Her Body of Work (2 page)

“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 him
self, 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.”

M
ARCO 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.

M
ARCO GRINNED AND
R
EY
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 uncom
fortable 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 un
fortunate 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.