Читать книгу Her Body Of Work - Marie Donovan - Страница 7

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.”