Her Body of Work (11 page)

She left him in the gallery while she used the ladies’ room downstairs. She washed her hands and left, eager to find him and show him her favorite Renaissance paintings. She turned the corner and bumped into another one of the black-garbed artistic souls that drooped around the museum.

“Excuse me.” She walked past and stiffened when the man caught her arm.

“Freya, dear.” His unctuous tones slithered along her spine. Only one man disgusted her so thoroughly with just two words. She tugged her arm free.

“Stefan.” Rey announced his name with all the en
thusiasm of finding a flaming bag of dog doo on her doorstep. “First of all, no one calls me Freya. And I am definitely not your ‘dear.’”

He ignored her words, just as he always had. “It’s been so long since we talked.”

Not long enough.
She’d purposely stayed away from gallery openings for years before she gathered the courage to even be in the same room with him. She’d avoided talking to him until now. But no more. What could he say to sting her now?

She took a deep breath. “What brings you to the Michelangelo exhibit, Stefan? Did the craft store run out of Popsicle sticks?”

Stefan’s pasty complexion reddened at her mention of his last exhibition, where he’d painted Popsicle sticks thirty different colors and thrown them willy-nilly on the gallery floor, supposedly to symbolize the randomness of life. The
Chicago Tribune
art critic had not been kind. “At least I try to expand my horizons, to free myself from the bourgeois constraints of the dreary past.” He stroked his yellowish gray goatee, obviously waiting for her expressions of awe.

Rey laughed outright. He still sounded as he had ten years ago. No wonder he only dated impressionable teenagers. Anyone over twenty-one would see right through his bullshit. “And the art museum is a good place to get free from the dreary past?”

He stepped toward her, a sneer twisting his narrow face. “That’s the problem you’ve always had, Freya. Your work is hackneyed and cheap.”

Rey stood toe-to-toe with him, her blood churning with rage. She refused to let this pathetic little man in
timidate her anymore. “Cheap? This from a man who tried to sell a collection of Popsicle sticks for two thousand dollars? I just got a commission to sculpt a block of Carrara marble for six figures, Stefan. So you can stick that up your narrow ass along with your Popsicle sticks.”

He grabbed her upper arms and squeezed painfully. “Listen, you little bitch, I’ll destroy you, I swear.”

Rey’d had enough. She raised her Jimmy Choo boot and ground the stiletto heel into Stefan’s thin leather loafer.

Fortunately he wasn’t part of the Doc Martens crowd, she thought, as he let go and hopped in place, clutching his foot.

Gray strands flopped loose from the leather thong binding his hair, and he shoved them back from his face and raised his fist. She knew he meant to hit her and stepped away, but the wall was behind her. Before he got close enough, she kicked him in the knee as hard as she could, the edge of her boot connecting with a satisfying thud. When he hunched over in pain, he was still crowding her, so she kneed him in the face and darted past.

She was free, her breath coming fast and strong.

Stefan staggered against the wall. “By node.” His voice was muffled behind his hands. “I dink you broke it.”

“If you ever touch me again, I’ll make you even less of a man.” Her words came out as steely as her chisel. Triumph rushed over her, the long-held memories of Stefan’s criticisms disappearing in her rush of victory.

“What the hell is going on?” Marco stood between her and Stefan. His voice was deceptively calm, but his
eyes narrowed and his fists clenched against his sides. “Reina, did this man attack you?”

Rey got a thrill from seeing Stefan cower. “I took care of Stefan.”

“You took care of him?” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Now it’s my turn.” Marco looked ready to tear him apart.

She was tempted to let him, but a one-sided ass-kicking on the Art Institute’s lower level would undoubtedly attract attention. And with everyone in the Chicago art scene upstairs, well, that would be poor career planning on her part. She touched Marco’s tense forearm. “No, he won’t bother me anymore.” He relaxed slightly, but the danger still coiled close to the surface. “I don’t want you to get into any trouble over him.”

“No trouble, Rey.” She couldn’t figure out how he’d done it. One second he stood next to her and the next second he was hustling Stefan into the men’s room. “I’m just going to help him clean up his bloody nose.”

Right. She stood alone, rubbing the bruises on her upper arms and flexing her sore toes inside her trusty boot. Stefan had denigrated her for the last time. And whatever Marco was going to do, it was where the museum officials couldn’t see.

M
ARCO PROPELLED THE GREASY
little man by the scruff of his neck into the empty men’s room. “Let’s get some of that blood off your face. It’s ugly enough as it is.” Stefan dug his heels in and skittered along the gray terrazzo floor. Marco ignored his wimpy struggles and hustled him around the corner. He’d dropped men twice Stefan’s size. He eyeballed the dirtbag’s skinny body. No, make that three times his size.

The sleazeball took refuge in a haughty manner. Too bad he had blood and snot dripping down his face. “How dare you lay your hands on me! Do you know who I am?”

“I know you’re a man who lays your hands on women.” Marco strove to speak normally, anger clenching his throat closed. Who the hell was this
pendejo
and why had he grabbed Rey?

“You know how women are, right, buddy?” Stefan tried to slide by, but Marco shoved him into the tile wall.

“No. Tell me.”

The older man’s eyes darted around the washroom, but Marco shifted his weight to block the exit. “They don’t know what they want, always saying no when they mean yes.”

Rage crashed through Marco like a breaker on the beach. He grabbed Stefan’s collar and shoved him under the faucet. Instead of Stefan’s narrow face, he saw
El Lobo
’s smirk, his grimy hands as he had reached for Marco’s
mamá.

“I never touched her,” Stefan gasped as the water poured into his mouth. Pink water stained the white sink basin and swirled down the drain.

“So she’s a liar?” It was hard to understand his gargling noises, so Marco dug his fingers into a wet fistful of gray hair and pulled the greasy bastard up. He was a sorry sight. Marco grimaced as Stefan sniffled and wiped a black sleeve across his dripping nose.

“Yes, no, I mean…” the older man sputtered as Marco pushed him under the water again. His head made a satisfying thunk against the faucet. Marco pulled him up and shoved him against a urinal.

Stefan darted a glance at the door. “Look, man, whatever we had was a long time ago. She wasn’t even that memorable, if you know what I mean.”

This man dared to speak like this of his beautiful Reina? Marco wanted to hurt him, break his ribs until every breath was agony, punch his kidneys until he pissed blood.

He drew a deep breath, realizing that Rey wouldn’t want him to make trouble for her. “Look,
maricón,
if I ever catch you bothering Rey or any other woman, I’ll strangle you with your own ponytail.” He whispered a few more evil threats that he’d learned from his days in the cartel. Stefan blanched.
“¿Comprende?”

“I understand.” Stefan straightened slowly. When he realized Marco wasn’t going to hit him, he scuttled out,
his stacked heels sliding on the puddles of water. Marco washed his hands and dried them on a paper towel. Blood speckled the sink basin. “Out, out, damn spot,” he murmured to himself and stared into the mirror. The lust for vengeance still roiled through him. Had his time with hardened criminals twisted him into a violent man?

“W
HAT ON EARTH DID YOU
do to him?” Rey asked. Stefan had refused to meet her stare and had given her a wide berth as he’d left the men’s room. Marco hadn’t given him any visible bruises or broken bones. Unfortunately.

“Nothing. I helped him wash the blood off his face. Blood that you put there, by the way.”

She smiled, pleased with herself. “He deserved it, grabbing me and backing me into a corner. I defended myself pretty well, don’t you think?”

“You were
magnífica.
” He kissed her cheek as they walked away from the restrooms. “I never knew Swedes were such brawlers.”

She giggled. “Not since Viking times. Swedes are pretty low-key. We haven’t even fought since the Napoleonic Wars.”

Marco laughed with her and took her hand, peering at her knuckles. “No marks on you.”

She grinned at him. “I might have a small bruise on my knee, but that’s all.”

“A knee strike?” He pulled her against him as they turned the corner leading to the stairs. “You took my advice.”

“Yes, I didn’t want to hurt my hands. I only have another week to finish those preliminary sketches and I can’t afford any downtime.”

He roared with laughter. “Good for you. Did you kick him, too?”

She stuck one foot out in front of her and wiggled her boot. “I’ve even got the sore toes to prove it.”

“Poor toes. Maybe I can give you a foot rub when we get home.” They climbed the stairs holding hands.

Home. She liked the sound of that word coming out of his mouth. Maybe too much, in fact. He was hers only until their job was done. And if she wanted a home to, well, come home to, she had to work hard for it. She wouldn’t forget that fact. “Let’s go to the European painting galleries so I can show you Mars, god of war.”

“Marco is the Spanish version of the Latin name Marcus, after the god of war.”

“Really? That makes sense.” She grimaced. “I guess I should tell you the expanded definition of Freya. Goddess of springtime, love and, um, fertility.”

“No kidding?” They were at the top of the stairs, and he clasped her other hand, as well. “The god of war meets the goddess of love. Have you descended from Viking heaven to counteract my dark side?”

“Viking heaven is called Valhalla, and no, I don’t think you have a dark side.”

“Oh, I’m no angel.” A muscle ticked along his jaw.

“Lucky for me.” She strove for a light tone to counteract his grim one.

He looked at her, a serious expression on his face. “I’ve done some things I’m not proud of.”

“We all have. I just beat up a prominent local artist in the Art Institute’s basement.” She couldn’t help but laugh, not just at the memory of Stefan’s bloody nose
but also at the lightness that came from confronting a painful part of her past.

“I mean it, Rey. If you knew, you wouldn’t laugh.”

“What did you do, kill someone?” she joked.

There was a long silence. She turned to look at him in surprise. His response was taking just a little too long.

“No. No, I never killed anyone.” He stared straight ahead, his profile set in rigid lines.

Rey pulled him into the hall of Renaissance painters. One towering masterpiece of the Spanish painter El Greco’s soared over the lofty gallery. “Are you a religious man, Marco?”

“I used to be.” His expression was grim.

“Look at the saints and sinners in the paintings. See how the light of heaven falls equally on them?” Whatever mysterious guilt he carried was eating him up.

His gaze followed her finger and he stared at the huge paintings.

“Whatever you did is in the past. Let the light in.”

He said some words in Spanish.

“What did you say?” she asked.

“
Luz de mi vida.
Light of my life.”

“That’s exactly what I mean. Let some light into your life.”

He swept her into his arms, murmuring, “No, Reina. You are the
luz de mi vida.
”

“T
HIS IS YOUR CAPTAIN
speaking. On behalf of all our crew, thank you for flying Air Florida. We will be landing in Chicago’s O’Hare International Airport in approximately ten minutes. The seat-belt light is on.”

Nico eyed his younger brother, Chucho, who was
shifting in discomfort. “Maybe if you cut back on the fried bananas and pork roasts, you’d fit in the seat.”

“It’s a good thing this flight is nonsmoking. Otherwise all that grease in your hair would catch fire,” Chucho sneered.

“At least I have hair. You can shave your head all you want—you’re still bald,” Nico said.

“Local time is 11:35 p.m. and local temperature is a balmy ten degrees.” The captain clicked off the microphone.

Chucho elbowed Nico. “Ten degrees? That’s not so bad.”

“That’s ten degrees Fahrenheit,
idiota!
” Nico hissed.

“Don’t call me an idiot. I’m not the one speaking Spanish like
el jefe
told us not to.”

The flight attendant gave them a suspicious look as she pushed the beverage cart past, so they subsided sullenly into their seats.

“Excuse me.” The flight attendant leaned over.

Chucho gave her his version of a charming smile, highlighting his golden incisor. “Yes?”

“Please fasten your seat belts. We’ll be landing shortly.” She bustled off, ignoring them for the rest of the flight.

“Her ass is too skinny anyway,” Chucho grumbled.

They managed to disembark and leave the airport without attracting security, which Nico considered a major accomplishment, considering his younger brother’s tendency to shoot off at the mouth.

“Dios mío!”
Nico gasped. “I’ve never been so cold in my life. Let’s find a taxi before my
cojones
freeze off.” Cold air knifed through his thin leather coat.

“They’re small enough already.” Chucho jammed his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders.

“Big enough to be in charge of finding Flores,” Nico jibed, hailing a cab. “And big enough to be in charge of you.”

R
EY TWIRLED HER CHARCOAL
stick between her fingers. She alternated between staring at Marco and staring at her sketch pad. Her sketch was just crap. She sighed. “You can relax for a minute, Marco.”

He lifted his right foot off the box he was posing on. “What is it, Reina?”

“Nothing looks right today.” She tossed the charcoal on her drawing table, not even caring that it left a big smudge against the paper.

“Do you want me to change position?” He flexed his chest and shoulders, getting ready to hold another pose.

“No, you’re doing a great job. Much more comfortable with posing and modeling. It’s me. I can’t draw a fluid, relaxed line to save my life today.”

He walked behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. “No wonder. Your muscles are hard as rocks.” He dug his thumbs into her shoulder blades.

She moaned in delight, rolling her neck. Her vertebrae popped as he rubbed his palms along her spine.

“I got here at eleven, and it’s almost seven o’clock. You deserve a break after working so many hours.”

Rey grinned and leaned into his warm chest. “First
of all, you got here at eleven, but you came at noon, remember?”

He growled playfully and slipped his hands around her rib cage to cup her breasts. “And you came at eleven-ten, eleven-thirty and noon.” He played with the tips of her nipples, pulling them into aching points. “Then we worked for three hours and took another break when your agent called.”

Rey grimaced and pulled away. Evelyn not only wanted the sketches of Marco but also requested a small clay mock-up of the final statue within the week. “Aargh! I can’t handle this! I’ll move out of my loft and go work at Starbucks. I make good coffee, don’t I?” She knew she was babbling, but her nerves had gotten the best of her.

“Yes, you do, but I think you’ve had enough caffeine for today.” He kissed the nape of her neck. “Have you seen my pants?”

She pointed to the chaise where they’d flung them almost as soon as he’d walked in the door. Since they’d become lovers, he hadn’t bothered changing in the cubicle.

She spotted the black leather bag he usually carried. “Here’s your bag.” She’d already grabbed a handle when he whipped his head around.

“Leave it.” His tone was sharp. He stood and strode over to her wearing only his briefs.

“Oh. Okay.” He sure was possessive of his stuff.

He took the bag from her hands but not before she’d hefted it in one hand. “Are you carrying around bricks?”

“No, just books, a change of clothes, some toiletries.” He pulled on his brown pants and grabbed a clean camel-colored microfiber T-shirt.

“You look nice.” That was an understatement. The T-shirt hugged the curves and valleys of his chest. He tucked the shirt into his waistband and buckled his slim leather belt. Rey was acutely conscious of her gray paint-stained sweatshirt and linty black leggings that bagged at the knee.

“So do you.” He crossed over to her and smiled.

“Ha.” She suddenly wanted to cry. Her art career teetered on the brink, she’d resorted to sleeping with her stunning male model for inspiration and their no-strings affair had tangled her up in knots.

He must have seen her distress because he pulled her into a hug. “You are the most beautiful woman in the world, Reina.”

She sniffled, his heart thudding steadily under her cheek. “I bet you say that to all the female artists you model for.”

“No. You’re the only one. Ever.” He sounded amused. “You need to get out. When was the last time you had fun?”

She raised one golden eyebrow. “Today at noon.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “I meant the kind of fun you have in public.”

“You can have that kind of fun in public?” Paint-splattered sweatshirt or no, she rubbed her breasts against him.

“Almost, and it’s called salsa dancing. Now go put on a tight little dress and some dancing shoes.”

She cheered up right away. “I know just the outfit.” She’d gone shopping with Meg just last week and had bought a sexy little number. Until Marco, she never would have dared try on a dress like that, much less buy
it. But his obvious appreciation for her curves had boosted her confidence.

So one tight little dress coming up. And later, coming
off.