The Portrait (4 page)

"It's too thick," he said. "I told you to cook it until it was like jelly, not to boil it dry."

"You told me—" She stopped. Her fingers clenched on the brush. She set her jaw.

"You'll have to use it anyway. There's no more." He moved away from the wall. "Spread it on thinly, Miss Carter. Thinly."

She grabbed the canvas with her free hand. It slipped from her fingers, but he was beside it instantly, holding it steady until she could take it again. Imogene grasped it tightly, digging her fingers into the wood frame. She clutched the brush, touched it to the canvas tentatively, slowly, feeling his scrutiny, wanting to do at least this right.

Glue plopped in huge, gelatinous drops, skidding down the fabric to pool on the trunk. She dabbed at it determinedly, trying to spread it, but the isinglass was too stiff. It wouldn't spread, she couldn't make it behave. It just kept glopping on the canvas.

"Thinner, Miss Carter."

She clenched her teeth, dipped the brush again in the glue. This time, the sticky mass dripped down her skirt, puddled on her shoe before she got it to the canvas.

"Keep it even. Spread it thinner." His words were sharp. He moved closer, until he was right behind her.

She dipped the brush again. This time the glue dropped down the middle of the canvas. Quickly she tried to spread it out, swishing the brush through it, streaking glue in criss-cross patterns.

"Even strokes," he snapped. "You're ruining it."

She struggled for patience. "I can't—"

"Christ." He wrenched the canvas from her grip, flinging it away. It cracked against the wall, clattered to the floor. He grabbed another one from the pile beneath the window, a smaller one, and slammed it in front of her. "Do it again."

He would not break her. He would not. Imogene dipped the brush, stroked it once, twice, over the fabric.

"Thinner!" he demanded.

She tried again.

He yanked the canvas away. It crashed to the floor beside the other. He slammed the next one down so hard the chest shook.

"Do it again."

Imogene felt tears of frustration press behind her eyes, and she bit her lip and hoped the pain of it would make them disappear. She felt the drip of isinglass on her shoe, the hard press of the brush handle against her fingers.
No, he can't make me fail. He can't make me.
Angrily she swiped at her tears with the back of her hand, tried to focus on the canvas he'd set in front of her.

"Again!"

Imogene bit her lip so hard she tasted the salty, metallic taste of blood. Doggedly, clumsily she set the brush to the canvas. Too hard. The canvas shifted. She grabbed for it, but it fell back, out of reach, clattering against the chest, slipping to the floor.

He lunged for it. She saw him grappling with the frame, saving it just before it hit the floor, one hand curving around it, the other strangely ineffectual, and there was something about the movement, something about the way he grabbed the frame, the way he set it back on the chest, that was vaguely peculiar, a little disturbing. Imogene frowned, ignoring the canvas, the brush, staring at his gloved hand, at the way the fingers were curled yet rigid, oddly stiff . . .

His hand was not a real hand at all.

Imogene caught her breath, shock and surprise brought her heart into her throat. Her frustration faded away.
He had a false hand.
She couldn't believe she hadn't seen it before—it was so obvious. The single glove, the always-tense fingers, the way he favored his left hand. How strange that she'd never noticed. She found herself wanting to look more closely. It was all she could do not to stare at it, and so she lifted her eyes and tried not to look at it, to look instead at his face, at the wall behind him, at anything but that hand. But it compelled her and she found herself staring at it again, feeling strangely reassured at the sight of the fixed fingers, somehow . . . connected. . . .

"What are you waiting for, Miss Carter?" he asked sharply, looking up at her. "Do it—"

He froze. His whole body stiffened, his eyes locked on hers, glittering and green and so bitter and cynical she couldn't look away, even though she wanted to— Lord, how she wanted to. But his gaze wouldn't release her, and she had no choice but to stare as he brought his gloved hand up, infinitely slowly, inch by inch, finally cradling it in the other with an intimacy that was somehow both gentle and sensuous. Imogene felt the heat of embarrassment flood her face, she felt disconcerted and ill-bred, repulsed and curious at the same time.

"They didn't tell you," he said bluntly.

She shook her head. "I'm sorry."

He made a small sound, a rush of breath, an aborted laugh. "What the hell for?"

She didn't know what to say, what a person was supposed to say. Miss Atkinson's lessons in deportment had never covered this; even thinking of Chloe brought her no answers. Imogene dug her nails into the brush handle and finally said the first thing—the only thing—she thought of. "Because you must wish you still had it."

He didn't answer. Just stood there, running his fingers over the leather glove, looking at her with that odd expression on his face, and in that moment, she had the strange and startling notion that his false hand was the most real thing about him, that it somehow kept him human. She thought suddenly,
We're not that different.
He was no more perfect than she was. She opened her mouth to offer—she didn't know what— comfort, maybe, or perhaps only simple understanding.

But before she could speak, he nodded at the glue.

"We haven't finished," he said abruptly. "Until you get that canvas right, you'll be priming one every day."

The moment dropped away almost before she knew it was there, dissipated in the warmth of the room, spun away in steam. Imogene watched Whitaker grab another canvas, watched his graceful movements. It surprised her, and she realized she'd somehow expected him to be clumsier now that she saw he had a false hand. But he wasn't, and she realized nothing else was different either. The moment had left no lingering resolution, no sudden inspiration.

Or had it?

Imogene looked at his smooth motions and the arrogant expression on his face, and realized she was wrong. Something had changed. Something was gone. When she looked at him now she no longer saw the teacher with the power to break her. Now when she looked at him she saw just ... a man. A man who could teach her if only he would. A man who could not force her to leave if she didn't want to go.

The realization brought sudden calm, a strength that fed her resolution. She had as much power as he did over her future, maybe more. He could not make her leave, and she would not go. The thought made her smile.

Imogene dipped the brush again and turned to the canvas. "Very well, Mr. Whitaker," she said calmly, not flinching from his gaze. "Exactly how thin shall I spread it?"

Chapter 4

S
he was not what he'd expected.

The thought plagued him all afternoon, circled in his mind like a tiresome nursery rhyme. He couldn't forget it, couldn't forget her, even though he'd deliberately visited Tommy Chen's in an attempt to do just that, even though he was surrounding himself now with loud voices and music and people. Too many people. The Bowery Theater was crowded tonight.

Jonas squinted and rubbed his eyes. The opium he'd smoked earlier was wearing off; he was beginning to feel the sharp edges again, the buzz of energy invading his languor. He could still taste the lingering traces of wine on his tongue, and the voices around him stabbed into his brain, the movement of the men pushing past him to scream at the stage made him slightly dizzy.

The Bowery. Christ, why was he here, instead of sinking into a well-padded chair at the Century Club— or even crawling into bed? He should be home, he knew, but he didn't want to go back to the studio. Not back to the mockery of the half-drawn courtesan, not back to the room where Miss Imogene Carter had looked at him with pity in her big brown eyes.

Pity. Jonas made a sound of disgust. It had been so long since anyone had looked at him with pity that he'd forgotten how unpleasant it was, forgotten how it made him feel dirty and helpless. As if he were some beggar who needed a penny or a word of comfort. As if he had more in common with the hot-corn girls who haunted the streets, selling their bodies and their wares, than with the men who spent their evenings in the plush tranquility of the clubs on Fifth Avenue. And the fact that it had come from her, a nothing little no- talent watercolorist, made him sick.

He should have let her go with the others instead of keeping her behind. He wished now that he had. But he'd been so confident that today would be her last, that he could make priming that canvas so humiliating and unpleasant she would have no choice but to quit. Certainly it had started out that way.

But then he'd tried to catch that falling canvas and everything changed. Not only was she not humiliated, she had found a strength he hadn't anticipated and didn't want, and he knew it was because she perceived his false hand as a weakness, because when she looked at him she saw a man who wasn't a whole man at all.

And he couldn't argue with that.

Jonas took a deep breath, banishing the thought, forcing the visions of Imogene Carter from his mind. He tried instead to concentrate on the actors cavorting on the battered stage. He searched the lights for Clarisse's buxom figure, suddenly feeling hungry for her crude but honest sexuality, for the avaricious look that came into her eyes when she looked at his false hand. There was no pity in Clarisse, and no pretense, and he wanted that tonight, wanted smooth skin and hot, wet softness, wanted to bury himself in her and let her moans and her curses fill his mind.

God, it sounded good. Jonas scanned the stage. He felt the vibration starting in his blood, the anticipation, the impatience. He would bring her back to the studio, maybe even press her to the floor and take her in front of that damned unfinished odalisque—a kind of sacrifice to the muse. He chuckled slightly at the thought.

How much longer until this damned melodrama was over? He tried to pierce the shadows of the wings, irritated when he saw nothing but figures he couldn't identify, people moving in fuzzy outlines.

Then he saw her. She was half hidden by the curtains, just stepping into the pool of light at the edge of the left wing. Her face was harshly lit by the lamps on stage, and it seemed sharp and almost feral, her whole body was tense as she waited for her entrance. Then he heard a loud "Better hide, b'hoys! Here she comes now!" from one of the actors on the stage, and Clarisse stepped onto the proscenium, breasts outthrust, hips grinding. He heard her coarse, guttural voice. He was close enough that her expressions seemed exaggerated both by overacting and makeup, close enough that he saw the sweat gathering on her temple, the outline of her nipples through her too-thin, too-tight costume.

He grew hard just looking at her. Yes, she was what he needed tonight. A rough, lusty coupling, a woman who tired him out physically, who involved him enough to make him forget Imogene Carter's misplaced pity and her incomprehensible smile and the fact that he hadn't been able to break her as easily as he wanted to.

He leaned forward on the bench, rubbing shoulders with the men sitting on either side of him, waiting impatiently. The smells in the pit were beginning to get to him, the scent of sweat and tobacco, the sickeningly sweet aromas of liquor and rotting oranges. The shouting was loud in his ears, the high-pitched whistles of hecklers pierced his skull.

When was this damned play going to end?

Almost in answer to his thought, he heard laughter and applause, and Jonas looked up to see the players taking their bows—a motion that nearly pushed Clarisse's breasts out of the low-cut bodice.

His hunger intensified. With a muttered curse, he lunged from his seat, crashing into the man beside him and nearly knocking him to the floor. Jonas ignored the man's glare and kept going without a word of apology, pushing his way through the crowd in the pit, past the vendors hawking apples and ginger beer. He glanced at the actors who were still bowing, laughing good- naturedly as they dodged the apples thrown onto the stage,

He took the last steps quickly, jumped onto the proscenium without effort. He saw the other actors turn to look at him and then look away, used to such interruptions, and he heard the shouted comments of the milling crowd. Clarisse was at the other side, and he strode toward her, not hesitating when an apple hit him hard in the thigh. He was beside her in moments.

"Jonas, darlin'!" she breathed, and he saw the streaks of sweat through her makeup, smelled her musky scent beneath her overpowering perfume. "You did come."

He grabbed her hand without saying a word, dragging her off the stage, to the wing, back to where the ropes controlling the scrims and sets and curtains ran in straight lines down the rough wall. There were a few people back there, moving sets and pulling props, but he ignored them and pushed her back into a corner half hidden by moth-eaten velvet curtains, into the shadows.

"Oh, Jonas," she said, giggling and pushing at him with her hands. "Not here, darlin'. Wait till I change my costume—"

He couldn't wait. The hunger raged inside him. He moved closer, pressing his hips against hers, his hand closing over her breast. He let go of her for a moment, long enough to pull her skirts up, long enough to free himself from his pants, and then, before she could protest, before she could say anything at all, he was inside her, and just as quickly she surrendered, pumping against him, her breath steamy in his ear.

She was everything he'd wanted, wet and hot and easy, and he thrust into her over and over again, waiting for the soft forgetfulness to take over, waiting for numbing mindlessness to descend.

He felt Clarisse's heated skin, the fullness of her breasts, heard her excitement and her gasps of pleasure mingling with his own. Her eyes were closed, and he wanted her to open them, wanted to lose himself in them and forget today. But she didn't open her eyes, and he felt the pulsing rise of culmination and knew he was too far gone to control it, too aroused for finesse.

"Look at me." He heard his own desperation in the words, and hated it—and hated it even more when she obeyed him. When she looked at him and instead of her face he saw a different face altogether. He saw brown eyes wet with compassion, dark with pity.

Brown eyes.

Clarisse's eyes were blue.

I
mogene groaned silently as the gesso splashed out of the bucket once again, splashing the once-pristine blue of her watered-silk gown. It was already stained past repair—spots of yellowish white dotted the skirt and trailed in streaks near the hem.

It was a small enough price to pay. For the first time in two days, she was doing something other than brushing glue on linen. She glanced up at the tiny one- foot square canvas in front of her. It was the only one she'd managed to do to his satisfaction, and she was grateful for that at least, because it meant she could go on to the next step—as painstakingly slow as it was.

She glanced at the woman posed in the middle of the room, baring her arms and legs and most of her back to Peter and Tobias and Daniel. It reminded Imogene of the days she'd spent in her father's studio, watching from the doorway as he and Chloe painted and laughed and talked about light and perspective and color. Imogene sighed and turned back to the bucket. She wanted to be doing that now, wanted to be drawing instead of priming, choosing colors instead of adding white paint to glue and water.

"Look at the shadows, Mr. McBride." Whitaker's voice boomed from the other side of the studio. "Clarisse's skin is more pink than yellow—see how the light breaks over her shoulder? What the hell is that sickly brown you're using? Try ultramarine for the shadows—or purple, if you're still struggling to copy Da Vinci."

Imogene winced involuntarily at Whitaker's harshness, feeling relief that she wasn't the focus of it—a relief that died the moment she heard his footsteps coming toward her. Her shoulders tensed; Imogene tried to keep her motions smooth and calm.
He's just a man,
she reminded herself, remembering yesterday, remembering that brief moment when she'd seen his vulnerability, his weakness.
He can't force you away.

Though he seemed anything but weak now. She felt his presence long before he reached her—a stirring energy, a rush of thought and movement that seemed to make the very air shiver—and when he stood behind her she felt his gaze as strongly as a touch.

"You're doing a remarkable job mixing the gesso, Miss Carter. It usually only takes minutes, yet you've managed to stretch it out to nearly an hour. Truly amazing."

Imogene kept her eyes steady on the canvas, dipped the brush into the gesso.

"Like this, Miss Carter." He snatched the brush from her hand and leaned over her shoulder, spreading the milky liquid onto the canvas with clean, efficient strokes, each one even, each graceful. Then he handed the brush back to her. "Try it."

He stood so close she felt his breath rustling her hair, felt the warm moistness of it against her cheek. Imogene took the brush without looking at him, concentrating on keeping her movement steady and assured as she worked the canvas.

"You're dripping gesso down your skirt, Miss Carter." His voice was soft and mocking in her ear. "I hope you pay your laundress well."

He cannot force you away.
Imogene gripped the brush more firmly, spreading the gesso over the canvas as evenly as she could. The liquid dripped onto the fabric, and hastily she swept it up, spreading it across, trying to imitate his clean, even strokes—and failing miserably.

"I told you to give it only a thin coat of gesso, didn't I? That will take all day to dry." His voice dropped to a whisper, he turned to walk away. "It looks like you won't get the chance to paint Clarisse after all."

Deliberately Imogene brought back the image of him yesterday, the way he'd stood there cradling his false hand, that moment of clumsiness and vulnerability, and it gave her strength. She spun around to face him. "Mr. Whitaker," she said, and her voice came out breathy and a little too desperate. She winced at the sound of it. "Mr. Whitaker—"

He stopped, looking vaguely surprised. "What is it?"

"Do you—do you think I might at least sketch her today?"

This time his surprise was too obvious to misinterpret. He frowned. "You want to sketch Clarisse?"

Imogene nodded. "Yes. Please."

He hesitated, and Imogene knew without a doubt that he was going to say no, knew he would condemn her to another day of dripping gesso down a canvas, of keeping her chained to these uninspired, unfulfilling tasks that taught her nothing about proportion or colors or form, and she clenched the brush in frustration, tried to think of what Chloe would do now, what she would say.

But then he smiled—a nasty, disturbing smile—and chuckled quietly. "Ah, well, I would hate to see you miss the lesson completely. You brought your sketch pad, I take it? I suppose you can draw Clarisse—or make an attempt, at least."

Her frustration vanished in the clean joy of relief, of victory. Quickly, before he could change his mind, Imogene grabbed the sketch pad she'd left leaning against her case and went to her chair. She felt the apprehension of the other students in the air, knew they were watching her, waiting to see what Whitaker's game was. She met Peter's gaze with her own, saw his uncomfortable smile, his mouthed "Careful!" But she only smiled back at him and sat down, determined not to let his warning keep her from taking advantage of Whitaker's sudden boon. This was the first time she'd ever been allowed to join other artists, the first time she'd ever been made a part of things, and she wasn't going to let anything spoil it. Not even Whitaker himself.

She looked up to see him coming toward her, his step slow and menacing. Imogene took a deep breath, ignoring him as she reached for a short and crumbling stick of charcoal. She worked to still the excited, nervous trembling of her fingers and focused on Clarisse, looking for the form as her father had taught her, considering shading.