Kate Hoffmann - Ian

“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.”

“What are you going to do? This is not your problem, Marisol, it’s your father’s.”

She grabbed Sascha’s arm and squeezed it tight. “You have to promise not to tell anyone about this. Not until I figure out how to fix it.”

“What can you do? You have to get rid of the painting. You can’t keep it here.”

“It’s an Emory Colter, maybe. I can’t sell it, I won’t give it away, and I certainly will not destroy it. There’s no way to get rid of it. Unless…”

“Unless?”

“If it is the real thing, I could exchange it for the fake,” Marisol said. “I could find a way to get into the Templetons’ estate and switch paintings. Then I could destroy the forgery and they’d be left with the real one. It wouldn’t be difficult. It would take me just a few minutes to switch them.”

“What if they have security?” Sascha said. “You don’t think that painting is wired to some alarm? They have at least a couple million in artwork in that house and it’s certainly not hanging there ready to be plucked off the wall.”

“I could just leave it at the front door. And they’d figure it out.”

“Your father’s fingerprints could be all over that canvas. You need to exchange the two if there’s any chance of keeping him out of this. But until you know which is which, you’d better stay away from Ian Quinn.”

At that very moment, the buzzer rang and they both turned to look at the front door, then looked at each other. “Do you think that’s him?” Marisol asked.

“Don’t answer it. Pretend you’re not here.”

“He knows I’m here. My car is parked out front. I’ll just talk to him for a minute and get him to go away. He saw the Colter at the Templetons’ and he’ll probably recognize it if he saw it again. You wrap it up and hide it in the storeroom and I’ll…get rid of him.”

Sascha picked up one of Marisol’s T-shirts and tossed it at her. “Put this on. You’ll never get rid of him wearing that dress.”

Marisol did as ordered, then hurried to the front door. She peered through the blinds to see that Ian was indeed standing in front of the store, a large grocery bag held in his arms. Her heart skipped a few beats and she took a deep breath to try to still her hammering pulse.

It wasn’t fair. She shouldn’t have to make this choice, between her father’s future and her affair with Ian. But there was no decision to consider. Her father was family. Ian was her lover, a man she barely knew.

“You can do this,” Marisol murmured to herself.

IAN STOOD ON THE SIDEWALK and waited for Marisol to open the door. At first he’d wondered if she was home, but then he saw her peek through the blinds. He’d been waiting all day to get back to her, and though he was exhausted from lack of sleep, he had no intention of spending his evening home alone.

The door slowly opened and he smiled as she poked her head out. “Hi,” she said.

“Hi,” he replied. He looked at her for a long moment, his gaze taking in all the tiny details of her face. When they’d first met, he’d considered her beautiful, but the more he got to know Marisol, the more he believed that he’d never meet another woman quite like her. “I brought dinner.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I-I’d ask you in, but I’m in the middle of something.”

“Work?”

“Yes. Work.”

She seemed nervous, uneasy in his presence. “Are you all right?” he asked. “You’re not-”

“What? No, I’m fine. Everything is fine,” she said. “I’m just tired. And busy. With work.”

“Well, maybe you should take a break,” Ian suggested. “Why don’t you come out with me? We’ll walk down to the waterfront and have a picnic. I have sandwiches and root beer.”

“I’m really not dressed. And I look terrible.”

“You look lovely,” Ian said.

“I-I suppose you could come in for just a while. But then I really have to get back to work.” She opened the door to let him pass. The front of the gallery was dimly lit, but light streamed in through the transoms above the door and the display windows, sending shafts of sunlight across the wood floor.