bicycle?” Marco set down the garment bag and pulled his brother into an embrace, marveling at how his baby brother was now as tall as he was. Although six years separated them, they could almost pass for each other. Francisco’s eyes were the color of Cuban espresso, whereas his own were hazel, courtesy of their fair-skinned Spanish grandmother.
“What’s with the ringlets?” Francisco rubbed Marco’s hair.
“Knock it off.” Marco ducked away. “My hair’s still shorter than yours, Miss Shirley Temple.”
“Shirley Temple? Like those kiddie cocktails?” Francisco tended bar part-time at a nearby dance club.
“Never mind.” Marco had always preferred to tame his curly hair with a severe cut, but later the longer, more casual style had fit his role as a soldier in the Rodríguez organization.
After all, when millions of dollars in Colombian cocaine passed through your hands on their way to eager American nostrils, there was no excuse to dress like a slob. Or worse, an underpaid undercover DEA agent whose boss had initially refused to pony up the taxpayers’ money for expensive Italian suits and handmade leather shoes.
Once Marco had made it clear that if he didn’t dress the part of a rising lieutenant in the cartel they’d be undressing him at the morgue, the purse strings loosened up in a hurry.
Now it was time to get back to who he really was. “If you have a clipper, I’ll give myself a trim tomorrow.”
Francisco gave him a cagey look. “You might want to hold off on the cut. That hair will keep you warm. The weather’s supposed to fall below zero this week.”
Marco took off his black leather coat and hung it in the tiny closet. “It wasn’t so bad out there.”
“Unseasonably warm. You can borrow my winter coat if you want. It’s brand-new, 650-fill goose down.”
“Thanks.” Marco knew something was up. “Why won’t you need it?”
“I have a favor to ask.” Francisco gave him the winning grin that made the girls sigh and drop their panties.
“How much this time?” Marco reached for the large wad of cash in his pocket. Untraceable and anonymous to bribe Francisco to take a free, spur-of-the-moment vacation.
Marco’s Family Tourism Agency. His motto was Get the Hell Out of Town and Don’t Ask Any Questions. Mamá had already left on her honeymoon cruise with her new husband. She and Luis had originally planned a quick trip to Puerto Rico and the British Virgin Islands, but Marco had bought them a six-week cruise through the Mediterranean. He wanted them out of the Caribbean, away from Rodríguez’s sphere of influence.
“I don’t need your money. I need your body.”
Marco quirked an eyebrow. “I usually hear that from the señoritas, not my brother.”
“Gotta be careful with those hot chicks, hermano. If you’d found out she was already taken before you did the nasty, you wouldn’t have to come to Chicago in January.”
Marco shrugged sheepishly, inwardly pleased his brother had believed his cover story.
“Here’s my problem.” Francisco flopped onto a low couch with a wooden frame. “I met a casting agent when I was bartending last week. He got me a soap-opera audition.”
“Congratulations!” Marco eased down on the couch next to his brother and stretched his legs. It had been a long thirty-six hours of travel.
“Hope for Tomorrow is a brand-new show filming in Los Angeles. The producers want to capitalize on the growing Hispanic audience, so they’ll dub every episode into Spanish, as well, and sell it to the big Miami television networks. The casting agent said they’re looking for a handsome, talented Latino leading man.”
“At least they got the Latino part right.” Marco elbowed his brother in the ribs. He stopped laughing when he saw Francisco’s glum face. “So what’s the problem?”
“I can’t do it.”
“I was just kidding, Francisco. You’ve got plenty of talent, and God knows the ladies think you’re handsome.” Marco shifted his weight to keep the wooden slats from digging into his back.
“I have a modeling appointment scheduled here in Chicago for the same time as my audition.” Francisco ran his fingers through his hair and frowned at the hair gel on his palm. “My modeling agency will fire me if I cancel again. I can’t afford to lose them.”
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