The Portrait (19 page)

"Very well, let's go," he said, not waiting for Rico's answer before he headed for the entrance. He was across the room in moments, wrenching open the door and striding out into the cold quiet of early morning.

"I'll hail a carriage," Rico said, coming up beside him and then stepping down the stairs.

"No." Jonas stopped him with a word. He looked around, at streets where that brief quiet time was just beginning—that time after the gambling halls closed, just before the business of the day started. He saw the men rushing into the streets like flushed rats, settling their hats on their heads, hurrying home to complacent wives or compliant mistresses. "No carriage," he said, breathing deeply of the salt-tinged air. "Let's walk."

Childs sighed heavily. He shook back his golden hair and frowned, glancing down the street. "It's a long walk,
mon ami
."

"Come with me, Rico. I need your company." Jonas smiled. He started walking.

"You would be happy with any company," Rico noted, following.

"Ah, but you're so pretty I like to look at you."

Childs's grin was wry. "Pretty is as pretty does."

"Pretty is as pretty does." Jonas's mind flew with the phrase, spiraling out in all directions. Pretty doves. Pigeons. Flocks of them that pecked the street, looking for handouts the same way the girls of the Bowery did, those low-class whores masquerading as upper-class women, wearing jeweled dresses that set off their skin and colors that shone in the lamplight like precious stones. Flashing like the few brooches and rings left in the windows of the shops he and Rico walked by tonight. Diamonds and rubies and sapphires, some as fake as a portrait smile, others—others . . .

He saw it as he passed. It caught his eye, flashing a code meant for his eyes alone, a message from God. A brooch in the window, sparkling with pinks and golds and purples, with amethysts that winked in the soft light of dawn. A butterfly.

Jonas jerked to a stop. He turned, pressing his hands against the window, leaning down to look at it, at the delicate filigree, the jewels hung suspended within it. Ah, God, it was just like Genie, just like his vision. The colors that were muted in the dimness, quiet and dull until they caught the light. But then—ah, then— they were vibrant and alive and beautiful.

"Rico," he breathed. "Rico, look at this. Look at this."

He heard Childs step up behind. Rico's shadow fell over the window, throwing the stones into darkness again.

"Look at what?"

"This." Impatiently Jonas stood aside to let back the light, pointed to the brooch.

"A butterfly." Childs shrugged. "A pretty little bauble."

A pretty little bauble
. Oh, so much more than that. So much more. Jonas thought of her wearing it, thought of it next to her skin, glittering on a low decolletage, thought of how it would bring out the colors in her hair. Christ, he wanted that brooch, wanted to hold it in his hands, to give it to her and see its sparkle reflect her eyes. The thought was so compelling he hurried to the door.

"Open up!" he called, pounding his fist on the wood, rattling it so the sound echoed in the quiet streets. "Hey there, open up!"

Rico was at his side in an instant. "
Mon dieu
, Jonas," he said in a harsh whisper. He grabbed Jonas's hand, stilling it. "What do you suppose you're doing?"

"Buying the bauble." Jonas laughed, yanking his hand away. He pounded again, called louder. "You inside! Come out! You've paying customers!"

He felt Rico pawing his sleeve, heard his friend's careful, soothing voice. "Let's go, shall we,
mon ami
? The bauble is hardly worth the trouble. It is not you. And it's barely dawn."

"But it is dawn, my friend, and stores should be open for business." Jonas didn't stop. "Hey there! Is anyone home?"

"What do you propose to buy it with? The rent?"

"You scold like an old woman." Jonas said. "And it doesn't matter. I must have it. Genie must have it."

"Genie?" Rico stepped back, frowning. "You can't be serious. It is—" He grabbed Jonas's hand. "It's inappropriate for her. Come along now. Let's go home."

Childs's words irritated Jonas, along with his friend's calming, humoring tone—the kind one would use with a child. But it didn't anger him as much as Childs's hold on his wrist. Annoyed, Jonas wrenched away. "Don't touch me again, Rico," he warned. "I want the goddamned brooch."

"You can buy it later. This evening."

Cajoling now. And there was that familiar veiled look in Rico's eyes, that look from this morning, the amusement that twisted into concern, into worry. That look he'd seen on the faces of his family a hundred times, the suspicious musing, the silent questioning:
"Are you mad?"

It put a sick lump in his stomach and irritated him at the same time. Of the two he preferred fury, and he grabbed it now, felt the hot flush of it rush into his face. Without hesitation, he turned away from Childs and pounded on the door, yelling at the top of his lungs.

He was yelling so loudly he didn't hear the footsteps behind the door. He saw the rattling of the knob and thought it was from his pounding until the door was wrenched open before him, and he was suddenly staring into the sleep-drawn, angry face of the shopkeeper —and a leveled shotgun.

"
Mon dieu
." Rico's voice was a shocked whisper.

"What the hell's goin' on here?" the man asked. He looked from Jonas to Rico and back again.

Jonas started toward him.

"Don't move," the man said, "or I'll blow you straight to perdition."

"We're sorry to wake you, monsieur," Rico said quietly. "My friend here has had a bit much to drink, I'm afraid. I was taking him home."

The man looked at Jonas. "Drunk, eh?"

"In ways you only dream about, old man," Jonas said. He nodded toward the window. "I want the brooch—the butterfly. How much?"

"We're not open."

"You are now. How much?"

"I said—"

"I don't give a damn what you said." Jonas felt his irritation rising again, and the restraining hand Rico put on his arm only made it worse. "Sell me the damn brooch."

The man glanced at Rico. Jonas felt his friend shrug.

"Sell it to him,
monsieur
, if you will," Rico said. "I'm afraid there'll be no denying him this morning."

The storekeeper hesitated, considering, and then finally he relented. He lowered the gun and opened the door to let them in, and Jonas was swept with a relief so intoxicating he wanted to laugh out loud, an elation so swift and complete it was all he could do not to run singing into the streets while Rico and the shopkeeper haggled over the price.

He was barely aware of paying, had no idea how much the piece cost him. All he knew as the clerk handed him the small package was that it was his. His now, and then hers. Soon he would see it glittering on her breast, glowing against pink satin—or, no, not pink satin. Not pinks or lavenders or pale blues. None of the sickly pastels she wore now. No, he would make sure she had velvets by then. Winter colors of dark greens and bronzes and deep, passionate yellows. Midnight blues and rusts and golds to match her hair and warm her eyes.

Ah, yes, he could imagine it. Imagined her hair down, imagined her wrapped in velvet while she lay against the bed and posed for him. The vision was so strong his fingers itched. He thought of the canvas, waiting at the studio, and it beckoned him, a siren song that burned in his blood. God, he wanted to get back to it. Wanted to paint. . .

He shoved the wrapped butterfly in his frock coat pocket and started off, out of the shop without even a good-bye, back to the street where the sunlight was growing stronger and stronger. He was halfway down the block before Rico caught up with him again and grabbed his sleeve and said, "No more, my love. We're hailing a coach."

He looked at Rico in surprise. "Of course," he said, smiling. "Of course, of course. And we should sing too, Rico. Sing to the dawn. That old hymn, you remember? That beautiful old song. What was it called? —I hardly remember." He looped his arm through Rico's, pulling his friend down the street, feeling as if his grin might split his face. He laughed out loud; the sound echoed in the eaves, rose up to heaven. "Ah, the world is good, don't you think, my friend? The world is very good indeed."

C
hapter 16

H
er heart was pounding as she made her way up the stairs. She wasn't sure what she would find when she reached the studio. She hadn't seen or heard from Whitaker since the night of the salon, but he haunted her nonetheless, his image filled her days.

Invaded her dreams.

Oh, Lord, her dreams. . . . The thought of them brought heat to her face, made her mouth dry. The last three nights she'd awakened covered with sweat and trembling, aching for something. Something that had to do with Jonas Whitaker's kiss, with his touch, with the taste of him.

And no amount of logic made it go away, just as wisdom and good sense hadn't dissolved her resolution to take what he offered, whatever it might be.

Still, her longing for him made her anxious. Still, she was aware of what she risked by coming here again. Just looking at him was enough to make her abandon morals and propriety, and listening to him erased any lingering resistance. He could control her with a word, and she wondered if he knew it and suspected he probably did.

She wished she cared more, but it was hard to care when the tempting little voice inside her, the demon voice, kept whispering, cajoling
"Take what you can. It's all you'll ever have."

All you'll ever have.
It was that voice that kept her from turning and running down the stairs. That voice that had her lifting her chin and hurrying up the last flight as quickly as her skirts would allow. Her heart raced as she went to the last door on the left and knocked. She couldn't bear to wait more than a moment before she pushed the door open and went inside.

There was no one there. Imogene hesitated and glanced down at the note in her hand, the note he'd written telling her that class resumed today. The time was right, as well as the date, but she had expected to find the others here. She was late; Peter, Daniel, and Tobias should already be working away.

But instead she was alone.

Her throat tightened; it was suddenly hard to swallow. Her gaze swept the room, taking in the scattered paints and brushes, the hastily colored canvases. If possible, the studio was in worse shape than the last time she'd visited, littered as if he'd been painting only moments ago, as if he'd just gone out. The smells of turpentine and linseed oil were strong in the room, and suddenly she realized he was here. She felt his presence as powerfully as if he stood before her.

Almost as if he'd heard her thoughts, he stepped out from behind the tapestry doorway of his bedroom. Imogene's heart seemed to stop; her breath caught in her throat. She waited, feeling foolishly hopeful and horribly awkward at the same time. Images from the last time she'd seen him flashed through her mind, erotic visions of her hands tangled in his hair, his hips pressed against hers. Her nervousness grew. It seemed an eternity before he looked up and saw her there.

"Genie," he said. Relief surged through her when she saw the grin crinkling his face. He came hurrying toward her. "I've been waiting for you."

Her last doubts fled, her nervousness melted away. No one had ever said such a thing to her before, and the simple phrase left her speechless, defenseless. She tried to remember if anyone had ever looked so happy to see her, and couldn't think of a single person. Lord, not one.

He stopped before her, his eyes burning. She motioned to the empty room. "I—I expected to see the others here."

"Did you?" He raised a dark brow. His grin was mischievous, charmingly wicked. "Yes, well, I had to say something to see you again, didn't I?"

She felt breathless. "You could have asked."

"And you would have come, just like that?"

"Yes." The word came out on a sound, a long rush of breath. "Yes, I would have come."

He leaned forward, and before she knew what he was doing he brushed her lips with his own, a light touch, a tingle of feeling that was so quick she wasn't sure if she'd felt it, if he'd kissed her at all. And when he stepped away from her, striding purposefully across the room, it was suddenly cold where he'd been, freezing where before the air had been too hot. She buried her hands in the folds of her heavy mantle, feeling bewildered, and . . . and excited. A thin frisson of anticipation shivered along her skin.

"What—what are you doing?" she asked.

"Getting ready to paint." He grabbed a canvas from the pile against the wall and settled it on an easel. "Take off your wrap, Genie. Come join me."

Her excitement grew. Quickly she did as he asked, hanging her mantle on the peg beside the door and taking off the pink bonnet she'd bought to replace the one he'd tossed away. She touched a hand to her hair and started toward him.

He was moving feverishly around the room, setting out paints and brushes so quickly it hurt her eyes to watch him. But she did watch him, it was impossible not to. Impossible not to notice his frenzied energy or the too-bright shine of his eyes. She frowned, noticing for the first time how drawn he looked, how tired. As if he hadn't slept. As if he were running on reserves of strength but little else. She wondered fleetingly if he'd eaten.

It worried her suddenly. She hadn't seen him for two days. What had he been doing in that time besides painting? She remembered the night at the salon, the fact that she hadn't seen him eat a thing, the fact that when she'd awakened, Childs was sleeping but Whitaker was gone. Had he slept that night at all? Had he slept since then?

The questions nagged at her, but then Whitaker looked up and met her eyes, and his unexpected, blinding smile made her worries seem suddenly foolish. Lord, even Childs, beautiful as he was, was no match for the man who stood in front of her now, his charisma seeming to energize the very air around him. How could she have thought he looked tired?

He stood back from the easel. He motioned for her to come up beside him. "Are you ready?"

She hurried over to stand next to him. "Ready for what?"

"Ready for art," he whispered in a voice that sent shivers running down her spine. "Not charcoal today, Genie darling. Today you paint."

She looked at him in surprise. "You want me to paint? I thought you said I wasn't ready."

His gaze caressed her face, his smile was slow and heart-stoppingly seductive. "You weren't, then," he said, and she had the strange and unsettling feeling that he wasn't talking about art at all. "There are things only paint can teach you," he said, his voice deepening. "Or are you afraid?"

That dark voice brought back the images from her dreams, the erotic fantasies she told herself it was indecent to have. Suddenly they didn't seem indecent at all. No, not indecent, but tempting. Compelling. Inescapable.

"No," she said quietly, not taking her gaze from his. "I'm not afraid."

She saw the fire in his eyes, a flame that leapt and then died away again, that banked-coal look. It made her whole body feel tight; she was not completely sure that her movements were her own as she swallowed and glanced away. "What am I to paint?" she asked hoarsely.

He laughed then, a light chuckle, and moved away. She watched as he walked around the room, quickly grabbing things and shoving them under his arms so he could carry more than one, then arranging them on a table before her: an opalescent vase, a silver cigar case, two red-veined apples and a blue velvet ribbon.

"This," he said, gesturing at the display. "A true study for you, Genie. An artist's test." He came to her again, reached around her for the paints he'd scattered on the table, pulling dishes and tubes of color into place. "These are the colors we'll use."

She felt the brush of his breath against her cheek, was mesmerized by his nearness as he grabbed a tube in the palm of his hand, uncapping it with a practiced, one-handed motion. He squeezed the color onto a palette—vermillion—and she watched as he added the rest: white lead and ultramarine, a touch of ivory black, burnt umber, yellow ochre, and a small pool of Naples yellow.

"Now, Genie," he said, stepping back—a tiny step, one that left him close enough that she still felt the heat from his body. "Paint."

Paint.
As if it were easy, as if the colors alone would tell her what to do. Imogene felt the freezing touch of panic; it made her fingers stiff as she reached for a brush.
Paint,
he'd said, but for her painting had always been little more than an exercise in futility. Watercolor sunsets and houses. Yards with flowers. Washes and tints and pale colors without body or substance. It was all she knew how to do.

But he was waiting. She felt him there beside her, felt his impatience, felt that fierce energy. She looked at the still life in front of them, at the opalescent glass, the swirls of pearly color. Saw the silver case and the muted shades of the blue velvet and the delicate green of the apples. She felt a wave of frustration, of hopelessness, that coursed all through her. She would never be able to do this. In a hundred years, she would never be able to do this. She was not Chloe, she was not an artist. She was a fraud.

Then she felt him move behind her. She felt his hand on hers, his gentle pressure urging her to the palette. "Paint, Genie," he whispered, directing her to the first color, to ultramarine. She watched her hand dipping the brush, pulling color out, mixing it with white until she had a pool of pale blue, a base color. She watched him take her hand to the canvas, watched the vase take shape—vague still, nothing but a start, a wide bottom and a narrower neck, the slash of a wide lip. And all the time she felt him behind her, around her. Felt the press of his fingers on her wrist, his moist breath at her ear.

She felt mesmerized again, completely lost. Completely his.

"Pearly tints," he said. "No palette knife, Genie. Mingle the colors with the brush—ah, that's right. Make them sparkle."

She did as he asked without a word, dipped the brush, let him lead her motions, and the opalescent glass began to shimmer on the canvas.

She heard his voice in her ear, a quiet brush of sound. "Sfumato here," he whispered, and under his direction she softened the lines, with his help she painted film upon film, creating hazy, smoky shadows.

"Impasto," he murmured. "Not so much. Slower. That's it, darling. Slower. Slower."

Like a seduction, his words. He stroked her with them, beguiled her with sounds instead of caresses. Sfumato, impasto, chiaroscuro. And when she was lost, when his words had taken away her will and her strength, he added the touches. He let his hand slip down her wrist until he was covering her hand, until the paint that marked her fingers spread to his, until she felt the gorgeous, buttery feel of it between their hands, the smooth, thick slickness of it spreading over her skin. So delicious. So erotic. She watched, frozen, her mouth dry and her heart pounding, as he dragged his fingers back again, over hers, over the back of her hand, her wrist, leaving color behind, a streak of blue against her skin, marking her.

Branding her.

She caught her breath.

And then she heard the hushed whisper in her ear.

"I want you, Genie," he said. "I want to be inside you."

Oh, Lord, the images. The wicked, wicked images.

"Tell me you want me." Those words again, the soft, barely spoken words. "Tell me."

Unbidden, other words flew into her mind. Thomas's warnings.
"Jonas has always had an eye for the ladies." "He would think nothing of ruining you. ..."

She felt Whitaker's fingers on her hand, her wrist, felt the sensual friction of paint.

"I want you, Genie. I want to be inside you."

She wanted it too. She wanted—oh, Lord, how she wanted—to touch the shooting star. She wanted to burn within it.

She wanted the magic.

"Yes," she said, and she heard the harsh whisper of her voice, the desperate crack. "Yes."

She closed her eyes, afraid to see his face in that moment, afraid of what she would find there. She heard his breathing, as hoarse and ragged as her own, felt his heat against her. Then she felt him move, and she knew he was in front of her, felt the gentle touch of his fingers as he lifted the brush from her hand, heard the soft
click
of it as he set it aside. Then she felt his hand in her hair, and it was suddenly impossible to breathe at all as he loosened the pins that held it. She heard them clink to the floor and scatter. She felt the heavy mass of her hair falling free, over her shoulders, down her back.

"Genie," he said.

She opened her eyes.

Lord, he was too beautiful. He was too beautiful for her. Too fine for her. She did not deserve him.

But as he stared at her with those smoldering green eyes, those thoughts melted away, replaced by a yearning so strong she could barely stand to look at him even as she could not tear her gaze away.

He grabbed her hand, brushed it against his lips. "Frightened, Genie?" he asked.

The question was familiar now—and so was her answer. Imogene licked her lips, shook her head. It was all she could do to say the one word. "No."