Her Body of Work (15 page)

A tear spilled down her cheek. She wanted to hear the words so badly but knew he wouldn’t propose until he was sure the danger was over. Fear clenched her stomach. “But it’s not safe for you here. Those men might be able to find you.”

“We gave them the slip at the club, thanks to Antonio. Everything’s okay for a little while longer.” He tried tickling her sides, but she smacked his hand away.

“Don’t try to distract me!” She dashed away her tears with the back of her hand. “You need to leave Chicago right away. Put some distance between you and this man Rodríguez until you have to testify.”

“I am leaving Chicago.” His expression was grim.

“When?” A band of pain tightened in her chest. She sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She knew it was safer for him, but it would kill her to see him go.

He moved behind her and wrapped his arms around her, his warmth unable to dispel the chill that had settled into her bones. “As soon as I make arrangements for a car. I need something inconspicuous and untraceable.”

Rey figured he meant a stolen car. Under normal circumstances she would have disapproved, but now she would hot-wire a car herself if it would make him safe. “Promise me you’ll tell me before you go.”

His body tensed. She turned and gave him a hard stare. “Promise me you won’t leave without telling me.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I’d be lying to you if I promised that, and I don’t want to lie to you anymore.”

“Marco!” Her frustration bubbled over. “You just can’t leave me to wonder if you stepped out for a newspaper or if you had to go on the run again.”

“Reina…” His arms tightened around her, almost squeezing the breath out of her. “It’s killing me to have to leave you.”

She heaved a shuddering sigh, knowing he might be killed if he stayed. They sat together on the edge of her bed for several silent minutes, not wanting to let go of each other.

He finally broke the quiet anguish surrounding them. “I’ll give you my friend’s cell phone number. If something happens, call him.”

“All right.” She nodded, eager for any scrap of information.

“If you do need to call him, try to use a pay phone. If you can’t get to one, block the caller ID before dialing his number. And when he answers, ask for Lalo.” He clasped her hand tight and stared intently at her. “You need to remember that so he knows I sent you.
Lalo.
”

“His name is Lalo?” That name was unfamiliar. “Does he speak English?”

Marco finally cracked a smile. “Somewhat. He’s a cowboy from Texas.”

She laughed at his small joke more than it deserved, trying not to cry again.

“Don’t worry,
mi amor.
Soon we’ll have a wonderful, happy home, maybe with a handsome little boy with black hair and blue eyes and a beautiful little girl with golden hair and golden eyes.” He stroked her hair and kissed her brow gently.

Rey swallowed hard past the lump in her throat. She wanted that ideal life he described. But would facing that drug dealer cost him his own life?

J
UAN
C
ARLOS
R
ODRÍGUEZ
sat smoking his cigar and looking at the blue waters of Biscayne Bay. His yacht lay at anchor nearby, ready for whenever her master cared to sail away. The luxury vessel was a far cry from the first boat he’d sailed to America. Losing his raft and his freedom twenty years ago had made him appreciate the fine things he owned now. Things that would be seized by the American government if he did not kill Flores.

Gabriel knocked on his office door and entered without waiting for permission, an unusual breach. “What is it?” He set his cigar in the gold ashtray. “What is it?”

His assistant’s narrow face was uncharacteristically flushed with excitement. “
Señor,
the García brothers have found Marco Flores in Chicago.”

“Those two clowns found
him?
Not his brother?” If they sent him on a wild-goose chase, it would be the last thing they ever did.

“They spotted Flores in a dance club. He and his date left in a cab, and we happened to have connections to the cab company. The driver was happy to tell us their destination.” Gabriel handed him the address and a map printed from the Internet.

“How do you know it is Flores and not his brother?”

“The brother has been auditioning for a Spanish soap opera in L.A. for the past three weeks. He got cast as the lead and the production company posted a press release as well as his photo on their Web site. There’s no way the brother was in Chicago at that dance club.” His assistant’s eager demeanor reminded him of a puppy that had just brought a stick to its master.

“
Muy bien,
Gabriel.” Rodríguez allowed himself a rare smile of approval. “Make travel arrangements for me to fly to Chicago.”

“
Señor,
if the court finds out you have left Florida…”

Rodríguez cut him off with an impatient wave. “Do it!”

“Sí, señor.”
Gabriel nodded obediently and hurried out.

Rodríguez pulled the information toward him, which included a photo of the blond woman who had been with Flores. He traced a finger over the lines of her beautiful face. “So,
Señorita
Freya Martinson, you enjoy Cuban men?” His smile widened. “Perhaps you and I can enjoy each other when I come to visit you.”

M
ARCO THREW MORE OF
Francisco’s fancy modeling clothes into his bag. Good thing his brother was such a clotheshorse, since Marco hadn’t exactly wanted to hang out at the Laundromat. Confessing his true background to Rey three days ago had drawn them even closer together. They had spent the entire time since Saturday holed up in her loft, finishing her sketches and making love.

Leaving her this morning, even for an hour as she fixed them breakfast, was terribly painful. How was he supposed to leave her tonight? But he’d pushed their luck far enough and his continued presence would only drag her further into danger.

Marco also grabbed the red-and-black cardboard box that held his spare ammunition. He wasn’t sure if he’d be back to the apartment and he didn’t want to leave anything incriminating behind. Next to the box was another untraceable cell phone.

Before he left Chicago, he needed to talk to Eddie. His friend had promised to poke around at the office and track down anything new.

His call went through immediately. “Jones here.” From the engine noise, Eddie was driving his big diesel pickup on one of South Florida’s freeways.

“Lalo, it’s me.”

“Goddamn, it’s good to hear from you. The shit’s hit the fan here.” His friend’s Texan accent thickened with emotion.

“What the hell happened?” Marco stopped messing with sweaters and concentrated on his friend’s information.

“They found one of our computer geeks in the swamp with his throat cut. What little blood he had left was full of cocaine, and his bank statements had some mysterious deposits starting right before your cover got blown. They’re going over his PC with a fine-tooth comb, but it’ll take a while to break the encryption.”

Marco swore a long, foul stream of Spanish obscenities. “Damn it all, that prick got my informant killed and nearly got me and my family, too.”

“
Amigo,
I hope you’re in a different city than the last time you called me.” Eddie’s voice was muffled as he shoved a cigarette into his mouth and clicked his lighter.

“I will be tomorrow.” Marco wanted to curse his own break in professionalism, but a selfish part of him couldn’t regret falling in love with Rey.

Eddie coughed. “Buddy, get your ass outta there! And try to change your look. You still have that mess of hair?”

“It’s going right now.”

“Good. Shit, I’m pulling into the office now. I was here until two last night and they called me in for a nine-o’clock meeting, probably about
you.
”

“I am sorry, Lalo, for getting you involved.” He’d dragged yet another person into his mess. “I don’t want you in trouble with the bosses, too.”

“Aw, hell with them. Call me later today if you can. I’ll try to get a fix on Rodríguez for you.” Eddie hung up.

Marco ran his fingers through his hair and cursed as he found yet another tangle. He couldn’t untangle all the snarls in his life, but by God, his hair was one thing he
could
fix. He gathered his supplies.

Five minutes later he laid paper towels in the sink and plugged in the clippers he’d found in a closet. He flicked on the switch, the raspy hum reverberating off the tiny bathroom’s tile walls. He stared at his reflection and ran the clipper right down the middle of his head. No turning back with only an inch of hair left. He made quick work of the rest of his curls, shaving his head like a penitent about to ask forgiveness for his sins.

A familiar face stared at him. This was the Marco Flores he really knew. The Marco who had never helped ship drugs into his adopted country. The Marco who had never held a man down while thugs beat him. The Marco who had never witnessed the murder of a drug rival and had been powerless to stop it for risk of blowing his cover.

With most of his hair lying in the sink, his head felt lighter, but his heart grew heavy. He was about to leave the only woman he had ever loved without knowing when he would be back. But he knew one thing. If he had breath in his body, he would return to her.

R
EY LET OUT A CURSE AS
her German-steel paring knife got stuck in a mango for the third time. What kind of huge pit did that fruit have anyway? The buzzer sounded, and she wiped her hands on a linen dish towel before pressing the button. “Yes?”

“Rey, it’s me.” It was Marco.

“I’ll be right there.” She jumped from the kitchen bar stool, eager to see him.

She yanked the door open and closed it behind him. “Are you all right?” She anxiously examined what she could see of him. Now she understood why he’d always covered his entire face outdoors, even on relatively mild days.

“I’m fine.” He shed his scarf, coat and sunglasses, leaving his hat for last.

When he finally pulled it off, a sick pain shot through her stomach. “My God. What did you do?”

“My hair?” He gave her a sheepish look. A sheep shorn to within an inch of its life.

“Yes, your hair!” His beautiful black curls were gone. The inch-long stubble was slicked back with some gel, outlining the perfect oval shape of his skull.

“I needed a change.” His voice was uncompromising. “I couldn’t stand that long hair anymore.”

Rey realized he wasn’t a professional model, but she never thought he would cut his hair like a Marine going into boot camp. “I’m just glad I finished the sketches of your head.”

He looked surprised. “I’m sorry, Reina. I never thought of that.” He came closer. “Did I ruin it for you?”

“No,” she admitted. “I have just a few sketches of your arms and legs left.” She ran her hand over his scalp. “But oh, your beautiful hair.”

“If you like my hair longer, I can grow it. But no more Shirley Temple ringlets.” He grabbed her hand and kissed it. “Mmm. You smell sweet and juicy.”

Rey’s knees almost buckled as he sucked her index
finger into his mouth and circled his tongue around it. He steadied her and moved his tongue to her middle finger. He released her finger. “Delicious. Do you have any more juicy, succulent fruit for me to suck on?”

Her breasts grew heavy and warm, her nipples pressing painfully against her lacy bra. “I’m fixing some mangoes for after dinner, but they’re ruining my good knife.” She walked into the kitchen to get the fruit pulp off her hands before she smeared it all over him.

“Mangoes?” He pronounced it the Spanish way—
mahn-goes.
“I didn’t know you liked mangoes.”

“I’ve never had them before. Do you like mangoes?” She displayed the two unmangled mangoes for his inspection.

“Of course.” He covered her hands with his. “Especially the plump ones that overflow your palms. The flesh is firm but resilient when you squeeze it.”

Rey withdrew her hands and set the fruit on the counter. “You must be quite the connoisseur.”

“Most Cuban men love mangoes—practically from birth. What else did you buy?”

“Some little red bananas and some larger bananas that had yellow peels but were too tough to eat.”

He looked at the bowl of fruit. “Those are plantains. You need to fry them first to soften them.”

“Oh.”

He hastened to reassure her. “Don’t worry. It was nice of you to buy this.”

“I also bought a papaya.”

“Papaya?” A naughty gleam sparked in his eyes. “Now that is my favorite.”

She looked at him. He must be more homesick than she thought. Or maybe he was vitamin C deficient.

“Here, let me finish slicing those for you,” he offered, hefting the knife. “Good balance.” He tossed the knife end-over-end above his head, blade flashing.

Rey shrieked.

He caught the knife handle neatly and peeled a mango. “What?”

“What are you trying to do, cut off your fingers?” Her heart was pounding out of her chest. She’d never seen him be so reckless before, as if he didn’t care what happened to him.

“Now why would I do that? My fingers have very important work to do first.” He leaned over to kiss her, but she pulled away, self-conscious of the splotches of fruit pulp covering her rumpled white shirt.

“Don’t go, Reina. I promise not to throw knives anymore.”

“No, I’ll let you finish slicing the fruit while I change. Besides, where did you learn to throw knives? Secret-agent school?” She tried to make a joke.

“Defending myself from Miami cockroaches. Those
cucarachas
grow as big as grapefruits.”

Rey shuddered. “No, seriously.”

His expression darkened briefly and then he smiled at her with some effort. “I am serious.” He cut the mango into cubes and separated them off the big flat seed. “Miami can be a very dangerous city.”

After his revelations the past few days she understood that very well.

He speared a cube of mango with the knife tip and ate it off the blade, scooping the fruit into a cobalt-blue
stoneware bowl. “Now go change your clothes before I strip them off you right here in the kitchen.” He rinsed the much-vaunted papaya with her brushed-nickel sink sprayer.

Rey slipped into her bedroom and stared unseeing into her closet. His haircut had emphasized a different side of his personality, one that she had glimpsed when he’d manhandled Stefan and when he’d rushed her into hiding at the salsa club.

Pulling off her top and jeans, she frowned. The fruit juice had soaked through her white cotton shirt, sticking her bra to her breasts. She unhooked the clasp and peeled the white satin from her skin, rummaging through her low-slung pale maple dresser for a clean bra. She picked up a black lace demicup bra and admired the effect in the mirror above her dresser. Looking good in dark colors was probably the only advantage of having skin the color of a Norwegian cod’s belly.

“Knock, knock.” Rey’s gaze flew to the mirror. Marco stood behind her in the open doorway.

“I didn’t hear you.” She felt strangely vulnerable, exposed back and front by the mirror. Her nipples hardened under his intense gaze and scraped against the black lace.

He set a tray on her nightstand and came up behind her. “You don’t need this.” He plucked the bra out of her hands and tossed it aside.

Her breasts hung free for a brief moment until he covered them with his hands. His fingers plucked at her nipples, twanging sensations to her wet center.

She leaned on his hard chest, letting his hands mold and cup her breasts, her greedy flesh overflowing his
palms. His wet mouth nipped hungrily at her neck, and she wiggled her bottom against his swelling cock.

“Open your eyes,” he commanded. She dragged her lids open, staring hazily at their entwined reflection. “You remind me of a beach in the Florida Keys, deserted except for the birds and dolphins. See how blue your eyes become when I touch you, like the sky above. Your hair is soft and golden like the sand. And here—” he ran a finger across the silk of her panties “—is the sea, warm, wet and salty.”

She widened her stance, allowing him access to her throbbing center. He released her breasts and scooped her into his arms, setting her on the soft goose-down duvet.

The plump coverlet cradled her body. She reached for Marco to pull him down next to her, but he sat at the edge of the bed. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

“Not for food.”

“Oh, you’ll be full when I finish.”

She shivered, imagining how he could fill her.

“Lie down, Rey.” He kicked off his Italian-leather loafers and turned to sit cross-legged on the bed. He ignored the erection tenting the zipper of his khakis and reached for a cloth-covered plate. “I brought you some mango.”

She propped herself on her elbows and he slipped a pale orange cube of fruit into her mouth. “Mmm, that’s good.” It tasted exotic and fresh.

He selected another piece of mango and brushed it over her lips. She licked a drop of nectar, but he didn’t let her eat the mango. Instead he rubbed it over her chin and traced it along the column of her neck. His hot tongue lapped the juice that pooled at the hollow of her throat.

“Did I ever tell you why Cuban men love mangoes?” He had a devilish look on his face.

“Don’t Cuban women?”

He smiled slyly. “
Mangoes
are Cuban slang for breasts.” Rey’s gasp of outrage turned into a gasp of a different kind as he slid another cube of mango over her breast and swirled it around her turgid nipple.

“You men. Are breasts all you think about?” It was difficult to manufacture indignation when the slick fruit was sending jolts of pleasure from her nipples to her pulsing cleft.

“Why not? You don’t seem to mind my attentions.” A sweet, exotic scent filled her bedroom as he crushed the mango in his palm. Juice oozed between his fingers and she watched the peach-colored rivulets run over her throbbing pink nipples and the pale skin of her breasts. He opened his hand and spread the pulp over her left breast. Rey arched as his wet, sticky hand slipped over her hot skin. He bent his head and nipped her breast with his teeth, making her squeal. He lifted his head and licked his lips.

“Mangoes are ripe and juicy like your breasts. Tender flesh that I can nibble on.” He squeezed another fistful of mango cubes and smeared them over her other breast. He rubbed his open mouth over her skin, sipping the fruit juice. He cupped one of her breasts in his hand and fastened his mouth over one of her pulp-strewn nipples. Rey moaned as his clever tongue swirled around her areola, licking her clean. He spread more crushed pulp on the aching tip and nibbled at her with his teeth. She squirmed frantically, trying to get him to touch the needy ache between her thighs, but he ignored her pleas
and moved his teasing mouth to her other nipple, sucking and lapping at her swollen flesh.

He sat on his heels and she gasped in protest as his mouth left her breasts. Heedless of his sticky hands, he yanked the silk crewneck sweater over his head, exposing his tight pecs and lean abs. Although she’d photographed and sketched every inch of him, she still grew weak at the sight of his chest, lightly sprinkled with black hair. His erection was even larger, bulging against the front of his pants. She tried to reach for his belt buckle, heedless of anything but freeing his cock to plunge deep inside her aching center.

“I told you to lie down.” His tone was stern, but his touch was gentle as he pushed her onto the pillows. He grabbed two big linen napkins off the tray, and she thought he would wipe the mango off her breasts. Instead he rolled them into long cylinders and looped them around her wrists.