Her Body of Work

by Marie Donovan

  “I do have good ideas now and then.” Francisco’s tone became concerned. “Are you doing okay, Marco? Have you been spotted by any men with large necks intent on avenging their slutty girlfriend’s honor?”

  Marco stopped thinking about posing nude and got serious. “No, Chicago’s the perfect city for me to hang out. It’s big enough to get lost in, and I can cover my face with a scarf when I leave the apartment. Hell, I need to use a scarf anyway. Besides,” he prevaricated, “I only slept with that mob chick once, and nobody with any sense would leave Miami this time of year.”

  “All right.” His brother sounded relieved. “Wish me luck, and you’ll see me next on Hope for Tomorrow.”

  “Good luck, hermanito. Adiós.”

  “Adiós, hermano.” Francisco clicked off his phone.

  Marco hung up and stared at the off-white apartment walls. He had refused to hide in the feds’ safe house after one of his informants disappeared. No doubt the man had provided a meal for the bull sharks off the Florida coast.

  Marco’d suspected for a while that Rodríguez had a mole, a snitch in the Miami division. Since he didn’t know who to trust at DEA, he would trust the only man he could count on: himself.

  Being turned into shark chow held no appeal, but neither did sitting around a government-owned shack on the edge of a swamp, watching satellite soccer and skin flicks waiting for someone to put a bullet in the back of his head. If Rodríguez wanted him dead, by God, that son of a bitch would have to work for it.

  But damned if he was going to sacrifice Francisco. Marco would keep his younger brother out of town if he had to pay him. Considering Francisco’s spotty income from modeling and bartending, it would be an offer he couldn’t refuse.

  He stared at the snow falling past the window. Chicago was cold, but it was better than being cold and dead in sunny Miami.

  4

  REY HUNG UP A NEW midnight-blue bathrobe in her changing cubicle and tossed the old bathrobe on her pile of painting rags. Marco had almost burst out of the threadbare black fabric. Of course, his chest and abs were much more muscular and well-defined than her last model. She stroked the pliant blue terry cloth. It would be soft and supple against his smooth skin. Lucky robe. It would touch him. She wouldn’t.

  Why, oh, why couldn’t she find a nice, normal man who thought Monet was the French word for cash and Jackson Pollock was just an inexpensive whitefish from Mississippi? Starting with Stefan the Slug, her first lover, and culminating with Jack the Jag-off, Rey had gone for the dark, dangerous type. Of course, ten years later Stefan was mostly gray and about as dangerous as a set of children’s finger paints. And as for Jack, the only dangerous part of him was his flapping mouth.

  Rey shook her head. Instead of mooning over a model with an overdeveloped ego and an underdeveloped brain, she needed to get her art supplies ready. Walking to her large angled sketching table, she opened a new box of charcoal sticks. She was testing them on a paper scrap when her phone rang.

  She answered the phone. “Rey Martinson.”

  “Hello, Rey. It’s Evelyn.”

  “Good news, Evelyn. I found the perfect model and he starts today.”

  “I have some good news, too. I just faxed the contract for the male nude sculpture to the Stuarts’ attorney. He called and said everything is in order.”

  Rey whooshed a silent sigh of relief. Her biggest commission was in her grasp. “You know how much this means to me, Evelyn.”

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Rey.” Evelyn’s voice lost some of its coziness. “The last two paintings you showed me aren’t up to your usual high standards.”

  Rey’s stomach flipped. “I’m not sure what you mean,” she managed to say. Was Evelyn letting her go as a client? How could she work on this big commission with this hanging over her head?

  “Your technique was great, but the emotion wasn’t there. The paintings seemed a bit, well, dull.”

  That stung more than she expected. Years in the art world hadn’t made her so thick-skinned after all. “Dull?” Rey heard a snap and looked down to find her charcoal stick cracked in two. She wiped her smeared fingers on an ochre-stained rag.

  “I loved the color, but I couldn’t feel your emotional connection with the subject.”

  Rey rolled her eyes. Her dislike of Craig must have spilled over into his portrait.

  Evelyn continued, “I’m sending those two paintings back. Only your absolute best work goes on display.”

  “I agree.” Maybe her friends at the gay bar needed some new artwork. If Craig had a fit, so much the better.

  “The sculpture for the Stuarts’ Roman bath is crucial to your career, Rey. How many modern artists get commissioned for a life-size marble statue? This might put you on the map. If we use this as a springboard to move away from the male nudes, you could be the next Glenna Goodacre.”

  Rey’s stomach flipped. As always, Evelyn knew exactly which buttons to push. Glenna Goodacre was Rey’s idol. The American artist had sculpted the Vietnam Women’s Memorial on display at the Mall in Washington, D.C. “What do you suggest, Evelyn? I don’t want to goof this up.”

  “In a word, dear, passion.”

  “Passion?” Rey grimaced. “Passion for my artwork?”

  Evelyn cleared her throat delicately. “Sometimes when an artist is concentrating on her career, certain things fall by the wayside. Like family, friends and other more, uh, personal relationships.”

  Like sex, Rey mentally translated.

  Evelyn continued, “It might be a good idea to take a short break and recharge your batteries.”

  Rey didn’t think Evelyn meant the batteries for the gadget in her nightstand. “I see.”

  “I hope I haven’t hurt your feelings, Rey.” Evelyn paused. “But if you don’t produce a phenomenal piece of artwork for the Stuarts, I will have difficulties finding such prestigious and lucrative commissions for you.”

  Rey knew what that meant: screw this up and kiss your career goodbye. “Thanks for letting me know, Evelyn. You can count on me to do a great job.”

  “Thanks, dear. I’ll let you get back to work.” Evelyn hung up.

  Rey stared out the window. Heavy gray snow clouds churned, further dampening her mood. The door buzzer sounded and she started. The adrenaline rush of starting a new project always made her jumpy. She refused to think that her nerves might be from seeing Marco again.

  She crossed to the foyer, her comfortable shoes squeaking slightly on the cement floor. She stopped and consciously slowed her breathing, tugging open the heavy sliding door. Nanook of the North stood on her doorstep.

  “Marco, is that you?” He was finally dressed for the cold weather, a heavy scarf covering his face. He even wore dark glasses despite the overcast day.

  “In the flesh. Or soon to be in the flesh, right?”

  Rey caught herself smiling at his joke before she put on her professional demeanor. He stomped the snow off his tan boots and walked inside. She closed the door and he pulled off his scarf and glasses, pushing back the hood on a chocolate-brown ski parka.

  “I took your advice and dressed for the cold. I finally have some feeling in my fingers and toes.” He tugged off his heavy gloves and unzipped his jacket.

  “I’ll take your coat.” The Velcro on the hood stuck to his sweater, and without thinking she moved behind him to pull it loose.

  He looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Eager to get to work?”

  “You’re a man of many layers,” she quipped, fingering the ecru turtleneck collar under his heavy sweater.

  “What do you mean?” His voice was casual but his trapezius and deltoid muscles tightened over his shoulder blades. She realized she was still touching him and gripped his thick down coat with both hands.

  “Layers of clothing. They keep you warmer.” What did he think she meant? Something more personal?

  “Right.” His shoulders relaxed and he turned to face her. “I am a man of many layers of clothin
g just waiting to be peeled away.” He was so close she saw the tiny black flecks of beard along the smooth skin of his cheeks.

  Rey dug her fingers into the coat to keep from running them along the clean line of his jaw. Instead of distracting her, the leftover warmth of his body radiated from the slippery nylon lining.

  She hung his coat on the coatrack and tucked his snowy gloves and scarf on the radiator to dry. “Would you like some coffee?” She walked toward the kitchen.

  “Maybe later. I already had a few cups of jet fuel at home.” He followed her, his tread silent on the concrete floor.

  “Jet fuel?” She turned to look at him.

  “Cuban coffee. Strong enough to power a jet engine.”

  “So you’re Cuban.” That explained his dark good looks and slight accent.

  He looked as if he wanted to call back his words. “Yes.”

  “I was born in Sweden, but we moved to Chicago when I was twelve.”

  “I left Cuba when I was twelve, too,” he admitted.

  “Really? Twelve is such a hard age to leave your friends and come to a new country. I cried for a month. What was the biggest change for you?”

  “What doesn’t change when you move?” He shoved his hands in his pockets and began looking at her artwork. “We should probably get started so you can get the best light, or whatever artists need.”

  “Oh. Sure.” Rey glanced at the ceiling-to-floor windows along the north side of her loft. The snow was falling thickly and had blocked the natural light. But if he didn’t want to talk about Cuba, that was fine with her. She wasn’t paying him to discuss painful memories with her. “Why don’t you change in the cubicle again?”

  He rattled the curtain closed, and she flipped on the new space heaters placed around the modeling dais.

  “A new robe?” he called.

  “Yes. Hopefully warmer and better-fitting for you.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.” He sounded surprised, as if he’d received few kindnesses.

  “No problem.” She smoothed the sheet on the chaise longue and double-checked the batteries in her expensive digital camera. She flipped her large sketch pad to a clean page.

  One space heater was too close to her drafting table. By the time she pulled it next to the modeling platform, its blast of hot air had overheated her. The wool sweater her mother had sent from Sweden was overkill.

  Rey stripped off the prickly garment and tossed it onto a pile of canvas drop cloths in the corner. That was better. Her red long-sleeved shirt was much cooler.

  She reached up with both arms and twisted her hair off her damp neck into a bun on top of her head. Where was that hair clip? She rummaged one-handed on her drafting table.

  “Are those for me?” Marco stood two feet in front of her.

  “What?” She inadvertently looked at her nipples thrusting against the thin cotton of her shirt. She dropped her arms, but not before the gleam in his eyes gave him away.

  “The space heaters. They’re new.”

  Rey waved a hand dismissively and noticed charcoal smears on her fingers. “It’s important for you to be comfortable. Warm muscles are suppler. You can assume more positions and hold them longer.” Her cheeks heated as a variety of positions totally unrelated to art ran through her mind.

  He smiled, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “What position do you like best?”

  “It depends.” He meant modeling positions, right?

  “On what?” He padded closer.

  “On what feels best. I mean, what looks best.” She caught herself inhaling his clean citrus scent. He was entirely too close for her already shaky self-possession. She backed away several feet and stumbled into her drawing table.

  “Careful.” Marco’s hands on her arms steadied her balance but did nothing to steady her nerves. How had he reached her so quickly? She hadn’t even seen him move. “Did you hurt yourself?” He rubbed the tender skin in the crook of her elbows, thumbs coming achingly close to the curves of her breasts.

  “No, I’m fine.” Her breath came faster, the movement pressing the sides of her breasts against his hands. She froze, desperately wanting him to stop cupping her elbows and cup her breasts instead. Her nipples tightened only a few inches away from his hands.

  His own breathing quickened, widening the brown V of skin between his lapels. He bent his glossy black head toward her, closing the distance between their lips. She gulped and ducked out of his arms, hurrying to the raised platform.

  “Why don’t we get started?” She was proud of her casual tone of voice.

  “I thought we already did,” he murmured but obediently followed her to the dais.

  She didn’t have a comeback for his innuendo, so she valiantly put on her Nordic-ice-princess persona that had frightened off several overly affectionate models. Of course, it was hard to be icy when the masculine equivalent of a blast furnace was mere inches away.

  She stopped at the platform base, staring at her setup with newly carnal eyes. The low-slung chaise longue was as wide as a double bed. One corner rose into a padded backrest. She’d draped it with a pure white sheet to get the best color contrast possible.

  The muscles in his calves and thighs flexed as he lowered himself to the chaise. He bounced slightly, his knees parting the terry cloth. Her stare traveled up his long thighs to the shadow between his legs. Was he wearing those tiny satin bikini briefs under his robe? Or nothing at all? He cleared his throat, and her startled gaze flew up to meet his amused one.

  “Good springs. And very comfortable.” He patted the chaise next to him, making enough room for her.

  She wanted to sit next to him. There was even enough room for both of them to lie down, but…no! Rey perched several feet away. Her drawing stool wasn’t nearly as welcoming as the cool white Egyptian-cotton sheet next to Marco, but it was much safer. He tipped his head, his eyes gleaming.

  Rey looked away. She always chatted with the models before asking them to undress to ease any first-day-of-modeling tension. But now she couldn’t think of what to say.

  The weather stunk. So did all the Chicago professional sports teams. And somehow Marco didn’t strike her as the type to agonize over lack of public funding for the fine arts. He just sat there waiting for her to say something.

  She blurted, “The new robe fits well.” Too well, she thought, cursing her impulse to throw away the old skimpy robe. No wide expanse of bare chest or glimpses of tight buttocks. On the other hand, if she wanted him naked, all she had to do was ask.

  Rey hadn’t been shy around male models since art school, and she wouldn’t wimp out now. “Take off your robe.” Her voice was huskier than she expected.

  “I’m all yours, Reina.” He stood and reached for the loose knot at his waist.

  She gulped. All hers. Artistically speaking, of course.

  5

  MARCO UNTIED THE ROBE. Rey held her breath as the wedge of brown skin widened. His eyes never left hers as the lapels fell open, baring him below the waist. One question answered. He wasn’t wearing briefs today. He shrugged the robe off his broad shoulders and dropped it on the floor. He stood naked in front of her, his topaz body a dark jewel against the crisp white linens.

  Rey clutched the sides of her chair, cursing her own foolishness. A chunk of marble must have fallen on her head over the weekend, causing artistic amnesia. How else could she have dismissed the effect his naked body had on her? He had the perfect male silhouette—wide shoulders tapering to a taut waist. His tight buttocks capped the hard thighs she’d admired last Friday. And his arousal—it was even better than she remembered. She wanted his shaft against her damp center. He seemed to read her thoughts, because his hard cock bounced even higher, pointing to his navel.

  No, she wasn’t an amnesiac. She was a full-blown sadomasochist and had no one to blame but herself. Here stood the world’s sexiest man and she couldn’t lay a finger on him. Not unless she wanted to renew the gossip that had mercifully died away.

 
; “What do you want, Reina?” His silky accent slipped over her frayed nerves.

  “I want you.” Her response slipped out, horrifying her. Would that be a Freudian slip or Freudian lingerie? “And why are you calling me Reina?”

  “You are beautiful, like a queen. How does my queen want me?” He stepped closer to her.

  “I mean, I want you to stand over here.” For someone who lived her life visually, Marco was a masterpiece. The Sistine Chapel, Taj Mahal and the Louvre had nothing on him. The Washington Monument came pretty close though, she thought, choking back a hysterical laugh.

  “Reina? Are you all right?” The concerned look in his eyes grounded her flight of fancy.

  “Fine. I’m just thinking about how to pose you.” She pulled a crate closer and covered it with a smaller sheet. “Stand here and put your right foot on the crate.”

  He followed her directions, the pose throwing his erection into full view.

  She tamped down her surge of lust and reached for her charcoal. Staring slack-jawed at her model wouldn’t pay the bills. “We’re going to start with some short poses to warm you up, so twist slightly at the waist.”

  He twisted away from her.

  “No, twist toward me. I need to see your chest.” She sketched quickly, but he was already losing the pose. “You’re moving a bit. Can you hold the pose longer?”

  “Sure.” He turned again but not into the right position. She set down her charcoal and walked over to help. As soon as her hands touched him, she faltered, forgetting how she wanted him to pose.

  Under the slight sheen on his skin from the space heaters, she glided her hands over his sleekly muscled shoulders. Instead of moving him into position, she reached around to the strong triangles of his shoulder blades, curving the tips of her fingers over his back muscles into the deep valley of his spine.

  “Rey.” He murmured her name and reached for her.

  She jumped away, yanking her hands off him. “Okay, um…” She took a deep breath, trying to forget how smooth his skin was. “Marco, move your shoulders a quarter turn toward me.”