at his joke before she put on her professional demeanor. He stomped the snow off his tan boots and walked inside. She closed the door and he pulled off his scarf and glasses, pushing back the hood on a chocolate-brown ski parka.
“I took your advice and dressed for the cold. I finally have some feeling in my fingers and toes.” He tugged off his heavy gloves and unzipped his jacket.
“I’ll take your coat.” The Velcro on the hood stuck to his sweater, and without thinking she moved behind him to pull it loose.
He looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Eager to get to work?”
“You’re a man of many layers,” she quipped, fingering the ecru turtleneck collar under his heavy sweater.
“What do you mean?” His voice was casual but his trapezius and deltoid muscles tightened over his shoulder blades. She realized she was still touching him and gripped his thick down coat with both hands.
“Layers of clothing. They keep you warmer.” What did he think she meant? Something more personal?
“Right.” His shoulders relaxed and he turned to face her. “I am a man of many layers of clothing just waiting to be peeled away.” He was so close she saw the tiny black flecks of beard along the smooth skin of his cheeks.
Rey dug her fingers into the coat to keep from running them along the clean line of his jaw. Instead of distracting her, the leftover warmth of his body radiated from the slippery nylon lining.
She hung his coat on the coatrack and tucked his snowy gloves and scarf on the radiator to dry. “Would you like some coffee?” She walked toward the kitchen.
“Maybe later. I already had a few cups of jet fuel at home.” He followed her, his tread silent on the concrete floor.
“Jet fuel?” She turned to look at him.
“Cuban coffee. Strong enough to power a jet engine.”
“So you’re Cuban.” That explained his dark good looks and slight accent.
He looked as if he wanted to call back his words. “Yes.”
“I was born in Sweden, but we moved to Chicago when I was twelve.”
“I left Cuba when I was twelve, too,” he admitted.
“Really? Twelve is such a hard age to leave your friends and come to a new country. I cried for a month. What was the biggest change for you?”
“What doesn’t change when you move?” He shoved his hands in his pockets and began looking at her artwork. “We should probably get started so you can get the best light, or whatever artists need.”
“Oh. Sure.” Rey glanced at the ceiling-to-floor windows along the north side of her loft. The snow was falling thickly and had blocked the natural light. But if he didn’t want to talk about Cuba, that was fine with her. She wasn’t paying him to discuss painful memories with her. “Why don’t you change in the cubicle again?”
He rattled the curtain closed, and she flipped on the new space heaters placed around the modeling dais.
“A new robe?” he called.
“Yes. Hopefully warmer and better-fitting for you.”
“Thanks. I appreciate it.” He sounded surprised, as if he’d received few kindnesses.
“No problem.” She smoothed the sheet on the chaise longue and double-checked the batteries in her expensive digital camera. She flipped her large sketch pad to a clean page.
One space heater was too close to her drafting table. By the time she pulled it next to the modeling platform, its blast of hot air had overheated her. The wool sweater her mother had sent from Sweden was overkill.
Rey stripped off the prickly garment and tossed it onto a pile of canvas drop cloths in the corner. That was better. Her red long-sleeved shirt was much cooler.
She reached up with both arms and twisted her hair off her damp neck into a bun on top of her head. Where was that hair clip? She rummaged one-handed on her drafting table.
“Are those for me?” Marco stood two feet in front of her.
“What?” She inadvertently looked at her nipples thrusting against the thin cotton of her shirt. She dropped her arms, but not before the gleam in his eyes gave him away.
“The space heaters. They’re new.”
Rey waved a hand dismissively and noticed charcoal smears on her fingers. “It’s important for you to be comfortable. Warm muscles are suppler. You can assume more positions and hold them longer.” Her cheeks heated as a variety of positions totally unrelated to art ran through her mind.
He smiled, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “What position do you like best?”
“It depends.” He meant modeling positions, right?
“On what?” He padded closer.
“On what feels best. I mean, what looks best.” She caught herself inhaling his clean citrus scent. He was entirely too close for her already shaky self-possession. She backed away several feet and stumbled into her drawing table.
“Careful.” Marco’s hands on her arms steadied her balance but did nothing to steady her nerves. How had he reached her so quickly? She hadn’t even seen him move. “Did you hurt yourself?” He rubbed the tender skin in the crook of her elbows, thumbs coming achingly close to the curves of her breasts.
“No, I’m fine.” Her breath came faster, the movement pressing the sides of her breasts against his hands. She froze, desperately wanting him to stop cupping her elbows and cup her breasts instead. Her nipples tightened only a few inches away from his hands.
His own breathing quickened, widening the brown V of skin between his lapels. He bent his glossy black head toward her, closing the distance between their lips. She gulped and ducked out of his arms, hurrying to the raised platform.
“Why don’t we get started?” She was proud of her casual tone of voice.
“I thought we already did,” he murmured but obediently followed her to the dais.
She didn’t have a comeback for his innuendo, so she valiantly put on her Nordic-ice-princess persona that had frightened off several overly affectionate models. Of course, it was hard to be icy when the masculine equivalent of a blast furnace was mere inches away.
She stopped at the platform base, staring at her setup with newly carnal eyes. The low-slung chaise longue was as wide as a double bed. One corner rose into a padded backrest. She’d draped it with a pure white sheet to get the best color contrast possible.
The muscles in his calves and thighs flexed as he lowered himself to the chaise. He bounced slightly, his knees parting the terry cloth. Her stare traveled up his long thighs to the shadow between his legs. Was he wearing those tiny satin bikini briefs under his robe? Or nothing at all? He cleared his throat, and her startled gaze flew up to meet his amused one.
“Good springs. And very comfortable.” He patted the
