Ian

by Kate Hoffmann

  As he pulled onto Main Street, Ian grabbed his cell phone and dialed the station. “Sally, I need you to run a plate for me. It’s a New York plate. T-B-7-8-4-1?”

  “10-4, Boss,” Sally said.

  “Pull her registration and get me a license, as well. Anything else you can find. I’m on my way in.”

  “Mr. Cuddleston called this morning. It seems he found his trash cans emptied on his front lawn. He wants you to charge Mrs. Fibbler with trespassing and vandalism.”

  “I think I’ve got that problem solved,” Ian said. “Just get me that information.”

  He drove the rest of the way to the station caught up in a fantasy about the woman he’d just seen. He’d always played by the rules and just the thought of pulling her over for no good reason went completely against his grain. But she was different from the girls he usually found attractive, coy blondes with sexy bodies and healthy sexual appetites. Here was a woman who, while equally sexy, could only be called…exotic. His curiosity was piqued and that so rarely happened anymore.

  Ian pulled the Mustang into the parking lot behind the station, then hopped out, his thoughts completely occupied with finding her. But as he turned to slam the car door, he stopped short, a dim memory from the previous night floating to the surface of his thoughts.

  The celibacy pact. “Oh, hell,” he muttered. He shouldn’t even be thinking about women, much less chasing one around town! Just last night, he and his brothers had made a pact to swear off women for the next three months. It had been a silly idea and Ian wasn’t even sure why he’d agreed to it. He probably wouldn’t have if his love life hadn’t been pure crap lately. But it was a serious promise, sworn by all three brothers on the gold medallion that had been a holy relic to them since their childhood days in Ireland.

  Maybe the plan wasn’t such a bad idea. If he stopped looking for the right woman, the right woman might come along. Not that the woman in the green Triumph was the right woman. From the look of her, she didn’t belong in Bonnett Harbor-or in his bed.

  Besides, he did have his reputation to protect. Though he was a healthy, thirty-one-year-old male, he might as well have been the town minister. Why couldn’t the citizens of Bonnett Harbor understand he was just a regular guy who wore a uniform and badge to work? He wasn’t always a paragon of integrity and honor. On occasion, he enjoyed being just a tiny bit bad-and sometimes, on occasion, there was a woman involved.

  The interior of the police station was cool and quiet as Ian walked inside. The only sounds came from the ring of the phones and the hiss of the air-conditioning. Sally Hughes, the desk clerk, smiled at him as he strolled in.

  “Morning, Chief,” she said, holding out a blue file folder. “The car is registered to a Marisol Arantes. Address in Manhattan. Pricey neighborhood in SoHo from what I can tell. No criminal record. She doesn’t own property in the county, at least not in her name. So what did she do?”

  “Nothing,” Ian murmured. “So she’s not a local?”

  Sally shook her head. “Nope. Maybe she was here visiting friends. You want me to dig a little deeper?”

  “Thanks,” he said, closing the folder. “But there’s no need.” Ian walked back to his office. Bonnett Harbor was a small town of about 2,500 year-round residents and a full-time police force of eight officers. Nothing much happened beyond a few noisy parties each weekend and the occasional traffic stop. Seeing Marisol Arantes was the most interesting thing that had happened to Ian in at least the past month or two.

  He sat down at his desk and opened the folder, pulling out the enlargement of her driver’s license photo. Even the DMV had gotten it right. She stared out at him with a sultry look, her lashes lowered, her smile so-He sighed. What would it be like to have a woman like that in his life…in his bed? To have the time to explore her passionate side, to learn every curve and angle of her body, memorize the nuances of her voice and her touch.

  “There is one other thing,” Sally said, poking her head in the office door.

  Ian slammed the folder shut and looked up at her. “It’s Saturday. This is my day off, isn’t it?”

  “You’re here, aren’t you? I tried to give this to one of the guys on patrol, but they both agreed you ought to handle it since it wasn’t an emergency situation and you have a way with people.”

  “Right,” Ian said, standing. He tucked the folder under his arm. “What is it?”

  “There’s a new tenant over on Bay Street, in that shop with the two little pine trees in front of it. A few members of the biddy brigade have called in to complain there’s something obscene displayed in the front window.”

  “Obscene? Like what?”

  “They couldn’t bring themselves to say. My guess, a naked breast. They practically died of the vapors when Carmen at the video store put up that poster for that French movie. You know, the one where the lady’s dress was half on and half off.”

  “All right,” Ian said. “I’ll go check it out, but then I’m done for the day. Understand? Anything else comes in and the boys handle it.”

  Sally gave him a smart salute as he walked back through the front doors. “You got it, Chief. Enjoy your weekend.”

  Ian walked back out to his car, then noticed the folder he still carried in his hand. He opened it up and pulled out the photo once more. There had to be a way to meet this woman again. He shook his head. He’d never been so captivated by a woman before, and never by a perfect stranger.

  Ian groaned. Hell, for all he knew, she could be a complete ditz, or a raging harpy, or she could be happily married 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 jea
ns 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 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.