Her Body Of Work

She wished she’d just given him verbal instructions. Or better yet, oral… She mentally slapped herself and stepped away.

“That looks fine, Marco.” That was a lie and the truth at the same time. His pose looked awful, as if his torso were totally disconnected from his lower body. But his body, oh, that was still the most amazing sight she’d seen outside of an Italian art gallery.

Rey hurried to the safety of her easel and sketched the heavy muscle of his legs curving into his groin. She found herself stopping to stare inordinately at his erection, drawing its thick lines in great detail, curving the head and shading the heavy weight of his testicles dangling below.

She finally looked above his waist and grimaced. He’d bent his arms like a butler holding a tray, blocking the lines of his chest.

“Twist slightly at the waist.”

Marco complied awkwardly. Rey snapped a photo and examined the camera’s digital display. Something still didn’t seem quite right. She decided to try again and pressed the button to erase the photo.

“Okay, Marco, turn a bit more. That’s it. Look over your left shoulder.” She peered through the camera’s viewfinder and took another photo. She frowned at the new image. Marco seemed stiff, and not in a good way. “Let’s take a break. I’ll make some coffee while you put on your robe.”

He straightened and put on the robe. She peeked at him. His muscles must have tightened during their modeling session because he stretched his torso, rolling his head around. He was much more relaxed without her directions.

She measured several scoops of Gevalia Swedish coffee and pondered Marco’s awkwardness while modeling. His agent had assured her he was an experienced nude model, but Rey didn’t believe it for a second. She’d been drawing male nudes since her teens, and Marco was not a professional model. Not a good one, anyway. He also didn’t look much like his head-shot photo and tear sheets. They seemed to be a younger version of him.

Pouring some spring water into the coffeemaker, she thought of one possible explanation. If he’d been out of the modeling world for several years, he might be using old head shots and tear sheets until he got enough money for new photos. What had he done in the meantime?

She sighed. That was none of her business. Her business was to sculpt a ten-foot statue. But at this point her fabulous model resembled a block of marble more than a Roman god.

MARCO FLEXED HIS STIFF muscles, amazed at how difficult it was to hold a pose without twitching. He ran his hands through his hair, grimacing at the curly black tangles. What he wouldn’t give for a pair of clippers. But his hair was the least of his problems.

He could tell Rey was disappointed in their first modeling session, but he was honestly trying his best. All the smart-ass comments he’d made to his younger brother about getting paid to stand around looking pretty had come back to bite him. The next time he saw Francisco he’d apologize for being such a jerk.

The coffee hissed and trickled into the carafe. Rey came around the corner from her kitchenette with two steaming cups and a plate of cookies. He groaned inwardly. The strained look on her face was a far cry from the steamy sensuality he’d seen in her gaze just a few hours ago. Of course, that was before she’d discovered what a crappy model he was.

He had to give her credit for good manners, though. He sure wouldn’t bring cookies to a guy who was screwing up his career.

She set a mug of coffee and the cookie plate on a small table next to the platform. “Try these pepparkakor cookies. My mother sent them for Christmas. She and my father are spending the winter in Spain.”

“She must be a great baker.” He admired the heart-shaped brown cookies studded with round white sugar sprinkles.

“Hardly. The kitchen is the place where my mother gets cucumber slices for the bags under her eyes after a late evening out. These come from the Scandinavian bakery here in Chicago.”

He bit into a crispy gingerbread cookie and saw crumbs sprinkle the front of his robe, like some old housebound geezer who needed a bib to keep from dribbling on his bathrobe.

Rey pulled a chair over to the table and sat. She sipped her coffee, a thoughtful look on her face. “Marco, when was the last time you modeled?”

“Um, why do you ask?” he replied, stalling for time to think of a plausible answer. He shifted in his chair to try to dislodge the crumbs stuck to his skin.

“You seem a bit stiff.” She looked him straight in the eye. “Like you’d never done nude modeling before.”

Oh, shit. Rule number one of lying: stick to the truth as closely as possible. “I modeled for a while,” he lied, “then I worked in the import department of an international company.” That part was true. Rey didn’t need to know his import/export experience consisted of infiltrating Caribbean drug organizations.

“So why modeling?” Her brow furrowed. “Surely international business is much more stable than relying on modeling.”

He stifled a grin. “Actually, international business is more volatile than you think. Delivery screwups, hurricanes, unreliable distributors. Add to that a boss who was hell to work for, and I had to quit.” That was no joke. Rodríguez had personally sent several men straight to the devil, and Marco knew his name was next on the list.

Rey bit into a cookie thoughtfully, her straight white teeth flashing. A tiny crumb fell into the hollow between her breasts. His tongue itched to lick it off her smooth skin. He adjusted the robe over his unruly cock before it gave him away. Rey was still deciding his fate. No, not just his fate. His brother’s fate. If the modeling agency found out about their switch, Francisco would never get another gig. “I’m sorry about this morning. Like you said, I’m a bit stiff.”

Rey leaning forward didn’t help his stiffness. Her thin red shirt had several buttons undone, revealing a deep shadow between her breasts. As she reached for a second cookie, the side of her arm pressed a round curve of breast into view. He craned his neck to get a better glimpse and she sat back quickly. He grabbed another cookie as if that had been his plan all along.

“Marco, it’s partly my fault. I usually like to get to know my models before we start, but today I rushed you straight into modeling.” She was actually blushing under her winter-pale skin. Had she been eager to see him naked?

“No, no, that’s okay. I’m sure I can do better this afternoon.” Now that he had the general idea of how to pose, he wanted to impress her.

“We’ll start over. I’ll show you my plans for this project.” Rey didn’t know about Marco, but she needed a break from concentrating on his naked body. Even in his awkwardness he was still heartbreakingly sexy. She stood and walked over to her desk. “You’ve actually given me some great ideas for my new commission. If the statue goes well, my clients want several paintings.”

Marco stood, as well, quirking an eyebrow. “Who would want a painting of me naked?”

“Actually, it’s a fresco.” He looked confused. For an artist’s model, he didn’t know much about art. On the other hand, she only required him to stand around and look good, so she explained, “A fresco is like a mural, only painted into wet plaster. It’s a technique used by the ancient Romans.”

“I didn’t think there was much of a market for that sort of thing anymore.”

“My clients are Roman history buffs,” she began.

“‘Buff’ is right,” he muttered, glancing at the wedge of his chest showing under the gaping robe.

That clinched it. An experienced nude model would never be so self-conscious. “Aficionados, if you prefer. They bought an extremely expensive, extremely ugly home on Lake Michigan just north of the city and are renovating it.”

“Making it more expensive and marginally less ugly,” he said.

She smothered a laugh at his unexpected wit. If his brain was even close to matching his looks, she was in serious trouble. “As part of the redesign they’re adding a Roman bath.”

His eyebrows drew together either in disbelief or uncertainty, she couldn’t tell which.

“A Roman bathhouse was an extremely complex structure, with hot and cold running water, designed not only for bathing but for exercise, socializing and conducting business. It was the golf course of its time,” she explained.

“Yes, I do know what a Roman bath is.” He sounded slightly offended. “What I don’t know is why anyone would want to build one. Doesn’t their fancy house already have hot and cold running water?”

“Well, yes, of course. The house has six bathrooms, all with standard plumbing. They want the Roman bath to be a conversation piece.”

“So why are these people adding something they already have and don’t need?” He sat on the stool and propped his feet on the rungs. She was amused to see him realize the robe wouldn’t cover his groin. He fidgeted like a woman in a miniskirt trying to climb into an SUV.

Rey tore her glance away from his strong thighs flexing under the blue terry cloth, but not before an answering flare of desire lit his eyes. She pulled her thoughts away from his body and back to her work. “I never question a client’s motives, Marco. I’m their artist, not their shrink.”

“This must cost a bundle.”

He was right. The materials alone cost more money than most people earned in ten years. Her fee would also give her a measure of security. “I’m not my client’s financial planner, but as the founder of the biggest computer-chip manufacturing plant in the country, he won’t bounce any checks to build his Roman bath.”

“So they want naked men on their frescoes.”

His ironic tone was beginning to irritate her. She wasn’t some graffiti hack who only spray painted crude pictures of penises. The best artists in history had sculpted and painted the nude male form. Someday she might have even one-tenth their talent.

Besides, he was awfully judgmental for a man who was taking her money to stand around naked to pose for those paintings.

“No, not just naked men—although you will model for several of those portraits.” She was gratified to see his smirk fade. Put that in your panpipe and smoke it, Mr. Model. “There’ll be classical Roman scenes of gods and goddesses frolicking.”

“Frolicking is good.” His smirk had bounced back.

She hurriedly continued, “In addition to the fresco, they wanted me to sculpt a statue as the rotunda’s centerpiece.”

“The bath is big enough for a rotunda?”

So he did know about Roman baths. Maybe he’d studied architecture or history in school.

She unrolled a sheaf of blueprints onto her worktable and weighted the corners with a small chunk of white Carrara marble, two quart-size cans of paint and her favorite chisel. She absentmindedly ran her thumb over the blade before setting it down, noticing a nick on the tip. She’d have to sharpen it before she started carving the marble.

Marco came up behind her, startling her. She was glad she’d set down her chisel before she’d cut her finger. The warmth of his chest radiated onto her back. She made herself concentrate on pointing to the main architectural features. “The square entry hall opens into the large rotunda. That space will be a round room thirty feet in diameter topped by a dome three stories high.”

Marco leaned forward to examine the blueprints, slipping his hand past her waist to rest against the sturdy wooden table edge. “Perfectly round and proportioned,” he murmured, his moist breath tickling the sensitive curve of her ear.

“Perfect proportions were very important to the Romans,” she replied, fighting to keep her voice steady.

“And still are—to their Latino descendants,” he added, the side of his arm brushing the side of her left breast. She turned to examine his profile. Her nipple brushed against his inner forearm, sending a bolt of desire zinging straight to her center.

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