Her Body Of Work. Marie Donovan
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
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