Right. She stood alone, rubbing the bruises on her upper arms and flexing her sore toes inside her trusty boot. Stefan had denigrated her for the last time. And whatever Marco was going to do, it was where the museum officials couldn’t see.
13
MARCO PROPELLED THE GREASY little man by the scruff of his neck into the empty men’s room. “Let’s get some of that blood off your face. It’s ugly enough as it is.” Stefan dug his heels in and skittered along the gray terrazzo floor. Marco ignored his wimpy struggles and hustled him around the corner. He’d dropped men twice Stefan’s size. He eyeballed the dirtbag’s skinny body. No, make that three times his size.
The sleazeball took refuge in a haughty manner. Too bad he had blood and snot dripping down his face. “How dare you lay your hands on me! Do you know who I am?”
“I know you’re a man who lays your hands on women.” Marco strove to speak normally, anger clenching his throat closed. Who the hell was this pendejo and why had he grabbed Rey?
“You know how women are, right, buddy?” Stefan tried to slide by, but Marco shoved him into the tile wall.
“No. Tell me.”
The older man’s eyes darted around the washroom, but Marco shifted his weight to block the exit. “They don’t know what they want, always saying no when they mean yes.”
Rage crashed through Marco like a breaker on the beach. He grabbed Stefan’s collar and shoved him under the faucet. Instead of Stefan’s narrow face, he saw El Lobo’s smirk, his grimy hands as he had reached for Marco’s mamá.
“I never touched her,” Stefan gasped as the water poured into his mouth. Pink water stained the white sink basin and swirled down the drain.
“So she’s a liar?” It was hard to understand his gargling noises, so Marco dug his fingers into a wet fistful of gray hair and pulled the greasy bastard up. He was a sorry sight. Marco grimaced as Stefan sniffled and wiped a black sleeve across his dripping nose.
“Yes, no, I mean…” the older man sputtered as Marco pushed him under the water again. His head made a satisfying thunk against the faucet. Marco pulled him up and shoved him against a urinal.
Stefan darted a glance at the door. “Look, man, whatever we had was a long time ago. She wasn’t even that memorable, if you know what I mean.”
This man dared to speak like this of his beautiful Reina? Marco wanted to hurt him, break his ribs until every breath was agony, punch his kidneys until he pissed blood.
He drew a deep breath, realizing that Rey wouldn’t want him to make trouble for her. “Look, maricón, if I ever catch you bothering Rey or any other woman, I’ll strangle you with your own ponytail.” He whispered a few more evil threats that he’d learned from his days in the cartel. Stefan blanched. “¿Comprende?”
“I understand.” Stefan straightened slowly. When he realized Marco wasn’t going to hit him, he scuttled out, his stacked heels sliding on the puddles of water. Marco washed his hands and dried them on a paper towel. Blood speckled the sink basin. “Out, out, damn spot,” he murmured to himself and stared into the mirror. The lust for vengeance still roiled through him. Had his time with hardened criminals twisted him into a violent man?
“WHAT ON EARTH DID YOU do to him?” Rey asked. Stefan had refused to meet her stare and had given her a wide berth as he’d left the men’s room. Marco hadn’t given him any visible bruises or broken bones. Unfortunately.
“Nothing. I helped him wash the blood off his face. Blood that you put there, by the way.”
She smiled, pleased with herself. “He deserved it, grabbing me and backing me into a corner. I defended myself pretty well, don’t you think?”
“You were magnífica.” He kissed her cheek as they walked away from the restrooms. “I never knew Swedes were such brawlers.”
She giggled. “Not since Viking times. Swedes are pretty low-key. We haven’t even fought since the Napoleonic Wars.”
Marco laughed with her and took her hand, peering at her knuckles. “No marks on you.”
She grinned at him. “I might have a small bruise on my knee, but that’s all.”
“A knee strike?” He pulled her against him as they turned the corner leading to the stairs. “You took my advice.”
“Yes, I didn’t want to hurt my hands. I only have another week to finish those preliminary sketches and I can’t afford any downtime.”
He roared with laughter. “Good for you. Did you kick him, too?”
She stuck one foot out in front of her and wiggled her boot. “I’ve even got the sore toes to prove it.”
“Poor toes. Maybe I can give you a foot rub when we get home.” They climbed the stairs holding hands.
Home. She liked the sound of that word coming out of his mouth. Maybe too much, in fact. He was hers only until their job was done. And if she wanted a home to, well, come home to, she had to work hard for it. She wouldn’t forget that fact. “Let’s go to the European painting galleries so I can show you Mars, god of war.”
“Marco is the Spanish version of the Latin name Marcus, after the god of war.”
“Really? That makes sense.” She grimaced. “I guess I should tell you the expanded definition of Freya. Goddess of springtime, love and, um, fertility.”
“No kidding?” They were at the top of the stairs, and he clasped her other hand, as well. “The god of war meets the goddess of love. Have you descended from Viking heaven to counteract my dark side?”
“Viking heaven is called Valhalla, and no, I don’t think you have a dark side.”
“Oh, I’m no angel.” A muscle ticked along his jaw.
“Lucky for me.” She strove for a light tone to counteract his grim one.
He looked at her, a serious expression on his face. “I’ve done some things I’m not proud of.”
“We all have. I just beat up a prominent local artist in the Art Institute’s basement.” She couldn’t help but laugh, not just at the memory of Stefan’s bloody nose but also at the lightness that came from confronting a painful part of her past.
“I mean it, Rey. If you knew, you wouldn’t laugh.”
“What did you do, kill someone?” she joked.
There was a long silence. She turned to look at him in surprise. His response was taking just a little too long.
“No. No, I never killed anyone.” He stared straight ahead, his profile set in rigid lines.
Rey pulled him into the hall of Renaissance painters. One towering masterpiece of the Spanish painter El Greco’s soared over the lofty gallery. “Are you a religious man, Marco?”
“I used to be.” His expression was grim.
“Look at the saints and sinners in the paintings. See how the light of heaven falls equally on them?” Whatever mysterious guilt he carried was eating him up.
His gaze followed her finger and he stared at the huge paintings.
“Whatever you did is in the past. Let the light in.”
He said some words in Spanish.
“What did you say?” she asked.
“Luz de mi vida. Light of my life.”
“That’s exactly what I mean. Let some light into your life.”
He swept her into his arms, murmuring, “No, Reina. You are the luz de mi vida.”
“THIS IS YOUR CAPTAIN speaking. On behalf of all our crew, thank you for flying Air Florida. We will be landing in Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport in approximately ten minutes. The seat-belt light is on.”
Nico eyed his younger brother, Chucho, who was shifting in discomfort. “Maybe if you cut back on the fried bananas and pork roasts, you’d fit in the seat.”
“It’s a good thing this flight is nonsmoking. Otherwise all that grease in your hair would catch fire,” Chucho sneered.
“At least I have hair. You can shave your head all you want—you’re still bald,” Nico said.
“Local time is 11:35 p.m. and local temperature is a balmy ten degrees.” The captain clicked off the microphone.
Chucho elbowed Nico. “Te
n degrees? That’s not so bad.”
“That’s ten degrees Fahrenheit, idiota!” Nico hissed.
“Don’t call me an idiot. I’m not the one speaking Spanish like el jefe told us not to.”
The flight attendant gave them a suspicious look as she pushed the beverage cart past, so they subsided sullenly into their seats.
“Excuse me.” The flight attendant leaned over.
Chucho gave her his version of a charming smile, highlighting his golden incisor. “Yes?”
“Please fasten your seat belts. We’ll be landing shortly.” She bustled off, ignoring them for the rest of the flight.
“Her ass is too skinny anyway,” Chucho grumbled.
They managed to disembark and leave the airport without attracting security, which Nico considered a major accomplishment, considering his younger brother’s tendency to shoot off at the mouth.
“Dios mío!” Nico gasped. “I’ve never been so cold in my life. Let’s find a taxi before my cojones freeze off.” Cold air knifed through his thin leather coat.
“They’re small enough already.” Chucho jammed his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders.
“Big enough to be in charge of finding Flores,” Nico jibed, hailing a cab. “And big enough to be in charge of you.”
14
REY TWIRLED HER CHARCOAL stick between her fingers. She alternated between staring at Marco and staring at her sketch pad. Her sketch was just crap. She sighed. “You can relax for a minute, Marco.”
He lifted his right foot off the box he was posing on. “What is it, Reina?”
“Nothing looks right today.” She tossed the charcoal on her drawing table, not even caring that it left a big smudge against the paper.
“Do you want me to change position?” He flexed his chest and shoulders, getting ready to hold another pose.
“No, you’re doing a great job. Much more comfortable with posing and modeling. It’s me. I can’t draw a fluid, relaxed line to save my life today.”
He walked behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. “No wonder. Your muscles are hard as rocks.” He dug his thumbs into her shoulder blades.
She moaned in delight, rolling her neck. Her vertebrae popped as he rubbed his palms along her spine.
“I got here at eleven, and it’s almost seven o’clock. You deserve a break after working so many hours.”
Rey grinned and leaned into his warm chest. “First of all, you got here at eleven, but you came at noon, remember?”
He growled playfully and slipped his hands around her rib cage to cup her breasts. “And you came at eleven-ten, eleven-thirty and noon.” He played with the tips of her nipples, pulling them into aching points. “Then we worked for three hours and took another break when your agent called.”
Rey grimaced and pulled away. Evelyn not only wanted the sketches of Marco but also requested a small clay mock-up of the final statue within the week. “Aargh! I can’t handle this! I’ll move out of my loft and go work at Starbucks. I make good coffee, don’t I?” She knew she was babbling, but her nerves had gotten the best of her.
“Yes, you do, but I think you’ve had enough caffeine for today.” He kissed the nape of her neck. “Have you seen my pants?”
She pointed to the chaise where they’d flung them almost as soon as he’d walked in the door. Since they’d become lovers, he hadn’t bothered changing in the cubicle.
She spotted the black leather bag he usually carried. “Here’s your bag.” She’d already grabbed a handle when he whipped his head around.
“Leave it.” His tone was sharp. He stood and strode over to her wearing only his briefs.
“Oh. Okay.” He sure was possessive of his stuff.
He took the bag from her hands but not before she’d hefted it in one hand. “Are you carrying around bricks?”
“No, just books, a change of clothes, some toiletries.” He pulled on his brown pants and grabbed a clean camel-colored microfiber T-shirt.
“You look nice.” That was an understatement. The T-shirt hugged the curves and valleys of his chest. He tucked the shirt into his waistband and buckled his slim leather belt. Rey was acutely conscious of her gray paint-stained sweatshirt and linty black leggings that bagged at the knee.
“So do you.” He crossed over to her and smiled.
“Ha.” She suddenly wanted to cry. Her art career teetered on the brink, she’d resorted to sleeping with her stunning male model for inspiration and their no-strings affair had tangled her up in knots.
He must have seen her distress because he pulled her into a hug. “You are the most beautiful woman in the world, Reina.”
She sniffled, his heart thudding steadily under her cheek. “I bet you say that to all the female artists you model for.”
“No. You’re the only one. Ever.” He sounded amused. “You need to get out. When was the last time you had fun?”
She raised one golden eyebrow. “Today at noon.”
He threw back his head and laughed. “I meant the kind of fun you have in public.”
“You can have that kind of fun in public?” Paint-splattered sweatshirt or no, she rubbed her breasts against him.
“Almost, and it’s called salsa dancing. Now go put on a tight little dress and some dancing shoes.”
She cheered up right away. “I know just the outfit.” She’d gone shopping with Meg just last week and had bought a sexy little number. Until Marco, she never would have dared try on a dress like that, much less buy it. But his obvious appreciation for her curves had boosted her confidence.
So one tight little dress coming up. And later, coming off.
15
“BUDDY. HEY, BUDDY. IS THIS the club you wanted?”
Marco dragged his gaze away from Rey’s perfect profile. The cabbie was staring at her, too, her glossy red lips shining even in the shadows. He cleared his throat. “This is it, thanks.” The rhythmic bongo drumbeat and piercing trumpets of a hot salsa tune pulsed into the street. He’d purposely avoided the club downtown where Francisco tended bar.
He helped Rey out of the cab and paid the driver. The lapels of her black velvet coat parted briefly, showing a long expanse of silk-stockinged thigh. She caught the path of his glance and smiled.
All right. He had to know. “What did you decide to wear?” She’d come out of her room wearing the long cloak-type garment and hadn’t let him see what she had picked for their evening of salsa dancing. The only thing she’d said was that her dress was short and tight, just as he’d requested.
“You’ll see when we get into the club.” She held her jacket closed, her eyes dark and mysterious with some smoky eye shadow.
He put his hand on the small of her back and hustled her into Club Tropical, eager to strip off her coat. The pink-and-green-neon palm trees over the narrow entrance reflected off the golden clip fastening up her hair.
He dragged his stare away from her to scan the crush of club goers. If Rodríguez had sent someone, Marco didn’t recognize him.
“Hey, Francisco, ¿qué pasa?” Marco spun around as a short man in an expensive Italian suit slapped him on the shoulder. “Sorry, you’re not Francisco.”
“Francisco?” Rey turned to him, smiling. “No, he goes by Marco.”
Busted. She’d blown his cover. And it was his own fault. He gripped her wrist, ready to run if the guy posed any danger.
The little man broke into a grin. “Are you Francisco Flores’s brother? He used to tend bar here before he got hired at that new club downtown. I’m Antonio, the club manager. Come see me if you need anything.” He was already moving to greet another patron.
Double busted. Rey yanked her wrist from his grasp. “You have a brother named Francisco?”
He nodded.
She narrowed her eyes. “He’s the professional model, not you.” It was a statement, not a question.
“That’s right.” He pulled her into an alcove near the coat check and spoke in a low, urgent tone. “I offered to
take his place while he auditioned in L.A. for a soap opera. It was his big break, but his modeling agency wouldn’t let him cancel his appointment with you.”
Rey glared at him, her mouth pursed. It was so important for her to understand, to forgive his deception. He wanted to totally come clean with her, but he was already pushing his luck here in the club. He’d left his pistol behind and had only a switchblade hidden in his boot.
She sighed, her face relaxing into its customary beauty. “All right. I understand doing a favor for a brother. I knew something was wrong, but I thought you were getting back into modeling after taking a few years off.”
“No, I’ve never modeled.”
“I could tell.” She raised an eyebrow. “So what do you do when you’re not rescuing your brother?”
Rescuing the world, it felt like. “What I told you before. Import and export, international business.”
“In Miami?”
“Yes.” They needed to leave before Francisco’s friend Antonio returned with any more questions. “I’ll understand if you’re upset with my deception and want to go home.” He angled his body toward the exit.
“No, Marco, I forgive you.” She finally smiled at him, her moist red lips parting invitingly. “Let’s stay and dance.”
Equal parts elation and desperation rushed through him. What if someone else recognized him?
“I’d be very disappointed if we left. And you’d be disappointed if you didn’t get to see my dress.” She finally opened the lapels of her cloak, unveiling herself.
Marco’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. She was a goddess. Her blond hair gleamed, twisted off her neck with a golden clasp. A golden halter dress fastened around her neck and skimmed over her plump breasts, tiny waist and voluptuous hips. Her nipples poked at the fabric like two Spanish doubloons.
“What do you think?” She twirled around and he groaned. A long, smooth expanse of back curved down to the tiny dimple at the base of her spine. If he hooked a finger inside the dress, he would touch the bare curve of her ass.
Her Body of Work Page 13