Her Body Of Work. Marie Donovan
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as she stood in front of her easel, her spicy cinnamon scent mingling with her own warm scent of woman. His shaft hardened again.
She looked up from her sketch, black charcoal smearing her long pale fingers and her long neck as she brushed aside a blond strand of hair. He tried to recognize the shape of his body in her drawing, but it looked like random squiggles.
“I’m busy tonight,” Rey stated, turning to him with a pleasant look on her face before returning to her work.
“What about tomorrow?” He ought to know better, but it had been months since he’d been so attracted to a woman.
She set down her pencil and faced him. Her ice-blue eyes were frosty. “Marco, I’m paying you to model for me. As your employer, I shouldn’t go out to dinner with you.”
She said shouldn’t, not won’t. Maybe she had mixed feelings. “Sure, I understand.”
“Good. You’re the most suitable model I’ve seen for my project, and I’d hate to have any hard feelings between us.” She gave him a smile. Despite her cool manner, a hot flush crept up her cheeks.
His brain realized she was being smart and probably just following her professional standards. But his body wanted to push aside her thin tank top and see if her breasts were as pale and smooth as the rest of her.
She cleared her throat, drawing his attention to the pulse fluttering at the base of her neck. Triumph rushed through him, and he stretched out to stroke the thrumming beat. His dark finger drew invisible circles against the white canvas of her neck. Instead of quelling it, his touch spurred her pulse to an even faster rhythm. She swayed into his delicate caress.
When she didn’t knock his finger away, he was encouraged. He traced the elegant horizon of her collarbone, the strength of bone and flesh hidden under her soft skin arousing him even more. He skimmed over her shoulder with the pads of all four fingers. His breath hitched as he realized that she wasn’t wearing a bra.
“Marco?” Her blue eyes weren’t icy anymore.
“Yes?” Her nipples had peaked against the thin white cotton of her top, matching the heavy pulse of his erection against his zipper. Her glance dropped to the front of his jeans. She zoned in on his arousal, her breath quickening.
If he lowered his hand, the hard tip would brush his palm. He needed to roll her nipples between his fingers and his lips, pull on them with his teeth and tongue.
“What are you doing?” Her husky voice held no indignation, only curiosity.
He smiled despite the growing discomfort as his erection strained against his zipper. “You have a few charcoal smudges.” Only on her throat, and nowhere near where he was touching, but she didn’t need to know that. He contrived to look innocent as she glanced at his fingers diligently rubbing away invisible smears.
“I think you got them all,” she said, trying to be ironic but instead sounding breathy and turned on.
He decided to press his luck and hooked his index finger under the thin ribbon holding up her tank top. “I missed one right here.” He slid his finger down the ribbon to the seam above her nipple. She inhaled sharply, and the top of her bare breast swelled against his knuckle, its hard peak grazing his hand.
She stepped back abruptly, forcing him to release her shirt before he ripped it. Their eyes met and held, blazing blue tangling with hot hazel. She looked away first and strode over to her desk and opened her appointment book. “Can you come at ten on Monday?”
Yeah, he could come anytime she wanted him—now, tomorrow, the next day. “Sure.”
“Great.” She swallowed hard, her delicate throat throbbing.
Monday he’d make her forget she was paying him to get naked. In fact, he’d do it for free, out of the goodness of his heart.
“I’ll see you at ten o’clock, Marco.” She sped him to the door. He turned to say goodbye and saw the loft’s thick door close in his face.
She wasn’t as indifferent to him as she pretended. If his Nordic goddess needed some encouragement to thaw, then he’d apply some Cuban heat.
“WHERE IS MARCO FLORES?” Juan Carlos Rodríguez clicked a solid-gold cigar lighter with his manicured thumbnail and stared at the glittering expanse of Biscayne Bay sixty stories below. Tendrils of silence twined around the sumptuously furnished office as he rotated his massive cordovan leather chair to face his assistant, Gabriel. Gabriel, who had been suspicious of Flores since the beginning. Rodríguez had discounted it as jealousy, since Flores was not only an astute businessman but also willing to get his hands dirty, unlike Gabriel.
“The feds don’t know where their key witness is. He disappeared from the safe house several days ago.” Gabriel met his gaze without flinching. “Our informador hasn’t been able to find him, either, señor.”
“How much do we pay this scum informant to pass us information?” Rodríguez opened his rosewood humidor and picked up a thick cigar. He held it to his nose and sniffed, more from habit than anything. The fumes from years of cooking cocaine and methamphetamines had ruined his sense of smell, much to his regret.
“Several thousand a month, if you include the cocaine,” admitted Gabriel. “But he was able to discover that Marco Flores was his real name instead of the alias he used with us.”
Rodríguez cut his cigar with tiny gold scissors and lit the cigar’s cap, rotating it slowly. He let the flame equalize throughout the tip and took a puff. At least he could taste the tobacco. The Cuban cigar rollers had finally gotten his special blend correct. If only everything in his life were as perfect.
Rodríguez had seen Flores as a possible successor. Both Cuban, both self-made men, both ruthless in dealing with their enemies. Except the man he now called Flores had his ruthless streak aimed at an unexpected enemy: himself, Juan Carlos Rodríguez, El Lobo. The Wolf.
And like the wolf, he would track down his prey, despite the incompetence surrounding him.
“Why am I wasting my drugs and my money on this man that you hired? What do you know?”
The younger man shrugged uncomfortably. “We do know that Flores is no longer in town.”
“And that narrows it down to the tiny part of the United States that lies north of Miami!” The drug lord blew a smoke ring, squinting at Gabriel through the haze. “My conspiracy trial starts in just over a month and Marco Flores knows enough to ruin the whole cartel.”
If Flores were alive to testify, the Colombians had made it clear that their esteemed business associate Juan Carlos would not live to see the inside of a prison cell. “So tell your source to find Flores. If he can’t, cut off the money. Then cut off the drugs. Then cut off his balls.”
3
MARCO BOLTED UPRIGHT, his hands gripping an imaginary weapon, his stomach churning. It had been years since he’d dreamed about the raft, that miserable hunk of rotting wood and worn-out tires. He was still amazed it hadn’t sunk and drowned them in the Florida Straits, the ninety miles of dangerous waters between Cuba and the Keys.
He ran a hand through his sweaty scalp. God, he hated his long hair. If he hadn’t agreed to impersonate Francisco, he’d cut it with his brother’s manicure scissors. It only reminded him of the scumbag he’d played in Rodríguez’s organization. He gave a dry laugh. His baby brother wasn’t the only actor in the family.
Marco lay down and grimaced as the futon frame dug into his neck. It reminded him of the time he’d been hit with a two-by-four on a previous sting in Tampa.
He’d fallen asleep last night watching some action flick dubbed into Spanish. One glance at the clock and he groaned. It was already close to eleven in the morning. He swung his legs off the wooden torture device and stood. He couldn’t believe how rotten he felt. The stress from the past year had finally caught up to him, and his body was paying the dues.
He