Her Body of Work (4 page)

R
EY 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 need
ed 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.

M
ARCO UNTIED THE ROBE
. Rey held her breath as the wedge of brown skin widened. His eyes never left hers as the lapels fell open, baring him below the waist. One question answered. He wasn’t wearing briefs today. He shrugged the robe off his broad shoulders and dropped it on the floor. He stood naked in front of her, his topaz body a dark jewel against the crisp white linens.

Rey clutched the sides of her chair, cursing her own foolishness. A chunk of marble must have fallen on her head over the weekend, causing artistic amnesia. How else could she have dismissed the effect his naked body had on her? He had the perfect male silhouette—wide shoulders tapering to a taut waist. His tight buttocks capped the hard thighs she’d admired last Friday. And his arousal—it was even better than she remembered. She wanted his shaft against her damp center. He seemed to read her thoughts, because his hard cock bounced even higher, pointing to his navel.

No, she wasn’t an amnesiac. She was a full-blown sadomasochist and had no one to blame but herself. Here stood the world’s sexiest man and she couldn’t lay a finger on him. Not unless she wanted to renew the gossip that had mercifully died away.

“What do you want, Reina?” His silky accent slipped over her frayed nerves.

“I want you.” Her response slipped out, horrifying her. Would that be a Freudian slip or Freudian lingerie? “And why are you calling me Reina?”

“You are beautiful, like a queen. How does my queen want me?” He stepped closer to her.

“I mean, I want you to stand over here.” For someone who lived her life visually, Marco was a masterpiece. The Sistine Chapel, Taj Mahal and the Louvre had nothing on him. The Washington Monument came pretty close though, she thought, choking back a hysterical laugh.

“Reina? Are you all right?” The concerned look in his eyes grounded her flight of fancy.

“Fine. I’m just thinking about how to pose you.” She pulled a crate closer and covered it with a smaller sheet. “Stand here and put your right foot on the crate.”

He followed her directions, the pose throwing his erection into full view.

She tamped down her surge of lust and reached for her charcoal. Staring slack-jawed at her model wouldn’t pay the bills. “We’re going to start with some short poses to warm you up, so twist slightly at the waist.”

He twisted away from her.

“No, twist toward me. I need to see your chest.” She sketched quickly, but he was already losing the pose. “You’re moving a bit. Can you hold the pose longer?”

“Sure.” He turned again but not into the right position. She set down her charcoal and walked over to help. As soon as her hands touched him, she faltered, forgetting how she wanted him to pose.

Under the slight sheen on his skin from the space heaters, she glided her hands over his sleekly muscled shoulders. Instead of moving him into position, she reached around to the strong triangles of his shoulder blades, curving the tips of her fingers over his back muscles into the deep valley of his spine.

“Rey.” He murmured her name and reached for her.

She jumped away, yanking her hands off him. “Okay, um…” She took a deep breath, trying to forget how smooth his skin was. “Marco, move your shoulders a quarter turn toward me.”

He stalked toward her. “I’d feel better if you showed me again with your hands.”

That was her problem. If his body felt any better to her sensitive artist’s hands, she’d have an orgasm from just touching him. His eyes had darkened, and his erection had gotten even larger. Not that she was staring or anything.

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 busi
ness was to sculpt a ten-foot statue. But at this point her fabulous model resembled a block of marble more than a Roman god.

M
ARCO 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.