Her Body of Work

by Marie Donovan

  “You could never be a slut.”

  Prior to Marco, she’d been celibate for months. “Maybe a sex fiend.”

  “Lucky for me.” He winked.

  She grinned back. “My mother wanted me to get my M.R.S. degree at Northwestern or University of Chicago, preferably the school with the most rich guys.”

  He furrowed what she could see of his forehead. “I’m not familiar with that degree.”

  “M.R.S. just spells Mrs. To graduate with an engagement ring you need to major in sorority parties, fraternity dances and stalking prelaw and premed students.”

  “Is it important for you to be with a man with all sorts of degrees?” He asked the question casually, looking at the pair of ten-foot-high marble lions guarding the museum entrance.

  “I’ve met so many morons with law or medical degrees that I think formal education can be highly overrated. The doctors and lawyers were my mother’s ideal, not mine.”

  He squeezed her hand. “And what do you want?”

  “What do I want?” She paused to marshal her thoughts. “I want to make my own choices. For the past several years I’ve only pleased other people. ‘What kind of painting would you like?’ ‘How big should the sculpture be?’ ‘That’s okay, I didn’t need to have an orgasm tonight.’” She slapped a mittened hand over her mouth. That last one had just slipped out.

  Marco stopped dead in his tracks, ignoring the pushing crowds on Michigan Avenue. “I hope you didn’t stay with such a selfish man.”

  Her shoulders slumped briefly. “Actually, I did for several months. I was inexperienced sexually and he told me my lack of fulfillment was my fault.”

  “Bastardo.” He spit out a few more Spanish curses.

  Rey tugged him along and they merged into the busy pedestrian traffic. It was easier to talk about Stefan if she was moving and not looking into Marco’s eyes. “When I finally got the nerve to break it off, he told me I was as lousy in the art studio as I was in the bedroom.”

  “What?” Waves of anger rolled off him.

  “It’s okay, really,” she said, forestalling his objections. “I decided to prove everyone wrong.”

  “And you did.” He put his arm around her shoulder. “Reina, I may not be an expert, but your artwork looks great.” Marco flicked her icy nose, one of the few body parts visible under her winter clothes. “And as for the bedroom, if you get any better, I may not survive until February. You are the hottest woman I’ve ever met. Brains, spirit and body.”

  She laughed. “As if you could tell through this thick winter jacket.”

  He wiggled the dark wings of his eyebrows. “I have a trained memory.”

  “Who trained it?” Not for the first time she wondered about his background. Even after her coaching, his modeling skills needed a lot of work. She hoped he had a backup plan.

  “Years of looking at beautiful women.” Halfway up the white marble steps leading to the museum lobby, the stiletto heel of her expensive leather boot slipped on a patch of ice. She flailed briefly before he steadied her. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” She wasn’t used to anyone saving her, even from something as minor as falling in the snow.

  “Good.” The crowds pushed them along through the elaborate ironwork doors into the soaring lobby. They picked their way through the puddles of melting snow on the slick terrazzo floors to the coat check.

  After checking their coats, they turned the corner. Despite the frigid weather, the gallery was packed. It had been years since Michelangelo’s works had come to the United States, let alone a sculpture lost for sixty years.

  Art students in unrelieved black hunched over sketch pads and pencils. As they slowly circled the seven-foot marble, their Doc Martens narrowly avoided the Manolo-shod feet of Chicago society doyennes. The ladies’ winter wool pantsuits ranging from eggshell to taupe skimmed over their uplifted breasts and tucked tummies. Rey smiled. She hadn’t seen so many blondes in one room since her last trip to Sweden. Number thirty-four, Light Ash Blonde. It was her mother’s favorite shade because it looked natural and did an absolutely fabulous job of covering the gray.

  Rey wiggled through the crowd until she saw the Michelangelo sculpture for the first time. Its ivory glow blurred in her vision for an instant, and she swallowed past the lump in her throat. She walked towards the marble as if she were approaching a church altar, the gallery’s dull murmur fading. She stopped behind the barrier and looked up.

  “Oh, my God.” Her tone was reverent. Michelangelo’s soul leaped out from the marble figure of Adam, naked save for a fig-leaf apron. She circled it slowly, devouring its elegance and power. The five-hundred-year-old Carrara marble glowed as if lit from within, the smooth stone curving flawlessly into muscle, bone and sinew. The tendons and ligaments of his fingers clawed to keep Heaven in their grasp, and his anguished eyes strove for one last glimpse of earthly paradise. Rey almost saw the tear tracks on the statue’s face. God’s own creation, banished from earthly paradise. Adam twisted in a pose of agony, his upper body turned to face the Garden gates lost to him forever.

  Rey reached out to touch it but clasped her hands together instead. She blinked as tears filled her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. A warm pair of hands gripped her shoulders.

  “Are you all right?” Marco murmured, his warm breath fanning her ear.

  She couldn’t answer him immediately. Her emotions churned. Joy at the statue’s beauty, sorrow for its anguish and awe that Michelangelo bound so much power and passion into a chunk of rock.

  “If I had only a fraction, only one-thousandth of his talent, I would be the happiest artist in the world,” she choked out. “To have the skill to do this.” She swiped at a tear and clasped her hands again.

  He caressed her shoulders, running his hands down to her elbows. “Why are you gripping your hands together?”

  She gave a watery laugh. She released her hands and turned to face him. With her high-heeled boots on, his sympathetic eyes were level with her tear-blurred ones.

  “To keep myself from touching the statue. To feel what Michelangelo felt, to follow the curves of his chisel.” She smiled. “Of course, no one’s allowed to touch the artwork. The oils and acids on human skin damage the marble. Under normal circumstances the security guards scold anyone who touches the artwork, but with a Michelangelo they’d probably march me out the door and throw me into Lake Michigan.”

  Marco watched her solemnly, his eyes never leaving hers. “I know a better way to keep your hands occupied.” He took her chilly left hand in his, bringing it to his mouth. The warm press of his kiss burned her palm. She stared at him, shocked that a simple kiss roiled her emotions. His suave manner slipped a notch and he smiled crookedly. “Now you can examine this amazing statue without worrying about an icy swim.”

  She moved as close as the red velvet barrier ropes allowed, still conscious of her arm pressed against the hot silk of Marco’s side. She quelled her sexual response to him and avoided his gaze.

  Now that the wave of her emotional response had crested, Rey examined the statue with a more objective eye. The tension flowed through the muscular thighs, buttocks and back, culminating in the cords of his neck supporting a perfectly shaped head.

  “La figura serpentinata,” she murmured to herself.

  “The serpentine figure?” Marco asked. His voice startled her from her reverie. He had understood her mumbled Italian, so like his native Spanish.

  “Oh, um…” She had to collect her thoughts for a second. “Michelangelo created that concept. The serpentine figure is a small head on a muscular torso flowing into tapering thighs. The whole body twists in a serpentine manner to emphasize a combination of power and elegance.” Rey couldn’t help looking at Marco’s own heavily muscled chest and abdomen. His thighs also bore a certain resemblance to the statue. “Actually, your body looks a lot like this statue,” she blurted. Marco grinned and she blushed.

  A beige-suited socialite overheard her and apprai
sed Marco’s body. Judging from her wide, professionally whitened smile, the eavesdropper was mentally stripping off his tight-fitting gray silk pullover and slim-cut black pants.

  Rey glared at her, and the older woman sauntered off, her gaze lingering on Marco’s ass.

  “Why such a fierce look?” he asked.

  “Someone was eavesdropping on our conversation.”

  “Which part?”

  “The part about how Michelangelo invented the idea of the serpentine figure,” she lied.

  “Art lovers can be so rude.” He knew exactly which comment that old bag had overheard.

  Rey turned toward the statue, determined to focus on its beauty. Marco stepped behind her and whispered, “Thank you for the compliment. There’s just one problem.”

  Her stomach sank. She’d offended him, first yapping on about his body and then acting overprotective and jealous. “What?”

  “You know I don’t have a small head.” He grinned slyly. “Either one of them.”

  Rey stifled a giggle and turned away briefly to regain her self-control. The society matron with the wandering eye was approaching them. Rey stared hard at the woman’s face.

  “Oh, no.” She clenched her jaw. “It’s Honey Van Der Waal, my mother’s old friend.”

  “Her name is Honey?”

  “It ought to be Vinegar. She tried to get my dad into her bed for years. Fortunately he only had eyes for my mother. Here she comes.”

  “Rey? Is that you? How are you?” Honey air-kissed Rey’s cheek. “It’s been so long!”

  Not long enough. “Honey! What a surprise. I didn’t know you liked Michelangelo.”

  She waved a diamond-encrusted hand negligently. “I’ve always been an Art Institute patron, darling. Besides, you know how I love looking at fabulous naked men.”

  Rey bristled. The battle-ax made Michelangelo’s Adam sound like an all-boy revue on Rush Street.

  “And who is your friend?”

  “Honey, this is Marco. Marco, Honey Van Der Waal is one of my mother’s old friends.”

  Honey’s eyes narrowed slightly and she extended her hand to Marco, palm down. Rey’s arm dropped as Marco took Honey’s bejeweled claw. For one sickening second Rey thought Marco would kiss the back of Honey’s hand. She didn’t want to admit how relieved she was when he only bowed slightly in a European manner.

  Rey stared at the statue over Honey’s shoulder, hoping the woman would get the hint and leave them alone. Without thinking about it, she clasped her hands in front of her again.

  “Querida, let me do that.” Marco took her hand and laced his strong brown fingers between hers. He turned slightly to the side, forcing Honey to shuffle in front of them.

  “And Rey, how are Brigitte and Hans?”

  “My parents are fine. Traveling where it’s warm.”

  “You be sure to tell them hello the next time they call.” Honey turned to Marco with a little laugh. “Rey’s mother and I quite despaired of her. She was a plump little thing always grubbing around with clay.”

  Rey opened her mouth to cut Honey down to size when Marco stepped in. “Actually, Rey is quite a talented artist. Her newest commission will put her on the map.”

  “Well, dear, don’t let dabbling in art interfere with finding an eligible young man. My son Grayson recently got engaged, so there’s one less bachelor to go around.”

  Ugh. She hoped the future ex–Mrs. Grayson Van Der Waal had a good prenup.

  “And what do you do, Marco?” She turned her back to Rey and smiled toothily at him.

  “I work for Rey.” He covered Rey’s hand with his.

  Honey’s eyebrows twitched up as far as her BOTOXed forehead would let her.

  Rey groaned inwardly. Honey thought Marco was a gigolo. “Marco is an artist’s model.”

  The older woman smirked. “Really? I’ve always wanted to take up art. Perhaps you can model for me.”

  He leaned into Rey’s side. “Rey keeps me very busy, so I won’t be free to take on other projects.”

  “If you’re ever dissatisfied with Rey’s, uh, output, let me know.” She pressed a business card into Marco’s palm. Not bothering to air-kiss Rey, she sauntered off.

  Rey fumed. “The only thing she paints is her face. She’s too stupid to count high enough for paint-by-numbers.”

  “What was that about not liking eligible men?”

  Rey grimaced. “Her son Grayson had a liking for ‘plump little things who grubbed around in clay.’ Unfortunately he chose to express his affection by cornering me at a high school party. When he grabbed my breasts, I punched him in the nose.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Lifting heavy chunks of stone made me stronger than I thought. Grayson’s nose was shoved halfway to his ear. He and Honey had a mother-son special deal at the plastic surgeon for new noses. I wish I hadn’t punched him.”

  “Don’t feel sorry for scumbags like that, Rey. They never deserve your pity.” His face was stony as he gripped her hand.

  “No, I sprained my wrist when I hit him. I had to wear an elastic bandage for two weeks and couldn’t do any artwork.”

  Marco looked at her in surprise and gave a big belly laugh that echoed up to the twenty-foot ceiling. “Next time use your knee. It’s bigger and stronger.”

  “I’ll have to remember that.”

  “If I’m around, you won’t have to,” he promised.

  She smiled, warmth curling through her. The cozy feeling stayed as she stared at the statue for long minutes. Marco stood patiently with her, nodding as she pointed out tiny details only a professional sculptor would notice.

  She left him in the gallery while she used the ladies’ room downstairs. She washed her hands and left, eager to find him and show him her favorite Renaissance paintings. She turned the corner and bumped into another one of the black-garbed artistic souls that drooped around the museum.

  “Excuse me.” She walked past and stiffened when the man caught her arm.

  “Freya, dear.” His unctuous tones slithered along her spine. Only one man disgusted her so thoroughly with just two words. She tugged her arm free.

  “Stefan.” Rey announced his name with all the enthusiasm of finding a flaming bag of dog doo on her doorstep. “First of all, no one calls me Freya. And I am definitely not your ‘dear.’”

  He ignored her words, just as he always had. “It’s been so long since we talked.”

  Not long enough. She’d purposely stayed away from gallery openings for years before she gathered the courage to even be in the same room with him. She’d avoided talking to him until now. But no more. What could he say to sting her now?

  She took a deep breath. “What brings you to the Michelangelo exhibit, Stefan? Did the craft store run out of Popsicle sticks?”

  Stefan’s pasty complexion reddened at her mention of his last exhibition, where he’d painted Popsicle sticks thirty different colors and thrown them willy-nilly on the gallery floor, supposedly to symbolize the randomness of life. The Chicago Tribune art critic had not been kind. “At least I try to expand my horizons, to free myself from the bourgeois constraints of the dreary past.” He stroked his yellowish gray goatee, obviously waiting for her expressions of awe.

  Rey laughed outright. He still sounded as he had ten years ago. No wonder he only dated impressionable teenagers. Anyone over twenty-one would see right through his bullshit. “And the art museum is a good place to get free from the dreary past?”

  He stepped toward her, a sneer twisting his narrow face. “That’s the problem you’ve always had, Freya. Your work is hackneyed and cheap.”

  Rey stood toe-to-toe with him, her blood churning with rage. She refused to let this pathetic little man intimidate her anymore. “Cheap? This from a man who tried to sell a collection of Popsicle sticks for two thousand dollars? I just got a commission to sculpt a block of Carrara marble for six figures, Stefan. So you can stick that up your narrow ass along with your Popsicle sticks.”

&nb
sp; He grabbed her upper arms and squeezed painfully. “Listen, you little bitch, I’ll destroy you, I swear.”

  Rey’d had enough. She raised her Jimmy Choo boot and ground the stiletto heel into Stefan’s thin leather loafer.

  Fortunately he wasn’t part of the Doc Martens crowd, she thought, as he let go and hopped in place, clutching his foot.

  Gray strands flopped loose from the leather thong binding his hair, and he shoved them back from his face and raised his fist. She knew he meant to hit her and stepped away, but the wall was behind her. Before he got close enough, she kicked him in the knee as hard as she could, the edge of her boot connecting with a satisfying thud. When he hunched over in pain, he was still crowding her, so she kneed him in the face and darted past.

  She was free, her breath coming fast and strong.

  Stefan staggered against the wall. “By node.” His voice was muffled behind his hands. “I dink you broke it.”

  “If you ever touch me again, I’ll make you even less of a man.” Her words came out as steely as her chisel. Triumph rushed over her, the long-held memories of Stefan’s criticisms disappearing in her rush of victory.

  “What the hell is going on?” Marco stood between her and Stefan. His voice was deceptively calm, but his eyes narrowed and his fists clenched against his sides. “Reina, did this man attack you?”

  Rey got a thrill from seeing Stefan cower. “I took care of Stefan.”

  “You took care of him?” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Now it’s my turn.” Marco looked ready to tear him apart.

  She was tempted to let him, but a one-sided ass-kicking on the Art Institute’s lower level would undoubtedly attract attention. And with everyone in the Chicago art scene upstairs, well, that would be poor career planning on her part. She touched Marco’s tense forearm. “No, he won’t bother me anymore.” He relaxed slightly, but the danger still coiled close to the surface. “I don’t want you to get into any trouble over him.”

  “No trouble, Rey.” She couldn’t figure out how he’d done it. One second he stood next to her and the next second he was hustling Stefan into the men’s room. “I’m just going to help him clean up his bloody nose.”