Her Body Of Work

“Um, what do you want me to wear?” he finally had to ask.

“You are so funny.” Her giggle made him smile, but he had no idea what the joke was. “Just put on the bathrobe.”

The clothes must be hanging outside. He left on his black bikini briefs and tugged the well-worn black terry cloth around him. It gaped across his chest and skimmed the tops of his thighs.

Pulling at the robe one more time, he stepped out and almost bumped into her. She had stripped off her blue sweater and wore a tight white tank top. She was as smooth and pale as a marble statue.

She looked up from the digital camera in front of her. “Come stand on the platform and take off the robe.”

What? Marco tried to examine her expression for some clue, but she had returned to fiddling with that damn camera. Remembering his younger brother’s excitement to audition in L.A., he loosened the belt and dropped the robe. She circled him slowly, appraising his pecs and abs. Francisco actually got paid for this?

“Would you be willing to shave?”

He fingered the stubble on his jaw. Not wanting to get the job, he hadn’t bothered to shave that day. “I thought the unkempt look was in now.”

“Not your face, your chest. Most models actually wax their chests.”

His stubbled chin nearly hit the floor. “Wax my chest?” He’d have to have a serious talk with his younger brother about what was and what was not acceptable for Cuban men to do.

She shrugged. “Or not. Your chest hair isn’t so thick that I can’t see your muscles underneath.”

“Okay.” He didn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted. He jumped as her finger stroked his back. “You have quite a few scars. You must live an interesting life.”

“I haven’t always been a model.” Hell, he’d only been one for about thirty seconds.

“You’re a welcome change. Most male models are cookie-cutter pretty boys. But you—you have quite a unique look.” He fought to stare straight ahead as her warm breath tickled the nape of his neck.

“I hope that’s a good thing,” Marco managed as he tried to control his hardening penis. Even though Francisco could be a pain, he didn’t deserve to have his modeling career wrecked because his brother got a hard-on in front of the boss.

“It’s a very good thing,” she reassured him. “Seeing you has given me some great ideas for my newest commission.”

“What kind of artwork do you do?” He hadn’t seen any fruit bowls, so he might be spared from still lifes.

“All sorts—painting, photography and sculpture. My body of work has a definite unifying theme.” She gestured to the expansive loft.

He looked around and saw something he hadn’t noticed before. All the paintings and sculptures in Rey’s studio were of men.

Naked men.

He muttered another Spanish curse that would have earned him a smack from his mamá. What had his brother gotten him into?

He actually flinched as her silky hair brushed his shoulder, sending a rush of blood to his cock. Rey had barely touched him and already he was painfully erect. She couldn’t miss seeing it.

“Marco, I think you’d be the perfect model for my new commission.” She smiled and he gulped. “Please take off your underwear so I can see the rest of your body.” Her smile widened, two deep dimples creasing her apple-smooth cheeks.

How could he refuse? He hooked his thumbs under the silk waistband and pushed down his briefs. His erection sprang free. He forced himself to stand still and not look away in embarrassment.

Her sky-blue eyes widened. “Fantastic. You have the most beautiful body I’ve ever seen.”

“Uh, thank you.” A blond goddess loved his body. Modeling wasn’t so bad, after all.

MARCO GRINNED AND REY couldn’t help grinning back. She couldn’t believe her luck in finding him. When the agency had sent over his head shot and tear sheets, she hadn’t been terribly impressed. He had been handsome in the photos, but his features looked somewhat soft and unformed.

But in person—oh, my God—there was nothing soft about him. His cheekbones sliced across his face, forming a sharp T with his narrow, aristocratic nose. Piercing hazel eyes examined her with more shrewdness than she expected from an average model.

His black curls and caramel skin told her he had quite a bit of Spanish blood in him. He reminded her of a Renaissance Spanish angel, lean and intense with burning eyes.

His body was a sculptor’s dream. Think Michelangelo’s David with an erection. She itched to touch his textbook musculature, but that was a professional no-no. His abs and pecs rippled under his skin, which shone even in the dim winter sunlight. When she had looked at his back, she had seen his hard buttocks flexing under his tiny black briefs and she had barely been able to resist filling each hand with a perfect mound.

But the clincher to offering him the modeling gig was his impressive arousal. Long, thick and jutting out from a thatch of black curling hair, it was exactly what she needed—for her commission.

Not for herself. No more models. Their arousals didn’t mean much. Most were so narcissistic that just the sight of their own naked body was enough to give them an erection. It didn’t have anything to do with the person they were with.

On the other hand, Marco was enough to make her throw her rule out her twelve-foot-high windows.

She pulled back from that dangerous thought and focused on Marco’s nude body. She could tell he was uncomfortable standing there fully aroused, but he refused to hide himself or look away from her scrutiny. He held his head high, silky black curls covering his finely shaped skull.

The green flecks in his eyes bored into hers, and her nipples tightened and swelled. He dropped his gaze to the soft white cotton of her thin tank top. His eyes darkened and his erection grew even thicker and longer. A warm trickle of moisture gathered between her thighs. She broke eye contact and stepped away from his tempting expanse of satin skin.

“We should go over the business details.” The contracts and modeling release forms trembled in her hands.

His firm lips pulled into a slow smile, revealing even white teeth. Uh-oh. He’d noticed her sexual interest and lost his self-conscious manner.

“You can put your briefs on.” It was a temporary attraction. Once she drew him for hours, his nakedness wouldn’t affect her so much.

He bent over to pick up his underwear. “I make it a rule never to discuss business when I’m naked. I prefer to reserve that for pleasure.” His eyes invited her to comment on his teasing statement.

“For me, naked men are only business,” she said, avoiding his glance. He was a few feet away, and his woodsy cologne teased her nostrils.

“Too bad.” He dangled the tiny black scrap of satin from his fingers, tempting her. “Maybe you haven’t found the right naked man.”

She gulped at his blatant offer, the hot flush rising on her skin.

His intense gaze dared her to look away from him. She couldn’t. Somehow she had lost the upper hand and was reacting to him as a woman instead of an artist. She wondered crazily if the painter Botticelli had lusted after the model for his Venus or if the sculptor Borghese had lusted after his Daphne.

His strong hands curled at his sides close to his erection. If he moved his hand slightly, he’d be able to cup himself. She wondered if his penis felt as magnificent as it looked—long, brown and hard. A thick vein throbbed along the shaft, making her clitoris throb in unison. As she watched, mesmerized by the blaze of lust filling her body, a shiny bead of fluid coated the tip of his penis. For one crazy moment she wanted to drop to her knees and taste the pearl droplet.

She had to force herself to turn to her papers, shuffling them unnecessarily. When she sneaked a glance at him, he’d pulled his briefs on, but his erection was still straining against the tight black satin.

She cleared her throat, trying to shift his attention to the modeling contract.

He smiled as if he saw through her tactic. “So what do you want to show me?” The gleam in his eyes gave away his true thoughts.

“The paperwork,” she emphasized. “Your hourly and daily rates are specified here.” She pointed to the money details. “I’ll cut your agent a check on each of the dates listed.”

“I got the job?” He sounded stunned.

“Yes. Don’t you want it?” She’d never had a model refuse a job before.

“Well, I, uh, thought you needed to see a couple more guys, then you’d take a while to decide.”

“No, I need you right away.” She blushed at her unfortunate turn of phrase. “I’m on a very tight time frame, and your agent assured me you were free for the next few weeks.”

He ran his fingers through his black curls. “I have some obligations they don’t know about.”

She was starting to lose her patience. “Are you taking the job or do I call your agency and tell them you turned me down and they should send someone else?”

“No.” He yanked on the black robe. “I’ll do it.”

“Sign here.” She shoved the papers at him.

He barely looked at the contract before signing it with a firm, slashing hand. “I hope this works out for both of us, Reina.”

He thought her name was Reina? Ha. No such luck.

“Actually, I go by Rey.” She gathered the papers. “Do you have any questions for me?”

“Why is such a beautiful woman using a man’s name?” he asked.

“What?” Big deal, he thought she was beautiful. She’d heard that before from men. What they meant was, Take off your clothes and have meaningless sex with me.

“In Spanish, Rey means ‘king’ or is short for Reynaldo.” He stared at her with his amber-flecked eyes. “Reina is a queen, a name for a royal beauty.”

She shrugged. “Rey is a nickname—and not for Reina.”

“What is it short for?”

She sighed. “I don’t really like my name. It’s Swedish and not very familiar to most people.”

He waited.

“Rey is short for Freya.” She dared him to make fun of her old-fashioned name.

“Freya.” The Scandinavian word rolled off his tongue with a definite Spanish accent. She kind of liked the way he said it. “And what does Freya mean?”

Heat crept into her cheeks again. What was it about this man that made her blush so much? “Freya was a Norse goddess.”

“Goddess of what?” He moved closer to her.

“Um, springtime.” And love and fertility, but he definitely didn’t need to know that. “And since it’s nowhere near springtime, you can go get dressed if you’re chilly.” It was a lame attempt at changing the subject, but she had to get her sexy model dressed so she could regain her equilibrium.

“We’re finished for today?” He looked disappointed.

“I have a meeting at my gallery in forty-five minutes, so we’ll start Monday.”

“I look forward to modeling for you,” he assured her, sticking out his hand to seal their deal.

Rey stared at Marco’s long brown fingers topped with neat square nails. She knew touching him would be a bad idea, but a handshake wouldn’t hurt, would it? It would be rude to ignore his outstretched hand.

She placed her hand in his. Rubbing his thumb across her wrist, he turned a businesslike handshake into a caress. Her breathing quickened. For one crazy second she thought he was going to bend over and kiss her knuckles, like a Spanish pirate in the old Saturday afternoon black-and-white movies. She’d always loved those Spanish pirates.

Rey pulled her hand away and looked for a pen, pencil, jumbo-size kid’s crayon—anything so she could start drawing and ignore that sensual glitter in his eye.

He grinned at her and ambled toward her tiny changing room, her black bathrobe slung over his arm. His buttocks flexed under the tight satin.

She found a soft charcoal stick and slashed blindly at a piece of scrap paper. She heard the curtain rattle closed and finally focused on her rough sketch. Oh, no. She’d drawn the thick, long lines of Marco’s penis. The tiny muscles in her vagina clenched in response.

She ripped the tattletale sketch into confetti. Working on this commission would either make her reputation or drive her insane with lust. And she wasn’t sure which outcome she wanted more.

TEN MINUTES LATER MARCO walked out of the cubicle, grimacing as his snow-damp pants stuck to his thighs. Although Rey had a few space heaters scattered around the loft, the high ceiling gobbled their small output. “Aren’t you cold?”

“No, I’m used to it.” She looked at his pitifully thin clothing. “Apparently you aren’t.”

“Not really.” He didn’t want to get into details of why he was in Chicago without a winter coat.

“I was born in Sweden and moved to Chicago when I was a kid, so I have a few tricks to get through a long, dark winter.” She grabbed a blank sheet of paper from her worktable and clipped it to her easel.

Marco had already thought of several ways and several positions in which to spend winter with Rey, starting as soon as possible. “If you’re not busy later, I’d like to take you to dinner. You can explain more about your project.”

Her skilled fingers curled around the thick pencil and stroked it across the paper’s pristine white surface. He leaned over her shoulder as she stood in front of her easel, her spicy cinnamon scent mingling with her own warm scent of woman. His shaft hardened again.

She looked up from her sketch, black charcoal smearing her long pale fingers and her long neck as she brushed aside a blond strand of hair. He tried to recognize the shape of his body in her drawing, but it looked like random squiggles.

“I’m busy tonight,” Rey stated, turning to him with a pleasant look on her face before returning to her work.

“What about tomorrow?” He ought to know better, but it had been months since he’d been so attracted to a woman.

She set down her pencil and faced him. Her ice-blue eyes were frosty. “Marco, I’m paying you to model for me. As your employer, I shouldn’t go out to dinner with you.”

She said shouldn’t, not won’t. Maybe she had mixed feelings. “Sure, I understand.”

“Good. You’re the most suitable model I’ve seen for my project, and I’d hate to have any hard feelings between us.” She gave him a smile. Despite her cool manner, a hot flush crept up her cheeks.

His brain realized she was being smart and probably just following her professional standards. But his body wanted to push aside her thin tank top and see if her breasts were as pale and smooth as the rest of her.

She cleared her throat, drawing his attention to the pulse fluttering at the base of her neck. Triumph rushed through him, and he stretched out to stroke the thrumming beat. His dark finger drew invisible circles against the white canvas of her neck. Instead of quelling it, his touch spurred her pulse to an even faster rhythm. She swayed into his delicate caress.

When she didn’t knock his finger away, he was encouraged. He traced the elegant horizon of her collarbone, the strength of bone and flesh hidden under her soft skin arousing him even more. He skimmed over her shoulder with the pads of all four fingers. His breath hitched as he realized that she wasn’t wearing a bra.

“Marco?” Her blue eyes weren’t icy anymore.

“Yes?” Her nipples had peaked against the thin white cotton of her top, matching the heavy pulse of his erection against his zipper. Her glance dropped to the front of his jeans. She zoned in on his arousal, her breath quickening.

If he lowered his hand, the hard tip would brush his palm. He needed to roll her nipples between his fingers and his lips, pull on them with his teeth and tongue.

“What are you doing?” Her husky voice held no indignation, only curiosity.

He smiled despite the growing discomfort as his erection strained against his zipper. “You have a few charcoal smudges.” Only on her throat, and nowhere near where he was touching, but she didn’t need to know that. He contrived to look innocent as she glanced at his fingers diligently rubbing away invisible smears.

“I think you got them all,” she said, trying to be ironic but instead sounding breathy and turned on.

He decided to press his luck and hooked his index finger under the thin ribbon holding up her tank top. “I missed one right here.” He slid his finger down the ribbon to the seam above her nipple. She inhaled sharply, and the top of her bare breast swelled against his knuckle, its hard peak grazing his hand.

She stepped back abruptly, forcing him to release her shirt before he ripped it. Their eyes met and held, blazing blue tangling with hot hazel. She looked away first and strode over to her desk and opened her appointment book. “Can you come at ten on Monday?”

Yeah, he could come anytime she wanted him—now, tomorrow, the next day. “Sure.”

“Great.” She swallowed hard, her delicate throat throbbing.

Monday he’d make her forget she was paying him to get naked. In fact, he’d do it for free, out of the goodness of his heart.

“I’ll see you at ten o’clock, Marco.” She sped him to the door. He turned to say goodbye and saw the loft’s thick door close in his face.

She wasn’t as indifferent to him as she pretended. If his Nordic goddess needed some encouragement to thaw, then he’d apply some Cuban heat.

“WHERE IS MARCO FLORES?” Juan Carlos Rodríguez clicked a solid-gold cigar lighter with his manicured thumbnail and stared at the glittering expanse of Biscayne Bay sixty stories below. Tendrils of silence twined around the sumptuously furnished office as he rotated his massive cordovan leather chair to face his assistant, Gabriel. Gabriel, who had been suspicious of Flores since the beginning. Rodríguez had discounted it as jealousy, since Flores was not only an astute businessman but also willing to get his hands dirty, unlike Gabriel.

“The feds don’t know where their key witness is. He disappeared from the safe house several days ago.” Gabriel met his gaze without flinching. “Our informador hasn’t been able to find him, either, señor.”

“How much do we pay this scum informant to pass us information?” Rodríguez opened his rosewood humidor and picked up a thick cigar. He held it to his nose and sniffed, more from habit than anything. The fumes from years of cooking cocaine and methamphetamines had ruined his sense of smell, much to his regret.

“Several thousand a month, if you include the cocaine,” admitted Gabriel. “But he was able to discover that Marco Flores was his real name instead of the alias he used with us.”

Rodríguez cut his cigar with tiny gold scissors and lit the cigar’s cap, rotating it slowly. He let the flame equalize throughout the tip and took a puff. At least he could taste the tobacco. The Cuban cigar rollers had finally gotten his special blend correct. If only everything in his life were as perfect.

Rodríguez had seen Flores as a possible successor. Both Cuban, both self-made men, both ruthless in dealing with their enemies. Except the man he now called Flores had his ruthless streak aimed at an unexpected enemy: himself, Juan Carlos Rodríguez, El Lobo. The Wolf.

And like the wolf, he would track down his prey, despite the incompetence surrounding him.

“Why am I wasting my drugs and my money on this man that you hired? What do you know?”

The younger man shrugged uncomfortably. “We do know that Flores is no longer in town.”

“And that narrows it down to the tiny part of the United States that lies north of Miami!” The drug lord blew a smoke ring, squinting at Gabriel through the haze. “My conspiracy trial starts in just over a month and Marco Flores knows enough to ruin the whole cartel.”

If Flores were alive to testify, the Colombians had made it clear that their esteemed business associate Juan Carlos would not live to see the inside of a prison cell. “So tell your source to find Flores. If he can’t, cut off the money. Then cut off the drugs. Then cut off his balls.”

3

MARCO BOLTED UPRIGHT, his hands gripping an imaginary weapon, his stomach churning. It had been years since he’d dreamed about the raft, that miserable hunk of rotting wood and worn-out tires. He was still amazed it hadn’t sunk and drowned them in the Florida Straits, the ninety miles of dangerous waters between Cuba and the Keys.

He ran a hand through his sweaty scalp. God, he hated his long hair. If he hadn’t agreed to impersonate Francisco, he’d cut it with his brother’s manicure scissors. It only reminded him of the scumbag he’d played in Rodríguez’s organization. He gave a dry laugh. His baby brother wasn’t the only actor in the family.

Marco lay down and grimaced as the futon frame dug into his neck. It reminded him of the time he’d been hit with a two-by-four on a previous sting in Tampa.

He’d fallen asleep last night watching some action flick dubbed into Spanish. One glance at the clock and he groaned. It was already close to eleven in the morning. He swung his legs off the wooden torture device and stood. He couldn’t believe how rotten he felt. The stress from the past year had finally caught up to him, and his body was paying the dues.

He padded into his brother’s kitchenette to scrape together some Cuban-style coffee. He prowled through both cabinets, finally finding a half-empty bag in the freezer. Inhaling deeply, he smiled. The scent of the finely ground Jamaican blend made him homesick for the coffee stands on the streets of Miami.

He pushed away thoughts of home and measured several scoops into the froufrou German coffeemaker. The slightly burned odor of the liquid dribbling into the pot made Marco start to feel better. He opened the fridge to find some milk for his café con leche. It was nearly empty, no dairy products of any kind. Maybe there was some nondairy creamer.

He pulled out a five-pound can of protein powder. Ugh. The label guaranteed maximum increase in muscle. What was wrong with weight lifting?

The fine print read, “With a minimum of sexual side effects.” ¡Caramba! He threw the can into the fridge and checked his fingers to make sure the protein powder hadn’t leaked.

Francisco’s pene was going to shrivel up and fall off if he wasn’t careful with his crazy supplements.

He poured himself a big cup of brew and dumped in some powdered creamer and sugar from dusty containers. He’d found a couple of stale almond biscotti next to the creamer, probably leftover from their mamá’s trip to Chicago last summer. Once the biscotti were dunked in his café con leche, they were somewhat edible. He stared out the kitchen window at the steel-gray sky. He’d better lay in supplies before he got snowed in and had to resort to eating Francisco’s Amazing Penis-Shrinking Powder.

By the time he’d finished his skimpy breakfast, it was almost noon, ten o’clock in L.A. Francisco might have dragged his ass out of bed by now.

Marco grabbed the phone and dialed his brother’s cell phone number.

“Yeah?” a voice crackled.

“Francisco, is that you?”

“Hey, Marco, how’s the Windy City treating you?” His younger brother’s carefree voice floated back to him.

“If it gets any colder, my cojones are going to freeze off.” Marco was wearing a T-shirt, a long-sleeved thermal Henley and a woolen ski sweater to top it all off and he still couldn’t get warm.

“Too bad you’re not here in L.A. I’m sitting on the beach, where the ocean breezes are cool and the blondes are hot.”

Marco rolled his eyes. “I’m only here in Chicago because you begged me to take your modeling job.”

“Correction—I begged you to go audition. Did you actually get offered the gig?”

“Yeah.” Despite showing up unshaven, half-frozen and scruffy-looking as possible.

“And you’re gonna do it? For me?” Francisco sniffled melodramatically. “I’m really touched.”

Marco grimaced. If he skipped out, Rey would black-ball Francisco with his agency. On the other hand, Marco couldn’t stay in Chicago very long. Francisco had moved around a lot over the past few years but wasn’t impossible to track. And if they found Francisco’s place, they’d find Marco.