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Her Body Of Work
Marie Donovan
WHEN SCULPTING A NUDE, THE ARTIST MUST…Understand the male bodyChicago sculptor Rey Martinson has always worked with nudes, but she is floored by her new model's male perfection. Cuban-American Marco Flores's body is more than inspiring–it's irresistible.Be good with her handsBecause it turns out that Marco is incredibly talented with his–on Rey! After each wildly arousing modeling session, they find release in intense lovemaking.Have an eye for detailRey can't ignore that there's something suspicious about Marco. He's the first lover she's ever had who sleeps with a gun under his pillow! But for Rey, being with Marco is worth the risk. Because she's never been with a man who stimulates her so strongly–as an artist…or as a woman.
All the paintings and sculptures in Rey’s studio were of men
Naked men.
Marco muttered a curse. What had his brother gotten him into?
He actually flinched when Rey’s silky hair brushed his shoulder, sending a rush of blood to his crotch. She had barely touched him, and already he was painfully erect. She couldn’t miss seeing it.
“Marco, I think you’d be the perfect model for my new commission.” She smiled, and he gulped. “Please take off your underwear so I can see the rest of your body.” Her smile widened, two deep dimples creasing her cheeks.
How could he refuse? He hooked his thumbs under the waistband and pushed down his briefs. His erection sprang free. He forced himself to stand still and not look away in embarrassment.
Her sky-blue eyes widened. “Fantastic. You have the most beautiful body I’ve ever seen.”
“Uh, th-thank you,” Marco stammered. Who could have guessed? The blond goddess loved his body. Maybe modeling wouldn’t be so bad, after all.
Dear Reader,
My biggest challenge as a first-time author was digging deep into my creativity to make Her Body of Work a satisfying read. So to keep myself company in my artistic labors, I gave my heroine, sculptor Rey Martinson, the same challenge.
After years of hard work, Rey earns a prestigious commission to sculpt a nude male statue. But her self-doubts threaten to sink her until she picks the perfect model, sexy Cuban-American Marco Flores.
Marco is more than willing to help Rey rediscover her sensual, artistic side. But despite his sexual confidence, Marco has his own regrets. And even though he ends up baring all, he still manages to hide a huge secret from his new employer…for a while, at least.
How two lovers deal with their pasts to create a future together has always been one of my favorite themes. I hope you’ll enjoy Rey and Marco’s journey.
Happy reading!
Marie Donovan
P.S. I’d be delighted to hear from my readers. Visit www.mariedonovan.com to enter fun contests and learn more about my upcoming books.
Her Body of Work
Marie Donovan
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
To my husband, with love always.
Thank you for all your support.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
1
CRAIG SPRAWLED NAKED IN front of Rey Martinson, asleep on the sheet-covered chaise longue. That was okay with her. She had worn him out, urging him into various positions and contortions during their long afternoon together.
His muscular back rose and fell with his deep breaths, his light brown curls pillowed on his folded forearms. Rey stood and stretched her cramped shoulders. She wasn’t as tired as he was—but then, he’d done the hard work. She decided to finish while he slept.
After all, her male model was still on the clock, and the flesh-toned acrylic paints on her canvas were starting to dry.
Reaching for a half-empty tube of burnt sienna acrylic paint, she squeezed a blob onto her palette and worked it into the nearby blob of titanium white with her blunt-edged palette knife. A few more brushstrokes and she’d finish the painting in time to deliver it to her clients.
She cast her experienced eye over the contours of his back and buttocks. Her clients had commissioned a rendition of the ancient Greek myth of Narcissus—the young man who fell in love with his own reflection in a pool and pined away. Craig was the perfect Narcissus—handsome and vain, just like most men she’d met recently.
Since her last relationship had gone up in flames worthy of a Viking longboat funeral, Rey had spent the summer licking her wounds and the fall traipsing around to singles’ nights and museum mixers with her best friend, Meg O’Malley.
Finally they’d both given up and decided to hibernate man-free for the winter. Meg was fighting for tenure at one of Chicago’s snootiest universities and Rey had a bunch of art projects to finish, so their pent-up sexual energy could then be channeled into their work. That was the theory, anyway.
The phone rang. Craig muttered in his sleep. His bare flesh was covered in goose bumps. Rey hardly noticed the cold Chicago gusts blowing past her drafty loft windows but pulled a sheet up to his shoulders anyway. She crossed the paint-splattered concrete floor to check the caller ID to make sure it wasn’t her mother.
Brigitte Martinson had been a professional wife all her adult life and still thought her only daughter’s art career was just a peculiar way to spend her time until she married.
Fortunately it was her artist’s rep, Evelyn, on the phone, who was probably checking on the painting in front of her.
Rey clipped on the cordless earpiece that freed her hands. “Hello?”
“Hi, Rey. It’s Evelyn. How are you, dear?” While Evelyn Colby might sound like everyone’s favorite grandmother, she locked on to business deals with the jaws of a pit bull.
“Just fine, Evelyn. In fact, I’m finishing that portrait of Narcissus,” she hinted, hoping to cut the call short before her paints dried into a hard, glossy lump.
“Glad to hear it, but I’m not calling about that. Are you sitting down?” Evelyn’s usually serene voice had an edge of excitement.
“Actually, I am.” Rey settled on her painting stool. She thought with an ample butt like hers the stool would be more comfortable than it was. Hmm. Speaking of butts, the buttocks in her work-in-progress needed more definition. Maybe alizarin-crimson?
“You got the Stuart commission!” Evelyn crowed.
“The what?” Rey covered her palette with a plastic lid, resigned to another delay.
“I sent your portfolio out for review last fall and the Stuarts finally made a decision.”
Rey sat up straight. “Do they want an oil painting or an acrylic?” Her loft building was being turned into condominiums. She needed a big chunk of cash for a mortgage down payment or else she’d have to move. No more twelve-foot windows. No more room for dozens of canvases and blocks of stone.
“Not a painting—a ten-foot marble sculpture for their new lakefront mansion,” Evelyn explained.
Rey adjusted her earpiece. She couldn’t possibly have heard right. “Did you say a ten-foot sculpture?” Although she made somewhat of a living with painting, sculpting was her favorite.
Evelyn rustled some papers. “My notes say Carrara marble, no less. It’s being sent from the Italian quarry as we speak.”
Rey gasped. “Oh, my God! Who can afford a ten-foot block of Carrara marble?”
“The Stuart family can. And what’s more, they can afford to pay you to sculpt it.”
“How much are they willing to pay?” Anticipation curled in Rey’s stomach. Maybe she wouldn’t have to lose her loft.
Evelyn triumphantly named the fee.
The paintbrush fell from Rey’s nerveless fingers, splattering dark brown paint on her bare toes. “That’s six figures!”
Her agent was understandably smug. “That’s right, kiddo. You’ve hit the big time.”
Rey’s knees were too weak to balance on her stool. She staggered over to the chaise longue and plopped down next to Craig. He lifted his head and smiled at her.
“Hey, baby.” He wrapped an arm around her waist. She shoved it away and concentrated on Evelyn’s incredible news.
“Am I interrupting something?” Evelyn had the hearing of a bat.
Rey frowned at Craig, who rolled over onto his back and stretched both arms over his head. “No, that’s just my model. Tell me about the ten-foot statue. Where on earth do these people live?”
“Didn’t you read the society column I faxed you?” Evelyn made a tsking noise.
“Sorry, Evelyn. I’ve been working twelve-hour days and haven’t had a chance,” Rey fibbed. She found the ingredient list on her paint-thinner can more interesting to read than the Chicago society pages. Fifteen years of hearing her mother gloat over them at the breakfast table had been enough. Mr. and Mrs. Hans Martinson of the Swedish consulate of Chicago hosted last night’s gala benefit for the preservation of the Scandinavian spotted puffin, blah, blah, blah…
Evelyn interrupted Rey’s trip-and-fall down memory lane. “I read them, and they reported that Mr. and Mrs. Preston Stuart III sold their Gold Coast penthouse and bought a lakefront home just north of the city. It’s already a mansion, and they’re making it even bigger.”
“How did they pick me?” It was still too much for Rey to absorb.
“The Stuarts love the art and culture of ancient Greece and Rome. Remember the fountain of water nymphs you sculpted last year?”
“Sure, that was a great project.” She’d carved the nymphs’ faces to look like the owner’s wife and daughters. It was a good thing they’d all been attractive women.
“I sent them a portfolio containing photos of the fountain and some of your recent paintings. They loved your Greco-Roman works.”
“Really?” Giddiness swirled through her. She’d spent almost a decade watching so-called artists get grants for dipping themselves in chocolate or making sculptures out of empty toilet-paper rolls. Now it was her turn to show the art world what she could do. To show her parents and all their stuck-up friends that her painting and sculpting commanded respect. And lots of money. They all understood money extremely well.
“You’ll get to sculpt that block of Italian marble into Mars, the Roman god of war. Totally nude, no fig leaf or loincloth. And if they like your preliminary sketches, they want you to paint murals in the grand rotunda. For an additional fee, of course.” Her agent laughed.
“Evelyn, I don’t know what to say.” Rey blinked to keep the tears from spilling onto her cheeks. “Thank you so much.”
“You might not thank me when I tell you the time frame on this project. The preliminary sketches are due in three weeks, so call that modeling agency. Pick someone who looks like the god of war.” Evelyn’s line clicked. “I’ll fax you the contract, Rey. I’ve got another call coming in. Congratulations!”
“Wait!” But Evelyn had already hung up. Three weeks for sketches on the most important project of her career? Rey drummed her fingers, smearing light brown paint on the sheet. She had to call Meg. Meg would cheer for her and keep her from panicking.
“Good news?” Craig’s voice startled her. She’d almost forgotten he was still there.
“Great news.” It was the best news of her career, if she found the perfect model. She examined Craig’s pretty-boy features. God of war? More like god of wuss.
He propped himself on his side and peeled off the sheet, revealing his tanned, naked body. His tanned, naked, aroused body. “Want to celebrate with me?”
Rats. “Sorry, Craig. I make it a rule never to get involved with my models.” She stood and put several feet of distance between them.
“Rey, baby, who would ever know?” He patted the expanse of chaise longue. “Plenty of room for two…” he wheedled.
She considered him. Was it time to break her rule? After all, he was buff, had all his own teeth and hair and was presumably heterosexual. It had been a long dry spell for her.
“And besides, who said anything about getting involved?” He smirked at her, running his hand down his chest to cup his erection.
Okay, it would have to be a much longer dry spell before she’d wet her whistle with a drip like him. That was all she needed at this critical point in her career—another male model like her ex-boyfriend Jack. He hadn’t wasted any time in spreading nasty gossip to all his model buddies in the Chicago art scene. For months all the straight models she’d hired had expected a roll in the hay along with their paycheck, like some kind of sleazy 401(k).
She tossed Craig a ratty black bathrobe. “Get dressed, Craig. I’m finished.”
“With the painting? Let me see.” He jumped to his feet. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted at the speed with which he abandoned his sexual advances.
