The Portrait (5 page)

Then she felt Whitaker behind her, leaning close, felt the heat from his body against her back. Imogene pressed her lips together, determined not to let his presence ruin her concentration, and suddenly he was leaning over her shoulder, bending close to her ear.

"To draw her, you need to truly look at her, Miss Carter," he whispered. "Look at her with the eyes of an artist—a lover. Can you do that, do you think? Can you see the line of Clarisse's leg, the muscles in her calf? The way the shadows fall across her ankle? Can you see?"

His voice was deep and quiet; she heard again the rhythms she'd heard the first time she met him, the music, and it was seductive somehow, so much so she found herself following the gentle instruction of his words, found her gaze following the line of Clarisse's leg, the softly rounded calf that led to a dimpled knee, to the fullness of thigh. Found herself seeing pale flesh and ash-colored shadows she'd never noticed before.

"I—I see," she murmured, fascinated.

"Do you?" He was so close she felt the heat of his breath against her ear, the tickle of his hair trailing over her shoulder. "Look closely, Miss Carter. Do you really see the form? Do you see the texture? There are a hundred colors there. Do you think you could match even one?" He said the words, and she saw every detail, the play of light, the colors, the smooth skin that roughened at the knee. She saw things she'd never seen before, in a way she'd never seen them. And she thought suddenly,
I could paint this
. She felt the full, perfect force of inspiration, the elation of vision and the power of skill, and she listened to the soft murmur of his voice and was mesmerized by it.

"When you look at Clarisse's leg, do you think of Michelangelo? Do you wonder how he had the strength to go into the morgues, to slit open corpses? He wanted to study their anatomy, Miss Carter. He wanted to see how muscles and bones and sinews all come together, to show that in his art. Do you think you could do such a thing—for art?"

The loud rapping at the door startled them both.

Whitaker straightened with a bitten-off curse.

The spell was broken. Imogene blinked; for a moment she wasn't sure where she was or what had happened, for a moment she couldn't believe it was over. She opened her mouth, started to say,
No—no, please, don't stop now
, but Whitaker was already striding angrily to the door.

"No interruptions," he muttered. "How many times do I have to say it?"

She felt numb with disappointment. She watched him walk across the room and wished he would come back, wanted so badly for him to keep talking. He'd made her see something—truly see it, the way she never had before, and this interruption now was unwelcome, as trivial and unimportant as his dislike and his contempt now seemed. She wanted back that moment when his voice and his nearness had mesmerized her and made her feel she belonged, that moment of artist's sight. For it, she would gladly bear his impatience and anger. He'd made her feel like Chloe in that instant, vibrant and alive and passionate, and it was something she'd never experienced in her life, something she never even thought was inside her. Oh, she would give anything to have it back, anything at all.

Imogene felt the keen edge of frustration as he reached for the door, flinging it open without regard for the nearly nude woman posing in the middle of the room.

"Childs," he said irritably. "It's before noon, isn't it?"

At his words, the man who stood in the doorway smiled broadly.

Imogene caught her breath in surprise. He was beautiful, with features so fine they looked almost feminine. Blond and tall, he was the perfect foil for Jonas Whitaker's darkness. He walked confidently, almost arrogantly, into the room. "You're overwhelming me with your affection, Whitaker," he said dryly, pulling off his gloves. "I knew you'd be ecstatic to see me,

especially since I've just returned from
Paris
with some of that cognac you're so fond of." He glanced around the room, taking a cursory inventory of Clarisse, of Daniel, Tobias, and Peter, before his pale gaze came to a stop at Imogene. He stared at her for moments, long enough that she felt uncomfortable, and then his brow furrowed in surprise. He turned back to Whitaker. "Well, well. You have a new student? I didn't realize you were planning to take on another."

Whitaker shut the door. His frown deepened. "You're interrupting my class, Childs."

"Send them home early." Childs shrugged. The motion made the bright strands of his long hair catch the sunlight. It seemed impossibly golden against the dark blue of his coat, gold as a new coin. "Besides, you've got the key to my studio, and I need it now, before my trunk arrives."

Whitaker's mouth was set in a thin, disapproving line. His green eyes burned. His gaze swept Daniel, Tobias, and Peter before he jerked his head toward the door. "Very well then. We're done for today."

Immediately the three got to their feet. Imogene waited for him to exclude her, to tell her to stay, that there was some other project he wanted her to work on, another canvas to prime. But it was as if he'd forgotten her, and she felt a brief, embarrassing wave of disappointment as he crossed the room, disappearing behind the tapestry-hung doorway, seemingly oblivious to the bustle going on around him.

The last thing she wanted to do was leave now. But she dropped the charcoal stick into her case and gathered up the rest of her things anyway, heading distractedly toward the door, still thinking about that moment with Whitaker, the artist's sight—

"Not so fast,
chérie
."

She felt the soft press of a hand on her arm. Imogene jumped and spun around, nearly falling into Childs, who stood there with a small smile on his lips. "Stay and talk to me a bit, won't you, while I wait for your moody tutor?"

She stared at him, too surprised to do more than gape. Childs was the kind of man who never looked twice at a woman like her, the kind of polished sophisticate who noticed a Chloe but never an Imogene. He was like the men who had haunted her parents' parlor in
Nashville
, men who hovered, smiling and too kind, while they waited for her sister to make an appearance. A man practiced in flirtation and games.

A man like Nicholas.

She had no idea why he was standing next to her. A man like this always had a reason. It made her uncomfortable that she didn't know what it was, and she was too muddled to think it through, was still too stunned by Whitaker's teaching to care. Imogene stepped away. "I'm afraid I can't," she said uneasily. "I'm sorry, but I must go."

"You must? Whyever for?" Childs asked casually. He didn't release her arm, and though his touch was light, Imogene felt the slight pressure, the insistence in his long, slender fingers. He lifted a dark blond brow, looked at her with that pale blue gaze. "Is it because we haven't been properly introduced? I assure you I can amend that error,
ma chérie
." He made a slight bow. "I am Frederic Childs."

Reluctantly Imogene offered her hand. "Imogene Carter," she said.

He let go of her arm long enough to take her fingers in his. "Imogene." On his tongue the name sounded like the finest French delicacy, smooth and luscious. Vaguely obscene. "How lovely. So tell me, Imogene Carter, what you're doing in my friend's studio. I must admit I find it . . . curious . . . that Jonas is teaching a woman."

"My godfather knows Mr. Whitaker quite well."

"Your godfather?"

"Thomas Gosney."

"Gosney?" Childs's eyebrows rose in surprise. It disappeared quickly, melting into thoughtfulness. "How intriguing." He released her hand and gave her a captivating smile—one so bright it left her feeling dazed. "Well then, Miss Imogene Carter. If you ever decide you've had enough of Jonas, I hope you'll consider taking up with me."

So much like Nicholas.
The thought made her a little sick, and she stepped away from him, wanting suddenly to leave. She grasped her case more tightly and looked toward the door. "Mr. Childs—"

"Ah, I've shocked you, Miss Imogene, and I didn't mean to," he said, smiling. "Please say you'll forgive me." Then before she could answer, he looked past her. "Here comes your teacher now."

"Tormenting my students, Childs?" Jonas asked mildly, holding out a large key.

Childs took it and stuffed it in his pocket. "I was just telling Miss Carter that she could come to me when she's had her fill of you."

"Take her now if you like," Whitaker said. He glanced at Imogene and raised a sarcastic brow. "I'm sure she's more than ready to be rid of me, isn't that so, Miss Carter?"

Imogene looked at him in startled surprise. "No, of course not."

Frederic Childs laughed. He touched her arm again, bent so close his fine hair brushed her cheek. "Ah,
ma chérie
," he said in a low voice. "I would be most happy to teach you how to paint—or anything else you desire."

His touch, his voice, the flirtation—it reminded her too much, too sharply, of Nicholas. Without thinking, Imogene jerked away—so quickly she bumped her easel with her hip. It scraped across the floor with a loud squeak that made her feel more disoriented and uncomfortable than ever.

"It's ... all right," she said. "I should go." She grabbed her sketch pad and glanced at Whitaker, and was surprised to see the thoughtfulness on his face. A deep, quiet thoughtfulness that was somehow disturbing.

"Please, not so soon," Childs murmured.

"Jonas, darlin'!" Clarisse called out from behind the changing screen. "I can't find my stockin's. Are they in the bedroom?"

It was Imogene's chance.

She fled for the door.

Chapter 5

C
hilds stared at the door, slapping his gloves together in the palm of his hand. "Interesting," he murmured, and then he turned to look at Jonas. "Gosney's goddaughter, eh? How did that come about?"

Jonas's irritation grew. "He asked me to take her on."

"He asked you?" Childs smiled. "And you said yes —just like that?"

"That's right."

Childs shoved his gloves in his pocket, sauntered to the window. "Now why do I find that so hard to believe?"

"Because you're a cynical bastard, that's why." Jonas glanced at the door, wishing Childs would leave, wanting to be alone for a minute—or, at least as alone as he could be with Clarisse whining about. Something was at the edge of his mind, nagging him, something about the way Imogene Carter had reacted today, the way she'd gone running out—

"Is she any good?"

It took a moment for Jonas to remember what Childs was talking about. "She's adequate," he said, distracted, then cursed himself when Childs's brows rose in surprise.

"Adequate?" he asked. "You've never taken on an adequate student in your life."

"There's a first time for everyone."

"Perhaps for some. Not you." Childs regarded him steadily, his pale blue eyes burning with curiosity. "Why do I think there's more to this than you're letting on?"

"I have no idea." Jonas gestured to the door. "But you're taking up my time, and I have things to do—"

"Ah, yes." Childs glanced toward the changing screen, where the silhouette of Clarisse's lush body jiggled on the thin fabric. He smiled and raised his voice. "Clarisse, love, are you still there?"

"Bugger off, Rico," she cursed from behind the screen.

Childs laughed. "Still as gracious as ever, I see." He glanced at Jonas. "When did you take up with her?"

"A week ago," Jonas said tersely.

"Only a week?" Childs turned back to the screen. "Were you mourning me,
chérie
? Is that why it took you so long to find a new protector?"

Clarisse didn't answer.

Jonas stepped forward. This had gone on too long. He wasn't in the mood to deal with Frederic Childs now, even if it had been months since he'd seen his friend. He couldn't stop mulling over this morning long enough to concentrate on meaningless chatter. The image of Imogene Carter's face wouldn't leave him. It bedeviled him, nagged him; he kept seeing how ill at ease she'd looked when Childs was flirting with her. There was something about it, something that tugged at the edge of his mind. . . .

"I suppose it's too much to hope for fidelity from those you love." Childs sighed.

"Ha!" Clarisse grunted. "Like you didn't have yer little tramps in
Paris
!" She stepped out from behind the screen, her generous breasts crammed into the confines of her green satin gown, her feet bare. She glared at Childs, then turned to Jonas with a superior sniff. "Where're my stockin's, darlin'? I asked you to bring 'em."

"In the bedroom." He gestured to the doorway, waiting until she disappeared behind the tapestry before he looked back at Childs. "It's not that I'm not glad to see you, Rico," he said. "But get the hell out of here."

Childs grinned. "It's good to know some things never change," he said, settling onto the windowsill with languid affectation—much to Jonas's dismay. "But I'm not ready to leave yet. Not until you tell me the story behind the intriguing Miss Carter."

Intriguing.
That was one word for her. Jonas remembered the way she lifted her chin and asked him if she could sketch Clarisse today, the way she'd stared at the model instead of looking away as he'd expected. He had wanted to embarrass her, and she'd refused to be embarrassed, had instead been . . . interested. Not vulnerable at all, not frightened as he'd anticipated. He frowned and looked at Childs. "There is no story."

"
Au contraire
." Childs shook his finger. "I can see it in your eyes,
mon ami
, and even if I didn't, the idea of Gosney asking you to take her on—and you acquiescing—is simply too delicious to resist."

"It's not what you think," Jonas said dryly.

"How interesting, since I'm thinking nothing. I simply don't know what to make of this, Whitaker, so you must fill me in." He looked toward the bedroom. "And if I remember correctly, it will take Clarisse a full fifteen minutes to recall how to put on her stockings, so there's plenty of time."

Jonas said nothing, wondering if he could get Childs to leave by simply ignoring him.

"If you don't tell me, Jonas, I'll start the rumors at the Century myself. Let's see, how should the story go? Ah yes, how about this: You saw the girl and wanted her, and so you blackmailed Gosney into bringing her here." Childs tilted his head, a gleam came into his eyes. "Or perhaps you've already compromised her?"

Jonas glared at him. "I haven't touched her."

"Why not?" Childs grinned. "She's a woman, and you have a certain reputation—"

"Not for innocents."

"Ah yes, she is that, isn't she?" Childs sighed melodramatically, leaning his blond head back against the window. "Rather delightful, isn't it, for a woman to be so uncomfortable at such harmless flirtation? What is it, Jonas? Are you all right?"

Uncomfortable. Harmless flirtation
. That was it, the something that had been eluding him all evening. Everything clicked into place.

Of course. The idea came into his head full blown, so clear and simple he couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it before, couldn't believe the solution had been there, in his grasp, the entire time. Childs was right; Imogene Carter would run at the slightest flirtation—she'd done exactly that today. It was what had been nagging him since she left, the vulnerability he'd been waiting for, the weakness he needed.

He stared at the window, not seeing the wavering glass or the buildings beyond. Instead, he saw Imogene Carter as Childs smiled down at her, flustered and embarrassed and uncomfortable, stepping back from his touch. Miss Imogene Carter could bear criticism, she could withstand Jonas's impossible demands. But when it came to sex . . . well, that was another thing altogether.

He licked his lips, remembering her nervous clumsiness and imagining how she would react if he got her into a corner, the way she would try to back away, how she would grip her skirt or push at her hair. It would take nothing more than that to send her running, he was sure. Nothing more than a few well-chosen words, a look or two, maybe a touch.

It would be the easiest seduction he'd ever tried— and that was saying something.

Jonas crossed his arms over his chest, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction. Yes, it would work. By next week, Imogene Carter would be nothing more than a faint and vaguely unpleasant memory. By next month, he wouldn't remember her at all. The thought made him smile.

"What the hell is it?" Childs's irritable voice cut into Jonas's thoughts. "Either share your little joke or stop looking so pleased with yourself. It's quite annoying."

Jonas looked at him, and his smile deepened. "It's nothing, Rico," he said. "Nothing at all."

He suddenly felt a great and strong affection for the man who'd been aggravating him intensely only moments before, and he motioned to the door, ignoring Childs's frown and Clarisse's rustlings in the bedroom. "Come on now, and show me to that cognac you were talking about earlier. 1 find I'm suddenly quite thirsty."

I
mogene stumbled distractedly down the last flight of stairs, nearly tripping over the hem of her gown. The day spun through her mind in a kaleidoscope of images: Frederic Childs, Nicholas, Whitaker ... Especially Whitaker. The thought of him eclipsed the others; Childs's flirtation was nothing more than a small and insignificant irritation, the memory of Nicholas was easily forgotten in the brilliance of those brief moments when Whitaker had shown her the artist's vision, when he had made her see .. . Lord, it sent her heart racing, made her breath come shallow and too fast. Excitement sped through her blood; she could hardly wait to return tomorrow, to learn more, to see more.

The thought of it absorbed her so entirely she barely heard the voices coming from the studios ringing the bottom-floor exhibition hall, bumped into two artists making their way toward the entrance, and hardly gave more than a nod to the man who held the door open for her. She hurried down the stone steps toward the brougham, anxious to get home, to describe the day to Thomas.

"Miss Carter! Miss Carter!"

The voice pierced her distraction. Frowning, Imogene slowed and turned.

It was Peter McBride.

"Mr. McBride," she said. "I didn't expect to see you."

He'd been leaning against the building, but now he hurried down the stairs toward her. "Did he hurt you?"

"Hurt me?" Imogene stared at him in surprise. "Of course not. Why would you think—"

"You're sure he didn't harm you?"

The intensity of his tone was a little frightening. Imogene frowned, puzzled by his concern. "No. No, he didn't."

"Good." He sighed with relief, released her arm. "I should have waited upstairs. I planned to. But then Childs came in, and you were talking to him . . ." He looked chagrined. "I thought it better to wait here."

"You were waiting for me?"

He nodded. He took her elbow and steered her away from the steps. "Where's your carriage? I'll walk you to it, if you'll allow me."

Imogene motioned down the street, to where Thomas's shiny black brougham stood waiting.

"I told you yesterday that there were some things you should know about him," Peter continued, leaning closer, as if he didn't want anyone to hear, even though there was no one near—only a few people across the street, strolling in the cold autumn sunshine, and an old man who walked ahead of them with quick, shuffling steps, his booted feet rustling the few fallen leaves the wind had blown onto the walk. "I think you should hear them now."

The memory of the last hours faded in the rush of curiosity. There was such secrecy in his tone that for a moment she heard her mother's voice in her ear, chiding her to turn away from gossip, but Imogene pushed it aside. The truth was, she wanted to know more about Jonas Whitaker, now more than ever. She wanted to understand him, to understand why he'd

been able to make her see Clarisse with nothing more than words, to understand his mercurial brilliance.

She turned to Peter, unable to keep the urgency from her voice, the demand. "Yes, please. Tell me."

His hand tightened on her elbow. Peter hesitated as if trying to find the rights words. "Jonas Whitaker is a —a brilliant painter, one of the geniuses of our time. Some of his earlier works are such pure inspiration. I'm sure you've felt the same way."

Imogene looked down at the immense flagstones beneath her feet. Peter sounded so reverent she couldn't bring herself to admit that the only paintings she'd ever seen by Jonas Whitaker were the ones on his studio walls.

"Though I have to say I was surprised to see you in his class," Peter went on. "Most women—well, they don't care for him much. I've seen works of his that even make me blush. He is a bit controversial ..."

The word grated on her nerves. Yes, Jonas Whitaker was controversial, but she'd heard that word associated with him too many times. For her father, for Thomas, it had become a justification somehow, something that didn't quite explain him, that excused rather than questioned. "I've heard that too," she said.

"He's controversial for more than just his paintings, I'm afraid," Peter said. "There are rumors that he was thrown out of
Barbizon
a few years ago. They say he offended one of the other artists there, someone important, though no one knows who. The talk is that it was Jean Millet, that Whitaker was too friendly with his—uh—" Peter threw her a sideways glance—"his wife. They say Millet—or whoever it was—asked a friend to get rid of Whitaker. The two of them got into a fight. That's how Whitaker lost his hand."

Imogene frowned. The story sounded too easy, somehow, a little too pat, but she couldn't say why, didn't know why it suddenly made her think of the way Whitaker had cradled his hand yesterday, that strangely gentle touch.

"Do you believe that?" she asked.

Peter looked at her as if he'd forgotten she was there. "I don't know. I guess I do." His expression hardened. "Yes, I'm sure I do. He is . . . You haven't been around him long, you haven't seen the things we've seen. He's never the same. He's—" He took a deep breath. "I've been studying under Jonas Whitaker for a year now, and I don't know him at all. He's the . . . moodiest man I've ever known." His tone was perplexed, as if the words weren't quite right but he didn't know why.

"It's true he's always angry," Imogene offered.

Peter laughed shortly. "Today he was," he said. "And yesterday, and maybe he'll still be angry tomorrow. But not forever, I guarantee you." He looked down at her with an expression so intense it sent a shiver creeping up her spine. "I should tell you about last spring, I think. It's not an easy story to hear."