The Mighty Quinns: Ian. Kate Hoffmann
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with three children. Which would probably be for the best considering the most he could manage right now was an affair in mind only. He’d made his brothers a promise, sworn on the gold charm, and he had two weeks’ pay riding on three months of complete celibacy.
He leaned against the Mustang and studied her features for a moment longer, wondering just what it was that made her so attractive. Finally, he slipped into the car and tossed the folder on the passenger seat. He’d never see her again, so what was the point in thinking about her?
Ian put the car into gear and steered out of the parking lot, turning toward Bay Street. Running parallel to Main Street, Bay had a small collection of shops and boutiques as well as a few art galleries. More and more of the buildings were being renovated and rented out to businesses that appealed to the summer crowd. Before long, Ian expected that Bonnett Harbor would be second only to nearby Newport as a tourist destination.
He parked the car in the first available spot, then got out, not bothering with the meter. Ian scanned the windows up and down the street as he walked, searching for something that might be considered “obscene.” A moment later, he came to a stop in front of the two small pine trees. Three sculptures stood in the plate glass display window, each perched on a stark white pedestal. And they all featured the naked male form between the waist and the thighs.
The sculptures, though fashioned out of clay, looked disturbingly lifelike. They weren’t technically obscene, just very detailed and realistic. And fairly well endowed. He walked to the door and peered inside through blinds half-shut. The interior was in disarray, as if the new tenant was just moving in. Paintings were leaned up against the walls and other sculptures sat on pedestals, covered in bubble wrap. Ian tried the door and was surprised when it opened.
As he walked inside the cool interior, sounds of an opera aria echoed through the shop, the soprano voice sweet and soothing. “Hello,” he called. “Anyone here?”
A few seconds later, he heard footsteps on the polished hardwood floors. And then, as if by magic, she appeared. The woman in the green Triumph. He frantically tried to recall her name. Marisol…Marisol Arantes. But then, he wasn’t supposed to know her name. Ian sucked in a quick breath as he watched her approach, her thin silk dress molding to her slender body as she walked.
“Can I—” She paused. “It’s you,” she said. “From the stoplight.”
Ian nodded and pulled his badge from his jeans pocket. She remembered him, as well. That was a good sign. “Ian Quinn,” he said. “I’m chief of police here in Bonnett Harbor. And you’re…”
“Marisol,” she replied, her whiskey-tinged voice sending a shiver down his spine. “Marisol Arantes.” She didn’t offer her hand and Ian found himself disappointed. Her fingers were long and slender, tipped by short, unpolished nails. He noticed a streak of blue paint just below her wrist and fixed on it for a long while.
She cleared her throat, jerking him out of a study of her left forearm. “Is there something I can do for you? I believe I have all of my permits in order, don’t I?”
He met her gaze. “I’ve been asked to come here to discuss the pe—” Ian paused. “The…art in your front window.”
She stared at him in a very disconcerting way and Ian shifted, unable to read her expression. Women usually found him charming, but he sensed that Marisol Arantes was used to getting more from her men than a winning smile. He was seriously out of his league here.
“You’ve been asked?” She took a step toward him, observing him shrewdly, then slowly circled him, her eyes raking his body as she moved. “Do you always do what people ask of you, Mr. Quinn?”
“Miss Arantes, this is a very small town. And though your sculptures and paintings might be…fascinating to big city folks, people around here find them a little unnerving.”
“Do you find them unnerving?”
He chuckled softly as she circled back in front of him. “Do you always ask so many questions?” he countered.
She smiled. “I’m curious. What do you think of my art?”
“I don’t know much about art,” Ian admitted, taking in the paintings and sculptures scattered about. She was standing so close he could smell her perfume, even feel the heat from her body. “I know the Mona Lisa is good and Elvis on velvet is bad, but beyond that, I can’t offer an opinion.”
“Ah, but it’s not an opinion I seek,” she said, her voice taking on a seductive tone. “But your reaction.” She placed her palm in the middle of his chest. “How you feel right now? Physically? Emotionally?”
If she wanted to know, he could tell her. His heart was pounding so hard he could hear it in his head. His fingers itched to reach out and touch her, to skim his palms over her arms, to circle her waist and pull her against him. And he was afraid to look down, afraid that he was having the same reaction to her that he’d had in the car. Beyond that, he wondered just what, if anything, she was wearing under the flimsy dress.
If she knew the effect her touch was having on his body, she didn’t show it. Ian tried to moderate his breathing, tried to appear calm. But he was finding it nearly impossible now that the warmth of her hand had seeped into his skin. He scanned her features, taking in the heart-shaped face and the lush lips, the wide eyes and the thick dark hair.
If he just leaned forward a bit, if she gave him the tiniest hint of interest, he’d be forced to kiss her. Once he did that, they could put all this small talk behind them and get down to the business of this crazy attraction between them. There was an attraction, wasn’t there? He wasn’t reading the signs wrong.
“Well? Are you feeling anything?” she asked.
Ian drew a deep breath and cleared his throat, trying to focus his thoughts. “Yes,” he murmured, his voice cracking. Confusion, exhilaration, insecurity. He’d made love to his fair share of women, but suddenly, he felt like a complete rookie. If he could barely talk to her, then how the hell did he expect to seduce her?
“They make me feel…inadequate,” he said as he stepped away. He wandered over to another sculpture. Ian studied it for a moment, then winced, the instinct to avert his eyes a bit too ingrained in his psyche.
“I know,” she said with a wicked smile. “Sometimes it’s difficult for men to appreciate my work at first. But you have to get over that whole urinal thing.”
He gasped. “What thing?”
“You need to see the cock as a work of art,” she said. “Not as some kind of yardstick you all measure yourself against.”
Her use of a nonmedical term for the male anatomy only added to the desire racing through his body. The word sounded so tantalizing coming from her lips. “A yardstick would be overkill for most men.” Ian pointed to the sculpture. “This isn’t all there is to the male body.”
“But it’s the most important part,” she said, her tone becoming passionate. “It all comes to this, don’t you agree? Life, death, love, hate, fidelity, betrayal. This is the essence of what it is to be a man. This is what drives you, what makes you who you are, right?”
“No,” Ian said. “Well, not entirely. I mean, not all the time. Though most women would like to believe we think with our…penises, it’s not true. We do use our brains on occasion.”
What the hell was he doing, discussing penises with this woman? How had they managed to take a very promising meeting and turn it into some psychological examination of men’s libidos?
Marisol reached out and ran her hand over the sculpture, her fingers caressing the sculpted penis as if it were real. Ian’s reaction was immediate and intense, the blood rushing to his crotch. It didn’t take much imagination to see how she might touch warm, living flesh. His warm, living flesh. He could almost feel it now.
Ian turned and walked away again, afraid his reaction would become increasingly apparent. As he crossed the gallery to a large painting