Her Body of Work (7 page)

“Yes!”

He thrust into her.

It was glorious.

His molten gold eyes captured hers when she gasped. “Too deep?” He withdrew a few inches.

“No. More.” She shook her head frantically, unable to move her body farther onto his shaft.

“You can have all of me.” His shoulders flexed under her calves as he slid back.

She had never been so thoroughly filled. His swollen penis pulsed inside her, stretching her vagina until she cried out from the exquisite pressure.

He cupped and squeezed her buttocks. “You have a great ass. Next time I want to bend you over the chaise and take you from behind.” He angled his hips so his head nudged the entrance to her womb, withdrawing
and thrusting. She bowed her body to accommodate the deep penetration. She wasn’t afraid of losing her balance anymore because he was rock-steady around her and inside her.

“You’re so wet and tight around me. I can tell you want to come so bad.” He was on the edge, too, a sheen of sweat gilding his skin despite the cool air. He reached between their bodies and stroked her clit.

She moaned and twisted in his intimate embrace, wanting release from his finger slipping over her and his cock slipping inside her. His slow, relentless pace forced her to hang over a delirious precipice until her hold broke and she tumbled, pulling him with her as his control shattered and he fell into her eager body, moaning long, liquid gushes of Spanish endearments.

M
ARCO SPRAWLED ON HIS
stomach as if he hadn’t slept in days, his body solid and heavy.

Rey crept from under his arm and pulled on the midnight-blue terry-cloth robe draped over a nearby chair. She found her art supplies and dragged her stool close to him.

For the first time in weeks she drew for the sheer pleasure of it, scratching the charcoal feverishly over the pristine white pages of her sketch pad. Finally here was her Roman god, the black spirals of his hair, the long sculpted lines of his scarred back, the curves of his thick palms and the high arches of his feet.

She flipped her pad over to a fresh page, intent on sketching his face in detail. His eyes opened slowly. Her stomach fluttered at his lazy golden gaze as he rolled over onto his side.

“You’re going to hurt my feelings. I thought I’d tired you enough that we wouldn’t work tonight. Come here.” He patted the sheet exactly as Craig, her last nude model, had.

This time she tossed aside her sketch pad and dropped the robe. When a Roman god issued a command to join him in bed, what mortal woman could resist?

M
ARCO PEERED THROUGH THE
curtains at his brother’s apartment. He’d been extremely cautious after almost strangling the homeless guy near Rey’s loft.

Francisco’s audition had gone well and he was preparing for a screen test. Marco hadn’t heard from his
mamá,
so no news was good news.

He pulled out the cell phone he’d bought along with the pistol. He’d rethought his plan of cutting off total contact with any of his DEA buddies and had decided to call his closest friend, Eddie Jones. Eddie was a former college football player from Texas and spoke Spanish as if he were born in Mexico City. He’d brought down several drug runners along the Río Grande and had been a great help to Marco. Now Marco was counting on him even more.

The gun dealer had assured him that the cloned phone, like the pistol, was untraceable. Marco obviously never trusted anyone who sold illegal goods, but he had made it clear that he would be back, pistol in hand, if he encountered any difficulties.

The man had believed him.

Marco sighed. He would be happy to see the last of the cold, intimidating side of his personality, but it had been part of him since he was twelve. Not for the first
time Marco considered his future—if he had one. Working undercover for DEA did not accentuate his good qualities, and he was damn sure he didn’t want to ride a desk.

Marco pressed the code to block the caller ID and dialed Eddie’s private cell number.

“Jones here.”

“
Hola,
Lalo.” As far as he knew, Marco was the only one who called him Lalo, the common Spanish nickname for Eduardo. Everyone else called him Eddie or Jonesey.

Marco heard a sharp intake of breath and then his friend’s slow drawl came over the phone. “Hey, how’s it goin’?”

“Still here.”

“Uh-huh.” Eddie spoke to whoever was with him. “Darlin’, I’m gonna step outside for a quick smoke.”

“Did I interrupt something?” Marco couldn’t resist needling his friend.

“Cut the shit and tell me what the hell’s going on! The boss thought you’d already been fed to either the sharks or the gators.”

“Someone’s rotten in our office. There were only a few people who knew about my informant.”

“Yeah, about him…” Eddie cleared his throat. “Metro-Dade PD found enough parts of him to make an ID.”

Marco pinched the bridge of his nose and swore a long stream of obscenities.

“Sorry, man. I had a snitch get offed in Mexico once. Guy was no prince but still didn’t deserve it.”

“Damn it!” Marco had known deep down his snitch
was dead, but hearing the confirmation just made him madder.

“Listen,
mano,
I don’t even want to know where you are. We still have Rodríguez under surveillance, but that doesn’t mean jack.” A cigarette lighter clicked and Eddie sucked in a lungful of smoke.

“I’m safe for now. Nose around at the office and see what you can dig up, but be careful, for God’s sake.” Marco didn’t want to pull Eddie deeper into the mess.

His friend exhaled a long stream of smoke. “Will do. Call me when you can and stay safe,
amigo.
”

“
Hasta la vista,
Eddie.”

“You better believe I’ll see you later. None of that goodbye shit. Oops, gotta go, my date’s coming.”

“Is she a screamer or a moaner?”

Eddie told him where to stick it and hung up.

Marco turned off the phone. He’d keep it for a while, since buying another stolen phone would be risky. Especially since he didn’t want to get caught with a pistol in his pocket.

Getting arrested for carrying a concealed, illegal weapon would be a real kick to the
cojones.
Jail was full of men willing to kill him for a dime bag of cocaine while the cops worked out who he was.

If it came down to that, what was he willing to do to keep his freedom? Shoot a fellow officer in the shoulder or leg?

Normally he’d rather get shot himself than do that, but his sense of self-preservation had been honed to a razor’s edge. He just didn’t know what kind of man Marco Flores was anymore.

M
ARCO LET OUT A GUTTURAL
cry that mingled with Rey’s moans. “Oh, my God, Marco, you’re going to kill me.” She let go of his shoulders and grimaced as she lowered her wobbly legs from his waist.

“What a headline.” He rolled off her and they lay side by side. “‘Famous Chicago Artist Comes to Death After a Week of Fantastic Multiple Orgasms.’” It had been a fantastic week for him, too. Over the past year his sexual encounters had been impersonal and furtive, more for physical release than emotional closeness. Celibacy was not an admired trait among Rodríguez’s men.

His stomach growled and she giggled, running her fingers over his abs. “‘Sexy Model Starves Because He’d Rather Make Love Than Eat.’”

“You think that’s funny?” He grabbed her around the waist and tickled her. And if he got to fondle her breasts while she squirmed in his arms, so much the better.

“Stop, stop,” she panted among a fit of giggles. “All right, I’ll feed you.”

“Yum.” He rolled on top of her and nibbled on her ear. “What would you like me to eat first?”

“No, I mean real food.” She shoved at his chest, her surprisingly strong arms lifting him off her.

He flopped over, throwing his forearm over his head. “I’ll take a
café con leche
with some fresh Cuban bread.”

Rey sat up, finger-combing the tangles from her hair. “How about Swedish coffee with fresh apple strudel? I know a great bakery not far from here.”

He thought fast. He didn’t like going out in full daylight, but he’d bundle up and only leave his nose exposed. His stomach gurgled again. “You’ve got a deal.”

She stood and ambled across her bedroom, her shapely ass swaying. He leaped up to follow her and a rush of cold air shriveled his private parts. He put his hands on her butt, enjoying her squeal as he hustled her into the bathroom. “I hope you’ve got plenty of hot water to warm us.”

Giving him a saucy grin, she twisted the chrome faucet in her large tiled shower. “I’ve got a better idea to warm you.”

He grinned and followed her into the stream of water. Winter in Chicago had its benefits after all.

“I’
M SO FULL
.” R
EY LEANED
back and moaned with pleasure.

“Take some more,” he coaxed.

“It’s too big and thick. Why don’t you finish?”

“If you insist.” He lifted the éclair and licked a smear of chocolate off his firm upper lip. Rey’s stomach quivered with feelings that had nothing to do with overconsumption of French pastry.

Marco noticed her staring at his mouth and set the éclair on the marble-topped café table. Rey had wanted to sit next to the sunny window, but he had tugged
her to a table near the kitchen. “Now that we’ve stoked up on fuel, why don’t we go back to your place and burn some of it off?” He was still wearing his sunglasses and brown knit watch cap.

It was a tempting suggestion, especially when he reached over and caressed her hand. But it was a beautiful bright day, and she was still too much of a Swede not to take advantage of any winter sunshine. “Let’s take a walk in the beautiful weather.”

“Beautiful weather?” He looked out the picture window. “I see six-foot drifts of snow in the corner of the parking lot.”

“It’s only a couple degrees below freezing. The sunlight is good for you.” She pushed back her black wrought-iron chair and reached for her coat. She stroked his smooth jaw, inhaling the fresh scent of his shaving cream. “I told my friend at the Swedish-American Museum I’d stop in if I was in the neighborhood. It’s only a few blocks.”

His lips tightened and he looked as though he wanted to refuse.

“Please? We won’t stay very long, and the cultural center really is a neat little place.”

“All right.” He took her jacket and held it for her. As she drew it around her shoulders, he wrapped his arms around her from behind. “If I get too cold, will you warm me up?”

He held the bakery door open for her and they strolled outside. The weak sunlight flashed off puddles of salty slush on the uneven sidewalk.

“What is this neighborhood called anyway?” He tucked her hand into his roomy pocket. Even through their gloves his heat warmed her.

“Andersonville, after the Swedish immigrants who came here in the 1800s.”

“It seems to have changed a bit.” He glanced at an Armenian restaurant, several trendy bistros and a bakery for dogs.

“Only on the surface. It still has the immigrant attitude that anything is possible, that you can leave your old life behind and create something new and wonderful.”

“Like you’ve done with your artwork.”

“Yes, I suppose.” Irrational discontent pricked at her. Her initial sketches of Marco were fabulous, her agent was thrilled and she’d had more orgasms in the last week than in her entire life. She’d told Marco about her family and friends, but he still held back any personal information. “So what kind of new life did you create for yourself?”

He laughed. “I was just a kid. The only life I created was what my mother wanted. Go to school, stay out of trouble and don’t embarrass the family.”

“Well, now that you’re an adult, you don’t have to listen to your mother.”

“Not listen to my mother? You’ve never met a Cuban
mamá,
have you? Or worse yet, a Cuban
abuelita?
That’s Spanish for grandmother, by the way.”

“No, I never have.”

He shivered in mock terror. “Those ladies are scary. I’ve seen hardened criminals on their knees, pleading. ‘Oh, please don’t let my mother post bail. I’d rather go to jail than go home and have her smack me with her cane.’ Pathetic.” He shook his head.

“And where did you run into hardened criminals?”

His fingers tightened infinitesimally over hers and deliberately relaxed. “A misspent youth.”

“Really?” Rey flicked a glance at his profile, realizing that he hadn’t answered her question about what kind of life he’d made for himself after leaving Cuba.

“I fell in with the wrong crowd, goofed off in school and chased too many girls. Of course, none of them was as beautiful as you.” He swept her into his arms, his lips warming hers in the cold Chicago sunlight until she forgot what she’d wanted to ask him.

M
ARCO WATCHED THE OTHER
pedestrians, his mirrored sunglasses concealing the direction of his gaze. None was an obvious candidate to be on Rodríguez’s payroll, especially not the East Indian woman berating her dawdling teenage son window-shopping the latest Play-Station releases. He smiled to himself. Mothers sounded alike in any language.

Rey saw the duo and laughed. Still holding his hand, she turned slightly as they walked to the museum. “What did your mother do when you fell into bad company? She couldn’t have been old enough to whack you with her cane.”

He didn’t want to answer any more personal questions because it was getting harder and harder to lie to her. “Nothing so drastic. She grounded me from watching my favorite TV shows.”

“Yeah, that’s what my mother always tried. Until she realized I’d rather paint. So she grounded me from my art supplies instead.” She grinned at him. “What was your favorite TV show?”

He sighed, a long stream of air spiraling in front of him like dragon’s breath.
“Miami Vice.”

“A hometown show. Cool.”

“Pretty exciting stuff,” he agreed. But the eighties cop show had meant more to him than fast cars, scantily clad women and beating up bad guys. If his buddies at DEA ever found out Sonny Crockett and Ricardo Tubbs were his inspiration to go into law enforcement, their howls of laughter would be heard from Miami to Jacksonville. They’d probably buy him a white linen blazer and pink shirt just for kicks.

She shook her head. “Moms always know just how to drive you crazy. Mine sure does. At least she and my father are out of the country and not around to pester me.”

“Yeah, my mother’s traveling now, too. She recently got married to an old friend of the family and they’re on a honeymoon cruise.”

“Your mother’s on her honeymoon? That’s so sweet.”

“Sweet?” Marco made a sour face. “I guess. At least Luis is a decent guy. Their cruise ship is touring the Mediterranean for at least six weeks.” Long enough to keep his mother safe until Marco’s testimony in February.

“Six weeks? That’s a long cruise.”

He’d paid for it over their objections as a wedding gift, but it was worth it. “The ship will visit Spain, the south of France, Italy and the Greek isles.”

“Wow.” She was impressed. “A honeymoon fit for a queen.”

“She deserves it. She’s been alone for a long time.” To his shock, his throat clogged. Dammit. It had been over twenty years, but he still missed his father.

“What a lucky woman.” Her blue eyes were suspiciously bright. “Not only to find love a second time but to have a wonderful son like you.” She squeezed his gloved hand.

His cheeks reddened and he tried to tell himself it was windburn. Fortunately for his Cuban sense of machismo, they arrived at the Swedish museum and he was spared from more undeserved praise.

“Oh, look, we’re here.” He stopped in front of the wide set of polished granite steps. “Shall we go in?”

Rey gave him a fishy look but didn’t press him. She ran lightly up the stairs, her boots crunching on the chunks of rock salt used to melt ice. She was obviously eager to see her friend.

He stopped midstep. Was her friend an old boyfriend? She’d said she wasn’t seeing anybody, but a woman as beautiful and intelligent as Rey was sure to have a few exes. He followed her grimly, imagining a six-and-a-half-foot-tall Viking named Sven with golden hair and sky-blue eyes. He had a sudden hatred for guys like that.

She waited for him at the top of the steps and he opened the heavy glass door for her. She thanked him and walked in, pulling off her gloves and cute little fleecy hat. She unzipped her parka, her full breasts outlined under her snug blue fluffy sweater.

Growing up in Miami, he’d seen his share of breasts, some covered by the legal minimum, some not. But there was something naughty about breasts under a nice tight sweater that invited a man to strip it off and see for himself.

“Look, she’s here!” Rey ran across the lobby, her hiking boots squeaking on the wet floor.

She? He tamped down the rush of relief and followed her.

“Freya! How are you?” An elegant ash-blond wom
an in her fifties came from behind the reception desk and greeted Rey with a kiss on each cheek.

“Annike, I hoped you’d be volunteering today. It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other.” Marco was amused to hear Rey’s Swedish accent deepen to match her friend’s.

“Too long, dear.” Rey and her friend started chatting in Swedish. Marco contented himself with listening to their singsong voices. Rey’s youthful beauty along with Annike’s mature good looks was a happy combination for any man to watch. If Annike were any example of how Swedish women aged, Rey would still be beautiful in thirty years.

The man who loved her in thirty years would be lucky. Envy for that unknown man jabbed into him, unexpected and unwelcome. Why should he care? He couldn’t stay around for thirty days, much less thirty years. Men like him never could. He had gone into the DEA knowing it would be like this, and considering a long-term relationship was sheer foolishness. No matter how he might wish otherwise.

Rey caught him watching her and abruptly switched into English. “I’m sorry, Marco. Annike, this is my friend Marco Flores. Marco, this is my first art teacher and dear friend, Annike Peterson. She started me on my art career.”

“Oh, Rey.” Annike gave her young friend a fond look. “You give me too much credit. You would have discovered your artistic talent the first time you picked up a brush.”

“No, no.” Rey hugged her. “But I have an exhibition in February. You have to come.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Annike promised. “The muse
um is hosting a social evening for singles next month, but it doesn’t look like you’d be interested.” Her knowing smile was a punch in the gut. Next month he’d be in Miami and Rey would be free to meet tall, blond men at Swedish singles’ night.

“No, not this time,” Rey replied lightly. “Today we’re just here for a quick visit.”

Just then a troop of Scouts jostled into the museum. “Ah, here’s my two-o’clock tour.” She extended her hand to Marco and he shook it gently. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Marco.” She muttered something in Swedish and turned to greet the troop leaders.

Rey leaned into Marco. “Annike was praying for help.”

“You’d think the Swedish-American Museum would be used to Viking raiders.”

“Not the eight-year-old variety.”

“That’s true. Those horned helmets would fall over their eyes.”

“That’s just a Hollywood myth.” She grabbed his elbow and a jolt of desire shot up his arm. He looked at her smiling face and let her drag him down the corridor.

“I thought since you were an immigrant, too, you might like the immigration exhibit.”

“
Querida,
anyone who comes from Cuba is a refugee, plain and simple.”

“Refugee or no, it’s designed to show children the immigrant experience,” she said. “Of course, I came to America on an SAS flight from Stockholm.”

It was just another reason not to get attached to her. Even their immigration experiences were worlds apart. “What does the exhibit have, a replica of the waiting room at Immigration and Naturalization Services?”

“It’s a bit more interesting than that.” She turned the corner. He almost bumped into her because he’d been admiring the wiggle of her hips.

“Isn’t that great?” She pointed to the exhibit.

Great. A boat.

He’d come a millimeter away from dying only twice in his life. Both times it had been on a boat.

Rey ran up the gangplank. “Come on, Marco. Let’s play on the ship.”

“Rey, this is a kid’s exhibit. I don’t want to break it.”

“Don’t be silly. We’re the only ones here. It’ll be fun.”

At least it didn’t look like the raft he’d ridden in from Cuba. It wasn’t sinking. Or like the yacht he’d dived off when his cover was blown. Nobody was shooting at him.

He stepped on the deck, the wood creaking. Rey ran to the front, her steps shaking the planks under his boots. “Can you imagine it, Marco?”

He didn’t have to.

“A tiny ship bobbing in the vast Atlantic Ocean. No sonar, no cell phones, no way to call for help if disaster threatened. Twenty-foot-high waves tossing the fragile vessel back and forth, up and down, side to side.” Rey swayed, riding the stormy seas.

Marco sighed. The reality was much less romantic. Pissing over the side of the raft, lips cracking from dehydration, skin burning from the sun’s rays bouncing off the ocean.

“The only protection from brutal storms and waves was a thin wooden hull.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Marco, if you’re bored, just tell me. We can look at many more exhibits here in the museum. Or we can leave.”

Oh, no. He’d hurt her feelings. He actually liked boats, often borrowing his buddy’s to go deep-sea fishing. And after all, he was from Miami, the boating capital of the universe.

“Okay, let’s go.” Rey passed him and he caught her elbow.

He opened his mouth to say something noncommittal and soothing. Instead he blurted out everything. “We came from Cuba on a raft not much bigger than this.” He didn’t know why he’d let that slip. He never discussed how he’d left Cuba.

She stopped and stared at him. “You took a raft across the ocean?”

“Yeah, we had a rough crossing and took on lots of water.” Now that he’d told her, the story flooded out of him. “My baby brother got hurt, and there were sharks circling us.” Both marine and human. “My mother counted on me. I was the man of the family, but I couldn’t protect them.”

“Protect them? From what?”

“Weather, waves and lots of criminals leaving Cuba at the same time.” He didn’t want to say more.

“Marco, you weren’t more than a child yourself. Did your family make it safely?”

“More or less.”

“Then you did your job. I’m sure your mother was glad for your help.”

He was touched at her thoughtfulness. He cupped her jaw. “I’m glad you showed me this boat.”

The funny thing was, he
was
glad. He pulled Rey close for a hug. Wrapping his arms around her, he nuzzled her neck.

She snuggled close. “When we met, you reminded me of a Spanish pirate in an old Saturday-afternoon movie.”

Marco smiled into her floral-scented hair. She was closer to the truth than she thought. He’d raided several ships in his line of work. “Not a Spanish pirate. They lisp, throwing in
th
s all over the place. How about a Cuban pirate? They find the best booty.” His hand cupped her ass. She pulled away, but slowly, so he got a firm squeeze in.

“Behave yourself. This is a children’s museum.” She tipped her head and smiled. “But you have the look—dark, handsome and more than a bit dangerous. A perfect swashbuckler.”

“Ahoy, wench, want to unbuckle my swash?” He grabbed her hand and slid it to the bulge beneath his slim silver belt buckle.

“Marco!” Rey yanked her hand away and waggled a finger under his nose. “This is not the place.”

He grabbed her hand again and guided it back. “Oh, yes,
this
is the place.”

“You know what I mean,” she sputtered. The scouts burst in the door and stampeded to the wooden boat exhibit. She gave him a see-I-told-you-so look.

He guided Rey off the boat. “What would you like to show me now?” He purposely deepened his voice and leered at her.

They walked hand in hand around the corner. She pointed to a closed door. “That’s the art classroom. Annike still teaches painting classes like the one I took.”

“How old were you when you began painting?” He figured eighteen was the minimum legal age for drawing naked men.

“I was twelve.”

“Twelve?” Marco had heard Scandinavians were very comfortable with nudity, but hey, come on. “And your parents were okay with that?”

“Well, it was just a hobby at first, but when I attended more and more classes, they realized I had a serious interest.”

At twelve he’d had a serious interest in naked women, but he didn’t think his
mamá
would have let him go to art class to paint them.

“I had trouble getting the fine details right at first, like getting the right shade of pink and making sure all the veins went in the right direction, but Annike is an expert.”

“She is?” Marco’s mind boggled at the image of the elegant Annike kneeling to examine some male model’s penis.

“Oh, yes. She started painting when she was a young girl in Sweden. This kind of painting has a long and respected tradition in Scandinavia.”

Marco couldn’t keep silent anymore. “What kind of parents let you paint naked men when you were only twelve?”

“Paint naked men when I was twelve?” Rey stopped dead and stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Getting the right shade of pink and making sure the veins ran in the right direction. I think you’re a great artist, but I don’t think it’s proper for young girls to paint pictures of naked men.”

Rey looked puzzled. “I agree.” Understanding dawned on her face. “Oh, Marco. You thought Annike painted naked men?” She bent at the waist and laughed until her ivory cheeks turned red.

“My Cuban upbringing might be more conservative than your Swedish background, but…” He stopped as Rey waved her hand. Straightening and stifling a couple more giggles, she cupped his jaw with her long fingers.

“You are a
good
man, Marco Flores.” She stood on tiptoe and pressed a brief kiss on his mouth. He savored the spicy cinnamon taste of her lips. She pulled away after a minute and smiled at him. “Annike doesn’t teach nude painting here at the Swedish-American Museum. She teaches traditional Swedish decorative painting.”

“No naked men?” Marco felt a mixture of relief and embarrassment.

“Nope. We painted floral designs on chairs, tables, small wooden plaques. I always had trouble mixing the right shade of pink for the flowers and making sure the veins on the leaves went in the right direction.” She smiled at him and laced her fingers through his, his hand wrapping around hers. “I didn’t draw nude men until I was eighteen and in art school. Men are much more interesting than flowers.”

“I’m glad you think so. If you’d become a florist, we might not have met.” He pulled her into the shadows of a darkened exhibit. “Let’s go in here.”