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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 shovedhis 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