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.

He set the bag down, then turned to Marisol, frowning. “You seem-”

“What? I’m fine,” she said.

“Preoccupied,” he finished. “If there’s something wrong, we should probably talk about it. You can be straight with me Marisol. We’re certainly not in a position where we have to hide anything from each other.”

She laughed softly, but the sound was forced. “There are always things to hide.”

“Do you regret what happened last night?”

Marisol shook her head. “No. Not at all.”

A rush of relief came over him and Ian crossed the distance between them and took her in his arms. “Good.” He bent and kissed her and she offered no resistance. Instead, she seemed to melt against him. Her lips parted and he drank deeply of her taste, like a man dying of thirst in the desert. When he finally drew back, Ian noticed that her face was flushed and eyes clouded with desire.

“You look tired,” he said.

“I haven’t slept since you dropped me off.”

Ian frowned. “You’re going to run yourself down and then you’re going to get sick.” He took her hand, then grabbed the bag. “Come on. Let’s get you some dinner and then I’m going to put you to bed.”

“I can take care of myself,” Marisol said.

“I’m sure you can. But you aren’t.”

She grabbed his arm and pulled him back, then practically jumped into his arms and kissed him. Ian couldn’t explain her odd behavior except that she did look exhausted. He dropped the bag on the floor and slipped his hands around her waist, picking her up off her feet until her body slid along his.

He felt himself grow hard with just the brief contact and he pressed her back against the wall and skimmed his hands over her body, his mind already on the pleasures of sex with Marisol Arantes.

She wore an odd mix of clothing, the silk dress from the night before and the paint-stained T-shirt he’d found her in the morning they’d first been intimate. When he tried to take them off, she pushed his hands away and Ian decided maybe there was something wrong.

Last night, she’d responded without hesitation or inhibition, but now she seemed to be a bundle of jittery nerves. Was this just a passing mood or was he supposed to read more into it? “Do you want me?” he asked, his mouth trailing down to the soft spot at the base of her neck.

She ran her fingers through his hair. “Oh, yes.”

“Then say it,” he demanded.

“I want you. I do. It’s just-”

“What?”

“There’s someone here.”

The words hit him like a punch to the stomach. Someone? Another man? Was that why she was so edgy? He drew back and looked down into her eyes. “Right,” he murmured, nodding his head. “I’m sorry. I should have called first.”

“No, it’s not another man. It’s Sascha. You met her at the party last night. She’s upstairs. We’ve been…working.”

He scolded himself for jumping to conclusions, angry that he’d even allowed a bit of jealousy to creep in. Hell, this wasn’t supposed to get so serious, so fast. He glanced over at the door, suddenly anxious to leave. “Ah, business. Well, I’d better let you go then.” He kissed her forehead, then picked up the bag and placed it in her arms. “Eat something. And then get some sleep. I’ll see you…when I see you.”

“Yes,” Marisol murmured. “Me, too.”

Ian walked to the door and pulled it open, then took one last look at her.

“You’re still going to pose for me, aren’t you?” she asked.

“Call me,” he said.

The door closed behind him and Ian drew a deep breath, then slowly let it out. What the hell was going on? He’d never in his life had that kind of reaction, that immediate rush of jealousy. He barely knew Marisol Arantes and he was worried about the other men who might be interested in her. This was getting out of hand fast and the only way to stop it was to put some distance between the two of them.

Ian grabbed his cell phone from his pocket and hit the speed dial for Marcus, hoping that his brother would be free. He needed to enjoy a few beers with a dispassionate buddy. If his younger brother couldn’t snap Ian back to reality, then no one could.