Her Body Of Work. Marie Donovan

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      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.”

      2

      MARCO CRANED HIS NECK TO double-check the address on the loft building in Chicago’s North Side Bucktown neighborhood. Dios mío, it was cold. The icy wind blew a crushed paper cup along the salt-crusted sidewalk. He pulled up his collar in case anyone was following him.

      Francisco owed him big for this one. His younger brother had also left his fancy down coat at the cleaners and it wouldn’t be ready until Monday, so Marco was stuck with his own thin leather coat. As he pressed the buzzer, blobs of dirty snow slid off the overhang and slipped down his neck. A string of curses burst from his lips.

      The wide steel door slid open. ¡Caray! Although Marco definitely wasn’t familiar with Nordic mythology, the tall blonde in front of him had to be the reincarnation of some winter goddess. Her long pale hair curved on her shoulders, framing a pink-and-white complexion. Ice-blue eyes sparkled from between light brown lashes.

      “You must be Francisco. Come in and get warm.” She reached out a paint-stained hand and tugged him inside. Her full breasts bounced gently under her light blue sweater.

      She had called him Francisco. There was no way he wanted to hear his brother’s name come out of her sexy mouth. “Actually I go by Marco.”

      “Oh, I probably misheard your agent. My name is Rey Martinson.”

      Rey? The blond goddess was the artist? She hustled him inside the foyer to a large loft space full of canvases, drop cloths and what looked like chisels and hammers. Gloomy afternoon light filtered in through the floor-to-ceiling windows lining a long redbrick wall. He craned his neck and saw a rumpled bed in the far corner of the loft.

      “I’ll hang up your coat so you can go change in the dressing room.” She pointed to a small curtained cubicle next to a platform.

      “Change?”

      “So I can see if you’d be a good fit for my new project.” She hustled off to adjust a camera tripod.

      Francisco had told him this wasn’t a fashion-modeling audition. He stood still for a second and decided to go along with whatever Rey wanted. He shut himself inside the drafty cubicle and shucked off his ice-crusted black jeans, cold fingers fumbling with the buttons on his short-sleeved black shirt. He looked for the outfit he was supposed to model but the only clothing was a ratty-looking bathrobe.

      “Your agent said you’ve done life modeling before?” she asked.

      “Sure, I’ve done it before,” he answered. Life modeling? He’d briefly dated a chain-smoking artist who painted what she called “still lifes”—big ugly bowls of rotting fruit that were supposed to say something deep about the futility of existence or some garbage like that. Maybe Rey wanted him to hold a fruit bowl while she painted his picture.

      “Oh, great. I always find experienced life models easier to work with.” Her cheerful voice floated over the wall. Her English was very precise, with a slight lilt on the vowels—as if she’d grown up speaking two languages, as he had.

      “Um, what do you want me to wear?” he finally had to ask.

      “You are so funny.” Her giggle made him smile, but he had no idea what the joke was. “Just put on the bathrobe.”

      The clothes must be hanging outside. He left on his black bikini briefs and tugged the well-worn black terry cloth around him. It gaped across his chest and skimmed the tops of his thighs.

      Pulling at the robe one more time, he stepped out and almost bumped into her. She had stripped off her blue sweater and wore a tight white tank top. She was as smooth and pale as a marble statue.

      She looked up from the digital camera in front of her. “Come stand on the platform and take off the robe.”

      What? Marco tried to examine her expression for some clue, but she had returned to fiddling with that damn camera. Remembering his younger brother’s excitement to audition in L.A., he loosened the belt and dropped the robe. She circled him slowly, appraising his pecs and abs. Francisco actually got paid for this?

      “Would you be willing to shave?”

      He fingered the stubble on his jaw. Not wanting to get the job, he hadn’t bothered to shave that day. “I thought the unkempt look was in now.”

      “Not your face, your chest. Most models actually wax their chests.”

      His stubbled chin nearly hit the floor. “Wax my chest?” He’d have to have a serious talk with his younger brother about what was and what was not acceptable for Cuban men to do.

      She shrugged. “Or not. Your chest hair isn’t so thick that I can’t see your muscles underneath.”

      “Okay.” He didn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted. He jumped as her finger stroked his back. “You have quite a few scars. You must live an interesting life.”

      “I haven’t always been a model.” Hell, he’d only been one for about thirty seconds.

      “You’re a welcome change. Most male models are cookie-cutter pretty boys. But you—you have quite a unique look.” He fought to stare straight ahead as her warm breath tickled the nape of his neck.

      “I hope that’s СКАЧАТЬ