Her Body of Work

by Marie Donovan

  Marco rattled the cubicle curtain closed. Meg gave a pout. “Spoilsport.”

  Rey realized she’d moved to block Meg’s view. On purpose? That was stupid. As Marco said, the whole world would see him naked soon enough.

  “It’s about time you had some fun, Rey. Who’s the hottie?”

  “Marco. My new model.” And nothing more.

  “Is his front view as good as the back?”

  “Even better.” Oops. Good way to play it casual.

  “Well, well.” Meg gave her a narrow glance. “You’re turning as red as that misbuttoned shirt.”

  Rey looked down and groaned. She’d missed a couple buttonholes in her hurry to answer the door.

  “Bye-bye. You have much more interesting things to do than get lunch with me.” Meg reached for the loft door handle.

  “Don’t go!” Rey fixed her buttons. “Nothing’s happening.”

  “That’s why I’m leaving. Something should happen.”

  Marco pushed out of the cubicle and Meg’s jaw dropped. Rey couldn’t blame her. Well, maybe a tiny bit.

  He wore a heavy Irish sweater over tight brown pants. The creamy wool made his café-au-lait skin even warmer, and the toffee-colored pants matched his eyes. He looked as delicious as a caramel sundae, and Rey wanted to eat him up with a spoon.

  He smiled when he saw her friend. “You must be Meg.” He extended his hand. Meg took it eagerly, flipping her snow-dampened black hair off her face.

  “Meg, this is Marco. He’s modeling for the Stuart commission. Marco, my friend Meg O’Malley.”

  “A pleasure,” Marco murmured, shaking Meg’s hand.

  Rey watched them sourly. Any more heat from Marco and her friend would melt into the puddle of snow at her feet.

  “If I’m interrupting your work, I can go.” Meg looked avidly between Rey and Marco.

  “Do you want me to stay?” Marco’s eyes bored into Rey’s, and the throb between her thighs surged forward again. She wanted him to push her against the door. Hot, sweaty, open-me-up-and-take-me sex.

  She teetered on the edge but regained a shred of balance. “We’re finished for today.” Meg grimaced but Rey ignored her. “Can you come tomorrow at ten?”

  Marco retreated into his formal manners, but Rey still saw his golden gaze simmer. “I will see you then.”

  “Marco, would you like to join us for lunch?” Meg asked, obviously playing matchmaker.

  “Some other time. I’m sure you and Rey have a lot to talk about.” He shrugged on his down jacket and lifted his gloves and scarf off the radiator.

  Rey followed him to the loft door. “Thank you for coming, Marco.” She sounded like her mother after she hosted a high-society bash, but she couldn’t exactly say a thank-you for fondling her. Although she’d loved it.

  “Don’t thank me yet, corazón,” he whispered, tracing a finger along her cheek to the deep V-neck of her shirt. Her nipples instantly pushed against the soft fabric. “I’ll let you thank me when you come, too.”

  His husky voice shot arrows of desire through Rey’s overheated body. She leaned into his touch, but he pulled his finger away. She saw the gleam of triumph in his eyes as he turned to Meg. “Nice meeting you, Meg.” He sauntered out the door, not flinching as the snow swirled around him.

  Rey closed the door and swayed onto the cold metal doorjamb trying to slow her breathing.

  “Holy moly.” Meg flapped her hand to fan Rey’s face. “Those eyes. I thought the two of you would burst into flames.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m not interested in him.” Rey scraped herself together from the puddle she’d melted into.

  “So can I have his phone number?” Meg asked.

  Rey spun around to glare at her friend, who threw up her hands in mock surrender. “Down, girl. You’ve only confirmed my suspicions.”

  “Aren’t you ready to go?” Rey grabbed her keys and tiny leather purse and opened the loft door.

  “Want your coat?” Meg lifted the sky-blue parka off the coatrack, and Rey grabbed it.

  “Let’s walk to the diner.” The arctic air might shock some sense into her, although she doubted it. Marco made her hot enough to walk to Wisconsin naked without feeling the chill.

  “SEÑOR, I HAVE NEW information about Marco Flores.”

  Rodríguez looked up from his humidor. “Tell me.”

  “Our source in DEA found some background on Flores. Basic facts and photos. His mother lives here in Miami, but we are still looking for his younger brother. Apparently he is a model or actor and moves frequently.”

  “Probably un maricón.” Rodríguez didn’t care for homosexuals. Fidel had had it right in the sixties to jail them all.

  Gabriel continued, “Flores was born in Havana thirty-two years ago, lived there until he turned twelve and his father died.” Gabriel consulted the printout. “His mother fled with him and his six-year-old brother and they were picked up at sea by the Coast Guard. A typical Cuban refugee story.”

  “What year was that?” A germ of suspicion infected Rodríguez’s thoughts.

  His assistant checked. “It’ll be exactly twenty years ago this March.”

  Rodríguez tossed the expensive cigar into the humidor and slammed the lid. He ignored Gabriel’s startled expression. “Give me the photos.” He flipped through the dossier and examined the faces.

  “Ah, Flores’s precious mamá.” Still a lovely woman after all these years. Such a pity he hadn’t been able to sample her charms on the raft.

  His admiration for Flores grew. To nurture his hatred for twenty years and wreak vengeance at the most opportune moment. A truly worthy opponent. He looked up at his assistant. “Pay Señora Flores a visit and leave her a message.”

  “What should the message say?”

  Rodríguez smiled. “Boom!”

  6

  “I DON’T KNOW WHY I LET you talk me into walking seven blocks in this weather.” Meg slid into the red vinyl booth, peeling off her gloves and blowing on her fingertips.

  The icy walk had done what Rey had hoped. It was impossible to think about hot, sweaty, Cuban-style sex when your nose hairs froze every time you inhaled. “I needed the exercise. Swedish women are genetically programmed to put on weight during winter. If the reindeer population goes extinct, we can live off the fat stored in our hips.”

  “Like you have a big butt any time of the year.” Meg unbuttoned her jacket and tossed it on the bench. “Besides, we’re eating at a low-fat, high-fiber, organic vegetarian café. Your body burns more calories digesting lunch than the food actually contains.”

  Rey unzipped her own parka and pressed her palms against her icy cheeks. “My mother always warned me about Swedish hips. The kind where you look like you’re wearing riding breeches even when you’re naked.”

  “Didn’t you tell me that she had liposuction on her own saddlebags at that fat farm in Switzerland?”

  Rey grinned. “That fat farm is a four-hundred-year-old spa frequented by the rich and genetically cursed. She wanted me to come along for moral support, but I had a painting to finish.”

  “So instead of doing mother-daughter liposuction, you decided to go Commodore Peary on me and haul my ass up to the North Pole.” Meg looked around. “Where’s the St. Bernard dog with the brandy cask on his collar?”

  Rey scoffed. “In Sweden this would be a balmy spring day.” Ice crystals battered the plate-glass window. Fortunately the café was warm and cozy. A Tiffany-inspired lamp shed a gentle glow over the fresh daisies sitting in a cobalt bud vase.

  “Right. Well, I hope this little polar endurance test chilled you out.” Meg flipped over the upside-down mug in the universal signal of “Give me coffee.” The waiter ambled over with the coffeepot, the stained-glass lamp reflecting off his five diamond earrings.

  Rey buried her face in the thick menu. Soy-based inks printed on recycled paper, of course. “Wonder what’s on special today?”

  “First a cup of coffee. Then some nice warm com
fort food.”

  “I don’t know what I have a taste for.” At least, what she had a taste for wasn’t on the menu.

  Meg must have read her mind. “How about something hot and spicy? Maybe a mouthwatering south-of-the-border treat.”

  “Meg!” Rey was glad her cheeks were still red with cold. At least it hid her blush.

  “What?” Meg raised her eyebrows. “You could use a long, thick, juicy burrito.”

  Rey didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “First of all, Marco is not on my menu, he’s on my payroll. Second, he’s Cuban, and burritos are Mexican.”

  “Cuban? Oh, my. Steamy tropical nights, salsa dancing, Ricky Martin.”

  “I think Ricky’s Puerto Rican.”

  “With a bonbon booty like his, Ricky could be a Martian for all I care.” Meg fanned herself with the menu.

  The waiter appeared to take their orders and offered a basket of whole-grain bread sticks. Meg’s teasing notwithstanding, Rey chose three-bean chili with corn bread. Meg picked marinated tofu teriyaki stir-fry served over brown rice.

  “Homesick?” Rey asked her friend.

  “Maybe a little.” Meg shrugged. She’d grown up in Japan, her father an American businessman, her mother Japanese.

  Rey glanced out the window as another blast of sleet rattled the panes. “Not me. Winter in Chicago is bad enough. At least I get some daylight to paint by.”

  “Forget about daytime, how are your nighttimes going?” Meg leaned across the table.

  “I turn on the lights and work some more.”

  Meg grimaced. “Same here. We’re preparing a special Asian art exhibit to go on display soon. This is the first natural daylight I’ve seen since before Thanksgiving.”

  “How’s work?” Rey asked. Meg had a Ph.D. in Asian art and was often asked to authenticate antique documents from Japan and China, her area of expertise.

  “I think I might get tenure this spring. My creepy boss liked my last two published journal articles.” Her friend grinned and bit into a bread stick.

  “Congratulations! You’ve been slaving away long enough.” Considering Meg was fluent in Japanese, Mandarin Chinese and Cantonese, her promotion was long overdue.

  “No kidding. You know the gloves we have to wear so we don’t get skin oils on the scrolls and manuscripts? I forgot to take them off at the sub shop and didn’t even notice until I picked up my sandwich. The waitress must have thought I had a germ phobia.”

  Rey laughed. “Once I was in the middle of a painting and ran to get a salad at the deli. The guy at the counter couldn’t stop staring at my breasts.”

  The waiter served their salads. Judging from the rainbow pin on his shirt, he probably wasn’t the type of guy to leer at women.

  Meg rolled her eyes. “Don’t complain to me. You’d need a magnifying glass to stare at my chest.”

  “I thought he was pretty rude until I got home and looked at my shirt. I had a blob of red paint over each nipple.” To this day, the deli guy still winked at her.

  “As if he wasn’t going to stare anyway,” her friend scoffed. “Was he cute?”

  “Only if you like them sixty and sassy.”

  “Until Sean Connery comes to my door wearing nothing but a kilt, I’ll stick with younger men.” Meg’s eyes widened and she slapped a hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry, Rey. I’ll take my foot out of my mouth now.”

  Rey had confided in her friend about losing her virginity at age eighteen to forty-two-year-old Stefan Early. She waved a hand. “Stefan was a long time ago. I actually spotted him at a gallery exhibition last week.”

  “What?” Meg looked up from her plate, poised to eat a bite of salad.

  “In the flesh. The wrinkly, pasty flesh.” She hadn’t tried to get a closer look.

  Meg clattered her forkful of organic arugula against her plate. “Stefan Early? From what you told me, his name should have been Stefan Come-Early.”

  Rey giggled. “He did have a problem with, um, anticipation.”

  “Anticipation?” Meg grabbed a fat bread stick and drooped the tip downward. “That’s a nice way of saying premature ejaculation.”

  “I was eighteen and didn’t know any better.” Rey drank some of her hot tea. Too bitter. She pulled a packet of herbal sweetener from the table rack.

  Meg rolled her eyes. “And that’s why Stefan is notorious for dating teenagers. An experienced woman would never tolerate such a lousy lover.”

  “He’s recovered from his heart attack last year.” Rey stirred the sweet powder into her tea.

  “Is it true he collapsed on top of his nineteen-year-old girlfriend?” Meg asked.

  “I heard that, too, but I don’t believe it.” Rey gave Meg a wicked smile. “How could five seconds of thrusting give anyone a heart attack?”

  Meg whooped and fell back on the red vinyl booth. Rey smiled, but her heart wasn’t really in it. She sipped her drink. The bitterness was gone from her tea but not her memories.

  Her friend caught her breath and sat up. “I’m glad you can joke about him now. I wanted to strangle him with his greasy gray ponytail for how he treated you.”

  Rey’d never told Meg half of what Stefan had done, but now wasn’t the time. She decided to lighten the mood, especially since the waiter was approaching with their lunch. “My first lover, but not the last.”

  “Thank God. You deserve a man with more staying power.” Meg took a bite of the thick bread stick.

  “Amen, honey.” The waiter winked at them, leaning in to serve their plates with a flourish. “We all deserve that.”

  “See? Even our waiter agrees.”

  Rey pointed her fork across the table at her outrageous friend. “Use your mouth for eating instead of embarrassing me.” She dug into her own meal.

  Meg gave her an injured look. “Have I even mentioned that new model of yours?”

  Caught with a mouthful of corn bread, Rey couldn’t defend herself without spraying crumbs on the pretty blue-and-white-checked tablecloth.

  “Did I even ask how you could be so crazy to have lunch with me instead of rolling around with a hot, naked man?” Meg sliced into her tofu and grimaced. “It’s weird to eat Japanese food with a knife and fork.”

  Rey finally swallowed. “I don’t have time to roll around naked with a man, much less my own model. If I goof up this commission, I’ll have to move and Evelyn will drop me.”

  “I know your building’s going condo, but why would Evelyn fire you?” Meg ate a bite of stir-fry.

  Rey set down her spoon, her appetite waning. “She said my last few paintings were dull.”

  “Ouch. You’re not a dull person, so what’s going on?”

  “She said I need more passion,” Rey said glumly.

  “Doesn’t everyone?” Meg replied. “You’ve had a drier spell than most, though. How long has it been for you?”

  “Passion in my artwork, not sex.” She refused to think there was a connection.

  “And you don’t think the two are related?”

  Busted. Rey shrugged.

  “So Evelyn says you’re missing some passion in your artwork.” Meg leaned closer. “I think you need to get laid.”

  “Meg!” Rey shushed her friend and looked around the café to see if anyone had overheard their conversation. The waiter scurried over with a damp cloth and began wiping the salt and pepper shakers on the next table.

  “It’s perfect! Give in to your attraction for Marco. Passion for your model equals passion for your artwork.”

  “No, it doesn’t work like that.” Rey narrowed her gaze at the waiter. He was arranging the sweetener packets by color.

  Meg gave her a skeptical look. “Come on now. I may be a bit rusty on my art history, but I can think of several artists who played Hide the Paintbrush with their models. Picasso?”

  “Yes.”

  “That French sculptor, Rodin?”

  “Yes.” Actually one of her favorite sculptors, despite his horrible character. “And no one can
tell me Paul Gaugin had a purely artistic relationship with those topless South Sea beauties.”

  “Probably not.”

  “And no one thought any the less of those artists?”

  “Well…it was a different century, and they were men.” It sounded weak even to her.

  Meg stuck out her tongue. “Why should male artists have all the fun?”

  Rey sat up straight. “Maybe they shouldn’t.”

  “Damn right.” Meg pointed her fork at Rey. “And it’s a business expense. Maybe you can write it off at tax time.”

  “Marco is not a gigolo!” By then the waiter had quit all pretense of work and openly listened.

  Meg lowered her voice. “I know you’re not going to pay him for sex. From what I saw, he’d gladly do you for free.”

  “Meg!” Rey grabbed her ice water and pressed the cold glass to her burning cheeks.

  “Didn’t you just take a seminar at the Art Institute on advanced methods of stone sculpture?” Her friend had a calculating look on her face.

  “Yes, last month. So?” Rey picked up her glass and took a deep drink.

  “Think of sex with Marco as a continuing-education course.”

  Rey giggled. “Passion 101.”

  “With those smoldering looks he was giving you, I think you’d get a graduate-level class.” Meg sighed melodramatically. “Much more fun than comparing chiseling techniques.”

  “Hey, chisels are very important to me.” Rey owned twenty-three, as a matter of fact.

  Meg reached over and clasped her wrist. “Listen, Rey, if you screw up this statue, you can throw those chisels into Lake Michigan. You need to get it right any way you can.”

  Rey stared at her friend and knew she was right. Why was she kidding herself? Sex with Marco would be an enjoyable, educational experience. “I’d have to make sure he realized that his modeling and anything else we do are kept separate.”

  Her friend laughed. “You mean sex without strings? What man would pass on that?”

  “True.” Rey stared over her friend’s shoulder. She caught the waiter’s eye, who grinned and gave her a thumbs-up.