The Mighty Quinns: Ian. Kate Hoffmann

raw end of the deal,” Declan said.

      Ian stared into his coffee, waiting for the caffeine to kick in. He hadn’t slept at all last night. Instead, he’d stared at the ceiling, trying to figure out what the hell had happened between him and Marisol Arantes. It was as if the moment he met her, every rational thought in his head had just decided to take a vacation. She took his breath away, and his ability to control his desires.

      Ian took a sip of his coffee, looking over the rim at his younger brother. “I know. It was a sucker bet. Marcus knew he’d be the one to win. He’s stuck all alone on that boat for the summer, anchored offshore. He might as well be living in a monastery in Tibet.” He set the coffee down and poured an extra measure of sugar into the cup, then slowly stirred it. “Maybe we ought to give up right now and pay him the money. Why torture ourselves?”

      “No way,” Dec said. “We can’t let him win. We just have to last three months, until the end of the summer. If we manage for that long, then at least we’ll break even.”

      “Why did we agree to this again?” Ian asked.

      “We’re supposed to take the time to learn a little more about women,” Dec said. “And maybe a little bit about ourselves. A guy really doesn’t know himself until he faces adversity, right?”

      “We’re not crossing the North Pole here,” Ian said. “Or climbing Mount Everest. You make it sound like celibacy is going to be life-threatening. There are a lot of guys in this world who go three months without having sex.” Hell, Ian had gone five months, until last night. Though, technically, last night hadn’t been full-on sex, the fantasy had been real enough when he’d found relief in the privacy of his own bedroom.

      “Not by choice,” Dec said.

      Ian had to give him that. He’d never in his life made a conscious decision to avoid women. In turn, he had always seemed to be surrounded by attractive ladies—until he moved back to Bonnett Harbor two years ago. Now, a day after he had vowed to give them up, Marisol Arantes waltzed into his life with her dark eyes and her kissable mouth and a body that begged to be touched.

      The squawk of Ian’s radio interrupted his thoughts and he grabbed it from the clip on his shoulder and pushed the button. “Quinn,” he said.

      “We’ve got a traffic problem on Bay Street,” Sally said. “Delaney is over there and he says he needs backup. Wilson is tied up with an MVA out on the highway. Can you go over there and help him out?”

      “Tell him I’m just a couple minutes away.” Ian stood and grabbed his wallet from his back pocket, then tossed a five onto the table. “Duty calls,” he said. “I’ll see you later.”

      The squad car was parked in front of the diner, and as promised, it only took a minute for him to pull out into traffic and head over to Bay Street. Sally had been right. Cars were jammed in both directions, odd for a town that had only three stoplights. He left the patrol car at the back of the jam and hopped out, then walked up through the crowd of people and cars.

      The majority of the people were gathered around Gallerie Luna, Marisol’s shop. Ian groaned inwardly, surmising the cause of the congestion. As he approached, the crowd surged toward him, everyone talking at once, Mrs. Fibbler in the middle of the bunch. He held up his hands to quiet them. “I know what you’re going to say. And I’ll take care of it. Now everyone move along and get your day started.”

      “It’s disgusting. Our children shouldn’t have to look at that!”

      “It’s art!”

      “Please. If that’s art, then that parking meter over there is art.”

      “Ladies! Move along now. I told you, I’ll take care of this.”

      When the crowd had cleared, he walked to the front door of the gallery and pressed the buzzer. At first, there was no answer, but then the door opened a crack and Marisol looked out. She smiled sleepily, squinting against the light. “Hi,” she murmured. “What time is it?”

      Ian glanced at his watch. “It’s a little past eight.”

      She frowned. “In the morning?”

      “Yeah,” Ian said. “Can I come in?”

      Marisol brushed her hair back, then rubbed her eyes. “Sure.”

      She stepped aside, then closed the door behind him. She was dressed in an oversize T-shirt that nearly reached her knees, hiding the tantalizing curves of her body. The shirt was covered with splotches of brightly colored paint. Her legs and feet were bare.

      Ian found himself reacting the same way he had the first time he’d walked into her gallery. But he fought against the fantasies that tickled at his desire and focused on the business at hand. It wasn’t easy. Marisol wore her beauty with a careless disregard for the effect it had on those around her. On him. Even in a T-shirt, with streaks of paint on her chin and hands, she was the most gorgeous creature he’d ever seen.

      Dragging his gaze away from her face, Ian noticed the huge canvas propped up against the pillars in the center of the shop, and the ladder set in front of it. Wide swathes of orange and purple paint depicted a huge naked ass. “Nice,” he murmured. “I’m glad to see you’re trying something new.”

      “I was inspired,” she said with a coy smile.

      He thought back to the night before, to the intimacies they’d enjoyed, the crazy rush of passion that had swept them both away. Had he inspired her? “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to change the window display. Today. It created a traffic jam on the street out front and that can’t happen.”

      “You can’t make me change it,” Marisol said, crossing her arms beneath her breasts and tipping her chin up defensively.

      “Actually, now I can. It’s a hazard to drivers and pedestrians. I can ticket you and for every day you keep it that way, the fine will increase.”

      Marisol gasped, then raked her hair out of her eyes. “You must be joking.”

      “No,” Ian said. “I’m not. So, would you like me to write the ticket, or can I help you take those sculptures out of the window?”

      She considered her options, glancing back and forth between him and the front window. Then, she sighed softly and held out her hand. “I’ll take the ticket,” she said.

      “It’s fifty dollars.”

      She glared at him, anger snapping in her dark brown eyes. “A small price to pay to maintain my artistic integrity.”

      Ian reached into his back pocket and withdrew his citation book, then wrote Marisol Arantes up on a violation of village ordinance 612.3. When he was finished, he handed her the ticket. “You can pay me right now, if you’d like. We take cash, checks or credit cards. Of course, you’re still going to have to take the sculptures out of the window.”

      “I have no intention of paying you or removing the sculptures.” She held the ticket under his nose then defiantly tore it into tiny pieces. They fluttered to the floor at his feet.

      “All right,” Ian said with a shrug. “Then I guess I’ve done my job.”

      “Too bad you can’t say the same for last night,” she muttered.

      He stared at her, stung by the sarcastic challenge in her voice. “As I recall, that was a mutual decision.”

      “Was it?” she said.

      He cursed softly, then, only to prove his point, he yanked her against his body, the instinct to kiss her again completely overwhelming him. His mouth came down on hers and he ran his hands beneath the T-shirt until they circled her waist. To his surprise, she was completely naked beneath. His brain told him to stop, but then she moaned and pressed her body against his, surrendering to the kiss.

      Her skin was as soft and smooth as silk, her limbs perfectly formed. The moment he touched her, Ian wanted more, craving the feeling