Her Body Of Work. Marie Donovan
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“Francisco.” Marco ground his jaw, molars scraping off a layer of tooth enamel.
“On the other hand, lesbians usually don’t go for naked men, artistically or otherwise. They tend to paint weird pink flowers or oysters, if you get my drift.”
“Francisco.” Mercifully his younger brother’s attempt at Freudian analysis and art criticism meandered to a halt. Marco took a deep breath and began again. “Francisco, Rey likes men. She paints men. I think she even dates men. But she won’t date me because I’m her model.”
His brother’s hoot of laughter nearly broke his eardrum. “She probably doesn’t date her male models because most of them date men.”
“Oh.” Marco’s conservative cubano upbringing made a rare appearance and he shuddered.
“Look at it this way, Marco,” his brother offered in a conciliatory tone. “Show up, take off your clothes and maybe your impressive body will convince her to change her mind about dating her models.”
Marco considered his brother’s advice. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea.”
“I do have good ideas now and then.” Francisco’s tone became concerned. “Are you doing okay, Marco? Have you been spotted by any men with large necks intent on avenging their slutty girlfriend’s honor?”
Marco stopped thinking about posing nude and got serious. “No, Chicago’s the perfect city for me to hang out. It’s big enough to get lost in, and I can cover my face with a scarf when I leave the apartment. Hell, I need to use a scarf anyway. Besides,” he prevaricated, “I only slept with that mob chick once, and nobody with any sense would leave Miami this time of year.”
“All right.” His brother sounded relieved. “Wish me luck, and you’ll see me next on Hope for Tomorrow.”
“Good luck, hermanito. Adiós.”
“Adiós, hermano.” Francisco clicked off his phone.
Marco hung up and stared at the off-white apartment walls. He had refused to hide in the feds’ safe house after one of his informants disappeared. No doubt the man had provided a meal for the bull sharks off the Florida coast.
Marco’d suspected for a while that Rodríguez had a mole, a snitch in the Miami division. Since he didn’t know who to trust at DEA, he would trust the only man he could count on: himself.
Being turned into shark chow held no appeal, but neither did sitting around a government-owned shack on the edge of a swamp, watching satellite soccer and skin flicks waiting for someone to put a bullet in the back of his head. If Rodríguez wanted him dead, by God, that son of a bitch would have to work for it.
But damned if he was going to sacrifice Francisco. Marco would keep his younger brother out of town if he had to pay him. Considering Francisco’s spotty income from modeling and bartending, it would be an offer he couldn’t refuse.
He stared at the snow falling past the window. Chicago was cold, but it was better than being cold and dead in sunny Miami.
4
REY HUNG UP A NEW midnight-blue bathrobe in her changing cubicle and tossed the old bathrobe on her pile of painting rags. Marco had almost burst out of the threadbare black fabric. Of course, his chest and abs were much more muscular and well-defined than her last model. She stroked the pliant blue terry cloth. It would be soft and supple against his smooth skin. Lucky robe. It would touch him. She wouldn’t.
Why, oh, why couldn’t she find a nice, normal man who thought Monet was the French word for cash and Jackson Pollock was just an inexpensive whitefish from Mississippi? Starting with Stefan the Slug, her first lover, and culminating with Jack the Jag-off, Rey had gone for the dark, dangerous type. Of course, ten years later Stefan was mostly gray and about as dangerous as a set of children’s finger paints. And as for Jack, the only dangerous part of him was his flapping mouth.
Rey shook her head. Instead of mooning over a model with an overdeveloped ego and an underdeveloped brain, she needed to get her art supplies ready. Walking to her large angled sketching table, she opened a new box of charcoal sticks. She was testing them on a paper scrap when her phone rang.
She answered the phone. “Rey Martinson.”
“Hello, Rey. It’s Evelyn.”
“Good news, Evelyn. I found the perfect model and he starts today.”
“I have some good news, too. I just faxed the contract for the male nude sculpture to the Stuarts’ attorney. He called and said everything is in order.”
Rey whooshed a silent sigh of relief. Her biggest commission was in her grasp. “You know how much this means to me, Evelyn.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Rey.” Evelyn’s voice lost some of its coziness. “The last two paintings you showed me aren’t up to your usual high standards.”
Rey’s stomach flipped. “I’m not sure what you mean,” she managed to say. Was Evelyn letting her go as a client? How could she work on this big commission with this hanging over her head?
“Your technique was great, but the emotion wasn’t there. The paintings seemed a bit, well, dull.”
That stung more than she expected. Years in the art world hadn’t made her so thick-skinned after all. “Dull?” Rey heard a snap and looked down to find her charcoal stick cracked in two. She wiped her smeared fingers on an ochre-stained rag.
“I loved the color, but I couldn’t feel your emotional connection with the subject.”
Rey rolled her eyes. Her dislike of Craig must have spilled over into his portrait.
Evelyn continued, “I’m sending those two paintings back. Only your absolute best work goes on display.”
“I agree.” Maybe her friends at the gay bar needed some new artwork. If Craig had a fit, so much the better.
“The sculpture for the Stuarts’ Roman bath is crucial to your career, Rey. How many modern artists get commissioned for a life-size marble statue? This might put you on the map. If we use this as a springboard to move away from the male nudes, you could be the next Glenna Goodacre.”
Rey’s stomach flipped. As always, Evelyn knew exactly which buttons to push. Glenna Goodacre was Rey’s idol. The American artist had sculpted the Vietnam Women’s Memorial on display at the Mall in Washington, D.C. “What do you suggest, Evelyn? I don’t want to goof this up.”
“In a word, dear, passion.”
“Passion?” Rey grimaced. “Passion for my artwork?”
Evelyn cleared her throat delicately. “Sometimes when an artist is concentrating on her career, certain things fall by the wayside. Like family, friends and other more, uh, personal relationships.”
Like sex, Rey mentally translated.
Evelyn continued, “It might be a good idea to take a short break and recharge your batteries.”
Rey didn’t think Evelyn meant the batteries for the gadget in her nightstand. “I see.”
“I hope I haven’t hurt your feelings, Rey.” Evelyn paused. “But if you don’t produce a phenomenal piece of artwork for the Stuarts, I will have difficulties finding such prestigious and lucrative commissions for you.”
Rey knew what that meant: screw this up and kiss your career goodbye. “Thanks for letting me know, Evelyn. You can count on me to do a great job.”
“Thanks, dear. I’ll let you get back to work.” Evelyn hung up.
Rey stared out the window. Heavy gray snow clouds churned, further dampening her mood. The door buzzer sounded and she started. The adrenaline rush of starting a new project always made her jumpy. She refused to think that her nerves might be from seeing Marco again.