She dipped the ladle in the bucket and tossed water on the heater in the corner. Steam enveloped them in an intimate haze. “Sit, Marco.”
He sat.
She knelt in front of him wearing only her thong. Her arms pushed her breasts together right in front of his cock. She licked her rosy lips, leaving a sexy sheen on them. His breath caught in his chest at the thought of her lips on him. He broke into a sweat that had nothing to do with the sauna’s temperature.
“Too hot in here for you?” Steam condensed and dripped off her pink nipples like dew on a rose petal.
“Never.” He wouldn’t embarrass himself by losing control and exploding all over her bare breasts, but his resolve was sorely tested when she swirled her tongue around the fleshy head of his shaft.
“Mmm.” She licked her lips and blew on his damp flesh, causing him to bite back a groan. “I did a little research on Cuban customs on the Internet.”
“Research?” His fingers ached from digging into the wooden bench. He’d probably have to pick splinters out from under his nails.
“It was very interesting.” Her cool fingers gently cupped and squeezed his balls.
“Okay.” His cock twitched upward, wanting her mouth on him.
She laughed triumphantly, obviously enjoying her sexual power over him. She sat on her heels and swirled a finger around her pale pink nipple. “I found a Web site that mentioned a sexual position called ‘la cubana.’”
“What?” He couldn’t have heard right.
“It’s supposed to be the hottest thing a woman can do for a man. Have you ever done it Cuban-style?”
He’d heard older boys bragging about it when he’d lived in Cuba but had never done it himself. “No, I never got that lucky.”
“Well, Señor Flores, today’s your lucky day.” Before he could tell her every day with her was his lucky day, she leaned over him and pressed a breast on either side of his cock, still slippery from her saliva. She rose, the firm flesh of her breasts molding and squeezing him as if he was plunging deep inside her. Groaning, he leaned his head against the sauna wall, her tight nipples rubbing against his stomach.
Her breasts pressed the length of his shaft as she moved up and down. He gritted his teeth, loving the sight of how she was getting him off. She was getting turned on, too, her breath quickening as her long nipples rubbed through the hair on his belly.
He rolled the peaks between his fingers. She moaned and tried to wiggle away, but she couldn’t back up without losing her sexy grip on his cock. “Marco, it’ll be my turn later. This is especially for you.”
Just then she melted his resistance as quickly as a snowball in the sauna. He watched in agonizing fascination as she lowered her chin.
He groaned as the brick-red head of his cock disappeared between her plump pink lips. Her warm, wet mouth welcomed him, sucking and licking until he let go of her nipples and succumbed to her erotic ministrations.
Around and around she swirled her tongue, pulling him deep into her throat, his aching shaft pulsing against her firm ivory flesh. His balls bumped against the underside of her breasts.
She released him for a second and a growl tore from his throat. The sight of his glistening head was almost too much for him to handle.
“You’re so close.” Her voice was low and hypnotic, her eyes a narrow rim of blue around her dilated black pupils. “I can taste your juices welling up under my tongue. Your cock is swelling against my breasts.”
He thrust upward into her plump lips and firm flesh, almost falling off the bench. A whirlpool of sensation threatened to drown him. She lapped frantically at his head and pressed a hidden bundle of nerves behind his balls he never knew existed. It was too much. His existence had shrunk to her, his Reina, his queen. Her mouth and breasts against his cock. Her tight nipples against his belly. Her fingers against his sac. The waves of his orgasm crashed over him and he spurted into her warm mouth, her clever tongue milking him dry.
He finally opened his eyes and blinked to clear the haze of desire and steam. Rey sat on her heels, smiling at him with such caring that his throat momentarily closed.
“Come here, corazón.” He pulled her onto his lap, undoing her hair clip and running his fingers through her silky hair.
She curved her lush body around him, her full bottom rubbing on his still-pulsing cock. “Did you like that, Marco?”
“Like that? Any more of that and I would have melted onto your floor.”
She giggled and tipped her head back, her long hair spilling over his arm. “It’s amazing what you can find online.”
“God bless the Internet.” He was actually stirring to life under her as her slick breasts pushed against his chest.
“I’m surprised you never did it that way before.”
He cupped her breast, reveling in the weight and heft against his palm. “No. No one has ever been so generous to me.”
Generous? Rey didn’t think it was a hardship to have a muscular, gorgeous man strain against her and play with her nipples as she sucked on his delicious penis. As if he read her thoughts, he rolled her nipple between his fingers, pulling it to an impossible length. She managed to gasp, “I enjoy watching you lose control.” It was easier to say that than tell him about the strange mix of affection and tenderness that she’d felt as he’d cried her name in the midst of his orgasm.
“Control?” He flipped her under him and spread her knees wide. “We’ll see who loses control now.”
“Just try it,” she dared him, her breathing rapid and aroused.
“Oh, I will.” He sucked her nipple deep into his mouth, laving her pliant flesh until she shuddered. “How many times do you want to come? Two or three?”
“Four.” Self-control was highly overrated anyway.
MARCO LET THE PHONE IN his brother’s apartment ring while he grabbed some clean clothes. It was probably one of Francisco’s girlfriends. The machine clicked on and a creaky Cuban voice came through the speaker.
“Francisco Flores, this is Señora Ortega, the neighbor of your mamá.” Marco stared at the machine and leaped across the room to snatch the phone.
“Señora Ortega, this is Francisco.” The old woman was practically deaf and never could tell the two brothers apart.
“Francisco, you need to come home to Miami right away. Bless the Virgin, no one was killed, and your mother’s things were at Luis’s house but…” The señora rattled on.
“What happened?” Marco could hardly breathe. Had Rodríguez found his mother?
“Some evildoer threw a Russian drink through your mamá’s front window.”
“What?” For a crazy instant Marco had an image of a vodka shot glass spiraling through the air. “You mean a Molotov cocktail?”
“Sí, that is what the man from the fire department said. I told him your mamá is on her honeymoon cruise with Luis, so you and your brother have to come fix the house. It is black from all the smoke and fire, but it didn’t burn down. Where is Marco anyway?”
Right here in Chicago. “I think he’s in Europe.” Marco’s stomach churned at the memory of how hard his mother had worked to buy her house, a widow in a strange country with two fatherless boys.
“Europe is too far. You have to come home, young man. Your mamá is on her honeymoon and shouldn’t be disturbed.”
“I can’t come to Miami. I’m in the middle of a job.”
The old lady’s sharp disapproval radiated through the phone line. He actually cringed. No proper Cuban son would ignore such a summons.
“Francisco Ignacio Flores.” Her voice shook with indignation. “I won’t ruin your mother’s trip, but you can be sure that she will hear about this when she comes home.”
“I’m very sorry, señora. If I could come home, I would. I think my mother will understand.” If she didn’t kill him herself once she realized the danger he’d put them all in. He hadn’t told her anything about his latest investigation, knowing that she’d be away if the mierda hit the fan.
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br /> “You young men. Not a thought in your head about la familia, only work and women. I won’t forget this, Francisco, and neither will any of your mother’s friends.” She hung up with a loud click.
Marco was left with a dial tone. The rage that had simmered through his veins for the past two decades boiled over and he slammed his fist into the wall, knocking a hole in the cheap Sheetrock. Rodríguez was using his family as bait to draw him home to Miami, home to a certain death.
Marco stared blankly at the torn skin on his bleeding knuckles. Not for the first time, he bitterly regretted his inability to protect his family. The drug lord had the balls to harm his mother a second time. After Marco got through with him, Rodríguez wouldn’t have any balls at all.
11
“THAT’S ENOUGH FOR TODAY, Marco. You’ve been posing all afternoon.”
He stretched his shoulders and pulled on his robe while she fretted over her latest effort.
“Since we’re at the two-week point in the project, Evelyn wants to see at least a dozen sketches.”
He walked behind her and examined her sketches. “They’re fantastic. Something you’d see in a museum.”
“A museum? Hardly,” Rey scoffed, secretly pleased. His compliment jogged her memory, though, and she glanced at the calendar. Was it already Friday? “Actually, I have tickets to a gala opening tonight at the Art Institute of Chicago. Would you like to come with me?”
“I’ve never been to a gala opening. What’s the occasion?”
“They’re unveiling a recently rediscovered statue by Michelangelo.” She’d been so wrapped up in her own living, breathing version of Michelangelo’s David that she’d almost forgotten the event she’d been looking forward to for weeks.
“Now even I’ve heard of him.” His caramel eyes twinkled.
“My absolute favorite artist. I saw his statues in Italy when I was a teenager and knew I had to be a sculptor, too.”
“Even then you liked looking at naked men.”
“What?” she sputtered. “Nude statues are an important genre of classical art, dating back to the ancient Greeks and continuing through modern times.”
He grinned and held up his hands. “Take it easy. I was just kidding.” He grabbed her around the waist, squeezing her bottom in his big hands. “I don’t mind you looking at naked men.”
“Good.” She smiled at him, enjoying his sensual massage. His obvious appreciation of her ass had eased her self-consciousness. “Because once we finish our project, I’ll have to hire other nude models to fit my new commissions.”
His grip tightened, his face darkening. “Correction. I don’t mind you looking at me naked. As for those other models, they can go to hell.”
Rey pushed out of his arms, staring at his clenched jaw. “You’re jealous? This is what I do for a living, and I’m damn good at it. Do you think I hop into the sack with every male model I hire?”
He ran his fingers through his hair and took a deep breath. “Sorry. I know you don’t do that.” He paced over to the coffeemaker and poured himself a cup, leaning his hips against the countertop. “Like you said, it’s how you earn your living.”
“Not much of one.” Since he’d apologized, she decided not to make a big deal of his possessiveness. Maybe all Cuban men had that tendency.
“What do you mean?” He sipped his coffee elegantly, his large brown pinky finger curving incongruously from the tiny demitasse handle.
“The Bucktown neighborhood is a hot real-estate market. My building is being turned into condos, so I have to either buy my apartment or move out.”
“Where would you live?” He set down the cup, his eyes intense.
The logistics of moving all her artwork as well as her personal belongings would be a nightmare. “Probably a one-bedroom apartment. I’d have to rent storage space and find somewhere else to do my artwork. That’s why this commission is so important. If I don’t produce a big chunk of cash for a down payment, I won’t qualify for a mortgage.” She crossed next to him and poured herself a big cup.
“Take it easy on that coffee. You’ll be awake all night.”
“If I can’t sleep, will you stay up with me?” She stroked him through the robe flap. His breath came out in a hiss. She rubbed her breasts against his chest and he grabbed her wrist.
“Part of me will be up all night.” His erection pressed against her hand before he let go. “But tell me about the new statue at the museum.”
“The statue is actually almost five hundred years old and is called Adam Banished from Paradise. The Russians recently found it in a cache of artwork liberated from Rome in the last days of World War II.” Rey laid heavy emphasis on the word liberated. Thousands of paintings and statues had been stolen during the chaos of war.
He frowned. “Damned Communists. They steal everything that’s not nailed down.”
Okay, another sore spot. He sure had a lot. “No one’s seen the statue in sixty years except for old black-and-white photos in art history books, but we can finally see him.”
“Him?” Marco asked.
Rey’s face grew warm. “I, um, have a tendency to anthropomorphize great works of art. I don’t like to call such a beautiful thing ‘it.’”
“‘A thing of beauty is a joy forever, it will never pass into nothingness.’” He reddened slightly, as if embarrassed.
Rey stared at him. “That was wonderful. It’s exactly how I feel.” The poetic words seemed at odds with his intense personality and athletic, scarred body.
He avoided her gaze. “Don’t give me so much credit. An English poet named Keats wrote those lines in Endymion almost two hundred years ago.”
“So you like poetry?” That would teach Rey not to assume he was uneducated just because he was modeling for a living.
He shrugged. “My father read poetry to us when we were young. He was a professor of English literature at the university in Havana.”
“And you said he died right before you left Cuba?”
“Yes. He got sick and didn’t get any medical care.” He clenched his jaw and looked away, his gaze seeing something or someone who wasn’t in the room.
“Marco?” She touched his arm lightly. Something seemed strange. Didn’t Cuba boast of an excellent health-care system?
“I have to go to my apartment. I didn’t bring anything that would work for an art gala.” He pulled on his briefs and found his pants flung over a corner of her drawing table.
“What you’re wearing is fine. Black is the clothing color of choice of the art world.”
“No. I have to go.” He pulled on his coat and kissed her fiercely. The metal door shut with a clang behind him.
She didn’t know what to think. His mood was becoming harder and darker, only lightening when they made love. Wait. Had sex. She blinked hard. Made love? Where had that come from? Was she falling in love with her mysterious model?
“SEÑOR, OUR SOURCE HAS located Flores’s brother.” Gabriel slid the file across the polished wooden expanse of his desk. “Although Señora Flores was unharmed, being out of the country on her honeymoon, she did leave an emergency phone number with her elderly neighbor.”
“And?”
“One of our men posed as an insurance adjuster and got the phone number. The younger brother is apparently living in Chicago.”
“Hmm. If we can get the brother, Flores will beg us to take him instead.” Rodríguez rolled his golden pen between his fingers, remembering how the younger boy had squealed from just a few shallow cuts. No wonder he had grown up to be a pansy. “Our contacts in Chicago are too well-known to the police.”
“Yes, patrón, I’ve made arrangements to send our own men from Miami.”
“Who?”
His assistant looked away and murmured something.
“Speak up, Gabriel!”
“Chucho and Nico García.”
“The García brothers?” Rodríguez sat back in his leather chair. “Why not Sánchez?”
“He caug
ht a fishing hook in his trigger finger in the Keys and has blood poisoning.”
“What happened to Rivera?”
“He started a bar fight in Santo Domingo. The judge sentenced him to sixty days.”
“And Gómez?”
“Immigration deported him.”
“In the entire South Florida area you can’t find anyone better than Chucho and Nico?”
His assistant shrugged, his expression anxious. As well it should be. “The Super Bowl is at Pro Player Stadium next week. INS and Metro-Dade PD are cleaning house for the tourists. Unfortunately they’ve also rounded up our soldados.”
“All right. Send Chucho and Nico to Chicago to find the brother. Once we have him, Flores will come running.”
“Señor, your trial starts in three weeks,” his assistant reminded him.
“I’ll go to Chicago and take care of him myself. It will be a pleasure after all these years.” Rodríguez pushed to his feet and walked over to a floral arrangement in an Italian marble urn on a pedestal.
Huge fleshy lilies with lush, jutting stamens were his favorites. He swirled the yellow pollen around his finger, jamming it deep into the heart of the petals. He didn’t know why he bothered to fertilize the flower. It was already dead but didn’t know it. Just like Flores.
12
“LET’S GO INTO THE MUSEUM. THE exhibit should open soon.” Rey looked up at the facade of the Art Institute of Chicago, its fifty-foot marble columns shining white against the black Chicago night. Nostalgia rolled over her. “I went to college here.”
“At the museum?” His baritone voice was muffled through the scarf.
“The Art Institute has its own art school. I was lucky enough to be accepted.”
“Lucky? Or were you talented and hardworking?”
Rey had never thought of it like that. “My mother was very opposed to me attending art school. If I had painted misty watercolors of French gardens, that would have been marginally acceptable. But to sculpt heavy blocks of stone, muck around with clay—no way. Especially of naked men! The horror of it. My mother’s friends all wondered if I was a slut.”
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