help him decide what to do.

But by the time he reached Bay Street, the answer was no clearer. Though his curiosity was killing him, he was afraid to learn something that might ruin his relationship with Marisol.

The front door to the gallery was propped open and Ian peeked inside. He saw Marisol standing over a huge canvas that she’d laid flat on the floor. Her hands were hitched on her waist and her hair tumbled around her face as she stared down at the painting in progress. She wore a baggy T-shirt and a pair of pants that ended just below the knee, showing off the pretty curve of her calf.

He watched her for a long time as she dabbed paint onto the canvas, then stepped back to look at her work. He was tempted to turn around and walk away, and to dump the file in the nearest trash bin. But instead, he stepped inside.

She heard his approach and turned. A smile broke across her face and she dropped her brush in a nearby coffee can and ran across the room. Throwing her arms around his neck, she kissed him. Ian held her body against his and thought about how easy it was to take her into his arms. There was no longer any clumsiness or hesitation. It was as if they’d been together for ages and just knew how they fit, her hips against his, his hands spanning her tiny waist, her fingers furrowed through the hair at his nape.

“I was hoping you’d stop by,” she said. Marisol grabbed his hand and pulled him along behind her. “You have to see. I’ve been working on this all day and it’s just happening. I don’t even have to think, I just paint.”

The painting was of a nude in a familiar pose. “That’s me?”

She nodded. “It’s not finished. But I can already tell it’s going to be perfect. See across the shoulders, how there’s a sense of movement. As if I’ve caught you shifting beneath the light. It’s powerful and alive.”

Ian could see what she meant and he was surprised at how her simple charcoal sketches had been transformed into a painting.

“You have to pose for me again tonight. There’s something else I want to try.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “This could be a series. I don’t usually paint on a canvas this large, but I think it works. It just has to be big, don’t you agree?” She took a deep breath, then sighed. “I could use something to eat. Why don’t we go out and celebrate?”

Ian scrambled for an excuse. He and Marisol had kept their affair quiet for this long for no particular reason. He was ready to pay up on the bet with his brothers any time they might ask. But Bonnett Harbor was a small town and rumors usually began small and escalated. The police chief involved with the town’s newest resident would provide plenty of titillating gossip, especially if there was sex involved. And Marisol’s art made her the subject of plenty of speculation.

But now there was something else to add to the mix. If Marisol was involved in something shady, then he couldn’t afford to make his relationship with her public. The last thing he needed was a scandal to drag him down. “I’d love to,” Ian said, “but I’m still on the clock.”

“You don’t even have time for dinner?”

“It’s two in the afternoon,” he said. “It’s lunchtime, not dinnertime.”

Marisol giggled. “All right, lunch then.”

Ian shook his head. “Sorry.”

“Dinner later?”

“I have to work this evening,” he lied. “Why don’t I call you?”

She gave him a confused look, then shrugged. “All right. But can you at least stay for a snack? I’ve got some ice-cream sandwiches in the fridge.”

He nodded and Marisol hurried off to the small kitchen in the back of the gallery. When she returned, she pulled him over to the sofa and sat down on one end. “So, if things continue to go well, I think I should open the gallery in three weeks. That means I have to get invitations printed up and hire a caterer and figure out what to do about parking.” She took a bite of the ice-cream sandwich, then handed it to him. “You’re going to be famous, you know.”