The Portrait (6 page)

Imogene felt again that sharp needle of curiosity. "Tell me anyway."

He hesitated, and then he nodded. "One day—it was March, I believe—and it was a Monday. I remember because we hadn't seen Whitaker for a few days. We got there at nine, as usual. Daniel and I. Tobias hadn't started yet—he came a few months later. Anyway, the door was locked. Tightly locked, which was odd, you understand, as he'd been expecting us, and there was no note on the door, nothing to tell us where he'd gone or what to do.

"So we waited. Well, first we pounded on the door, but there was no answer, and so we thought maybe he'd gone to Goupil's for supplies. We waited an hour before we decided to leave, and we were on our way down the hall when Childs came up the stairs. He asked if class was over early, and when we told him that Whitaker wasn't there, that there'd been no answer, well—he looked so odd. He paled, I think, and then he raced past us and started pounding on the door, screaming bloody he—" Peter cleared his throat. "He was yelling, you know. Shouting at the top of his lungs.

"Daniel and I were just standing there watching, not knowing what was wrong, and there was Childs, making all this noise. ..." Peter shook his head at the memory. "It didn't take long before two or three others came racing up the stairs. They all seemed to know what was happening; they were throwing themselves at the door until someone finally found a key, and then we all went inside."

He paused, and Imogene felt inexplicably nervous as she waited for him to continue. But Peter seemed lost in his thoughts, and finally she had to prompt him.

"Go on," she said in a low voice.

"It was like nothing I've ever seen." Peter's gaze was distant. "There were empty bottles everywhere, and one of the walls had been . . . smeared . . . with black paint. It was like a big dark cloud on the wall ... It was on the floor—big black footprints . . . and five or six paintings that were all the same. They all had a single pattern on them—it was like a ... a tornado, I guess. I don't know what else to call it. Nothing but blacks and browns. So . . . bleak." Peter swallowed. "But the worse part was that he was there. He'd been inside the entire time, just sitting in a chair, staring out the window. When we came in he barely moved—it was like he didn't even see us. He was just sitting there. . . . Then he looked at Childs, and he said, 'The madness is waiting for me, Rico. Should I give in to it?' That was all, just 'Should I give in to it?' as if he would if Childs said the word."

The horror of the moment reverberated in Peter's voice; Imogene heard it as clearly as if she'd been there in the room with him, as if she too had heard Whitaker's voice, that deep, melodious voice, flat and deadened with pain. She squeezed her eyes shut.

"How awful," she whispered, though the words were inadequate and she knew it.

"The worst part is that I keep hearing his voice. You know, I can't forget the way it sounded. It was . . . eerie, almost. Otherworldly." He shivered, shaking his head as if trying to lose the disturbing image. "He was like that for two weeks," he said. "Class was canceled. Then, suddenly, we got the message that he was back. That was all—just a note telling us to be in class the next day. And when we came back, he was like a different person. He was just ... I can't explain it. It's the only time I've ever really liked him. It was inspiring to be around him. He was like a shooting star, I guess, I don't know. So brilliant it was hard to look at him. . . ." He trailed off as if the admission embarrassed him.

They were nearly to the brougham, and he stopped and turned to look at her. "I wouldn't stay with him except for those moments. He is . . . quite mad."

The words surprised her, disturbed her, but not for the reasons Peter gave her. Jonas Whitaker was insane. Imogene wondered why the thought didn't frighten her. She should be frightened. She should be horrified at the idea of studying under a madman.

But instead all she felt was the same surge of recognition she'd had the day she'd discovered he had a false hand, the same sense that he was like her, that there was weakness inside of him, and pain.

She thought of Peter's story, of Whitaker's words—
"The madness is waiting for me, Rico. Should I give in to it?"
—and she understood them better than she wanted to. She could make no claim to madness, or to the kind of passion Jonas Whitaker felt, but she understood those words. She understood the feeling of helplessness, the intangibility of will. She knew what it felt like to lose yourself, to search so hard for an anchor that any certainty at all was enough.

She had felt that way before. When Chloe died. When Nicholas left . . .

Imogene swallowed, pushing away the memories and the pain that came with them. Oh, yes, she understood. And there was something else she understood too, something that gave her strength, that made her want to rush back to the studio, to see Jonas Whitaker again, to talk to him. Jonas Whitaker had turned pain into genius, had dredged inspiration and redemption from suffering, and she wanted to know how, wanted to understand the secrets he held, the passion she saw on his face—the same kind of passion she'd often seen on Chloe's.

She was suddenly sure he could give that to her. After all, he'd already given her that moment today, that moment when she'd seen in colors and brushstrokes, that split second when she'd found the form Chloe had always seen.

Jonas Whitaker was touched with fire, and Imogene had the strange and curious feeling that his madness only added to that, that the streak of brilliance her father and Thomas talked about somehow came from there. It was nothing to be afraid of, that madness; instead it was something to embrace, the price for genius.

The thought filled her with anticipation, with a stronger determination than ever. The things Jonas Whitaker could teach her if she could only get close enough, the things he knew. . . .

"Miss Carter?"

Peter's voice broke into her thoughts. Imogene looked up at him, at his long, drawn face, his unsure expression, and felt such a wave of gratitude for his candor that she gave him a bright, reassuring smile.

"Imogene," she said. "Please, Peter, call me Imogene—all my friends do."

Chapter 6

J
onas watched her enter the room with Peter McBride. She was laughing at something McBride had said, and her cheeks were flushed, ruddy from the cold, her small nose touched with red. She still wore that puce monstrosity, but her eyes sparkled beneath the stiff fabric, and she untied the bonnet and set it aside with a shake of her head that caused a few more strands of light brown hair to loosen and dangle against her throat.

She seemed . . . different today, Jonas thought. More confident, somehow. He watched as she unfastened her mantle and shrugged out of it, hanging it on the peg next to the door. She never stopped talking to McBride, who was also strangely animated, his hooded eyes unusually bright.

Something had happened between them, Jonas thought, watching the couple from the corner of his eye while he pretended to study the canvas before him. Something that had caused them to band together. He wondered what it was, wondered if he should be concerned. Perhaps Peter wanted her. . . . Jonas frowned at the thought, but then he dismissed it when he saw Peter follow her to her chair. McBride didn't spare a glance for the sway of her skirts or the subtle turn of her waist, he didn't watch her from behind the way a man does when he wants a woman. Granted, she looked pale and too delicate in that pink-striped satin, but there was still a shape there, still the soft rounding of hips and breasts, still the sensual indentation of waist.

No, McBride didn't want her; the knowledge eased Jonas's tension. It made it easier to implement his plan if there was no suitor about—though the idea that McBride might be any competition at all was ludicrous.

A sudden commotion at the door put an end to Jonas's thoughts, and he looked up to see Clarisse enter, Tobias and Daniel just behind. Jonas lifted the palette off his stiff thumb and put it aside. It was time to put things in motion. He made his way to Clarisse, his anticipation sharpening with every step.

She was fumbling with her cloak, and when he approached she glanced up, frowning. "What're you so happy about this mornin'?" she snapped. "My head is poundin', and it's all your fault. You and that wretched Rico Childs."

Images from last night flickered through his mind— warm cognac and deep red wine and tangled bodies— and Jonas smiled more broadly and held out his hand for her cloak. "I didn't hear any complaints then," he said, hanging the rusty black velvet on the peg. "You seemed to enjoy yourself."

She put a hand to her eyes. "I didn't know I'd have a headache this bad this mornin'," she complained. She glanced at the class and sighed. "So what d'ya want me to do today, darlin'? Somethin' that lets me sleep, I hope."

He leaned closer, brushing his lips against the coarse, hennaed hair at her temple, catching a whiff of unwashed, smoke-scented skin. "Your breasts, Clarisse," he said in a low voice. "They're exquisite, quite perfect. Will you show them to my class today?"

She giggled and pulled away, her blue eyes glinting. "You are a wicked man, Jonas Whitaker. A wicked, wicked man."

He lifted a brow, chucked her under the chin. "But you like it, darling, don't you?"

"I like it," she said simply, and Jonas felt a tug of satisfaction.
Ah, Clarisse, how simple you are.
How very, very simple. He smiled as he watched her make her way across the studio to the changing screen and disappear behind it, and then he looked over at Miss Carter and saw the gentle flush on her cheeks as she talked to McBride. A flush he hoped would soon become much harsher, much redder.

He moved away from the door and his students fell silent waiting for him. Slowly, aware that their eyes followed his every move, Jonas grabbed a chair from the big table and set it before them, positioning it on the platform Clarisse had posed from yesterday.

"We'll continue with life studies today," he said casually, deliberately turning his gaze to Miss Carter, smiling inwardly at her wide-eyed attention. "Miss Carter, I believe you should continue with charcoal this morning. The rest of you prepare your palettes. And let's forget about using raw umber for the flesh tones, shall we?"

He waited while they worked, waited until Clarisse emerged from the changing screen, wrapped in a rumpled piece of white linen. She tossed back her red hair and seated herself in the chair, and then, with the aplomb of a woman who'd dropped her gown for many men before, she let the wrap fall to reveal her breasts.

Jonas smiled. He refused to look at Miss Carter, at least just yet, preferring the keen edge of anticipation, allowing himself the luxury of imagining her expression instead, the way her face would turn scarlet with embarrassment, how her hands would shake. Ah, he could picture it so easily. He felt liberated already, and he concentrated on positioning Clarisse to emphasize her breasts even more, turning her body slightly, lifting her chin to elongate the line of her throat, raising her arm to cause her breasts to lift. He allowed his anticipation to grow, waited for the right moment, savored every lingering second.

"Notice the color of the skin," he instructed as he posed her. "Try starting with vermillion for the veins, then glaze over with the lighter colors. Remember Titian's
luce di dentro
—the internal light. Clarisse's skin glows with life—it radiates."

He touched Clarisse's cheek, ran his finger over her jaw, down her throat, a slow, caressing touch. "Remember that a silk woven of blue and red threads can't be duplicated by any silk simply dyed purple. Like the silk, there are different colors in Clarisse's skin. See here, the pink of her cheek, the bluer shadow of her jaw." He dropped his hand lower, skirting her collarbone. "See how it shines here; it's almost white in the light, but the sun adds just a bit of
Naples
yellow—"

Almost time. ... He felt a surge of expectation, could barely contain himself as he touched the top swell of Clarisse's breast. Now. He smiled broadly, turned to Miss Carter. "And here, the—"

He froze in surprise.

She wasn't scarlet with embarrassment, wasn't averting her eyes as he'd expected, as he wanted. Instead she was sketching intently, her fingers curled around the charcoal, her motions slow and deliberate. There wasn't a hint of mortification on her face, not a touch of chagrin.

Disappointment pricked him, annoyance came sharp and quickly on its heels. "Miss Carter," he barked, feeling no satisfaction at all when her gaze riveted to his. "Do you know so much more than the rest of us that you don't have to pay attention?"

She frowned, looking slightly confused. "I am paying attention," she said slowly.

"Oh?"

"Yes, I—" She turned her easel so he could see her sketch pad—a confusion of lines, a figure that was barely recognizable as a woman's form—and he saw that beside each spot he'd named, she'd scrawled a color.
Naples
yellow by the shoulder, vermillion for veins, ultramarine shadows . . . They were all there, every one he'd mentioned.

Behind him he heard an aborted snicker, a cough. Jonas stiffened. Miss Carter was watching him with same expression she'd worn that first day, when she'd looked at him and smiled that uneasy smile and told him she didn't have an easel. He saw that same naive expectation in her eyes now, only this time it was more intense. This time it seemed to demand something.

It made him uncomfortable, it made him think of yesterday, when she'd faced him and asked to sketch. Like then, he felt the overwhelming urge to humiliate her, to weaken that innocent strength.

Slowly, deliberately so, Jonas smiled. "I see," he said in his coldest, quietest voice. "What a good idea that is, Miss Carter. Words for colors. I had no idea you wished to be a writer."

She looked taken aback. "1—I don't."

"No?" Jonas thinned his smile. "Then perhaps you could tell me how those words resemble art?"

She seemed confused for a moment, and then he saw the dawning in her eyes, the flash of awareness, along with a strange disappointment.

"Perhaps you heard nothing 1 said yesterday," he went on.

"No," she protested in a low voice. "I heard everything you said."

"Really? Then perhaps you should try utilizing your knowledge, Miss Carter." He drew his hand away from Clarisse's breast, pointed to the sinew of her throat. "For example, perhaps you'd care to tell us what color you see here."

There it was, that expectation again. She leaned forward, looking thoughtful, her eyes narrowed in concentration as she studied the place he pointed to. "It's pink," she said.

"Pink?" Jonas lifted a brow. "Pink how, Miss Carter? Pink-white or pink-yellow? Do you see blue there, or purple? Green or brown?"

It seemed to take her an eternity to answer. "Pink- yellow," she said finally.

"Pink-yellow?"

She nodded.

"And here, Miss Carter?" He moved lower, to the hollow at the center of Clarisse's collarbone. "What colors do you see here?"

"Purple." Her voice was more confident now, a bit bolder. "Gray."

Not confident enough. Jonas smiled. He lowered his hand. "What about here?" he asked, stopping at Clarisse's nipple. "Tell me the color here."

He waited for her reaction. Waited for shyness and nerves and the pink heat of embarrassment. He wanted it. And for a moment, just a moment, he thought he had it. He watched her freeze, saw her stiffen almost imperceptively, and he felt the pure rush of elation, thought
This is it. She'll run now. She'll run—

But instead she gave him an unblinking stare. Instead, she licked her lips and said easily, "Pink. And— and brown."

There was not a trace of humiliation in her voice. His elation fell away, and in its place came anger and disappointment. Damn, he'd been so certain she would run, and her stoicism now enraged him, the way she lifted her eyes to his, the determination and hope in her expression. It frustrated him more than anything else she could have done, sent the blood racing hot and furious in his veins, and before he could stop himself, before he even knew what he was doing, he stalked over to stand behind her.

"Draw," he demanded, hearing the harshness of his voice echo in the thrumming of his blood. "Draw Clarisse. Now."

She tried to turn to face him. But he grabbed her shoulder and kept her facing the easel, and after a few breathless moments she did what he wanted. She leaned forward and touched the charcoal to the paper, made one tentative stroke alongside the scrawled words, added another for shading. Before she could draw a third, he wrenched the charcoal from her fingers, ignoring her quick inhalation, her half-spoken protest.

He leaned over her shoulder, and with quick, certain motions he drew the lines—one and then a second, another to show the roundness of Clarisse's breast, a fourth for detail. He heard Miss Carter's breath pounding in his ear, felt the tension in her body. He finished in seconds, dropped the charcoal into her lap and drew back.

"Is that what you were going to draw, Miss Carter?" he asked, pointing to the breast he'd drawn on her paper. Just a breast, nipple erect, intimate in detail, without arms or chest or throat to give it proportion. He looked down at the top of her head, at her honey-brown hair. "Well?" he asked.

She lifted her chin, he saw the deep rise and fall of her chest beneath the candy-striped satin. "I wish I could do it half as well," she said, and her voice was quiet and even and without a trace of fear.

Her answer took his anger; the soft wistfulness of her words left him standing there, suddenly cold and ill at ease. Jonas looked away, stiffening when he saw Clarisse's raised brows, McBride's castigating gaze. Daniel's face was set, and even Tobias—silent, servile Tobias—was squirming in his chair. Suddenly Jonas realized that he'd forgotten the plan he'd had spent most of last evening plotting.

He had meant to embarrass her with Clarisse's nudity. Had meant to send her running from the suggestion of sex. Had meant to see her blush and squirm because she was too innocent and too naive.

But it was that very innocence that disarmed him, and instead of humiliating her, he'd lost control and humiliated himself. Her naive determination defeated him as easily as she'd defeated him the other day, as cleanly as if she'd looked at him and said once again the silly words that had been ringing in his head since she'd spoken them.
"You must wish you still had it."
Christ, so absurd: that dewy-eyed pity, the misplaced compassion. As absurd as the wistful longing in the words she'd just said.
"I wish I could do it half as well."

He stepped away from her chair and turned his back to them all, closing his eyes, trying to calm his racing heart. No one had ever done that to him. No one in a very long time, and it was intolerable that it was happening now, and with a woman who was nothing more than a pampered backwoods daughter, an innocent without wit or cleverness or beauty. It was intolerable that when he looked at her he saw everything he hated —the powerlessness that had forced him to take her on, his weakness—

His fear.

There was no more time for subtlety. It would take more than the suggestion of sexuality to make her run. It would take seduction itself. Much as it annoyed him, there was no other choice. Jonas rubbed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and waited for the drumming in his head to subside.