Her Body of Work

by Marie Donovan

  “Earth to Rey.” Meg waved a hand. “Have you decided?”

  Yes, she had. “I have to call my accountant.”

  “Your accountant? Why?”

  “To see if lingerie is a tax-deductible business expense.” Rey smiled at her friend, relief washing over her as she made her decision.

  Meg flagged the waiter. Not hard to do, since he was eighteen inches away. “Two slices of carrot cake and a bottle of champagne.” He trotted back to the kitchen.

  “They serve liquor here?” Rey asked.

  “Made with the finest organically grown grapes.” Meg leaned in. “Don’t worry—it still gives you the same buzz.”

  The waiter served two thick wedges of carrot cake on white stoneware plates garnished with candied orange peel and honey-roasted walnut halves. He poured the golden bubbly liquid into two champagne flutes and set the bottle on the table.

  “Yum.” Rey popped a nut into her mouth and crunched the delicious treat. Its mixture of saltiness and sweetness slipped over her tongue like Marco’s smooth skin.

  “Eat.” Meg gestured with her forkful of cake. “You need your energy for your continuing-education class. When will you see Marco again?”

  “Tomorrow morning.” That was, if he didn’t call her to quit after she’d given him the brush-off.

  “No good. Call him and tell him you want to do an extra session tonight. If you wait until tomorrow, you’ll chicken out.”

  “I won’t chicken out.”

  “Prove it. Call him now.”

  “Now?”

  “Here’s my phone. You know his number, right?”

  Rey had stared at his modeling contract long enough to know his home number by heart. She grabbed the cell phone and dialed. She looked at her friend. “It’s ringing.”

  Marco’s voice sounded different on his voice-mail message. She waited for the beep and took a deep breath. “Marco, it’s Rey. I know it’s short notice, but can you come by my studio tonight at eight? I, um…” She looked at Meg, who rotated her hand in a keep-going gesture.

  “I wanted to do an evening session to get some sketches in artificial light, because the sculpture will be seen in all sorts of light—sunlight, fluorescent light-bulbs…” Meg made a slicing motion across her neck. It was time to stop babbling. “See you at eight.”

  She clicked off the phone and slumped in her seat.

  Meg grinned at her. “As your guidance counselor, I’d like to thank you for registering for advanced studies in human sexuality.”

  “What if I flunk?” Rey doodled a frowny face in her frosting with her fork.

  “You’ll get an A-plus. Underneath your cool Nordic exterior beats the heart of a wild Viking maiden.”

  “Maiden?” Rey raised an eyebrow. “Not for a long time.”

  “Even better. I bet Marco wants a woman who knows what she’s doing.” Meg raised her champagne flute. “A toast to passion, sex and passionate sex.”

  “Cheers.” Rey tossed down her champagne. Maybe if the butterflies in her stomach got drunk enough, they’d stop fluttering around.

  7

  MARCO TURNED THE CORNER onto Rey’s street, eager to see her again. The temperature had dropped into the low teens with nightfall, so no one on the bus had paid any attention to his heavily wrapped face.

  Half a block from her loft he heard footsteps behind him. Marco waited until he got past a streetlight and ducked into a doorway. He reached slowly into his coat pocket and pulled out his pistol, flipping off the safety.

  Whoever was following him came closer. Marco purposely slowed his breathing, his pulse slowing in response. He entered that hyperaware state that always accompanied danger, every muscle in his body readying for action.

  A shadowy figure crossed the doorway. Marco’s arm shot out, dragging his stalker into the dark alcove. He cut off the man’s gasp with a forearm across the throat, showing him the pistol. “What do you want?” He gave the guy enough air to reply.

  “Nothin’, man. I swear!” His eyes widened with fright at the gun near his head.

  “Nothing?” Marco shook him. “Why are you following me?”

  “Man, I’m just tryin’ to get to the shelter around the corner. I don’t wanna freeze to death.”

  Marco let up the pressure on his throat and patted him down quickly. No weapons except for a pocketknife. Now that the initial surge of adrenaline had passed, he noticed the wind-chapped cheeks and the stale smell of booze emanating from the man’s pores.

  Unless Rodríguez had stooped to hiring winos as assassins, Marco had just mugged a local bum.

  “Get lost.” He shoved the guy out of the doorway before he got a good look at Marco. His victim needed no encouragement, dragging his two-wheeled shopping cart away as fast as he could.

  Marco muttered a particularly vile Spanish curse. Just because that man had been innocent didn’t mean the next man would be. He was both disturbed and gratified that his instincts hadn’t dulled since he’d left the cartel.

  He dropped his hand to his side, the pistol suddenly dead weight. The homeless guy was long gone, so Marco hurried to Rey’s loft, shoving the pistol in his pocket.

  She had sounded a bit strained in her message when she’d said something about wanting to see him in different kinds of light. He was surprised she’d even wanted to see him at all after their awkward parting. He’d been less than suave when she’d pulled away from their sexy embrace.

  He tried to tell himself that he was only there to help his brother, but Rey’s beautiful face kept popping into his mind. What the hell was he doing staying around? He’d made Francisco and their mamá as safe as he could. Now he was the only one in imminent danger.

  Enough already. He uncocked the pistol and put the safety on before he zipped his pocket and pressed the buzzer. The loft door rattled open, startling him away from his surveillance. Rey stood silhouetted in the doorway, her long gauzy skirt almost transparent in the rectangle of warm yellow light. She wore a sky-blue silk shirt knotted at the waist, a slice of creamy white flesh peeping out. Her sleeves were rolled to her elbows and the top three buttons were undone, showing a generous cleavage.

  His cock reacted instantly, pushing hard against his zipper. She had a full, womanly figure, unlike those skin-and-bones girls who were always chasing his brother around. Her full breasts narrowed into a tiny waist, flaring into rounded hips. Her luscious hourglass figure reminded him of the beautiful Cuban women of his adolescence.

  She interrupted his lustful reverie. “Would you like to come in, Marco?”

  Oh, yes, he would. “Thanks.” Silently blessing the heavy winter coat for hiding his erection, he stepped inside and knocked the slush off his boots.

  By the time he’d unlaced them, his arousal had subsided enough that he unzipped his coat without sporting wood.

  “I’ll hang up your coat for you.”

  “No, that’s all right.” She would wonder why his goose-down coat was so heavy, so he hung it up himself. Soft jazz music pulsed from hidden speakers and sweet-smelling candles added their perfume to the air.

  “I like that color on you.” She ran her hand along the dark green sleeve of his brother’s cashmere sweater. “It feels good, too.”

  “Yes, it does.” He covered her hand with his, enjoying the slightly callused strength of her fingers. They were working hands, long and tapered, with short, neatly rounded nails. He flipped over her palm. “No charcoal smears this time.”

  She pulled her hand back. “I didn’t want to smudge my skirt.”

  “It’s very nice.” Sheer white to contrast with her thin blue silk shirt and totally impractical for a long sketching session. Was it wishful thinking or did she have something in mind besides art? He made a mental list as he followed her into the kitchen, the skirt’s long folds clinging to her swaying hips.

  Why it Was a Bad Idea to Get Involved with Rey. Number one on the list was the possibility of a painful, violent death for them both if Rodríguez caught him
. Number two was she seemed like a nice person and he didn’t want to screw her and then screw her over by leaving suddenly. Somewhere at the bottom of the list was a distant concern for Francisco’s career, but his brother was like a cat, always landing on his feet.

  Marco usually did, too, but having nine lives would be much more useful at this point.

  “Would you like a drink?” She glided past an L-shaped granite countertop with several stools. Two long rows of light wood cabinets reached eight feet in the air. Above them several small spotlights illuminated the exposed beams of the twelve-foot ceiling. Their indirect light created a dim, intimate space.

  “Sure. What do you have?”

  She bent over to peer into the big stainless-steel refrigerator. “A nice bottle of Beaujolais, some California zinfandel.” Her breasts swayed freely under the thin silk, peeking from the unbuttoned V-neck. He’d bet his last meager paycheck from DEA that she wasn’t wearing a bra.

  “White is fine.” He wasn’t a big wine drinker, but his mouth had suddenly gone dry as he made a new mental list.

  Why He Should Get Involved with Rey. Number one, she was sexy. Number two, she was seriously sexy. Number three, his balls would fall off if he didn’t get to touch and lick her sexy body all over.

  “Oh, and I have a couple different kinds of beer.” He heard the clink of glass as she straightened triumphantly, a bottle in each hand. He ignored the beer and stared at her nipples. The cold air had stiffened them into ice-hard points. They pressed against her shirt, luring him to warm them with his tongue. A beautiful blonde with hard nipples holding two beer bottles. She was every man’s fantasy. Desire surged strong and fierce, swelling his cock again.

  She must have sensed the banked arousal in the room, because she bustled around, setting several bottles on the countertop. “If you don’t like German beer, I have Guinness extra stout, pale ale and this Cuban beer.”

  “Hatuey beer?” The familiar sight of Cuban Miami’s favorite beer gave Marco a pang of homesickness, distracting him from her lovely body. “I didn’t know you could buy it in Chicago.”

  She smiled. “I saw it at the local liquor store and thought you might enjoy it.”

  “A little sip of home.” He admired the red-and-gold stylized drawing of the Native Cuban chief Hatuey, who had fought against the Spanish conquistadors. Too bad there wasn’t a modern Hatuey to rescue Cuba.

  “You live in Chicago, but you consider Miami home?”

  She’d caught him again. For a professional liar, he was telling her the truth an awful lot. “Miami is as close to home as a Cuban should get.” He decided to change the subject. “The proper way to drink a Hatuey is to share it with a good friend. We say in Spanish, ‘Un indio, dos canoas.’ That means, ‘One Indian, two canoes.’ One beer and two glasses.”

  Rey opened a glass-fronted cabinet. “In that case, here’s a canoe for each of us.”

  He poured the beer, adjusting the foamy head as it climbed the sides of Rey’s fine lead-crystal tumblers. “That’s the classiest canoe I’ve ever drunk from.”

  She smiled as they clinked glasses. “My mother brought them from Ireland as a loft-warming present. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I’d prefer new space heaters or an industrial-strength central vacuum.”

  He sipped his beer, rolling the cool, tangy liquor around his mouth. “The next time I’m in Miami, I’ll drink a Hatuey in her honor.”

  “She’d be pleased. She and my father love trying new beverages, new food and new countries. We traveled the whole world. In fact, I even vacationed in Cuba when I was a kid.”

  Marco froze, the beer roiling in his stomach. “It’s illegal for United States citizens to visit Cuba without permission from the government.”

  She shrugged. “I wasn’t an American citizen until after I went to Cuba, so we traveled on our Swedish passports.”

  “What did you do in Cuba?” How bizarre it was to talk to her about Cuba, as if it were a fun tropical destination.

  “We toured Havana and did some scuba diving on the southern coast.” She traced her finger through a puddle of condensation on the countertop.

  “Did you dive at La Isla de la Juventud?” He clutched the Irish crystal. The so-called Isle of Youth was world renowned for fantastic scuba diving. That and its notorious political prison. His poor papá.

  She thought for a second. The sharp facets cut into his palm as he waited for her answer. “No, we dove at the Gardens of the Queen. They were the most beautiful reefs I’d ever seen. Teeming with thousands of grouper fish, glittering silver tarpon and even reef sharks. It was so unspoiled.”

  “Ah, yes. Unspoiled because the only people allowed to visit them are rich foreigners and Cuban bureaucrats.” He thunked down his glass.

  She stared at him. “Well. I guess it’s time to get to work.” She set down her own half-full glass of beer and stood.

  Mierda. Why couldn’t he keep his mouth shut? “No, Rey, I’m sorry.” He came around the bar and grabbed her elbow. She spun toward him. He let go, but not before the heavy weight of her breast bumped his hand. He was right. There was nothing between her luscious breasts and the thin blue silk.

  “You’ll find the robe in the cubicle.” Her eyes were the color of a glacier and about as warm.

  “Please.” The word grated rustily. “I, um, have a sore spot about Cuba. Life there was very difficult for my family after my father died.”

  She gasped. “I’m so sorry to hear that. How awful for you.” Her blue eyes sparkled with sympathetic tears.

  “It’s okay, really.” God, had he lost his touch with a beautiful woman or what? First he pissed her off and then he made her cry. “Why don’t you tell me about your family?” He wanted to know something about her beyond her beautiful face and phenomenal body.

  She blinked and finally smiled, her lips curving over the tumbler’s rim. “My father was appointed as an assistant to the Swedish consulate here. My mother was disappointed we weren’t sent to New York or Washington, D.C., but my father told her she was lucky he wasn’t posted to Nebraska or Minnesota. They get more snow than Chicago.”

  “Impossible.” Marco had considered heading to Minneapolis once he took care of business in Chicago. The more he kept on the move, the better. On the other hand, he had a relatively secure place to stay, and no one would expect him to take a job modeling nude, of all things.

  He looked at the blond beauty across the table from him. Who was he kidding? He just wanted a chance to stop pretending, a chance to stop running. Rey was so warm, so caring, even finding Cuban beer in the middle of Chicago for him.

  Marco Flores was tired and chilled to the bone. Maybe it was time for him to come in from the cold, even for just a little while.

  8

  IT WAS AS IF A CLOUD lifted off Marco’s face. Rey relaxed a bit on her stool, glad for the lighter atmosphere. “You were lucky to grow up where it’s warm. Swedes catch cabin fever after a dozen feet of snow every winter and no daylight for months.”

  “People in the tropics are usually easygoing, especially the tourists after a few days of rum and sun.” He sipped his Cuban beer. She admired the press of his lips against the crystal, the long brown column of his throat as he swallowed.

  He finished his beer and smiled at her. “In Miami you can often see a beautiful blonde walking on the beach, the ocean breeze blowing her gauzy skirts against her thighs.”

  Rey stared at him, her own gauzy skirt growing damp between her legs.

  He continued. “A dark-haired man smiles at her, hoping she’ll stop and talk to him.”

  “Does she?” Rey’s throat was dry.

  “It depends. If she already has a lover waiting for her at her hotel, she passes by.”

  “And what if she doesn’t have a lover?”

  His voice caressed her like the sea breezes he’d described. Instead of being cool and soothing, his words made her hot and flustered. “If she likes his looks, she’ll smile back and invite him for
a drink.”

  Rey gulped her beer, welcoming its earthy tang. “She likes his looks. Then what?”

  He plucked the glass from her hand and set it on the polished countertop, the flecks of mica matching the golden flecks in his eyes. “He holds her hand and tells her she’s the sexiest, most beautiful woman he’s ever met.” He took her hand and rubbed his thumb over the sensitive skin of her knuckles.

  He slid off his stool and strode around to her. “After one or two drinks, he invites her to dance, wanting her body pressed against his.”

  As he pulled her close, she gasped. He was aroused and not embarrassed to show her. His erection rubbed on the cradle of her thighs. She twined her arms around his neck, running her fingers through the soft curls covering the strong muscles of his neck. The jazz segued into a slow, throbbing beat as they swayed together, separated only by a few thin layers of fabric.

  She rubbed her tingling breasts against his chest, joining in his fantasy. “After they dance for a few minutes, she invites him to her hotel room to see the ocean view from her balcony.”

  His hot gaze dropped to her deep cleavage. “And he gladly accepts, knowing the view inside the room is even better.”

  He took her hand and started to lead her to the sheet-covered chaise instead of her bedroom. She balked.

  “What’s wrong?” He caressed her wrist, sending shivers up her spine.

  She stared at the wide expanse of pure Egyptian cotton. Despite her dating a few of her models, the chaise had always been for work, not pleasure. How was she supposed to draw Marco tomorrow? “You’re the most appealing man I’ve met in a long time.”

  “By ‘appealing,’ do you mean arousing?” His husky voice curled around her, warming her down to her toes.

  She caught her breath. “Yes. But if we have sex…”

  “When we make love,” he corrected her.

  “If.” She threw him a quelling look. “Look, I’ve had relationships with a couple of my models. The last one decided to handle our breakup by spreading scummy gossip about me to his model friends.”