The Mighty Quinns: Ian. Kate Hoffmann
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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