All the paintings and sculptures in Rey’s studio were of men

Naked men.

Marco muttered a curse. What had his brother gotten him into?

He actually flinched when Rey’s silky hair brushed his shoulder, sending a rush of blood to his crotch. She 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 cheeks.

How could he refuse? He hooked his thumbs under the 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, th-thank you,” Marco stammered. Who could have guessed? The blond goddess loved his body. Maybe modeling wouldn’t be so bad, after all.

Dear Reader,

My biggest challenge as a first-time author was digging deep into my creativity to make Her Body of Work a satisfying read. So to keep myself company in my artistic labors, I gave my heroine, sculptor Rey Martinson, the same challenge.

After years of hard work, Rey earns a prestigious commission to sculpt a nude male statue. But her self-doubts threaten to sink her until she picks the perfect model, sexy Cuban-American Marco Flores.

Marco is more than willing to help Rey rediscover her sensual, artistic side. But despite his sexual confidence, Marco has his own regrets. And even though he ends up baring all, he still manages to hide a huge secret from his new employer…for a while, at least.

How two lovers deal with their pasts to create a future together has always been one of my favorite themes. I hope you’ll enjoy Rey and Marco’s journey.

Happy reading!

Marie Donovan

P.S. I’d be delighted to hear from my readers. Visit www.mariedonovan.com to enter fun contests and learn more about my upcoming books.

Her Body of Work
Marie Donovan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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To my husband, with love always.

Thank you for all your support.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

1

CRAIG SPRAWLED NAKED IN front of Rey Martinson, asleep on the sheet-covered chaise longue. That was okay with her. She had worn him out, urging him into various positions and contortions during their long afternoon together.

His muscular back rose and fell with his deep breaths, his light brown curls pillowed on his folded forearms. Rey stood and stretched her cramped shoulders. She wasn’t as tired as he was—but then, he’d done the hard work. She decided to finish while he slept.

After all, her male model was still on the clock, and the flesh-toned acrylic paints on her canvas were starting to dry.

Reaching for a half-empty tube of burnt sienna acrylic paint, she squeezed a blob onto her palette and worked it into the nearby blob of titanium white with her blunt-edged palette knife. A few more brushstrokes and she’d finish the painting in time to deliver it to her clients.

She cast her experienced eye over the contours of his back and buttocks. Her clients had commissioned a rendition of the ancient Greek myth of Narcissus—the young man who fell in love with his own reflection in a pool and pined away. Craig was the perfect Narcissus—handsome and vain, just like most men she’d met recently.

Since her last relationship had gone up in flames worthy of a Viking longboat funeral, Rey had spent the summer licking her wounds and the fall traipsing around to singles’ nights and museum mixers with her best friend, Meg O’Malley.

Finally they’d both given up and decided to hibernate man-free for the winter. Meg was fighting for tenure at one of Chicago’s snootiest universities and Rey had a bunch of art projects to finish, so their pent-up sexual energy could then be channeled into their work. That was the theory, anyway.

The phone rang. Craig muttered in his sleep. His bare flesh was covered in goose bumps. Rey hardly noticed the cold Chicago gusts blowing past her drafty loft windows but pulled a sheet up to his shoulders anyway. She crossed the paint-splattered concrete floor to check the caller ID to make sure it wasn’t her mother.

Brigitte Martinson had been a professional wife all her adult life and still thought her only daughter’s art career was just a peculiar way to spend her time until she married.

Fortunately it was her artist’s rep, Evelyn, on the phone, who was probably checking on the painting in front of her.

Rey clipped on the cordless earpiece that freed her hands. “Hello?”

“Hi, Rey. It’s Evelyn. How are you, dear?” While Evelyn Colby might sound like everyone’s favorite grandmother, she locked on to business deals with the jaws of a pit bull.

“Just fine, Evelyn. In fact, I’m finishing that portrait of Narcissus,” she hinted, hoping to cut the call short before her paints dried into a hard, glossy lump.

“Glad to hear it, but I’m not calling about that. Are you sitting down?” Evelyn’s usually serene voice had an edge of excitement.

“Actually, I am.” Rey settled on her painting stool. She thought with an ample butt like hers the stool would be more comfortable than it was. Hmm. Speaking of butts, the buttocks in her work-in-progress needed more definition. Maybe alizarin-crimson?

“You got the Stuart commission!” Evelyn crowed.

“The what?” Rey covered her palette with a plastic lid, resigned to another delay.

“I sent your portfolio out for review last fall and the Stuarts finally made a decision.”

Rey sat up straight. “Do they want an oil painting or an acrylic?” Her loft building was being turned into condominiums. She needed a big chunk of cash for a mortgage down payment or else she’d have to move. No more twelve-foot windows. No more room for dozens of canvases and blocks of stone.

“Not a painting—a ten-foot marble sculpture for their new lakefront mansion,” Evelyn explained.

Rey adjusted her earpiece. She couldn’t possibly have heard right. “Did you say a ten-foot sculpture?” Although she made somewhat of a living with painting, sculpting was her favorite.

Evelyn rustled some papers. “My notes say Carrara marble, no less. It’s being sent from the Italian quarry as we speak.”

Rey gasped. “Oh, my God! Who can afford a ten-foot block of Carrara marble?”

“The Stuart family can. And what’s more, they can afford to pay you to sculpt it.”

“How much are they willing to pay?” Anticipation curled in Rey’s stomach. Maybe she wouldn’t have to lose her loft.

Evelyn triumphantly named the fee.

The paintbrush fell from Rey’s nerveless fingers, splattering dark brown paint on her bare toes. “That’s six figures!”

Her agent was understandably smug. “That’s right, kiddo. You’ve hit the big time.”

Rey’s knees were too weak to balance on her stool. She staggered over to the chaise longue and plopped down next to Craig. He lifted his head and smiled at her.

“Hey, baby.” He wrapped an arm around her waist. She shoved it away and concentrated on Evelyn’s incredible news.

“Am I interrupting something?” Evelyn had the hearing of a bat.

Rey frowned at Craig, who rolled over onto his back and stretched both arms over his head. “No, that’s just my model. Tell me about the ten-foot statue. Where on earth do these people live?”

“Didn’t you read the society column I faxed you?” Evelyn made a tsking noise.

“Sorry, Evelyn. I’ve been working twelve-hour days and haven’t had a chance,” Rey fibbed. She found the ingredient list on her paint-thinner can more interesting to read than the Chicago society pages. Fifteen years of hearing her mother gloat over them at the breakfast table had been enough. Mr. and Mrs. Hans Martinson of the Swedish consulate of Chicago hosted last night’s gala benefit for the preservation of the Scandinavian spotted puffin, blah, blah, blah…

Evelyn interrupted Rey’s trip-and-fall down memory lane. “I read them, and they reported that Mr. and Mrs. Preston Stuart III sold their Gold Coast penthouse and bought a lakefront home just north of the city. It’s already a mansion, and they’re making it even bigger.”

“How did they pick me?” It was still too much for Rey to absorb.

“The Stuarts love the art and culture of ancient Greece and Rome. Remember the fountain of water nymphs you sculpted last year?”

“Sure, that was a great project.” She’d carved the nymphs’ faces to look like the owner’s wife and daughters. It was a good thing they’d all been attractive women.

“I sent them a portfolio containing photos of the fountain and some of your recent paintings. They loved your Greco-Roman works.”

“Really?” Giddiness swirled through her. She’d spent almost a decade watching so-called artists get grants for dipping themselves in chocolate or making sculptures out of empty toilet-paper rolls. Now it was her turn to show the art world what she could do. To show her parents and all their stuck-up friends that her painting and sculpting commanded respect. And lots of money. They all understood money extremely well.

“You’ll get to sculpt that block of Italian marble into Mars, the Roman god of war. Totally nude, no fig leaf or loincloth. And if they like your preliminary sketches, they want you to paint murals in the grand rotunda. For an additional fee, of course.” Her agent laughed.

“Evelyn, I don’t know what to say.” Rey blinked to keep the tears from spilling onto her cheeks. “Thank you so much.”

“You might not thank me when I tell you the time frame on this project. The preliminary sketches are due in three weeks, so call that modeling agency. Pick someone who looks like the god of war.” Evelyn’s line clicked. “I’ll fax you the contract, Rey. I’ve got another call coming in. Congratulations!”

“Wait!” But Evelyn had already hung up. Three weeks for sketches on the most important project of her career? Rey drummed her fingers, smearing light brown paint on the sheet. She had to call Meg. Meg would cheer for her and keep her from panicking.

“Good news?” Craig’s voice startled her. She’d almost forgotten he was still there.

“Great news.” It was the best news of her career, if she found the perfect model. She examined Craig’s pretty-boy features. God of war? More like god of wuss.

He propped himself on his side and peeled off the sheet, revealing his tanned, naked body. His tanned, naked, aroused body. “Want to celebrate with me?”

Rats. “Sorry, Craig. I make it a rule never to get involved with my models.” She stood and put several feet of distance between them.

“Rey, baby, who would ever know?” He patted the expanse of chaise longue. “Plenty of room for two…” he wheedled.

She considered him. Was it time to break her rule? After all, he was buff, had all his own teeth and hair and was presumably heterosexual. It had been a long dry spell for her.

“And besides, who said anything about getting involved?” He smirked at her, running his hand down his chest to cup his erection.

Okay, it would have to be a much longer dry spell before she’d wet her whistle with a drip like him. That was all she needed at this critical point in her career—another male model like her ex-boyfriend Jack. He hadn’t wasted any time in spreading nasty gossip to all his model buddies in the Chicago art scene. For months all the straight models she’d hired had expected a roll in the hay along with their paycheck, like some kind of sleazy 401(k).

She tossed Craig a ratty black bathrobe. “Get dressed, Craig. I’m finished.”

“With the painting? Let me see.” He jumped to his feet. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted at the speed with which he abandoned his sexual advances.

He stared at the canvas. “The muscles in my back are much more developed. And my hair has more golden highlights.”

Rey rolled her eyes. “It’s not supposed to be photorealistic. Besides, the colors will look a bit different when the paints dry.”

He smoothed his hair. “Oh, okay. I do look pretty spectacular in this painting.”

Just like Narcissus, Craig loved himself the best. What else did she expect from a male model?

MARCO FLORES GLANCED UP and down the dim hall, straining to hear any unusual noise, like a round being chambered or a pistol being cocked. But only the sound of loud hip-hop music came from one apartment, mixing with the smell of Chinese food from another. The corridor remained empty, so he proceeded down the hall. Francisco’s West Side apartment building was as seedy as usual.

Even using his investigative skills, Marco had a hard time keeping track of Francisco. He moved in and out of girlfriends’ apartments at the blink of an eye and had lived in six different cities in the past eighteen months. This latest place belonged to one of his bartending buddies who had taken a cruise-ship job for the winter.

He knocked on his younger brother’s reinforced-steel door. Five locks and a chain clicked open before Francisco’s head popped into view. Marco picked up his garment bag and ducked into his brother’s studio apartment.

“Hey, Francisco!” He grinned at his disgustingly handsome younger brother.

“You’re a day early. Good thing you caught me. I just got home from a gig.” Francisco’s hair was slicked back into glistening black waves.

“Still doing the modeling?”

“It pays the bills, and they really seem to go for the hot-Cuban look here in the icy north.” Francisco shut the door, fastening the line of locks. “I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”

“I flew into Milwaukee and hopped the commuter train.” He didn’t mention the four plane changes under different names to evade pursuit. He didn’t want to panic Francisco, so he’d told his younger brother a cock-and-bull story about needing to leave Miami for a few weeks because he’d accidentally slept with some mobster’s girlfriend. Even a mob girlfriend sounded good at this point. He hadn’t been with a woman in several months, afraid he would let his guard down during sex and say something he shouldn’t.

“You should have let me pick you up.”

“With what? Your bicycle?” Marco set down the garment bag and pulled his brother into an embrace, marveling at how his baby brother was now as tall as he was. Although six years separated them, they could almost pass for each other. Francisco’s eyes were the color of Cuban espresso, whereas his own were hazel, courtesy of their fair-skinned Spanish grandmother.

“What’s with the ringlets?” Francisco rubbed Marco’s hair.

“Knock it off.” Marco ducked away. “My hair’s still shorter than yours, Miss Shirley Temple.”

“Shirley Temple? Like those kiddie cocktails?” Francisco tended bar part-time at a nearby dance club.

“Never mind.” Marco had always preferred to tame his curly hair with a severe cut, but later the longer, more casual style had fit his role as a soldier in the Rodríguez organization.

After all, when millions of dollars in Colombian cocaine passed through your hands on their way to eager American nostrils, there was no excuse to dress like a slob. Or worse, an underpaid undercover DEA agent whose boss had initially refused to pony up the taxpayers’ money for expensive Italian suits and handmade leather shoes.

Once Marco had made it clear that if he didn’t dress the part of a rising lieutenant in the cartel they’d be undressing him at the morgue, the purse strings loosened up in a hurry.

Now it was time to get back to who he really was. “If you have a clipper, I’ll give myself a trim tomorrow.”

Francisco gave him a cagey look. “You might want to hold off on the cut. That hair will keep you warm. The weather’s supposed to fall below zero this week.”

Marco took off his black leather coat and hung it in the tiny closet. “It wasn’t so bad out there.”

“Unseasonably warm. You can borrow my winter coat if you want. It’s brand-new, 650-fill goose down.”

“Thanks.” Marco knew something was up. “Why won’t you need it?”

“I have a favor to ask.” Francisco gave him the winning grin that made the girls sigh and drop their panties.

“How much this time?” Marco reached for the large wad of cash in his pocket. Untraceable and anonymous to bribe Francisco to take a free, spur-of-the-moment vacation.

Marco’s Family Tourism Agency. His motto was Get the Hell Out of Town and Don’t Ask Any Questions. Mamá had already left on her honeymoon cruise with her new husband. She and Luis had originally planned a quick trip to Puerto Rico and the British Virgin Islands, but Marco had bought them a six-week cruise through the Mediterranean. He wanted them out of the Caribbean, away from Rodríguez’s sphere of influence.

“I don’t need your money. I need your body.”

Marco quirked an eyebrow. “I usually hear that from the señoritas, not my brother.”

“Gotta be careful with those hot chicks, hermano. If you’d found out she was already taken before you did the nasty, you wouldn’t have to come to Chicago in January.”

Marco shrugged sheepishly, inwardly pleased his brother had believed his cover story.

“Here’s my problem.” Francisco flopped onto a low couch with a wooden frame. “I met a casting agent when I was bartending last week. He got me a soap-opera audition.”

“Congratulations!” Marco eased down on the couch next to his brother and stretched his legs. It had been a long thirty-six hours of travel.

“Hope for Tomorrow is a brand-new show filming in Los Angeles. The producers want to capitalize on the growing Hispanic audience, so they’ll dub every episode into Spanish, as well, and sell it to the big Miami television networks. The casting agent said they’re looking for a handsome, talented Latino leading man.”

“At least they got the Latino part right.” Marco elbowed his brother in the ribs. He stopped laughing when he saw Francisco’s glum face. “So what’s the problem?”

“I can’t do it.”

“I was just kidding, Francisco. You’ve got plenty of talent, and God knows the ladies think you’re handsome.” Marco shifted his weight to keep the wooden slats from digging into his back.

“I have a modeling appointment scheduled here in Chicago for the same time as my audition.” Francisco ran his fingers through his hair and frowned at the hair gel on his palm. “My modeling agency will fire me if I cancel again. I can’t afford to lose them.”

His younger brother looked miserable. It was the perfect situation. “Go to L.A. and audition. I’ll go to your appointment for you.” It would get Francisco away from Chicago in case Rodríguez found him. As for himself, he could show up for the modeling thing, stand around looking brainless, then hightail it to his next hidey-hole.

“Really? I was hoping you’d offer.” Francisco straightened and stared at his brother. “You’d actually go on a modeling appointment for me? You can pass for me with your longer haircut.”

“Don’t count on me getting the job for you,” Marco warned. “I’m just holding your place until you get back from California.”

Francisco leaped up from the torturous sofa and pulled Marco to his feet. “Muchas gracias, hermano. I owe you one.” He slapped Marco on the back.

Marco grinned at him. “You owe me more than one. If anybody knew I was prancing down a runway, my reputation would be shot.” Not to mention what Rodríguez would do if he saw his picture.

“It’s not runway modeling. Some artist named Rey Martinson is looking for a model for one of his projects. Just show up, tell him you’re Francisco Flores, and leave.”

“That’s it? It sounds easy.” Marco didn’t want to go audition for some guy, but it was a small price to pay for Francisco’s safety.

“It is easy. Models get paid for looks, not brains.” Francisco dragged a soft-sided suitcase out of his closet. “Go take a shower and relax. I have to decide what I’m going to pack for my audition. Your audition is tomorrow.”

Marco headed to the tiny bathroom. “Ah, the actor’s life is a rough life. Since you don’t want this artist to hire me, I won’t worry about what to wear.”

He closed the door but not before Francisco said, “Believe me, your clothes won’t make a difference.”

2

MARCO CRANED HIS NECK TO double-check the address on the loft building in Chicago’s North Side Bucktown neighborhood. Dios mío, it was cold. The icy wind blew a crushed paper cup along the salt-crusted sidewalk. He pulled up his collar in case anyone was following him.

Francisco owed him big for this one. His younger brother had also left his fancy down coat at the cleaners and it wouldn’t be ready until Monday, so Marco was stuck with his own thin leather coat. As he pressed the buzzer, blobs of dirty snow slid off the overhang and slipped down his neck. A string of curses burst from his lips.

The wide steel door slid open. ¡Caray! Although Marco definitely wasn’t familiar with Nordic mythology, the tall blonde in front of him had to be the reincarnation of some winter goddess. Her long pale hair curved on her shoulders, framing a pink-and-white complexion. Ice-blue eyes sparkled from between light brown lashes.

“You must be Francisco. Come in and get warm.” She reached out a paint-stained hand and tugged him inside. Her full breasts bounced gently under her light blue sweater.

She had called him Francisco. There was no way he wanted to hear his brother’s name come out of her sexy mouth. “Actually I go by Marco.”

“Oh, I probably misheard your agent. My name is Rey Martinson.”

Rey? The blond goddess was the artist? She hustled him inside the foyer to a large loft space full of canvases, drop cloths and what looked like chisels and hammers. Gloomy afternoon light filtered in through the floor-to-ceiling windows lining a long redbrick wall. He craned his neck and saw a rumpled bed in the far corner of the loft.

“I’ll hang up your coat so you can go change in the dressing room.” She pointed to a small curtained cubicle next to a platform.

“Change?”

“So I can see if you’d be a good fit for my new project.” She hustled off to adjust a camera tripod.

Francisco had told him this wasn’t a fashion-modeling audition. He stood still for a second and decided to go along with whatever Rey wanted. He shut himself inside the drafty cubicle and shucked off his ice-crusted black jeans, cold fingers fumbling with the buttons on his short-sleeved black shirt. He looked for the outfit he was supposed to model but the only clothing was a ratty-looking bathrobe.

“Your agent said you’ve done life modeling before?” she asked.

“Sure, I’ve done it before,” he answered. Life modeling? He’d briefly dated a chain-smoking artist who painted what she called “still lifes”—big ugly bowls of rotting fruit that were supposed to say something deep about the futility of existence or some garbage like that. Maybe Rey wanted him to hold a fruit bowl while she painted his picture.

“Oh, great. I always find experienced life models easier to work with.” Her cheerful voice floated over the wall. Her English was very precise, with a slight lilt on the vowels—as if she’d grown up speaking two languages, as he had.

“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.

“Seriously, this is great for my career. My agent told me Rey Martinson is one of Chicago’s up-and-coming artists. The Museum of Contemporary Art is considering a small-scale exhibit of his work next year. Any model would be thrilled to work for him.”

“First of all, Rey Martinson is not a ‘him’.” Rey could never be mistaken for a man, not with her silky golden hair and plump breasts.

“Really? Just shows how much I pay attention to my modeling agent. If I land this soap-opera role, I’m firing her.”

“You should fire her.” Marco ran a hand through his tangled curls. “Hermanito, do you know what life modeling is?”

“I know what life modeling is. Don’t you?” Francisco was uncharacteristically cagey.

“I do now, Francisco!” Just remembering standing nude in front of Rey sent a rush of blood to his penis.

“You mean this modeling gig is nude modeling?” His brother let out a shout of laughter loud enough to be heard in Chicago without using the phone. “Were you rough, tough and in the buff?”

“It’s not funny, Francisco!”

While Francisco choked with laughter, Marco contemplated choking his brother.

Francisco finally caught his breath. “I swear, hermano, my agent never told me I’d have to go full monty. I wouldn’t have sent you to take my place if I’d known it was nude modeling.”

“Thanks, Francisco. I didn’t think you’d set me up for this on purpose.” He knew Francisco wouldn’t have left him there hanging. Literally.

“Yeah, I would have taken the gig myself. The last nude modeling job I took, they paid me an extra fifty percent!”

Marco groaned. “I don’t want to know the details.”

“How much is this artist paying us, Marco?”

“Us? Last time I checked, it was my bare body on display.”

“Whatever.” Marco pictured his brother’s dismissal of the situation. “How much, Marco?” Francisco persisted.

He gave up trying to make his brother understand and named the amount Rey had offered.

“Hmm. Not bad, minus fifteen percent for my agent. You can keep whatever you make,” Francisco offered, obviously impressed at his own largesse.

“Muchas gracias.” Marco’s voice was heavy with sarcasm, which his brother chose to ignore.

“De nada. And Rey Martinson is a woman?” Francisco asked, still intent on ferreting out all the salacious details.

“Definitely.”

“What does she look like? Is she hot?”

Marco shifted, glad that his brother couldn’t see what must have been a goofy expression on his face. “She’s tall, blond and blue-eyed.” He didn’t want to elaborate further. Francisco had a dirty enough mind without hearing how sexy Rey was.

“Tall, blond and blue-eyed? Damn, some guys get all the luck. Last time I modeled nude for a wrinkly little woman who chased me around her studio.”

“So that’s how you made your extra fifty percent.” Marco knew the modeling world was crazy, but his brother always found the real lunatics.

“That old broad only got to look, no touching allowed. I’ve got my pride, you know.”

Marco had his pride, too, but he wasn’t sure how long he could keep any pride around Rey. Standing naked in front of her, he’d almost begged her to wrap her long artist’s fingers around his hard shaft.

His brother broke into his lascivious thoughts. “Much as I’d love to come to pose naked for your hot blond artist, I have to stay in L.A. for a while. I made the first cut and got called back for a second audition.”

“That’s great! Stay there as long as you want.” The longer the better. “If you run low on cash, I’ll send you some.”

“Wow, you must really want this artist all to yourself. I haven’t heard you so worked up over a woman since you went all the way with your junior prom date.”

“No, it’s not like that, Francisco.” He wanted Francisco safe, and modeling was a small price to pay.

His brother laughed. “Sure it’s like that. Anyway, I’ll be out here for a while. The executive producer is in Mexico for an experimental face-lift procedure. The FDA banned it after a bunch of people wound up unable to blink.”

Marco grimaced. “She must be some kind of hag.”

“Actually the executive producer is a man.”

Marco rolled his eyes. The man probably had a droopy dick to match his droopy eyelids. And Marco’s own undroopy dick was causing him problems. “I know it may confuse your oversexed little mind, but Rey doesn’t date her models.” He was surprised to hear the plaintive note in his voice.

“She doesn’t like men,” Francisco commiserated. “Too bad. It happens a lot in the artsy-fartsy set. I knew this gay painter once who painted nothing but female nudes. Of course, he did have issues with his mamá….”

“Francisco.” Marco ground his jaw, molars scraping off a layer of tooth enamel.

“On the other hand, lesbians usually don’t go for naked men, artistically or otherwise. They tend to paint weird pink flowers or oysters, if you get my drift.”

“Francisco.” Mercifully his younger brother’s attempt at Freudian analysis and art criticism meandered to a halt. Marco took a deep breath and began again. “Francisco, Rey likes men. She paints men. I think she even dates men. But she won’t date me because I’m her model.”

His brother’s hoot of laughter nearly broke his eardrum. “She probably doesn’t date her male models because most of them date men.”

“Oh.” Marco’s conservative cubano upbringing made a rare appearance and he shuddered.

“Look at it this way, Marco,” his brother offered in a conciliatory tone. “Show up, take off your clothes and maybe your impressive body will convince her to change her mind about dating her models.”

Marco considered his brother’s advice. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea.”

“I do have good ideas now and then.” Francisco’s tone became concerned. “Are you doing okay, Marco? Have you been spotted by any men with large necks intent on avenging their slutty girlfriend’s honor?”

Marco stopped thinking about posing nude and got serious. “No, Chicago’s the perfect city for me to hang out. It’s big enough to get lost in, and I can cover my face with a scarf when I leave the apartment. Hell, I need to use a scarf anyway. Besides,” he prevaricated, “I only slept with that mob chick once, and nobody with any sense would leave Miami this time of year.”

“All right.” His brother sounded relieved. “Wish me luck, and you’ll see me next on Hope for Tomorrow.”

“Good luck, hermanito. Adiós.”

“Adiós, hermano.” Francisco clicked off his phone.

Marco hung up and stared at the off-white apartment walls. He had refused to hide in the feds’ safe house after one of his informants disappeared. No doubt the man had provided a meal for the bull sharks off the Florida coast.

Marco’d suspected for a while that Rodríguez had a mole, a snitch in the Miami division. Since he didn’t know who to trust at DEA, he would trust the only man he could count on: himself.

Being turned into shark chow held no appeal, but neither did sitting around a government-owned shack on the edge of a swamp, watching satellite soccer and skin flicks waiting for someone to put a bullet in the back of his head. If Rodríguez wanted him dead, by God, that son of a bitch would have to work for it.

But damned if he was going to sacrifice Francisco. Marco would keep his younger brother out of town if he had to pay him. Considering Francisco’s spotty income from modeling and bartending, it would be an offer he couldn’t refuse.

He stared at the snow falling past the window. Chicago was cold, but it was better than being cold and dead in sunny Miami.

4

REY HUNG UP A NEW midnight-blue bathrobe in her changing cubicle and tossed the old bathrobe on her pile of painting rags. Marco had almost burst out of the threadbare black fabric. Of course, his chest and abs were much more muscular and well-defined than her last model. She stroked the pliant blue terry cloth. It would be soft and supple against his smooth skin. Lucky robe. It would touch him. She wouldn’t.

Why, oh, why couldn’t she find a nice, normal man who thought Monet was the French word for cash and Jackson Pollock was just an inexpensive whitefish from Mississippi? Starting with Stefan the Slug, her first lover, and culminating with Jack the Jag-off, Rey had gone for the dark, dangerous type. Of course, ten years later Stefan was mostly gray and about as dangerous as a set of children’s finger paints. And as for Jack, the only dangerous part of him was his flapping mouth.

Rey shook her head. Instead of mooning over a model with an overdeveloped ego and an underdeveloped brain, she needed to get her art supplies ready. Walking to her large angled sketching table, she opened a new box of charcoal sticks. She was testing them on a paper scrap when her phone rang.

She answered the phone. “Rey Martinson.”

“Hello, Rey. It’s Evelyn.”

“Good news, Evelyn. I found the perfect model and he starts today.”

“I have some good news, too. I just faxed the contract for the male nude sculpture to the Stuarts’ attorney. He called and said everything is in order.”

Rey whooshed a silent sigh of relief. Her biggest commission was in her grasp. “You know how much this means to me, Evelyn.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Rey.” Evelyn’s voice lost some of its coziness. “The last two paintings you showed me aren’t up to your usual high standards.”

Rey’s stomach flipped. “I’m not sure what you mean,” she managed to say. Was Evelyn letting her go as a client? How could she work on this big commission with this hanging over her head?

“Your technique was great, but the emotion wasn’t there. The paintings seemed a bit, well, dull.”

That stung more than she expected. Years in the art world hadn’t made her so thick-skinned after all. “Dull?” Rey heard a snap and looked down to find her charcoal stick cracked in two. She wiped her smeared fingers on an ochre-stained rag.

“I loved the color, but I couldn’t feel your emotional connection with the subject.”

Rey rolled her eyes. Her dislike of Craig must have spilled over into his portrait.

Evelyn continued, “I’m sending those two paintings back. Only your absolute best work goes on display.”

“I agree.” Maybe her friends at the gay bar needed some new artwork. If Craig had a fit, so much the better.

“The sculpture for the Stuarts’ Roman bath is crucial to your career, Rey. How many modern artists get commissioned for a life-size marble statue? This might put you on the map. If we use this as a springboard to move away from the male nudes, you could be the next Glenna Goodacre.”

Rey’s stomach flipped. As always, Evelyn knew exactly which buttons to push. Glenna Goodacre was Rey’s idol. The American artist had sculpted the Vietnam Women’s Memorial on display at the Mall in Washington, D.C. “What do you suggest, Evelyn? I don’t want to goof this up.”

“In a word, dear, passion.”

“Passion?” Rey grimaced. “Passion for my artwork?”

Evelyn cleared her throat delicately. “Sometimes when an artist is concentrating on her career, certain things fall by the wayside. Like family, friends and other more, uh, personal relationships.”

Like sex, Rey mentally translated.

Evelyn continued, “It might be a good idea to take a short break and recharge your batteries.”

Rey didn’t think Evelyn meant the batteries for the gadget in her nightstand. “I see.”

“I hope I haven’t hurt your feelings, Rey.” Evelyn paused. “But if you don’t produce a phenomenal piece of artwork for the Stuarts, I will have difficulties finding such prestigious and lucrative commissions for you.”

Rey knew what that meant: screw this up and kiss your career goodbye. “Thanks for letting me know, Evelyn. You can count on me to do a great job.”

“Thanks, dear. I’ll let you get back to work.” Evelyn hung up.

Rey stared out the window. Heavy gray snow clouds churned, further dampening her mood. The door buzzer sounded and she started. The adrenaline rush of starting a new project always made her jumpy. She refused to think that her nerves might be from seeing Marco again.

She crossed to the foyer, her comfortable shoes squeaking slightly on the cement floor. She stopped and consciously slowed her breathing, tugging open the heavy sliding door. Nanook of the North stood on her doorstep.

“Marco, is that you?” He was finally dressed for the cold weather, a heavy scarf covering his face. He even wore dark glasses despite the overcast day.

“In the flesh. Or soon to be in the flesh, right?”

Rey caught herself smiling at his joke before she put on her professional demeanor. He stomped the snow off his tan boots and walked inside. She closed the door and he pulled off his scarf and glasses, pushing back the hood on a chocolate-brown ski parka.

“I took your advice and dressed for the cold. I finally have some feeling in my fingers and toes.” He tugged off his heavy gloves and unzipped his jacket.

“I’ll take your coat.” The Velcro on the hood stuck to his sweater, and without thinking she moved behind him to pull it loose.

He looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Eager to get to work?”

“You’re a man of many layers,” she quipped, fingering the ecru turtleneck collar under his heavy sweater.

“What do you mean?” His voice was casual but his trapezius and deltoid muscles tightened over his shoulder blades. She realized she was still touching him and gripped his thick down coat with both hands.

“Layers of clothing. They keep you warmer.” What did he think she meant? Something more personal?

“Right.” His shoulders relaxed and he turned to face her. “I am a man of many layers of clothing just waiting to be peeled away.” He was so close she saw the tiny black flecks of beard along the smooth skin of his cheeks.

Rey dug her fingers into the coat to keep from running them along the clean line of his jaw. Instead of distracting her, the leftover warmth of his body radiated from the slippery nylon lining.

She hung his coat on the coatrack and tucked his snowy gloves and scarf on the radiator to dry. “Would you like some coffee?” She walked toward the kitchen.

“Maybe later. I already had a few cups of jet fuel at home.” He followed her, his tread silent on the concrete floor.

“Jet fuel?” She turned to look at him.

“Cuban coffee. Strong enough to power a jet engine.”

“So you’re Cuban.” That explained his dark good looks and slight accent.

He looked as if he wanted to call back his words. “Yes.”

“I was born in Sweden, but we moved to Chicago when I was twelve.”

“I left Cuba when I was twelve, too,” he admitted.

“Really? Twelve is such a hard age to leave your friends and come to a new country. I cried for a month. What was the biggest change for you?”

“What doesn’t change when you move?” He shoved his hands in his pockets and began looking at her artwork. “We should probably get started so you can get the best light, or whatever artists need.”

“Oh. Sure.” Rey glanced at the ceiling-to-floor windows along the north side of her loft. The snow was falling thickly and had blocked the natural light. But if he didn’t want to talk about Cuba, that was fine with her. She wasn’t paying him to discuss painful memories with her. “Why don’t you change in the cubicle again?”

He rattled the curtain closed, and she flipped on the new space heaters placed around the modeling dais.

“A new robe?” he called.

“Yes. Hopefully warmer and better-fitting for you.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.” He sounded surprised, as if he’d received few kindnesses.

“No problem.” She smoothed the sheet on the chaise longue and double-checked the batteries in her expensive digital camera. She flipped her large sketch pad to a clean page.

One space heater was too close to her drafting table. By the time she pulled it next to the modeling platform, its blast of hot air had overheated her. The wool sweater her mother had sent from Sweden was overkill.

Rey stripped off the prickly garment and tossed it onto a pile of canvas drop cloths in the corner. That was better. Her red long-sleeved shirt was much cooler.

She reached up with both arms and twisted her hair off her damp neck into a bun on top of her head. Where was that hair clip? She rummaged one-handed on her drafting table.

“Are those for me?” Marco stood two feet in front of her.

“What?” She inadvertently looked at her nipples thrusting against the thin cotton of her shirt. She dropped her arms, but not before the gleam in his eyes gave him away.

“The space heaters. They’re new.”

Rey waved a hand dismissively and noticed charcoal smears on her fingers. “It’s important for you to be comfortable. Warm muscles are suppler. You can assume more positions and hold them longer.” Her cheeks heated as a variety of positions totally unrelated to art ran through her mind.

He smiled, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “What position do you like best?”

“It depends.” He meant modeling positions, right?

“On what?” He padded closer.

“On what feels best. I mean, what looks best.” She caught herself inhaling his clean citrus scent. He was entirely too close for her already shaky self-possession. She backed away several feet and stumbled into her drawing table.

“Careful.” Marco’s hands on her arms steadied her balance but did nothing to steady her nerves. How had he reached her so quickly? She hadn’t even seen him move. “Did you hurt yourself?” He rubbed the tender skin in the crook of her elbows, thumbs coming achingly close to the curves of her breasts.

“No, I’m fine.” Her breath came faster, the movement pressing the sides of her breasts against his hands. She froze, desperately wanting him to stop cupping her elbows and cup her breasts instead. Her nipples tightened only a few inches away from his hands.

His own breathing quickened, widening the brown V of skin between his lapels. He bent his glossy black head toward her, closing the distance between their lips. She gulped and ducked out of his arms, hurrying to the raised platform.

“Why don’t we get started?” She was proud of her casual tone of voice.

“I thought we already did,” he murmured but obediently followed her to the dais.

She didn’t have a comeback for his innuendo, so she valiantly put on her Nordic-ice-princess persona that had frightened off several overly affectionate models. Of course, it was hard to be icy when the masculine equivalent of a blast furnace was mere inches away.

She stopped at the platform base, staring at her setup with newly carnal eyes. The low-slung chaise longue was as wide as a double bed. One corner rose into a padded backrest. She’d draped it with a pure white sheet to get the best color contrast possible.

The muscles in his calves and thighs flexed as he lowered himself to the chaise. He bounced slightly, his knees parting the terry cloth. Her stare traveled up his long thighs to the shadow between his legs. Was he wearing those tiny satin bikini briefs under his robe? Or nothing at all? He cleared his throat, and her startled gaze flew up to meet his amused one.

“Good springs. And very comfortable.” He patted the chaise next to him, making enough room for her.

She wanted to sit next to him. There was even enough room for both of them to lie down, but…no! Rey perched several feet away. Her drawing stool wasn’t nearly as welcoming as the cool white Egyptian-cotton sheet next to Marco, but it was much safer. He tipped his head, his eyes gleaming.

Rey looked away. She always chatted with the models before asking them to undress to ease any first-day-of-modeling tension. But now she couldn’t think of what to say.

The weather stunk. So did all the Chicago professional sports teams. And somehow Marco didn’t strike her as the type to agonize over lack of public funding for the fine arts. He just sat there waiting for her to say something.

She blurted, “The new robe fits well.” Too well, she thought, cursing her impulse to throw away the old skimpy robe. No wide expanse of bare chest or glimpses of tight buttocks. On the other hand, if she wanted him naked, all she had to do was ask.

Rey hadn’t been shy around male models since art school, and she wouldn’t wimp out now. “Take off your robe.” Her voice was huskier than she expected.

“I’m all yours, Reina.” He stood and reached for the loose knot at his waist.

She gulped. All hers. Artistically speaking, of course.

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