“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.
He stared at the canvas. “The muscles in my back are much more developed. And my hair has more golden highlights.”
Rey rolled her eyes. “It’s not supposed to be photorealistic. Besides, the colors will look a bit different when the paints dry.”
He smoothed his hair. “Oh, okay. I do look pretty spectacular in this painting.”
Just like Narcissus, Craig loved himself the best. What else did she expect from a male model?
MARCO FLORES GLANCED UP and down the dim hall, straining to hear any unusual noise, like a round being chambered or a pistol being cocked. But only the sound of loud hip-hop music came from one apartment, mixing with the smell of Chinese food from another. The corridor remained empty, so he proceeded down the hall. Francisco’s West Side apartment building was as seedy as usual.
Even using his investigative skills, Marco had a hard time keeping track of Francisco. He moved in and out of girlfriends’ apartments at the blink of an eye and had lived in six different cities in the past eighteen months. This latest place belonged to one of his bartending buddies who had taken a cruise-ship job for the winter.
He knocked on his younger brother’s reinforced-steel door. Five locks and a chain clicked open before Francisco’s head popped into view. Marco picked up his garment bag and ducked into his brother’s studio apartment.
“Hey, Francisco!” He grinned at his disgustingly handsome younger brother.
“You’re a day early. Good thing you caught me. I just got home from a gig.” Francisco’s hair was slicked back into glistening black waves.
“Still doing the modeling?”
“It pays the bills, and they really seem to go for the hot-Cuban look here in the icy north.” Francisco shut the door, fastening the line of locks. “I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”
“I flew into Milwaukee and hopped the commuter train.” He didn’t mention the four plane changes under different names to evade pursuit. He didn’t want to panic Francisco, so he’d told his younger brother a cock-and-bull story about needing to leave Miami for a few weeks because he’d accidentally slept with some mobster’s girlfriend. Even a mob girlfriend sounded good at this point.