The Portrait (27 page)

"Lie on the bed," he said hoarsely, forcing himself to stand still as she did so, feeling his breath catch in his throat. He wouldn't let himself move as she lay back against the pillows. He wanted to look at her, to see her with his artist's eye, with the palette he used every day. A wash of color and chiaroscuro, ivory and peach, soft pinks and dark swatches of bold shadow. In the candlelight she was a mystery to him, her eyes in shadow, her hair spread against the quilt, glinting with gold. Fine stray hairs caught on her arms—one spun across her breast, a lone gold thread, a spider's web that glittered near her nipple. She was beautiful. Small, full breasts and a slight waist and hips that were wide and softly rounded. All this hidden by clothing and propriety. All this passion disguised by tranquility. Such a contradiction, and he wanted to see it illustrated for him, wanted her legs spread and him between them. Wanted to see her push against him and moan the way she'd done before, to thrash in climax. Wanted to devour her.

He undid his shirt quickly, clumsily, shrugging out of it and throwing it aside, sending his pants to follow. And then he padded to the bed and bent over her, leaning down to kiss her gently, first her mouth, and then her throat, her collarbone, her breast. He heard her sigh as he captured it, as he teased and laved her nipple, as he brought it to a peak against his tongue. This, ah, yes, he remembered this. Remembered it all, and he dipped lower and lower, hearing her moans in his ears and feeling her body twist beneath his touch.

Genie
. Her name sang in his mind, magical and enduring.
Genie, Genie, Genie
. He touched her and she responded. He kissed the curls at the apex of her thighs, felt the softness against his mouth, the slight jerk she gave when he dipped lower still.

"Shh," he whispered against her. "I won't stop."

"1 ... I don't want you ... to stop," she said, a sensual heaviness in her voice, a delightful breathlessness.

He slid his hands beneath her hips, lifted her with one and with whatever strength he had in the other, brought her closer to his mouth and kissed her there, licked her, teased her. She thrashed beneath his assault, and he felt her hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, holding him prisoner against her. She was trembling, and he wanted her to tremble. He wanted to taste her when she climaxed, he wanted to remember her taste forever. She was on the edge, he knew. He felt the tension in her body, and he licked deep and then up, heard her cry out the same moment she stiffened, the moment he felt her throb against his mouth.

"Ah, Genie," he murmured. "Genie, my love." Slowly he moved up, kissing her belly and her waist and her breasts, looking down into her face. Her eyes glinted in the half light, and her smile—ah, her smile was everything he wanted, everything he dreamed of. He kissed her and sheathed himself in her at the same moment. Her body welcomed him, she was wet and hot. Without moving she nearly sent him to climax. He felt her hand on his chest, her fingers sliding through the dark curls there, pulling gently, an erotic pain. She was thrusting against him, and he reached down and held her hips steady, bringing her up to meet him as he sank inside her and pulled out again, over and over, a slow and tantalizing dance, an arousal that grew more painful and more sweet with every thrust.

She was his—the thought spun through his mind, growing louder and louder, as undeniable as everything else about her. He clutched her to him, rocking against her, hearing the soft slap of flesh and her equally soft cries, feeling her hands on his shoulders and his hair. She was his and he couldn't bear to let her go—God, how could he let her go?

But with every thrust, with every movement that brought him closer and closer to repletion, he knew he had to release her. She was his for the next moments and that was all. Until he climaxed, she was his.

And so he prolonged it. He slowed his thrusts and tasted her mouth and reveled in the sweetness. He worshipped her body with his own and kissed her with hot, open-mouthed kisses that made his blood pound in his ears. But too soon he felt the sharp sweetness of culmination.
Too soon . . .

"No," he gasped. "God, no."

But he couldn't stop it. His release crashed through him, a mercy and a punishment, washing over him with a headiness he'd never felt before, had never even imagined. He heard her cry join with his own, felt her throbbing again around him, soft convulsions, and he cradled her in his arms, pulled her to him as closely as he could.

They lay there that way for only moments. Long enough for his breathing to ease, for his heart to slow. It was then he felt the hot wetness against his chest. Tears, he realized. She was crying. He was so startled by the knowledge that he didn't respond when she pulled away from him. She was off the bed before he knew what she was doing, grabbing her clothes from the floor.

"I'll put the onions in the stew," she was saying, her back to him. "It should be done in a few hours. Then you won't have to cook for yourself for a day or so."

Jonas struggled to one elbow. "Genie—"

"I bought some bread too. It's on the table." She stepped into her drawers and tied them, then pulled her chemise over her head.

Desperation washed over him. Panicked, he stood up and reached for her. "Genie, don't."

She turned around at his touch, and he saw the tears she'd been trying to hide, streams of candlelight that trailed over her cheeks. But when she spoke, her voice was devoid of sorrow or pain or any kind of emotion at all.

"Don't what, Jonas?" she asked. "Don't go? We both know I have to. You don't want me here, not really, and I—" She paused and took a deep breath, and then she looked away again. "And I don't want to stay."

He knew it was a lie. He knew it, but he couldn't do a thing about it, because she was right. Because he had meant to send her away. Because he was mad. Because he would destroy her.

But, oh God, how he wanted her to stay. It took everything he had to stand back while she finished dressing, every ounce of control he could muster to keep from running after her as she went out of the bedroom and gathered up her things.

And when she finally went to the studio door and paused, her hand on the lever, he had to bite his lip to keep from calling her back, had to turn away as she opened the door, as she left him without a word, without even a glance back.

She was gone, just as he'd intended. He told himself it was best. He told himself it was what he wanted.

But he couldn't stop the echo of her footsteps in his head. He wondered if he would ever forget the sound.

Chapter 23

      
S
he knew the way back to her godfather's by heart. She knew every single turn, knew the feel of every cobblestone. There was a pothole on Ninth Street, just where it turned onto Fifth Avenue— she knew exactly when the carriage would hit it, exactly how much it would jostle her. And at the corner of Washington Square North, there was a rut the wheels always caught on.

It was easier to concentrate on those things, on the sway of the coach and the rattling of the wheels, on the passing brownstones. Easier than thinking about the man she'd just left and the terrible lie she'd told him.
"I don't want to stay."
God, how untrue that was. The most untrue thing she'd ever said. What she wanted was to be wrapped in his arms, reveling in the warm afterglow of lovemaking. What she wanted was to love him.

Imogene squeezed her eyes shut, clenching her fist in her skirt. Lord, what a fool she was. She had known he would hurt her, she'd told herself not to fall in love with him, and yet she'd done it anyway. She'd stayed with him these last days even knowing how dangerous it was. Just this morning she had told herself it was time to leave, before it was too late.

But it was already too late.

She opened her eyes again, staring out at the thin blanket of snow laying over the city, at bare trees frosted with white. Jonas Whitaker was not for her; she'd known that from the beginning. She'd known he would eventually tire of her, that he would use her and let her go. So why had his rejection been so painful?

Because you hoped he might need you forever. Because you mistook need for affection.
Just as she had with Nicholas. Imogene winced at the thought. She'd fallen for Nicholas simply because he needed her comfort, and she'd vowed never to be so stupid again. But here she was, just as foolish as she'd been three years ago, loving the first man who needed her.

It was why she'd let Jonas touch her, why she'd dropped her dignity and her pride and let him make love to her one last time. She had wanted a memory to hold on to through the bitter days ahead, to give her strength when she was nothing again. She had wanted just once more to touch the shooting star.

Instead, it only made her realize just what a failure she was. Deep inside she had wanted things to be different. She had wanted to be the one who could help Jonas through his nightmares, she had wanted to believe she could be important to him.

But he didn't want her, and it was time to face that. It was time to return to her old life. She tried to convince herself it was what she wanted, but when the carriage jerked to a stop and the gothic facade of her godfather's town house loomed up through the window, Imogene wondered how she could ever do that. How did one forget a man like Jonas Whitaker? How did a person get used to being without that intensity? How could she live without him?

There was no other choice, she reminded herself. Jonas had sent her away. He didn't need her any longer, and she knew he was trying hard to be kind with his rejection, to not hurt her. But all the same she hurt. All the same, she couldn't help wishing . . .

Imogene took a deep breath, banishing the thoughts. There was no point in torturing herself. It was over.
Over
. She chanted the word in her mind, forced herself to repeat it as she stepped determinedly from the carriage, into the falling snow. She paid the driver, and then she made her way up the stairs, holding on to the rail to keep from slipping. Out of habit she grabbed the knob to go inside, stopping just before she turned it. She wasn't even sure she was welcome here, not anymore. Slowly she uncurled her hand from around the doorknob and knocked.

There were rapid footsteps on the other side. The door swung open, revealing Mary, the housekeeper, whose mouth fell open in surprise.

"Miss Carter!" she said, her ruddy face growing redder. "Come in, do, outta the cold. Why it's snowin' and ye forgot yer hat!"

Imogene frowned, putting a hand to her hair, realizing for the first time that she'd left her bonnet at the studio. It sent an odd little surge of pain through her; she wondered briefly what he would think when he found it, what he would do. She wondered if he would keep it as a reminder of her. The thought made her chest tight; she blinked back sudden tears.

"Y-yes," she stammered, struggling for control. "Yes, I—I left in a hurry, I'm afraid."

Mary backed away from the door, motioning her inside. "Yer just in time. They're all in the dining room. Just sat down to dinner, they have."

The words eased Imogene's apprehension. At least she wouldn't have to face Thomas alone, not yet. She didn't really feel up to handling his anger or his disappointment tonight, and Katherine was so very good at soothing him.

Distractedly Imogene took off her gloves and her mantle and handed them to Mary. Then, forcing a calm she didn't feel, Imogene walked to the dining room. She heard the sound of voices just before she got there, deep masculine tones that contrasted with Katherine's light chatter, three voices instead of two. They had company. All the better. Imogene stopped at the side of the doorway, mustering her courage, closing her ears and her eyes for one short moment, struggling to gather her composure. Then she raised her chin and stepped inside.

She stopped short. At the table was the last person she expected to see.

Her father.

Samuel Carter sat at Thomas's table as if he owned it, his shirtsleeved elbows splayed on the polished surface, his wineglass clutched in his pale, square hand. He was gesturing to Thomas, and laughing, his bushy gray mustache bobbing.

Abruptly Thomas's words from three days ago burst through her shock.
"You leave me no choice, Imogene, you realize that."
Of course. She should have remembered. She had known the moment he'd said it that he was planning to contact her father, but she'd forgotten. And now Samuel Carter was here, in New York City. Longing and pleasure warred with wariness—and

a sense of dread she tried desperately to squelch. She had nothing to fear, she told herself. Her father had spent the last three years wanting her to take Chloe's place in the art world, and now she was there. In love with an artist, as much a bohemian as Chloe had ever been. He would be happy about that, surely. It was what he'd always wanted.

Still . . .

She eased into the room, forcing a smile. "Papa," she said.

The single word was explosive. The conversation snapped to a stop. In unison the three people at the table turned to look at her. But Imogene didn't take her gaze from her father. With relief she saw a smile spread over his face.

"Imogene," he said, rising. He hurried over, holding her out at arm's length while he studied her. His smile faded a bit when he took in her dirty dress, her straggling hair, but still he leaned forward and gave her a brief, dry kiss. "I was certain you would show up, girl." He threw a smug look to Thomas. "Didn't I tell you, Tom, that you were mistaken? Imogene and Whitaker . . . what a preposterous idea."

Imogene went suddenly cold. "Papa—"

"Why, Imogene's never committed an indiscretion in her life," he went on jovially. "She doesn't have the spine for it. Now if you'd said Chloe—well, that girl was so full of life I would have believed anything you told me."

At the table, Thomas looked supremely uncomfortable. He set aside his wineglass and leveled her a regretful look. "I'm sorry, my dear. I felt he should know."

"You should learn how to nip these scurrilous rumors in the bud, girl." Samuel barely acknowledged that Thomas had spoken. "God knows you're so damned meek you're prime fodder for gossipmongers."

Imogene throat was too tight to swallow. "Papa," she said quietly. When he went still beside her, she forced herself to continue. "What Thomas told you . . . it's all true."

Samuel Carter frowned. His fingers tightened around her arm almost painfully, the furrow between his heavy brows deepened in confusion. "You don't know what you're saying, Imogene," he insisted. "Do you even realize what your godfather told me?"

Imogene nodded. She had to fight to get her voice out. "I imagine he told you Jonas Whitaker and I were . . . having an affair."

Her father's frown grew; his gaze swept over her. She knew too well what he was seeing: mousy hair and pale skin and mud-brown eyes. She knew without hearing the words what he was thinking.
Whitaker interested in her? I don't believe it. It couldn't be true.

She saw the moment his confusion eased. His frown changed to a smile, and he barked a laugh. "An affair?" he repeated, shaking his head with amusement. "Good God, girl, you must be mistaken. I'm sure you thought he might harbor an interest in you—after all, I've taught art a time or two myself, I know what it's like. It requires great attention, but that's quite different from romantic intentions." He patted her shoulder reassuringly. "Jonas Whitaker is a famous artist, a man of great discernment. If you consider that for a moment, I'm sure you'll realize this 'affair' is only in your imagination. I mean really, Imogene, doesn't it seem odd that he would notice you?"

How easily he did it. How easily he turned her into nothing again. Imogene felt immediately foolish and naive, the doubts he planted grew and spread in her mind, insidiously corrosive. Maybe her father was right. Maybe she was imagining that Jonas needed her. After all, he'd told her to go. He'd told her—what had he said?
"Look at me, Genie. Look at who I am. Surely you know you can't stay here."

The words danced in her head, joining with her father's mockery, and Imogene winced and turned her eyes away, swept with a fierce, unrelenting pain. Jonas had told her to go, and though she could deny the reasons forever, it didn't make them any less true. Jonas wanted someone else, that was clear enough. Someone more beautiful. Someone he wouldn't be embarrassed to have beside him. Someone to match people's expectations—

"I don't think she was imagining Whitaker's intentions, Samuel," Thomas said dryly.

Samuel ignored him. He bent slightly, holding Imogene's gaze. His smile was slightly off-kilter, but it was reassuring nonetheless, begging confidences. "Let's be realistic, girl," he said softly. "Maybe you wanted him to kiss you, but he never did, did he? He never touched you."

He wanted her to tell him no, she knew, and Imogene found herself wanting to say it. He would forgive her if she told him Whitaker hadn't touched her. Her father would still love her. The longing for that rose up so sharply her heart ached. But then she thought of how he'd pushed her to study in Nashville, how he'd brought her into his salons and walked away in disgust and disappointment when she wasn't witty or charming. Her quiet listening had only angered him.

And she realized he didn't really want her to say no. He didn't want a milksop daughter; he never had. He wanted a Chloe, a woman who could captivate an artist. If she told him what he expected to hear, she would only disappoint him again. But if she told him the truth ... if she told him the truth, he might love her at last. He might respect her.

She met his gaze. "He touched me," she said simply. "He kissed me."

Samuel froze. The silence stretched between them, and Imogene waited for his surprise and his praise, waited for his ringing, boisterous laughter and his admiration. The things he had given Chloe without hesitation, the things he had never given Imogene. And in the split second before he dropped her arm, she thought she might have it. She thought he might finally say
"Dammit, girl, but you're just like Chloe, after all. You've made me proud."

But then he released her and stepped away, and she knew in that moment he wasn't going to say the words —and that he was horribly, terribly angry. It was so familiar, the look in his eyes, the tension in his body. Lord, she'd seen it a hundred times before. Her hope withered in sheer, desperate disappointment. She waited for the attack.

She didn't have to wait long.

His eyes flashed. "Your sister," he said slowly, each word a dozen little knifepoints stabbing into her heart, "would never have behaved this way."

"Papa—"

"She was a true artist." His eyes narrowed as he drove his point home. "That's the difference between the two of you, Imogene. Chloe would have taken this opportunity to study art, not to spread her legs for her teacher."

Imogene flinched.

"Samuel," Thomas interjected.

Samuel turned to him. "Well, that's what she's doing, isn't it? All this fine education I provide her, and what does she do with it? She becomes some artist's whore." He glanced back at her, his mouth tight with anger. "What was it, girl, couldn't you learn anything Whitaker had to teach you? Was that it? I suppose you thought you could seduce him into giving me a good report."

Imogene gasped. His words slammed into her so painfully she stepped back. "Papa, no—"

"At least you've found your true talent," he sneered, ignoring her protest. "God knows you've never been much of a painter. Just a milk-and-watercolorist, and not even a good one."

"That's enough." Thomas's quiet voice cut through the bitter aftermath of her father's words. "Samuel, I must ask that you not talk to her that way."