The Portrait (9 page)

Like Imogene Carter's haunting face, the too-soft words.
"I want to know what it's like to be you ..."

Christ.

His climax burst over him before he even realized it, the sharp, piercing gratification stealing his breath and his thoughts, the pure hedonism of feeling restoring his mood. This was what he'd needed since this afternoon; he'd spent the evening wanting it, barely able to control himself while he waited for Clarisse to make her way back to the studio.

Jonas took a deep breath and rolled off her, lying back against the floor. The cold boards felt good against his back, the chill in the air soothed his skin. He closed his eyes and felt the heavy touch of sleep.

"It's cold in here."

Clarisse's whine startled him out of his half doze. Jonas opened his eyes to look at her. She sat up, tossing back her hair. The movement made her breasts bounce enticingly.

"Can't you build a fire? And where's Rico, anyway? You said he was bringin' over that lovely brandy."

"I don't know." He watched the way she moved, the way her hips shifted when she got to her feet, the firm roundness of her buttocks, and he felt himself stirring to hardness again. "Come here."

She tossed a smile over her shoulder. "Oh, you're just insatiable, darlin', ain't you?"

"It seems so." He patted the floor beside him. "Don't make me come after you."

"And why not? It's the least you can do, after makin' me lie on that cold floor. Why, I—"

The knock on the door startled them both. Jonas sat up, frowning. It was close to midnight, he was sure. Midnight on a particularly dark night; heavy rain clouds hid the moon and the wind rocked bare branches against the sky. Inside, the dim and wavering light of a candle barely held its own against the looming shadows of the room.

"Rico?" he called. "Childs, is that you?"

"No. It's—it's Thomas." The voice was hard to hear and hesitant. "Whitaker, open up, won't you?"

Gosney. What the hell was he doing here? Unless . . . Jonas scrambled to his feet, grabbing the trousers he'd left crumpled on the floor. He threw Clarisse her gown.

"Get dressed," he commanded tersely, pulling on his pants. He barely waited for her to fasten the gown before he opened the door.

Thomas Gosney stood in the hallway, the smoking lamps making his bundled shadow seem huge against the plaster walls, the top hat stories high. Gosney looked up, and then past Jonas, and when he saw Clarisse his shoulders slumped.

"Forgive me," he said. "It's too late to be calling, I realize. I was at the club, and I'm afraid I rather lost track of time."

Jonas stared at him, feeling a touch of dread. Gosney looked disturbed. The memory of today came crashing back to Jonas, the way he'd pressed Imogene Carter into the comer, tried to kiss her. It was why Gosney was here, he knew, and Jonas cursed himself inwardly, wishing he hadn't lost his temper, wishing he'd been as subtle as he'd first planned. Because he knew already that she'd told Gosney, and now it was all over, all of it. The thought sank into Jonas, filled him with a sweeping depression, a black despair. Funny, he had expected to feel relief. . . .

He stepped back, motioning Gosney inside. "Please. Come in."

Gosney hesitated. "I had hoped you'd be at the club."

"Not tonight."

"I don't want to interrupt."

"It's no interruption." Jonas jerked his head at Clarisse and was amazed—and oddly grateful—when she obediently hurried into the bedroom. He turned back to Gosney. "Can I get you something? Wine?"

"No, no." Thomas shook his head and stepped inside, taking off his hat and holding it in his hands. He made no move to unbutton his coat, didn't look for a chair. "1 won't stay long."

Jonas shut the door. He caught Gosney's stare as he did so, saw the way his patron's gaze lit on his arm, on the leather straps at his wrist, before Gosney politely averted his eyes, and Jonas realized he'd forgotten to put on his shirt, that his infirmity was there for anyone to see. Shame uncurled in his stomach. Hastily he went to grab his shirt from the floor. He pulled it over his useless hand, shrugged into it.

Gosney said nothing. He simply stood there watching, waiting, and Jonas buttoned the lower fastenings of his shirt and turned to face his patron, crossing his arms over his chest, leaning back against the table in an attempt to regain his composure, to brace himself for the things Gosney was undoubtedly going to say.

"1 assume you're here about your goddaughter," he said. There was no point in prolonging things, after all, and he was feeling the sudden and intense urge to get to Clarisse.

Gosney looked surprised for a moment, and then he nodded. "Yes."

"If it makes you feel better, know that I'm sorry for it."

Gosney made a dismissive motion. "Oh, there's nothing to be sorry for. I did insist that you take her on. I just didn't realize—"

"It's not your fault, or hers." Jonas cut him off impatiently, not understanding why Gosney hadn't lost his temper, why he wasn't calling him all the things he deserved to be called. "Don't be such a damned martyr. I shouldn't have done it."

Gosney shook his head. "I didn't expect you to do anything else," he said. "Imogene wanted to study art. I assumed that meant nudes as well. There's no need to protect her from it."

Jonas stared at him in confusion. Nudes? What the hell was he talking about? "I don't understand," he said.

"The nude," Thomas explained patiently. "She told me you had them paint a woman the last few days. What did you think 1 meant?"

It took a moment for the realization to hit Jonas, a moment to understand that Imogene Carter hadn't told Gosney what happened today, that she hadn't run home and confessed that Jonas had all but attacked her. She hadn't revealed his rage or how he touched her and caressed her, how he trapped her in the corner and pressed his body against hers.

She hadn't told.

The knowledge made Jonas uneasy. He wasn't sure how to feel about it or what to do. Wasn't sure how to answer Gosney, so he said nothing.

Thomas continued. "Katherine is worried about her, however, and I thought I should come and talk to you, to make sure you're, well, to be honest, to make sure Imogene isn't being pushed too fast. She hasn't had a great deal of schooling, you understand, and I thought —it might be a bit much, you know—a nude after only a few days. . . ." He trailed off as if the subject made him uncomfortable.

"I see." Jonas said. "She's offended then."

Gosney shook his head. "No. Not at all. In fact, she says she wants to stay on."

Jonas stared in surprise. Nothing Gosney could have said would have shocked him more. "She wants to— what?"

"She wants to stay on."

"She told you this when?"

"Tonight, at dinner." Gosney sighed. "To be perfectly frank, Whitaker, I offered her entry to the Spingler Institute instead. Even though I understand the nudes are necessary, I can't help worrying about her reputation. And Imogene is so frail still, I fear she'll never truly have the strength of a normal young woman."

Jonas was too dazed to answer.

Thomas fingered the rim of his hat nervously. "But she refused me. She said she preferred to study under you, and though I don't truly understand her reasons, I defer to her desire in this. But—" He looked up, his eyes burning in the darkness."—I must ask you to treat her with delicacy. You must teach your students the way you will, of course—you know what suits them best—but if I hear a single word, even a hint of misconduct ..."

He left the sentence unfinished, but Jonas heard the unspoken threat, remembered the words Gosney had coerced him with a mere month or so ago.
"I made you, Whitaker. Don't forget it. A word from me and your paintings won't sell for a halfpenny."

But this time, Jonas didn't feel the choke of resentment. This time, he felt no anger at all. He felt—he didn't know what. Puzzled, relieved, disappointed. Those feelings were all there, and they all focused around Imogene Carter, around the "frail" young woman who had stared up at him with wide brown eyes and said
"I want to know what it's like to be you."

And through it all was the keen edge of panic, the needling of fear. She had not told Gosney about today. She had not said anything and Jonas didn't understand why, didn't know why she wasn't' running away, why she hadn't sought to punish him with Gosney's interference.

It scared the hell out of him that she hadn't. Jonas felt at her mercy now, and it made him dislike her more, made him want to be rid of her so badly he could taste it. None of this made sense. She didn't make sense. He'd behaved reprehensibly. She should have run long ago, and he didn't understand why she hadn't, didn't understand her motivations at all. What did she want from him? Talent he couldn't give her. Techniques could be learned from anyone. And sex. . . . Jonas remembered her frightened eyes, the way she jerked from his touch. No, sex was not what Miss Imogene Carter was after.

What then? What?

"Well?" Gosney still stood there, his gloved fingers closing tightly on the brim of his hat. "Do we understand each other?"

Jonas forced a tight smile, bowed his head. "Of course."

Gosney swallowed. "Good." He put his hat on his head, held out his hand. "I'll leave you then. Once again, I apologize for the lateness of the hour."

Jonas shook his hand. "It doesn't matter."

"I'll be calling on you next week. I have an idea I'd like you to try. I think it will interest you. An allegory, really. Greek myths and all that. Cupid and Psyche." He went to the door and opened it. "That new technique of yours—the flat colors—I think it will lend itself to this well."

"I look forward to it," Jonas said.

Gosney nodded. "Next week then. Good night."

"Good night."

The door shut. The hall creaked. Jonas stood there, watching the door, his thoughts churning in his head. He tried to order them, tried to get them to behave, but they were too scattered, too fragmented. He felt the buzzing in his blood; it raced through his heart in time to the words crashing in his mind:
"I want to know what it's like ... I want to know what it's like ..."
Louder and louder until he put his hands against his ears, felt the hard press of the hateful wooden fingers against his skull.

"Jonas?" Clarisse's voice from the bedroom. Low and throaty, breaking the rhythm in his head. "Darlin', is he gone?"

Jonas dropped his hands, felt the need rising up in him again, hard and fast. "Yes," he called. "He's gone."

"Why're you waitin', then?"

Why indeed?

Jonas strode to the bedroom, banishing the voices in his head. Tonight he would let Clarisse's soft heat and the erotic touch of her skin soothe him. Tonight he would forget about Imogene Carter and her reasons for not telling Gosney the truth, her reasons for wanting to stay.

But tomorrow . . .

Tomorrow he would find out why.

Tomorrow he would break her.

Chapter 8

T
oday we'll be studying the female back." Whitaker stepped up to the platform where Clarisse sat, his long, elegant fingers unfastening the buttons at the back of the model's too-tight green gown. Slowly he eased the satin over Clarisse's shoulders to reveal her back.

It was seductive, the way he did it, the lingering motion, the way he brushed his fingers over the woman's skin. So tactile and suggestive Imogene shivered, feeling the fine hairs at the back of her neck rise. Too well she could imagine what that touch would feel like. Far too well.

Imogene swallowed and focused her gaze on Clarisse's back, trying to banish the thought, to forget about yesterday and the way he'd touched her. It was obvious it had meant nothing to him; this morning he'd graced her arrival with a single glowering look that reminded her of the way he'd ordered her to leave yesterday, of that black anger that darkened his eyes. It was just as well. She didn't want him to touch her again. It only made it harder to concentrate, only clouded her real aim. But still she wished she knew what she'd done to make him so angry, wished she knew how to ease it. As long as he was angry, he was unlikely to be the teacher she longed for. As long as he was angry, she doubted there would be a repeat of two days ago.

The thought depressed her, but she held her charcoal tightly in her fingers and leaned forward when he began to talk, hoping that maybe she would find the magic anyway, that perhaps she could reach it alone.

"Now look closely," Whitaker said. He splayed his fingers over Clarisse's shoulder blade. "See how smooth the muscles are? Concentrate on just the shoulder for now. In a moment we'll move to the spine."

He stepped away, and Imogene stared at the model's back, wishing she understood anatomy better, the way Chloe had. She remembered her sister poring over medical papers with their father, sketching for hours in an attempt to get a single line right. Imogene narrowed her eyes, trying to see with her sister's vision, working to follow the lines of the muscles.

She set the charcoal to the paper, drew the first sweep of shoulder, and glanced up—just as Jonas Whitaker stepped down from the platform. He was looking directly at her. Imogene stopped, startled by the bitter anger in his glare.

"Miss Carter," he said, his tone all soft menace. His eyes glittered when he crooked his finger at her. "Come with me a moment, won't you?"

She couldn't help her swift joy at his notice, no matter the reason. It was so intense she leapt clumsily to her feet, knocking the easel with her arm. He was already striding to the far side of the room toward the windows, and she hurried after him, ignoring the scowl Clarisse threw her way.

She followed him to the table where her primed canvases waited, stopping a few feet away from him.

He turned toward her. "It's time for another private lesson, Miss Carter," he said. He pushed the frames aside. They went clattering to the floor. Imogene tried not to wince.

He dragged a slab of glass and a short palette knife toward him. "I'm assuming you know nothing about grinding colors," he said, setting out a jar of oil and another of varnish. He looked up at her, a smug expression on his face. "Well, today is your day to learn. Come closer."

Imogene hesitated. Unbidden, images from yesterday came flooding back: the feel of his hair on her cheek, the press of his body against hers.

He smiled coldly at her. "Well?"

Imogene banished the images. She told herself she could ignore his touches, that she could control her yearning, and moved to where he'd motioned. Close enough to feel him beside her even though they weren't touching. Close enough to feel his warmth, the rush of air when he moved.

"Certain colors need to be ground more than others," he said in a low, compelling voice. "Some need to be washed as well. Ultramarine is one." He lifted a small bowl. A fine ultramarine dust clung to the bottom, the residue of a liquid that had long since evaporated. "This is color that's been washed already, first in hot water, then in cold," he said, tilting the bowl over the glass slab. He tapped it a few times with his other hand; she heard the hollow sound of his false finger against the ceramic.

"This is pure color," he said, his breath stirring the bright blue particles. He lifted the jar of oil and let a few drops puddle on the glass. "Add the oil a little at a time," he said, setting the jar aside and picking up a palette knife. With swift, efficient movements, he mixed the powder into the oil, kneading the mixture with the knife, spreading it over the slab and scraping it up again. Carefully, step by step, he added drops of oil and a few of varnish and blended, his movements so precise and rhythmic Imogene felt herself falling into a trance.
Pour, spread, scrape. Pour, spread, scrape.
How finely he did it, how gracefully. It was so measured and easy she had to remind herself he was performing all the motions with only one hand.

He straightened suddenly; she felt the brush of his rigid hand against her skirts, felt him move closer even as he seemed to be moving away. "Now you try," he whispered, and his breath was hot against her ear, she felt the shivering of the little hairs at her temple.

The air grew close and tight. She felt the press of him against her hip, and despite her resolution not to let his touches affect her, a shiver spun up her spine. Imogene struggled to control her reaction, to keep her breathing even, to cool the flush heating her skin. She stepped away, a single step, but it was enough to ease the tension in the air and steady her breathing.

She reached to take the palette knife and the oil, thinking he would hand them to her and move away. But instead he moved closer, and his fingers seemed to linger against hers as he placed the items in her hands.

Imogene tightened her jaw and tried to ignore his proximity. But her hands shook slightly as she poured the oil. A few drops only, but they puddled on the glass and spread, colorless and silky, into the paint. Too much. Hastily she pushed paint into it, trying to catch it before he had the chance to berate her, cursing herself for not being able to do even this simple thing correctly. She waited for him to say something, waited for his impatient anger.

But instead he moved behind her and looked over her shoulder. Instead his voice was low and seductive in her ear. "Slow down," he said. "Slower, that's the way." Then his hands were suddenly on either side of her and he was against her back, his good hand holding her wrist steady, guiding her gently into the motion of kneading: back and forth, back and forth,
spread, scrape, spread, scrape.

She stared at the glowing color, at the paint-stained fingers wrapped around her wrist. They were long and well formed, elegant. Bits of faded color—vermillion and ultramarine and
Naples
yellow—accentuated the wrinkles of his knuckles, the texture of his skin. She found herself entranced by the play of sinews in his hand, mesmerized by the rhythm, by the gentle pressure of his fingers, his heat at her back. But it was the rhythm more than anything, and it was so hypnotizing that when he released her wrist she kept moving the palette knife against the glass, loath to stop, taking pleasure in the way the paint built up, the way it thickened and gained body, the stiff wet sound of it. She was so focused on the kneading she almost forgot he was there.

Until she felt the touch of his fingers on her cheek. The spell shattered, so abruptly that Imogene jumped. But he held her tightly against him, and she couldn't move or pull away.

"
Darling,
" he whispered, and his voice was low and seductive and heavy with loathing while his fingers stroked her skin with the most delicate of touches. "I had a visit from your goddaddy last night, did he tell you?"

His words confused her, his touch, his voice. Bewildered, she shook her head.

"He kept it a secret from you? Tsk, tsk." His hair danced against her throat. "He wanted to tell me something. What do you suppose it was, Miss Carter, hmmmm?"

She felt the briefest of kisses against her ear, the light, heated brush of his lips.

"I—I don't know," she whispered.

"He asked me to treat you gently," he murmured. She heard the faint amusement in his tone, the derision. "I forgot to ask him exactly how gently he meant. Perhaps you know." His breath was heated and moist against her skin, his lips caressed her throat. "Is this gentle enough, darling?"

Lord, oh, Lord
. She was dizzy and trembling and too hot. Desperately she thought of Chloe, but even imagining her sister couldn't bring to mind a single setdown, not a single course of action.
Move,
she told herself.
Step away.
But she couldn't move, couldn't do anything but stand there trembling in his arms, mesmerized by a touch she told herself not to want, seduced by words that stole her breath and her will.

"What is it you want from me, Miss Imogene Carter, hmmm?" he asked. She felt the cradle of his hips through her skirt, pressed to her buttocks. His voice was quieter than a whisper, his fingers played with the loose curls at her throat, stroked her jaw. "Why don't you run away, I wonder? Why—"

"Take your hands off her, you son of a bitch!" Clarisse screeched.

Whitaker started, his hands dropped, and Imogene sprang away, nearly falling into the paint, cracking her hip on the table in her haste. She'd forgotten all about the others, had forgotten everything but Whitaker, and now their faces filled her vision, all stiff with curiosity and fear. Heat rushed into Imogene's face, along with the ache of humiliation. They had been watching. No doubt they'd seen her lean into him, seen how easily she was persuaded, how simple it was to seduce her. Lord, what they must think.

She tried to catch Peter's eye, to explain with expression if not with words, but he wouldn't look at her, and she felt alone and abandoned until she suddenly realized they weren't staring at her at all. They were staring at Whitaker.

Frowning, she glanced at him. His face was so hard and cold and expressionless he seemed cut from marble. It was obvious he'd already forgotten her. He was looking at Clarisse as if the rest of them had disappeared.

Clarisse surged to her feet, her skin blotchy with rage, her eyes burning with self-righteous anger. She marched across the studio until she was even with Whitaker.

"How dare you touch her like that!" she spat out. She raised her hand to slap him.

He caught it easily. "Don't cause a scene, Clarisse," he said calmly. "Or you'll make me angry."

She jerked away from his touch. "Like I give a damn! I'll cause a scene if I like." She threw a glance at Imogene; it was so baleful Imogene stepped back, gripping the table to steady herself. "You must think I'm daft, makin' love to the girl right afore my eyes like that. Didya think I wouldn't see?"

"To tell you the truth, I didn't much care." Whitaker said, smiling coldly.

"Well, I won't put up with it," Clarisse threatened. "Get rid of her or I'm goin'."

"Don't tell me what to do, Clarisse." Whitaker's voice was soft, too soft, and so full of warning Imogene's heart stopped.

But Clarisse didn't seem to notice. "I tell you I won't put up with it," she said again.

He shrugged. "If you don't like it, you can always leave," he said lightly. "In fact, I'd prefer it if you would. Right now. And don't come back."

It took only a second for his words to register. Clarisse blanched. Her skin went sallow, accenting the shadows beneath her eyes, the creases framing her mouth. Then her expression tightened, her pretty eyes narrowed.

"You son of a bitch," she spat, spinning away from him. "To hell with you and your little whore both!" Her curses filled the air as she grabbed her cloak off the peg and yanked open the door.

It slammed shut behind her.

There was silence.

Then there was a frantic surge of activity. Tobias grabbed clumsily for his paintbox, Daniel suddenly found his palette fascinating, and Peter began painting furiously, even though there was nothing to paint.

Imogene stood there, stunned and disbelieving. She was the cause of this; her befuddled mind struggled with the knowledge. She—sickly little Imogene Carter —was the cause of a jealous rage. It was incredible, and oddly flattering. As foreign as the feeling was, it was rather exciting, almost heady. And it made her curious. She was a nobody, yet Clarisse had been jealous

of her, and Jonas Whitaker had pressed against her, had kissed her ear, had caressed her throat. He had made love to her, just as Clarisse had said, and now Imogene wondered why, wondered what the two of them saw in her, wondered what he saw in her. It fascinated her suddenly, the simple question: What did Whitaker see in her?

From across the room came the sound of a throat clearing, Daniel's deep but wavering voice. "Sir, shall we—shall we continue? Or shall we . . . go?"

Slowly Whitaker turned to face him. "Go?" he asked, and Imogene heard again that amusement in his tone, the touch of contempt. "Ah, now, that is the question, isn't it?"

He turned to look at her, and the sharp speculation in his eyes, his small smile, made her wary. But she didn't look away, and it seemed that only made his smile broader.