and toes tingling and her mind hazy.
Ian raked his fingers through her hair, pulling it away from her face so he could kiss her forehead. “Are you all right?” he asked, his heart thudding wildly beneath her ear.
“Mmm,” Marisol murmured. “I’m perfect.”
He stared up at the sky, slowly stroking her back. “You are,” he whispered. “Perfect for me.”
Marisol pushed up on her elbow and dropped a gentle kiss on his lips. “If I ask you something, will you promise to say yes?”
“Yes,” Ian said. “Now tell me what I’ve agreed to.”
“I want you to pose for me. I want to sculpt you. Will you do that?”
“Will I have to take my clothes off?”
“Of course,” Marisol said.
“All right. But only if you agree to take your clothes off, too.”
“I’m not sure we’d get a lot done if we were both naked.”
Ian chuckled and ran his finger along her bottom lip. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that. We seem to do our best work with our clothes off.”
MARISOL STOOD in front of the easel, staring at the canvas, a stream of sunlight spilling into the gallery from the windows along the back wall. She’d been working on the painting since Ian had left her in the early-morning hours before dawn. She’d expected to be exhausted by the passion they’d enjoyed with each other, but the moment he drove off, Marisol felt exhilarated, as if all her energy had been recharged.
Funny what a few really good orgasms could do for a girl, she mused, unable to keep from smiling. And they had been good, deep, powerful and mindless, shaking her to her very core. Even now, thinking of what they’d shared, Marisol’s blood warmed and her pulse quickened. She could live like this forever, without sleeping, needing only her work and sex with Ian Quinn to sustain her.
She thought back to the kiss he’d given her at the door, knowing it would have to last her at least another twelve hours. Now every minute away from him seemed empty and unexciting.
Their affair had begun as a playful little game between two consenting adults, simple and easy sex, nothing serious. But after last night, Marisol had been forced to reevaluate. She’d never been with a man who’d made her feel the way Ian did. And it wasn’t just the orgasms. It was the way he looked at her and touched her, as if she were the perfect woman for him, the only woman who could bring him to complete satisfaction.
So many of the men in her life had tried to change her, to make her into someone who played by the rules. Even David hadn’t been satisfied, constantly harping on her crazy work schedule and chaotic approach to her art and her distaste for self-promotion. In all truth, he’d never wanted to be with a working artist, he’d wanted an interesting woman on his arm, someone who could talk the talk that he enjoyed so much.
It was nice not to have to discuss her work with Ian. He saw it, he admired it, and that was all. She dabbed a bit more blue on her brush and added a touch to the eyes. It wasn’t a realistic representation of a man, but an abstract figure that mirrored her emotional reaction to their passion.
She’d painted him as she’d seen him last night, standing before her in the moonlight, naked and unfazed, his gaze downcast, his head tilted slightly. Marisol was amazed at how easy it had been to meld color with form, the memory of him burned into her brain like a sharply focused photograph.
In real life, he looked like a modern-day Greek god, all muscle and sinew, hard angles and strong curves. On the canvas, he was brilliant color and vibrant slashes of paint, seductive strength and devastating power.
As she stared at the painting, she couldn’t help but think of the man and wonder what he was doing at that moment. Was he thinking about her? Did her taste still linger in his mouth? Could he still feel the imprint of her hands on his body? Had thoughts of their night together plagued his day as they had hers?
The buzzer sounded at the gallery’s front door and Marisol turned and smiled, then wiped her paint-stained fingers on her dress. “Just in time,” she murmured.
She ran to the door and threw it open, anxious to kiss him, to slowly undress him and make love for the next five or six hours. But she didn’t find Ian waiting. Instead, Sascha stood in the doorway, staring at her over the top of her Chanel sunglasses. “I brought you lunch, though it’s nearly dinner time.” She swept past Marisol then turned and frowned. “What have you done to your new dress?”
Marisol glanced down, not realizing that she’d forgotten to change. Globs of paint clung to the pale silk, red and orange and black, the colors of desire. “Oh, no. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. As soon as I got home I started to work and I-” She rubbed her hands over the spots, then tried to chip them off with her fingernails. But the silk was ruined. “I’ll pay you for the dress, I promise.”
Sascha waved her hand. “Let me see what you’ve been doing.” She followed Marisol over to the painting, then studied it. “It’s quite good.” She drew a deep breath, then sighed. “It’s very good. It’s…stirring.”
“It is, isn’t it,” Marisol said, excitement filling her voice. “I think it’s the best work I’ve done in a long time. I really captured the essence of masculine power. It just seems to vibrate from him, don’t you think?”
“Are we talking about the painting or Ian Quinn? Or are they one and the same?”
“Don’t say it like that,” she said, pouting. “Like he’s some bad habit I ought to break. I have everything under control. Besides, I think this might be good for me. I feel energized. I can hardly wait to get to work.” Marisol walked over to the crate her father had sent her and ran her hand along the top edge. “Maybe he’s my muse.”
“Please,” Sascha scoffed. “You’ve never believed in that.”
“I’ve never had a muse before,” Marisol countered. “All I know is that after I’m with him, my work is more… focused. All my insecurities are gone and I can just create without even thinking. He makes me believe I’m a good painter and a good sculptor. And as long as that continues, I’m happy.”
Sascha wandered over to stand next to her, bending down to peer through the slats of the crate. “What do you suppose is inside?”
Marisol shrugged. “I’m almost afraid to look. If it’s bad, I’ll have to lie to my father and tell him it’s good. And if it’s good, I’ll tell him it’s good and he’ll refuse to believe me.”
Sascha walked over to the worktable and grabbed the small crowbar that hung from the edge. “Let’s put an end to your misery right now.” She pried off the front of the crate, then removed the four-by-four-foot canvas, carefully brushing aside the packing material. As the layers of paper fell away, Marisol could see the basic colors and outlines of the painting and a sick feeling began to grow in her stomach.
“Oh, shit,” Sascha murmured, when the last bit of wrapping was brushed aside. “I know this painting.”
Marisol slowly dropped to the floor, running her hand over the surface of the canvas. “Oh, Papi, what have you done now?”
The signature on the painting was unmistakable and could lead her to only one conclusion. The Emory Colter hanging in the Templetons’ library was a clever forgery and her father, until recently, had been in possession of the original.
“It’s the same, isn’t it?” Marisol murmured, desperate to have Sascha contradict her.
“It looks like your father might be up to his old tricks again,” Sascha said.
“It’s not just the second in a series?”
Sascha shook her head. “No, this is the same painting that Cheryl Templeton was showing off last night. Everyone at the party saw it. I can’t believe that was a forgery. My God, if your father painted the fake, it’s an amazing job. Emory Colter is not an easy artist to forge. His brush strokes and the application of paint to the canvas are so unique.”
“This could be the forgery,” Marisol said. “We don’t know for sure.”
“Why would your father send you a forged painting?” She shook her head. “You picked a bad time to start hanging around with a cop,” Sascha commented. “And there’s more bad news.”
Marisol covered her eyes with her hands. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“David is the one who sold the Colter to the Templetons.”
“You think he and my father are working together?”
“He’s the one who authenticated it, Mari. Either he’s slipping at his job, or he and your father are in this together. I’d put my money on the latter.”
Marisol pushed to her feet and began to pace the floor in front of the painting. “I’m not going to jump to conclusions. I don’t know that the painting in the Templetons’ library is a fake. This could be the copy. And who knows why he painted it?” She groaned, then covered her face with her hands. “What am I going to do? Papi must have sent it here to hide it. Fake or real, if he gets caught with this, he’ll be sent back to jail in a heartbeat.”
