The Portrait (10 page)

"Miss Carter," he said, drawing the syllables of her name out until they sounded like a caress. "It seems we're in need of a model."

The suggestion was there, in his voice, startling and illusory. She couldn't believe it, told herself not to believe it. He couldn't want her to model for them. But she saw the query in his eyes as he moved closer to her, saw it when he stopped just before her, close enough that she could feel his heat and smell the scent of turpentine and oil that clung to him, the faint remnants of smoke. She found herself staring at his chest, at the open collar of his shirt, and with a shiver she noticed the dark curls that started there and disappeared beneath the threadbare cotton. Curls that Nicholas had never had.

She felt again that stab of desire, the sinking in her stomach, the heat that started there and spun into her blood, clear into her fingertips, and she knew he was deliberately trying to make her feel that way, that his every move and word had been intended to seduce her, that his question now was a compliment meant to manipulate her, an insincere and calculated flattery. And she wondered again what he wanted from her, who he saw when he looked at her. The questions suddenly seemed more important than ever, somehow necessary. This was Jonas Whitaker, a handsome, brilliant artist. A man she wanted to understand, to learn from. She was nothing but an inexperienced student, a woman who could not possibly tempt him, a woman he could not possibly want. So why all the attention? Why?

Her throat felt dry; it took all Imogene's effort to keep her breathing steady when he reached out, cupping her chin and tilting it up, forcing her to look into his eyes.

"So what should we do, Miss Carter?" Whitaker's fingers stroked her skin, his voice was smooth and beguiling. "The others are waiting for me to show them a woman's back."

"Imogene. Genie—" Peter's voice, a quick protest. It seemed to come from miles away.

Whitaker smiled. "Genie?" he repeated, and then he said the name again, a tentative test, rolling it over his tongue as if he liked the feel of it, the taste. He bent until she felt his breath against her lips, the whispered accents. "Genie, darling, will you model for us today?"

There it was, the question he'd alluded to. But hearing the words startled her. For some reason she'd expected them to blast through the room, a loud and obscene declaration, words that would bring her to her senses, that would take away the possibilities and leave her with emotions and respectability intact.

But instead the words were soft, a forbidden temptation that cajoled with compliments. Instead, they seduced her, whispered against her skin, danced around her.
"Genie, darling, will you model for us today?"
Her questions came flooding back, leaving her weak and flattered and curious.
Why me? What does he want from me? How does he see me?

Lord, she wanted to know, wanted to know so badly it was all she could think about. In the light of it, propriety didn't matter, nothing mattered but knowing more about him, answering those questions. And oh, she wanted to know the answers. She wanted it more than anything she had ever wanted.

Imogene took a deep breath and looked steadily into his eyes.

"Christ." The word was a harsh whisper, startled surprise. He dropped his hand so quickly it was as if she'd burned him. He stepped back.

"I'll pose," she said quietly, not taking her gaze from his. "I'll pose for the others ... if you draw me too."

He stared at her, and she saw the wariness on his face, the suspicious question, and thought he would refuse, but he only frowned and said, "You want me to draw you?"

"Please."

He looked at her steadily, assessingly. Then finally he nodded, and that thin smile was back in place again, the faint contempt. "Very well then," he said.

She nodded, trying to control the excitement that soared through her, the fluttering in her stomach. She took a deep, calming breath and reached behind her neck, feeling for the buttons at the back of her collar. "You'll have to help me," she said, and it amazed her how calm her voice sounded, how unemotional.

Without waiting for his assent, she turned her back to him. It seemed an eternity before she felt his fingers working the buttons, slipping them through the fastenings easily, smoothly. She felt the loosening of her collar, the cool air of the room touching the back of her neck. She felt the unfolding of the material at her back, the soft scrape of his knuckles over the flimsy protection of her chemise, loosening her laces.

Then he was at her waist, and he stopped and moved back. She thought she heard his breathing grow more strained as she stepped away from him and went to the chair Clarisse had occupied earlier. It was a long distance; she held the front of her dress to her breasts, thinking of Clarisse and the way the woman had bared her nakedness without a qualm, the sheer confidence of the way she moved. Imogene felt disembodied, keenly aware of her movement without feeling it at all. This is someone else entirely, she thought. Some stranger . . .

But then she saw their eyes on her, saw their rapt attention: Peter's dismay and Daniel's flushed embarrassment and Tobias's unabashed stare. There was something exciting about their reactions, something insidiously decadent. They were watching her the way men never watched her, and with a start she understood what Clarisse had felt, and Chloe. Imogene felt the power of her movement, was aware of her body in a way she'd never been before, the sway of her hips, the dangling hairs bouncing against her cheeks, her throat. Excitement coursed through her, she felt its heat in her face, felt the tingle in her skin.

She felt . . . alive.

Her senses were on fire, the blood raced through her veins. She stepped up on the platform, letting her gaze rest on the others for a moment before she turned and sat with her back to them, closing her eyes as she lowered the sleeves of her dress, the chemise straps. She felt the brush of cool air on her bare shoulders, felt the hot touch of their collective gaze, and satisfaction surged through her, a strange and heady confidence that grew when she saw Whitaker reach for an easel and a sketch pad and join the others. He was going to draw her. He was going to draw her, and she would look at that sketch and know what he saw when he looked at her. She would see with his vision today after all.

The thought was intoxicating. She could imagine now what Chloe must have felt surrounded by the adoring suitors who crowded the parlor. For a moment it seemed her sister's spirit surged into Imogene. She straightened her shoulders and lifted her head, feeling, for the only time in her life, like a woman worthy of attention.

She heard the scratching of charcoal on canvas and waited.

Chapter 9

J
onas stared unseeingly at the sketch before him, at his hastily drawn lines. He did not understand what had happened. Something had changed, something had wrested control from his hands, and it sent the blood racing through his veins, filled him with fear and dread and a disturbing euphoria.

He continually underestimated her. She was never what he expected. He thought of when she'd first arrived this morning, wearing the blue moire silk that was as colorless and unflattering on her as everything else she'd worn. It made her look weak and frail, and he'd let that fool him, even though it shouldn't have, even though he knew she was stronger than she looked.

He was twice the fool, since he could not look at that moire silk now without thinking of how it had looked peeling back under his fingers, slowly—button by button—revealing the virginal pointelle lace of her chemise, the smooth ivory of her flesh. He could not stop remembering how dark and dirty his fingers had looked against her pale skin, or the freckles spattered across her shoulders, or those fine light hairs at the nape of her neck, the pale down . . .

Jonas closed his eyes briefly. He was truly going mad. He had wanted to send her running, and instead he was the one who felt the need to run. Because he could not take his eyes off her. Because sitting there with her back to him, she was captivating and puzzling, a mystery he needed to solve. Because when she named her conditions for posing, he had wanted suddenly and completely to draw her, as she'd asked, and he could not figure out why.

He told himself she was too delicate, too pale, too fragile for his tastes. But the sunlight pouring through the windows added color to her skin, sent highlights flickering through that honey-colored hair, gave her a soft warmth, an ethereal, almost spiritual, strength.

He told himself she was plain, her face too angular for beauty, her jaw too long. But sitting there the way she was, with her chin lifted at an angle to him, he saw the delicate structure of her jaw, the rise of cheekbone, the fine symmetry of her features.

He was entranced by those expressive eyes and the smoothness of her skin and her scent, by the strange force of her words, the wistfulness he heard in them, the threat of intimacy.
"I want to know what it's like to be you. I want to understand."

Why the hell wouldn't she run?

Jonas clenched the charcoal in his fingers, feeling overwhelming frustration. He didn't know what else to try, what to do, couldn't even remember why he wanted so badly for her to go. What was it about her? Why was it that she affected him this way? He couldn't remember the last time a woman had gotten so under his skin—

The lines on the paper seemed to congeal suddenly, to take form before his eyes. Not just separate lines, more than a two-dimensional plane, more than space and shadow. He looked down at his sketch pad and saw the woman he'd drawn in exquisite detail. The sketch took his breath away. He stared at it, at the sensuality of the form, the quiet eroticism, and felt a shock and dismay that went clear to his bones.

He shook his head. Ah, Christ. Christ, not this. Not so easily. He'd struggled for days with the courtesan, for weeks. She had never unfurled as easily as this. Every sketch had been a struggle, every line a defeat.

The buzzing in his blood grew. It rang in his ears, pulsed through him like a heartbeat. Jonas dropped the charcoal and stepped away until he could no longer see the drawing, wanting to deny it even existed. She was in everything.
Everything.
He didn't want her there, didn't want any part of her at all. He glanced up at her, sitting there on that platform, not at all the victim he'd wanted her to be, and his anger came fast and furious. He felt as defeated as the courtesan had made him. Viciously he tore the sketch from the easel, crumpling it and throwing it to the floor.

"Get dressed," he said harshly. He could barely get the words out, but they seemed to echo in the room, too loud and too brutal. "For Christ's sake, get dressed and go home. All of you go home."

She jumped, twisting around to stare at him. He saw her gaze drop to the paper he'd tossed aside, saw the question in her big brown eyes. Then color flooded her cheeks, and she was frowning, pulling up the sleeves of her dress, and McBride was on his feet and moving toward her, helping her with her gown. Jonas felt the stares of the others as well, turning on him, trapping him, and he didn't give a damn what they saw or what they thought.

He turned away, striding past them to the canvas against the window. He grabbed his palette on the way, determined to paint, determined to let his vision take over, to blank out Imogene Carter and her delicate curves and fragile features. Determined to draw the courtesan. Determined not to look at her again, not to think about her.

He heard the door to the studio open. Jonas kept his gaze fastened on the canvas before him, the muted underpainting, the lush lines of the whore. . . .

The studio door crashed shut. Jonas glanced over. It was Childs. The sight of him brought both relief and irritation. "What do you want, Rico?"

"It's past noon,
mon ami
." Childs shrugged, a loose, beautiful movement that sent his golden hair tumbling over his shoulders. "Time for all the boys and girls to go home." He glanced over the room, and Jonas felt a surge of annoyance as Rico turned his smile on Miss Carter, who was stepping off the platform, blushing prettily, her dress done up again to hide those smooth, creamy shoulders, her pale throat.

"Ah, Miss Imogene," Rico said in his smooth, cultured tone. "How nice to see you again. I—"

"Leave her the hell alone." For a moment, Jonas didn't realize the words had come from him. For a moment, the intensity of his anger startled him. He saw Childs turn to him, a dark blond brow rising in surprise, saw the sudden interest flaring in his friend's eyes.

"Let's go, Imogene."

With a part of his mind, Jonas heard McBride's voice. It was too loud in the sudden silence. He saw the way the man took Imogene Carter's arm, the way he pulled her to the door. She hesitated for only an instant, long enough to grab the crumpled sketch Jonas had thrown away, and when Jonas saw the careful, precious way she held it, he lost whatever illusion of control he had.

"Yes, go, Genie, won't you?" he said, putting all of his anger and self-mockery into the words. "Get the hell out of here."

And even though he knew Childs was watching, even though he knew there would be questions about it later, Jonas couldn't take his eyes off her as Peter escorted her to the door. He expected to feel relief when she was finally gone, but all he felt was a confusing disappointment, and he could do nothing but stand there while the others left. When Tobias Harrington finally closed the door behind him, Jonas slowly turned his gaze to Rico, who was lounging on the model's chair, the image of careless indolence.

Jonas wasn't fooled. He saw the intense interest in his friend's pale blue eyes, the thinly veiled curiosity.

"Well, well. What was that all about,
mon ami
?"

There was no excuse he could offer. Briefly Jonas wondered what to tell him. What explanation would satisfy when he didn't understand himself what had just happened? He thought of a dozen offhand comments, vague disclaimers, easy lies, but he knew by the way Rico was watching him that he would never escape so easily.

"Well? Are you going to answer me, or shall I be forced to come up with an explanation myself? Let's see—I know—you've fallen madly in love with the girl-"

"Don't be ridiculous," Jonas snapped.

"
Pardon
, but it hardly seems ridiculous to me. I heard your last words to that little innocent—not to mention those charming endearments you sent my way. You hardly sounded disinterested."

"Words are easily misunderstood."

"Don't turn philosophical on me, Jonas, I can hardly bear it." Childs groaned, rolling his eyes.
     
“Credit me with a little intelligence, won't you? There's not much room to interpret 'Leave her the hell alone.’”

Jonas worked to keep his face impassive. "Perhaps I was angry at something else."

"Perhaps Paris is in Germany."

"Don't start with me, Rico."

"You forget," Childs said with a limpid smile. "You can't threaten me. I've already seen you at your worst."

"That's what you think."

"And anyway, my curiosity has the better of me."

"I won't insult you by reminding you of the pitfalls of curiosity."

"Or I suppose I could simply ask Clarisse." Rico glanced at the changing screen, and then frowned and looked around the room. "Where is she, anyway? I thought you said she'd be modeling today."

Clarisse
. Jonas had forgotten about her. Forgotten her so completely it took a moment for him to react to Childs's words. "Clarisse," he repeated slowly. "She's gone."

"Gone?" Rico's frown deepened. "You say that as if she's dead."

"Dead to me anyway. I'm done with her."

"You're done with her? After only a week?" Childs's scrutiny intensified. "Why do I feel as if I've missed something?"

Jonas tried to keep his words casual. "It's nothing, Rico. I was tired of her, that's all."

"Who have you replaced her with?"

The question stabbed through Jonas with surprising sharpness. It was a valid query, given that he was never without a mistress, but it startled him that he'd forgotten that, and he wanted to answer:
No one. I've replaced her with no one at all.
He wanted to believe it. But then he saw Imogene Carter sitting on the chair, lowering the straps of her chemise over her shoulders . . .

Jonas's mouth went dry. He swallowed, forced himself to make a dismissive gesture.

"I see."

The studied disbelief in his friend's voice irritated Jonas. He turned away, back to the table, to the glass slab loaded with half-ground ultramarine. "It's easy enough to find a woman. You know that."

"Yes, of course. How silly of me to suspect you're not telling me the whole truth."

Jonas winced. "Rico—"

"Please,
mon ami,
you sound so tortured. If you're so determined to keep everything such a secret, just say so and be done with it."

"It's a secret."

"Damn you." There was laughter in the words.

Jonas sighed. "It's nothing for you to be concerned about, Rico."

There was silence. Then Rico's voice came, soft and somber, all humor gone. "Isn't it?"

Jonas squeezed his eyes shut. Funny how that concern pierced through him. It almost undid him, and he opened his eyes and stared at the paint on the slab, forcing himself to gain control, trying to come up with some plausible lie, some way to explain to Rico what he could not explain to himself. How could he explain that the thought of a mistress suddenly seemed repulsive and coarse? That a virginal, colorless woman had suddenly taken on such vibrancy that it was impossible to banish or forget her?

He couldn't explain any of it. And he knew if he tried, Rico would just look at him with those too-perceptive, too-blue eyes, and see right through him the way he always had. It was why Jonas hated Childs as much as he loved him, why those months Childs had spent in Paris had been a relief for both of them.

Despite himself, Jonas remembered last spring. He buried the memory as quickly as he had it, forcing himself to speak gently. "It's nothing, Rico. Really, it's nothing."

"I've heard those words before," Childs said quietly.

God, the pain he felt at Rico's soft statement, the misery of memory. Jonas forced himself to forget it, to turn and smile, to pretend nothing had changed at all. He kept his voice deliberately light. "Tell me why you came over this morning."

Childs laughed, a short, dismissive sound, and Jonas knew it was more a response to the fact that he was keeping secrets than to his question.

Rico grinned wryly. "All right, my love, I'll play along like a good boy. I came this morning to invite you over. The other night I'd forgotten—I brought something back from Paris for you—a bit of the devil himself. I thought you might enjoy it—a lungful of wickedness to go with the rest of you, eh?"

Jonas didn't pretend to misunderstand. He closed his eyes, imagining the smooth, sweet heaviness of opium. Ah, it sounded good. It sounded like blessed peace, heady forgetfulness.

And he wanted to forget. He wanted to forget today. Wanted to forget the vision of her eyes and the tantalizing glimpses of her ivory flesh and how easy it had been to draw her. He wanted to forget today and last night and yesterday, wanted to calm the fierce buzzing in his blood that had grown stronger and stronger since she'd looked in his eyes and said
"I want to know what it's like ..."

Jonas shook his head slightly as if to clear it. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I'd like that very much."

Childs gave a little bow. "Then come with me. What was that poem? ' "Come into my parlor," said the spider to the fly'—something like that."