Her Body of Work (17 page)

“Tócate, tócate,”
he said with a groan. “Touch yourself,
mi amor.
” His hair-roughened chest abraded the backs of her thighs as he increased his tempo.

She slipped her hand between their sweat-slicked bodies, her fingertips stroking him as he pushed in and out of her. Her index finger found the swollen nub between them and circled it, first slowly, than quickly as the tension built. “Oh, Marco,” she crooned, cupping her breast in her other hand. “Taste me.”

He bent his head and nipped the tip of her breast. The
silken thread of desire connecting her nipple and her vagina snapped, and she came again, arching as she feverishly caressed herself.

He threw back his head with a loud groan, the tendons in his neck standing out like steel cords. He thrust deep into her wet depths. “Oh, Reina, I love you, I love you.”

“I love you, too.” She held him close as he slumped onto her, his heavy body pinning her to the fruit-stained coverlet.

They lay together in the cozy nest of her bed for several minutes. Rey stroked his head, the short black hairs tickling her fingers.

He finally raised his head and smiled at her. “Sweetheart.” He tried to roll off her and they both yelped.

“I think I lost a few chest hairs.” He examined her breasts. The streaks of mango pulp had hardened to the consistency of rubber cement.

She sat up and rubbed her own chest as he flopped onto the bed. “It feels like I peeled my breasts off a Naughahyde couch in summertime.”

“Have you ever done that?”

“Done what?” She glanced over her shoulder at him.

He leered at her. “Had to peel your lush, naked tits off sweaty vinyl furniture?”

She laughed. “No, Marco, I’ve never had to do that.”

“Too bad. My mother has this poolside lounge chair that would be perfect. You put on a sexy black bikini and lie down while I rub lotion all over you.” He moved behind her and caressed her back with long, sweeping strokes.

“Ooh, I get it. I’ve always wanted to play Rich Tourist and Cabana Boy.”

He purposely deepened his Cuban accent. “You don’t
want to get tan lines,
señorita.
Shall I gallantly untie your bikini top?”

“Marco, I’ve never tanned dark enough to even get a tan line. And where’s my piña colada?”

“Shh.” He pinched her bottom and she yelped. “This is my fantasy. So I untie your bikini bottom and begin smoothing lotion over your fantastic ass.” He pushed her gently to her stomach, caressing her bottom. She wiggled a little, opening her legs wider.

“As you lie naked and glistening on the lounge chair, I cannot contain my desire any longer.”

She tipped her head back in pleasure, but her long hair snarled on the drying fruit juices on his hands. “Ouch! Time to go wash off this fruit salad.”

He heaved a disgruntled sigh. “Poor cabana boy. I bet she forgets to tip him, too.”

She cupped her breasts, pressing them together. “When I come back, you can show me how a horny blond foreigner might please a Cuban cabana boy.” She licked her lips slowly, enjoying how his pupils dilated sharply, only a narrow rim of gold surrounding the black. “Is Cuban-style on the drink menu?”

He growled deep in his throat and reached for her, but she scrambled off the bed, laughing. “I have to get this fruit off my skin before it dries permanently.”

“You just wait, Reina. We’ll go lie by my mother’s pool in Miami and I’ll make you come screaming on that lounge chair.”

She trotted into the bathroom. “Only if you serve me a piña colada.”

“I’ll
serve
you plenty,” he called after her.

She stood under the hot spray of water and scrubbed
at the mango with her shower puff and creamy jasmine body wash. Turning off the water, she slipped into her pink robe and heard him rattling around in the kitchen. “Still hungry?” she teased.

“Just being a good cabana boy and clearing away the dishes.” He came around the corner wearing the dark blue robe. She’d have to buy a new robe for her next model since she’d never be able to let anyone else wear it. “There’s fruit on the sheets though.”

“I’ll change them while you wash off.” She pushed him toward the shower. “Later we can play Cabana Boy in the sauna. No vinyl furniture but plenty of heat.”

“Excellent.” He stepped into the bathroom, where she heard him humming a tune from the salsa club.

She went to her small linen closet for a new set of sheets and found Marco’s open bag sitting in front of it, stuffed to the gills with clothes. Everything was neatly rolled and folded, as if he had packed for a long trip instead of an overnight stay at her loft.

His dark, reckless mood made sense now. He was planning to leave her, probably first thing tomorrow or even as soon as it got dark.

Well, she wasn’t going to lie weeping alone on her chaise, wondering if he was alive or dead. Whatever happened, she would be with him. She grabbed her own suitcase from under her bed and tossed in underwear and long johns.

She heard Marco come out of the bathroom behind her. “Reina, what are you doing?”

She fisted her hands on her hips and turned to glare at him. “Packing to come with you. Do I need winter clothes or summer clothes?”

M
ARCO
’
S FRESHLY SHAVED
jaw dropped. “Come with me?
Ay, Dios mío,
are you
loca?
You can’t come with me!”

“If that means am I crazy, then no, I’m not crazy. But I am coming with you, wherever you go.” Rey pulled some turtlenecks from her drawer and shoved them into her bag.

“No! I absolutely forbid it.” His accent had thickened with emotion and he yanked her bag away from her.

“Forbid it?” She pointed at the table linens still dangling from her bedposts. “You’ll have to tie me up with those napkins again to keep me here.”

Marco tossed her bag into a corner. “Don’t tempt me! It’s too dangerous to be with me anymore. Rodríguez would take pleasure in your suffering because it would make me suffer, as well.”

She crossed her arms over her breasts. “You know I’m not safe here, either. What am I supposed to do if he tracks you here and finds me alone? Stab him with my chisel?”

“I don’t know!” He paced across the floor, the robe flapping around his legs. “Go to Meg’s apartment. Go travel with your parents overseas. Just let me go alone.”

“No.” She caught him midstep, wrapping her arms
around his chest. “Did you mean what you said about spending the rest of your life with me?”

He sighed, pulling her close and nuzzling her damp hair. “It may not be a very long life,
querida.
”

“Whatever happens, we’ll be together.” She settled into his embrace with relief.

“I’ll do my best to protect both of us.” He clasped her shoulders and stared at her, his hazel eyes fierce. “But you must do everything I tell you.”

She nodded eagerly. “I will.”

“I mean it.” He shook her gently. “If I tell you to run away and leave me, you have to obey me. I lived with these savages for over a year. I know what they are capable of.”

“I could never leave you, Marco….”

He interrupted her with an angry shout. “Promise me or I
will
tie you up and leave you here!”

She shivered. Her previous romantic notions of dark, dangerous men were very silly now that they were faced with real danger. “Where will we go?”

He thought hard. “We’ll go south through Indiana and swing up into Michigan. There are dozens of small towns and back roads there.”

“And if we carry my old skis and ice skates, we’ll look like winter tourists.”

“Good idea.” He quickly dressed. “I need to get that car. You have an hour to get ready.”

“Be careful.” She clung to him, his muscles rock-hard from tension.

“I will. Pack warm, but pack light. And make sure your loft is shut down tight. We may not be back for a long while.” He bundled himself up and stepped into the dazzling sunshine.

She locked the door behind him and ran into her bedroom, retrieving her bag. She dressed and braided her hair, then quickly packed a couple pairs of jeans, long underwear, some turtlenecks and her heaviest wool sweater. She found an extra-large sweater and tossed it in for Marco. Those stylish cashmere knits he wore would be no match for the cold north woods.

She tossed the bag near the door. Forty-five minutes left. She stuffed her sketches of Marco into a mailing tube and addressed them to her agent. At this point she didn’t care when or even if Evelyn got them. Nothing else mattered but keeping Marco safe.

Rey looked around the loft to make sure all her appliances and heaters were turned off. A wistful smile crossed her face as she saw the oil painting of Marco sitting on her easel.

She’d painted him nude, lying on the chaise longue where they’d first made love. The hard lines of his bronze body gleamed from the soft swath of white cloth. But her painting wasn’t quite finished, her expensive brushes crusting over with drying oil paints. She checked the clock. Half an hour. It would only take five minutes to clean her brushes. Painting in oils gave wonderfully luminous color, but the cleanup was messy and required turpentine or other smelly solvents.

She opened the metal can of paint thinner. There was only a dab at the bottom, not enough to clean her brushes, since it had been several months since she last painted in oil. Setting that can aside, she unscrewed the cap of the turpentine container. The fumes blasted out, burning the inside of her nose. Oh, well. It was either turpentine or risk ruining hundreds of dollars worth
of brushes. And when she came back she probably wouldn’t have any money to replace them.

The buzzer sounded. She wasn’t expecting anyone but Marco, but just to be on the safe side, she pressed the intercom button. “Marco?”

“Sí, querida.”
His voice was muffled from that scarf he always wore outdoors.

She smiled. She’d learned from Marco that
querida
meant
darling.
He used it often. She dashed over to the door and yanked it open.

“
Señorita
Freya Martinson.” An older man stood on the stoop, swaddled in an exorbitantly expensive cashmere coat. He had a thick fur hat pulled low on his brow, and his jaw and neck were wrapped in a fine wool scarf.

She tried to slam the door closed, but he shouldered his way inside the loft.

“Get out!” She ran for her phone to call 911. He easily cut off her escape route, shoving her toward her easel.

“I see I have found the right place.” He pulled off his hat and scarf, revealing a neatly trimmed head of salt-and-pepper hair. His face was lined but still handsome in a craggy way. He surveyed the contents of her loft, stopping when he saw the painting of Marco. “Your current project?”

“If you leave now, I won’t call the cops. I don’t have any money or drugs here.” She tried to bluff him.

“
Señorita,
I have all the drugs and money I could ever want.” He turned his stare on her full-force for the first time and she took an involuntary step back. His eyes were pale, pale green, almost yellow. “I’d prefer to stay and look at your artwork. And perhaps meet your model.” His raspy voice had the same accent as Marco.

She shook her head, frantically thinking. “I used a reference photo to paint from. No model.”

“I will wait for him.” He advanced toward her. Rey retreated. “I think Marco Santiago Flores will come back to you, given the proper incentive.”

A chill ran down her spine. He knew Marco’s full name. She was the only person in Chicago who knew his full name. She bumped against the countertop where she had been cleaning her brushes and reached behind her for the razor knife she used to cut her canvases.

Gripping the knife handle, she waved it at him. “No one comes to my home and threatens me.”

He laughed. “Such a
tigresa.
No wonder Flores has been sniffing around you.”

He pounced on her with the swiftness of a wild animal. Metal clanged and glass shattered on her workbench. She didn’t have time to scream before he was grinding her wrist in his painful clasp. Her heart pounded frantically as he forced her grip open.

The knife clattered to the floor. She swung her left fist at his head, clipping him on the jaw. He slipped in a puddle and went down on one knee.

She tugged futilely at his strong grasp. He was so close she could see the cold glitter in his eyes.

“Muy bien.”
He shook off her punch and stood. “Did Flores tell you I like women who fight me? Just ask his
mamá.
”

So this was the man who’d tried to rape Marco’s mother. She glared at him. “A real man doesn’t need to force a woman.”

His return stare was yellow and feral. He increased the pressure, bending her hand at an obscene angle.
“How many statues will you sculpt after hand surgery?” She moaned as he twisted her wrist another few degrees. “I’ve found that torn tendons and ligaments heal much more slowly than broken bones.”

She panicked and kicked at his crotch. He twisted away.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he chided. His pinky ring split her lip and she tasted coppery blood.

He forced her to her knees and smiled at her. “I can see why Flores stayed here instead of moving on. You are quite appealing in that position.”

“You can scuttle under whatever rock you came from.” She forced the brave words through the lump in her throat.

“What a mouth you have.” He looked amused. “If only I had more time, I would put it to better use.”

Rey tried a rational tone of voice, although she knew she was dealing with an irrational man. “If you leave now, I won’t call the cops.”

He actually laughed. “I have Colombian cartels to answer to. Do you think your Chicago Police Department worries me?”

The loft door rattled open. “Reina, we have to get out of here! Eddie said Rodríguez is on his way—” He froze in horror for a split second.

“Marco, watch out!”

He was already drawing his steel-gray pistol and spinning into a crouch.

Rodríguez released her wrists and wrenched her to her feet. Yanking on her braid, he slammed her against him.

“So, Flores, back to where we started.” The drug lord’s breath was hot and stale. She struggled, but he held fast.

“With you hiding behind a woman?” Marco’s tone was cool, the pistol never wavering. Rodríguez’s arm tightened across her throat.

“Ah, yes. Your beautiful
mamá.
Such a ripe body. And those sweet lips of hers.” He sighed in mock nostalgia and added a couple sentences in Spanish. She didn’t understand the words, but the vulgar tone was clear.

Marco’s knuckles whitened around the pistol grip. “I should have cut your throat on that raft when you were unconscious.
Mamá
said no.”

“A woman of mercy.”

Marco laughed coldly. “No. She almost did it herself until she realized a shark feeding frenzy might swamp the raft.”

He stiffened with rage. “Enough!” he barked. “Toss that pistol over in the corner.”

Marco’s hand never wavered.

“Do it!” Rodríguez wrapped her braid around his fist and yanked her head sideways. Her neck muscles screamed from the awkward angle.

“Don’t do it, Marco!” She couldn’t see his face anymore, just the paint-stained concrete floor. “He wants to kill you!”

“You know me, Flores. I can snap her neck in one second.”

“You’d be dead the next second.”

“Are you going to risk your pretty blond whore? If you drop the gun, I might let her live. Not you, of course. You know too much.”

Only the rasping of her breath broke the silence. Until she heard metal clatter against the floor. “No, Marco!” Hot tears blurred her eyes.

“What now,
Lobo?
”

Rey tensed her muscles to run to Marco.

“Please,
señorita,
stay here with me.” A circle of metal pressed into her neck. She froze, the gun’s chill pouring through her body.

“If you hurt her, I’ll cut you up and feed you to the sharks. They don’t have any qualms about eating their own.” Marco’s voice was cold and deadly, but she saw his face turn pale, his lips thinning.

“How touching.” The older man laughed. “Your obvious affection for each other will only make my task more appealing.” He released her hair and reached into his overcoat pocket. She panicked. Was it a knife this time? Instead he pulled out a roll of silver duct tape. “Look familiar, Flores? I brought the duct tape especially for you.” He nudged Rey with the gun. “Walk slowly over to your lover and tape his wrists and ankles.”

“What’s the matter, Rodríguez? Are you afraid to come over here and do it yourself?” Marco’s eyes glittered as he taunted the drug lord. “I taped you up myself on the raft and I was only twelve.”

“Shut up!” Rey watched apprehensively as a purple vein bulged on his temple. “Now walk slowly and tape his wrists behind him.”

Her shoes scuffed against the concrete as she crossed to Marco. Her eyes burned with unshed tears.

“It’ll be all right,
corazón.
” He turned his back to her and brought his wrists together behind him. She started to tape around the thick cuffs of his coat, not touching his skin at all. Maybe he could slip his arms free.

“
Señorita
Freya, that is not exactly what I had in
mind.” Rodríguez’s sardonic voice stopped her covert maneuvers. “Pull off his coat and try again.”

She bit her lip and pulled off his coat, wanting desperately to wrap her arms around him and hide them both.

“Do it, Reina.” Marco’s voice was cold and expressionless.

She found the end of the duct tape and wrapped his wrists together.

“Now lie on your stomach, Flores.”

She threw the drug lord a hate-filled glance as Marco obeyed, dropping to his knees. She helped him ease down, his entire body rigid.

Rodríguez watched them with a glittering stare. She realized he was becoming sexually aroused. He slipped a hand into his trouser pocket and began stroking himself, and she almost gagged. Frantic, she looked for a weapon, a cell phone, anything, but he pointed the gun at Marco’s head. “Tape his ankles to his wrists.”

She froze. If Marco were bound hand and foot, he would be helpless. So would she.

Rodríguez cocked the gun. The hammer’s harsh metallic click shattered the silence.

No. She would not be helpless. As long as she kept cool, she would save them. She bent to tape Marco’s ankles, whispering encouragement to him.

“Perfect.” The older man uncocked the pistol. “Come here.”

She forced her wobbly legs to abandon Marco and return to their enemy, the stink of turpentine assaulting her nose as she drew near. The metal container had spilled onto the floor during their struggle. She realized with a savage glee that he’d stumbled into the combus
tible solvent when she’d knocked him over. Wet patches ruined his expensive pants and loafers.

Her small victory vanished as he put the gun down and stroked her cheek, his damp fingertips leaving trails of slime on her skin. “Give me the duct tape.” His voice was low and intimate, a grotesque loverlike parody.

With Marco tied up on his stomach, their enemy obviously felt safe to assault her. She shook her head, recoiling. Could she reach the weapon before he did?

He read the direction of her stare. “Now,
querida,
if you took my pistol, would you even know how to use it?” He strapped her wrists together with several turns of duct tape.