The Mighty Quinns: Ian

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 on the wall, Ian tugged at his T-shirt, until it covered his groin. Everywhere he turned there were penises, in all different sizes and colors, some attached to men’s bodies, others just floating in space. “Why are you so fascinated by this subject?” He glanced over his shoulder and watched her approach.

“Fascinated, curious, mystified,” she said, her eyes fixed on the painting. “Sometimes bothered.”

“Perhaps a bit obsessed?” Ian added.

“It’s a curiosity. I don’t have one, so I’m left to wonder how it all works, how it feels, the power that this thing has over a man’s psyche. I think by painting them, I’m searching for understanding.”

“Did one of these units—” He paused. “Did one of these guys do you wrong?”

She tipped her head to the side as she stared at the painting, her pretty face taking on a distant look. “I suppose you could say that. In the end, it came down to this.” She shrugged. “He found someone he desired more.”

“I’m sorry,” Ian said.

“There is nothing to be sorry for. Why would I want a man who didn’t want me?” She shook herself out of her daydream and glanced over at him. “Well, I’ve revealed all my secrets to you, now you need to tell me one of yours.”

“I don’t have any secrets,” Ian said.

“And I don’t believe you,” Marisol replied. “But if you’re too afraid to tell me, I’ll understand. It’s probably your job that makes you so uptight? The badge, the uniform, all the laws to follow. It’s probably why all of this makes you so uneasy.”

Ian bristled at her comments. What was wrong with being a stand-up guy? People trusted him, they looked to him to know what was fair and right. He’d learned early to take responsibility, and though it may be oppressive at times, that didn’t mean he’d turned into Dudley Do-Right. “Listen, I understand this subject is important to you. But do you have any other pieces you could display in the window? Maybe a nice cat or a bowl of fruit? A horse?”

She stood by his side, shaking her head. An impulse skittered through him and he fought it back. He wanted to kiss the curve of her neck and he wondered how the skin would feel against his lips. But rather than give in to his impulses, he would take care of business and get out of this shop.

“This is my work now,” she said, her voice calm and even. “If people have a problem with it, then they don’t have to look. An artist has every right to express herself in any way she chooses, don’t you think?”

Did that go for the man standing beside the artist? What if he chose to express himself by yanking her into his arms and kissing her? Or by brushing the straps of her dress off her shoulders and letting it slip to the floor? Or by laying her naked body across one of the padded benches and losing himself inside her? Surely if she expected him to accept her personal expression, she would be willing to accept his.

“There’s no law against it,” Ian admitted. “After all, it is free speech. But I can’t say it won’t cause problems. If I don’t do something about it, then the village board probably will.”

“Good. Then you can tell these people we spoke and that I won’t be taking my sculptures out of the window.” Marisol grabbed his arm and walked Ian to the door. “I should get back to work. My opening is in another few weeks and I have a lot to do. It was a pleasure, Mr. Quinn.” She met his gaze and Ian saw a flicker of desire there, a subtle shift in her expression that revealed more than words could say.

“You wanted to know how all this makes me feel?” Ian asked.

She nodded.

Ian drew a deep breath, then slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her against him. A moment later, his mouth found hers, and he kissed her, slowly and deliberately, mustering every ounce of skill he’d ever possessed. When he finally drew back, he watched her eyes flutter open, then grow wide with shock.

“I—I see,” she murmured.

“I’m glad,” he said. He turned and opened the door, then stepped out onto the sidewalk. An instant later, the lock clicked behind him.

Ian walked back down the street to his car, satisfaction slowly growing inside him. He’d handled that quite well. Though it wasn’t the most auspicious beginning, it was a beginning. But as he got closer to his car, the reality of what he’d just done began to sink in.

“What the hell was I thinking?” he muttered. He’d been at her gallery in an official capacity and he’d forgotten every rule of law enforcement because of what was going on in his jeans.

Maybe Marisol Arantes was right. Maybe it was all about a guy’s penis—and the woman who controlled it. Well, at least he’d have a chance to prove her wrong. In fact, he hoped like hell she’d keep her naughty little sculptures in the window. Now that the object of his sexual obsession was living in Bonnett Harbor, he’d have plenty of opportunities to see her again.

“YOU REALLY SHOULD be getting back, Papi. It’s a long drive into the city and it’s late.” Marisol watched as her father wandered around the gallery, stopping in front of each of her paintings, examining them with a discerning eye.

She’d never been bothered by the critics and their opinions of her work. But when it came to her father, his was the approval she sought. In truth, the reason she’d first grown interested in painting was because of him. He’d had aspirations to become a famous artist at one time, but the public had not been kind to Hector Arantes. Though he’d had some success in Europe, he’d hoped for even more in the U.S. So he’d brought his wife and his five-year-old daughter from their home near Lisbon to New York. And from the very moment they’d landed, things had begun to go wrong.

The critics had been brutal and her father, desperate to provide a living for his family, had fallen in with some unscrupulous men, swindlers who had offered him a great deal of money to take part in their schemes.

Though he hadn’t possessed a talent for his own work, Hector Arantes had an uncanny ability to copy the work of other artists. She hadn’t been aware of it at the time, but her father had become notorious for forging little-known works by well-known artists to feed a market in the Far East. When he’d been caught seventeen years ago, it had cost him a prison sentence. He’d been gone from the time Marisol had been nine until she was nearly nineteen. She and her mother, a former Russian ballerina, had struggled, living in a tiny flat in SoHo while her mother taught children’s classes at a small community center.

For all those years, Marisol refused to put him out of her life and when her own art began to gain recognition, she’d refused to heed the advice of her friends and change her last name. The Arantes name had become infamous in the art world, for all the wrong reasons. Still, it was her name, a name she wore proudly.

“Maybe you should start to paint again,” Marisol said. “The market has changed and your work might be accepted now.”

Hector shook his head. “No, it is too late for me to make a career. I have my life in the city, my students, a few friends. I paint murals for rich people’s houses and they appreciate my work. I am the poor man’s Michelangelo. I want nothing more.”

Her father was a proud man, even after he’d been beaten down by life. Marisol had tried to make his life more comfortable, but he’d refused all help. And her mother had put him out of her life the day he’d been convicted. Marisol had been left to keep the shreds of her family together.

“So what do you think?” Marisol said. “It’s a nice space, no?”

“I don’t understand why you moved out of the city, Mari. What is out here but a bunch of bourgeois suburbanites who buy their art to match their sofas?”

That’s what Marisol had thought when one of her patrons had first offered her the chance to have her own gallery. But after yesterday’s encounter with the village police chief, she’d been forced to alter her opinion of Bonnett Harbor. A shiver prickled her skin and Marisol rubbed her arms, making a note to adjust the air-conditioning in the gallery. But even she could admit that her reaction had nothing to do with the room temperature.

Ian Quinn had been invading her thoughts from the very first moment she’d seen him yesterday. How many times had she sat at a stoplight and glanced over to look at the driver beside her? Hundreds, probably thousands. And how many times had that driver been a man who’d been the embodiment of every fantasy man she’d ever had? Only once.

After she’d driven off, Marisol had been certain he would follow her, certain that he’d felt the same intense attraction. And when he hadn’t, she’d accepted the fact that her imagination had been playing tricks on her. Perhaps the stress of opening the gallery and working until all hours of the night had made her delusional.

But after his visit yesterday morning, Marisol knew the attraction was very mutual. In truth, it was more than just an ordinary attraction. When he was near, her body seemed to tingle with anticipation, as if indescribable pleasures were just a heartbeat away.

Marisol had always been quite comfortable with her sexuality. Through her art, she’d made a careful study of the male anatomy, but she’d also enjoyed the pleasures of a man’s body whenever the urge struck her. She’d had lovers in the past, some of them for a night, others for a much longer time. But she’d kept to one philosophy—sexual attraction, especially one as strong as she felt for Ian Quinn—deserved to be satisfied.

“Mari? You’re not listening.”