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. He hadn’t been with a woman in several months, afraid he would let his guard down during sex and say something he shouldn’t.
“You should have let me pick you up.”
“With what? Your 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
