Kate Hoffmann - Ian

“Nothing,” she murmured, refusing to meet his gaze.

He reached out and tipped her face up to his. “You’re allowed to care about me,” he said. “It’s all right. This stopped being all about sex a long time ago. I think you know that but you’re afraid to admit it.”

“I-I should go back in,” she said.

“Yes,” Ian said. “You probably should.”

She turned and hurried to the door. Ian faced the wall, bracing his hands over his head and drawing a deep breath of the warm night air. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to care the way he did about Marisol, but he sure as hell couldn’t stop himself.

He strode to the door, then paused before he opened it. When this was all over, he planned to let Marisol know exactly how he felt about her. And if she still refused to see him as anything more than a lover, then he’d have to find a way to change her mind.

MARISOL’S HEART slammed in her chest as she reached for the lock on the gallery door, fighting back a surge of nerves. She resisted the temptation to glance back at the rear of the gallery where Agent DiMarco had hidden himself in the storage room. Outside, Ian and Agent Phillips were parked a half block away in an unmarked car, recording everything her microphone picked up.

She felt completely alone and vulnerable. In truth, she’d wanted Ian inside the gallery, but the FBI agents had said no. She reached for the door again, then drew a deep breath to calm her nerves. She’d only have one chance at this, once chance to make it all right, one chance at a future with Ian Quinn.

Gathering her courage, she swung open the door. David waited on the other side. “Hello, Marisol.” He leaned forward to kiss her, but she avoided his touch, stepping aside to let him enter. “I’m glad you called. I knew you couldn’t stay angry at me forever.”

“This isn’t a social call,” she said. “You’re here on business.”

“What are you talking about?” David asked.

“I have what you were looking for,” she replied. “It arrived by messenger last week.”

David chuckled, but there was little humor in the sound. “So you were lying to me when I was here last?”

“I didn’t know what I had until I unwrapped it. The minute I did, I realized that it was the Emory Colter from the Templetons’ house. So, is it an original?”

“That depends,” he said. “On whether you decided to switch it with the painting in Newport. You see, that’s what I was counting on. I suspected your father had sent you the painting. He never had the stomach for my little intrigues. And I knew, once you received it, you’d figure out what you had. And I hoped you’d exchange it for the one in the Templetons’ library.”

“Because this is the fake,” Marisol said.

“Is it?”

She shook her head. “I didn’t switch the paintings. See, you don’t know me nearly as well as you thought you did.” Marisol drew a deep breath, knowing that she’d have to get him to talk more. The agents had pressed her to get as much from him as she could, but questioning him about what he’d done seemed so clumsy. “Why did you do it?”

“Come on, Marisol. The Templetons, and people like them, are the kind of collectors artists hate. They don’t collect for the love of art, they collect because it’s the fashionable thing to do, a way to keep up with their billionaire friends. They’re only interested in how good the investment is. They don’t appreciate the beauty of what they’ve just acquired.”

“So that’s why you swindle them? Because they deserve it?”

“Well, don’t they?”

“Why did you give my father the painting?”

“Because I knew he’d send it to you. And if it was intercepted, I could deny ever knowing anything about it. He makes quite the dupe.”

Marisol knew this was the moment when she’d have to keep it together. She’d never been much of an actress, but she tried to imagine how she’d react if Ian hadn’t gotten to her first. “How much did you pay him?”

David laughed. “Nothing. He wanted to do it for you. We were engaged and he wanted to give you a beautiful wedding. Of course, any money I made I promised would go back to you. He was silly enough to believe me. But in the end, it didn’t make a difference. The painting he gave me was unusable. I had to find someone else to make the copy.” He paused. “You know, the funny thing was, he never even noticed. He couldn’t tell the difference between what he’d painted and the painting I sent him. Lucky thing or he might not have been so anxious to help me.”

Marisol tried to contain her relief. Her father hadn’t been involved. He was safe, and in a few moments, she would be safe, too. She pointed to the crate sitting up against the wall. “Take it and get out. I don’t ever want to see you again. And if you ever try to contact my father, I’ll call the authorities.”

He grabbed her arm and pinched it so tightly, Marisol cried out. “Don’t threaten me,” he warned. With that, he released her, then grabbed the crate and dragged it to the door. “Nice doing business with you, Mari.”

When the door shut behind him, Marisol slowly sank to the floor, pulling her knees up to her chest. A shudder raced through her body and she swallowed back a surge of tears. “He’s gone,” she said, knowing that Ian and the agents were listening.

A few moments later, Agent DiMarco appeared from the rear of the gallery. He helped her to her feet. “You did fine,” he said. “You got everything we needed and then some.”

“What’s next?” she murmured.

“We watch Barnett,” DiMarco said. “We wait for him to ship the painting, and then arrest him. He goes to trial, you testify and he goes to jail for a long, long time.”

“And my father?”

Agent DiMarco shrugged. “You heard what he said. As far as we’re concerned, he had no role in this at all. He’s in the clear.”

The door to the gallery burst open and Ian strode in, followed closely by Agent Phillips. “Are you all right?” Ian asked.

Marisol nodded. With trembling fingers, she removed the microphone taped to her chest and handed it to Agent Phillips. “Am I finished now?”

Phillips nodded. “We may have a few more questions at a later date, but I think you’ve done enough for one night. Thank you, Miss Arantes. We’ll be in touch. And call us if Barnett makes contact again.”

Marisol nodded and watched as the two agents walked out of the gallery.

When they were gone, Ian gathered her in his arms, hugging her fiercely. “When I heard you scream, I nearly jumped out of my skin. I swear, if I ever see Barnett again, he’ll be brushing his teeth from the back of his head.”

Marisol nuzzled her face into his chest. “Take me to bed,” she said. “To your bed. I want to sleep late and then I want to spend the entire day making love and then I want to paint you again.”

Ian bent to meet her gaze. “That might have to wait.”

“Why?”

“Well, we’ve got the big firemen’s picnic tomorrow and the Fourth of July celebration in town on Monday, and there’s a parade I have to lead, a pie-baking contest I have to judge and a bicycle rodeo that I have to supervise. I know it sounds pretty small town for a sophisticated city girl like yourself, but there is a dance tomorrow night.”

“I guess I’ll have to spend the day alone in bed,” she said.

“I was thinking I might need a date for that dance,” Ian said, toying distractedly with her hair. “We’ve been sleeping together for a while now. Maybe we ought to go out on a real date.”

Marisol sent him a sideways glance, then smiled. A date sounded good. In truth, a date sounded like the perfect thing for the two of them. But she wasn’t quite ready to announce their relationship to the world. “Could we keep things to ourselves for a bit longer?” she asked. “I might need some time to adjust to having a boyfriend.”

Ian frowned. “You don’t want to go out with me?”

“I do. But all this has happened pretty fast. Don’t you think we ought to spend a little more time together before we get all the town gossips buzzing?”

He nodded. “You’re probably right.”

“But who knows? I might just run into you at the picnic and we could have an ice cream together. Or maybe share a dance? And if you’re lucky, I might agree to meet you back at your place later on.”

Ian kissed her softly, his tongue damp on her lips. “I think it sounds like a good plan.”

Marisol groaned. “No more plans. I’ve had enough plans for a lifetime. Let’s just call it a…start.”

Ian nodded. “A beginning.” He slipped his arm around her shoulders and they walked to the door of the gallery. When they reached the door, he turned and faced her. “Do you regret that we started in the middle? That we didn’t date and get to know each other before we…you know.”

Marisol shook her head. She couldn’t imagine their relationship beginning any other way except with wild, passionate sex. “If you would have asked me out on a date that first day, I probably would have said no. After David, I was pretty determined to avoid men.”

“You would have refused me?” Ian asked, surprised by the revelation.

“Yes. But then, you offered me the one thing I couldn’t resist.” She ran her fingers down his chest, then grabbed his belt and yanked him against her body.

Ian chuckled. “I guess I have your number, don’t I?” he said.

Marisol pushed up on her toes and kissed him playfully. “Yes, you do. And I expect you to use it at least once a day.”

His hands circled her waist and he picked her up and wrapped her legs around his hips. “Now there’s plan,” he said, kissing her neck.

“A very good plan,” she murmured.

“WHERE ARE WE GOING?”

Marisol stood at the end of the bed in her apartment over the gallery, fresh from the shower, her naked body wrapped in a towel. She was three days away from the opening of her gallery and Ian had insisted on taking her away from all the work she had to do.

“I’ll tell you when we get there,” Ian said.

She walked to the closet. “Unless you tell me where we’re going, how am I going to know what to wear?”

“Just wear one of those pretty dresses you have. And be sure to wear underwear. Underwear is important.”

Marisol turned from the closet and looked at Ian. “Why will I need underwear?”

“Because I don’t want to have to be thinking of you not wearing underwear. I want all of that,” he said, pointing to her body, “covered.”

“Since when have you turned into such a prude?” she asked. “I thought you liked my body. I certainly like yours.”

Ian rolled over on the bed, then jumped up and began to rummage through her underwear drawer. He plucked out a black thong and a lacy little scrap that could barely be called a bra. “I can see I’m going to have to buy you some respectable underwear.”

Marisol giggled. “And what is respectable underwear? Panties that attend church regularly? Perhaps a bra that does volunteer work at a local hospital?”

“You know what I mean.”

She grabbed a dress from the closet, then sat down on the bed next to Ian. “If you want a respectable girlfriend, I don’t think I’m the one, Ian Quinn. You know who I am and how I live my life. Without underwear. Why would you want to change me?”

“I just want to change you for today,” he said. “Then you can go back to being who you are. I love who you are.” He paused, reaching out to caress her cheek. “I love you.”

Marisol blinked, the sentiment catching her by surprise. She fought back a surge of emotion as she leaned over and kissed him. He’d never said it out loud, but now he had. And it felt so good to hear it. “I love you, too.”

Ian grinned, like a little boy who’d just been handed a key to the candy store. “You do?”

Marisol nodded. “Do you know why I love you? Because you always tell the truth. Now, tell me why I have to wear underwear.”

He groaned, grabbing her around the waist. “Because we’re going to dinner at my parents’ house. Once a month, the whole family gets together for Sunday dinner and I thought it was about time I introduced you to the family.”

Stunned, Marisol backed away from Ian. “Today? Did you tell them I was coming?”

“No,” he replied. “I thought it could be a surprise. But they won’t mind. There’s always enough food and room for a guest or two. My sisters bring salads and stuff and my mother cooks a huge feast.”

“But I can’t go. I don’t have anything to wear,” Marisol said. “And I don’t have any underwear. I can’t meet your mother wearing this.” She held up the thong. “I mean, what if my skirt blows up…or-I can’t.”

“You don’t have to be nervous,” Ian said. “They’ll love you. You’re talented and funny and you’re exactly the kind of girl my brothers and sisters would enjoy.”

“How many brothers and sisters?”