The Portrait (17 page)

He leaned his head against the brick and stared up at the sky, at the thousands, millions, of stars, and before his eyes they began rushing at each other, falling stars, streaks of light that reminded him of the gaslights passing by the carriage windows, and suddenly he had the thought that they were the street lamps, that all the lights of New York were gliding through the night, bent on collision.

"Genie," he said. "Tell me what you know of the world."

"What I know?" She laughed lightly, self-deprecatingly. "I'm afraid I know precious little."

"Oh? And how is that?"

"I—" She looked down, plucked at the fabric of her gown. "I have not gone many places."

Her voice was soft, so soft he had to strain to hear it. Jonas looked back at the stars. "There is traveling and there is traveling," he said. "Shall I tell you something about the world? The truth of it? One man travels to a hundred places. He knows the scenery in Africa and the canals of Venice, he knows the Pantheon and the pyramids of Egypt. And in each place, he sets up his tent and drinks his tea and orders his servant to press his clothes. Another man lives in Nashville. He stands back and watches the crowd, and he knows what each man's voice sounds like and how to read a face and the smell of every woman's perfume. Tell me, darling, which of them knows more of the world?"

"But the one knows only Nashville," she protested, and Jonas heard the confusion in her voice, and something else, an exclamation of alarm, or . . . surprise, or perhaps it was only his imagination.

"Broaden your mind," he said. "See the whole of it, the complexity. Knowing the world is understanding what you see. Apply that to your art and you have all of life before you—all of God." He stared up at the stars, the street lamps of New York. "A world of gaslights," he murmured.

"Gaslights? I'm . . . sorry. I'm not . . . as worldly ... as your friends. I'm afraid I don't understand."

He heard the confusion in her voice, the painful reluctance in her admission, and it cut through his vision, erased the beauty of the stars. She thought she was something less than those fools she called his friends, those vipers at the salon, and the realization stole his breath, made his heart hurt, made him want to tell her how wrong she was, how shallow and insipid they truly were. It made him want to show her . . .

Ah, yes,
show
her.

Quickly he reached behind him, grabbing the frock coat he'd abandoned moments ago, digging through the inside pocket until he found the small sketch pad he always carried, and the charcoal pencil. When he had them in his hands, he turned back to her, smiling at the confusion in her expression.

"Let me tell you what I think of my 'friends,' " he said, opening the sketch pad to a blank page. He grinned at her. "Let's start with Anne, shall we?"

She gave him a puzzled, uncertain smile. "I don't understand—"

"Ah, but I suspect you understand very well, Genie," he teased. "For example, tell me about Anne."

"I barely know her."

"You don't need to know her to see her," he said. He poised the pencil over the paper. "Describe her to me."

"But—"

"Describe her."

"Well . . ." She paused, staring thoughtfully off into the night before she turned back to him. "I don't know." She shrugged. "She was very beautiful."

He leaned forward with a laugh, brushing her cheek with the end of the pencil. "Such easy words, Genie. Words that mean nothing. Let me show you what I mean."

It was an easy talent, one he had possessed since he was very young, one he rarely used now. He drew quickly, a few lines only, but when he was finished, Anne Webster was before him on the paper, her round cheeks a bit too round, her doe eyes very wide and unblinking, her short nose a mere wisp of line. With a flourish, he handed the pad to Genie, who took one look and laughed out loud.

"A caricature," she said, and he heard the breathless surprise in her voice, the delight. "Oh, how ridiculous you make her look."

"She is ridiculous," he said, feeling a rush of pleasure at Genie's laughter. "They all are." He grabbed the pad from her fingers and drew another—Davis Tremaine this time.

She grinned when she saw it. "You've been too kind," she said, pointing to the wisp of beard, the huge bug eyes behind absurdly tiny glasses. "He's much more pompous than you've shown him, don't you think?" She gave him an arch look and lowered her voice in an attempt at mimicry. " . . ‘Yes, of course, Miss Carter. It's the perfect sculpture for those too lazy to interpret truly great art.' "

She did it so perfectly he laughed out loud, and the pure pleasure of it coursed through him, intensified when she laughed along. Her eyes lit in the darkness, he heard the ring of her laughter—soft at first, then more confident, huskier, happier—and suddenly he saw her with a clarity of vision that stunned him. He looked at her and he saw again the woman who had posed for his class. The self-confident beauty who had held her chin high and lowered her dress.

And in that moment he realized how wrong he was about her. He had thought she was his goddess, his courtesan, but she was much more than that—good God, so much more. There was something else in her too. Something he'd never allowed himself to see before, something that made his soul cry out in yearning. Honesty. Strength. Safety.

Safety . . .

It frightened him, how pure the thought was, how reassuring. Safety. Christ, when was the last time he'd thought that about anyone? Had there ever been a time?

His laughter died abruptly, he found himself trembling. And then slowly, slowly, she stopped laughing too, and he saw the sudden bewilderment in her face when she turned to look at him.

"Jonas?" she asked. Then she gave him that uncertain smile again, that crooked, beguiling hesitation. It was not as beautiful as her laughter, but he was mesmerized by it all the same. By that, and by the soft touch of her fingers on his hand, the uncertain caress.

"Draw me another one," she urged. "Show me who they are to you."

It was all he could do to speak. "Is it truth you want, then?" he asked.

"Yes." She smiled, and he heard the relief in her voice. "Yes."

But he was no longer sure of the truth. He had lost something—or gained it, he wasn't sure which. He was confused when he looked at her, confused by the things he saw in her, by a reality that jibed strangely with his fantasy. Who was she? Who was she really?

He put aside the pad and leaned forward, wanting reassurance, wanting badly to look at her and see only the woman of his fantasy. She was staring at him, her forehead creased with concentration, and he saw she was trying to comprehend him; he imagined the wheels turning in her brain, the ceaseless search for answers. She was curious and alive and open. There was no dissembling here, he realized. Nothing but the cocoon cracking open little by little, showing the first bit of brilliant color. A color different from the one he'd expected. A color that tempted and cajoled him, that had him bending toward her.

She was a marble statue coming to life beneath his artist's hand, Galatea to his Pygmalion, and he wanted to touch her, to make love to her here on the hard roof, with only the light of the stars and moon shining down on them. He wanted to hear her moan, wanted to see the sensual knowledge come into her innocent eyes, the self-awareness, the celebration of intimacy.

But mostly he wanted the safety of being with her. The salvation he dimly sensed. He wanted her strength, because he had none of his own ....

"You want truth," he whispered, touching her hair, letting the heavy strands fall over his fingers. He felt her stiffen and then relax when he drew away again— an infinitesimal relaxation, a subtle pause—and then he touched her again. He touched her mouth, felt the soft, warm swell of her lips, the moistness of her breath.

"Let me show you what I know of it," he murmured. "Your mouth can be considered a hundred ways. Rico would look at it and he would see the light and shade; Byron Sawyer would see the color; yet another artist might see the line. A hundred truths, and not one is wrong. There are no original ideas, darling, only original visions. Each of us would draw your lips a different way, yet none of us could capture the complete essence of them." He paused, hearing her hushed, rapid inhalations, seeing the frosty steam of tier breath in the cold night air. "There is only one way to find real truth."

"How is that?" Her voice was hushed. It sent a shiver through him.

He smiled, cupping her jaw in his hand, leaning forward. "Taste it for yourself," he said. And then he kissed her.

Christ, she was soft, so soft and so warm, and just the mere touch of her lips aroused him, the quiet eroticism of her hesitation. He expected her to pull away, so he tried to hold her closer, felt a surge of frustration at the lack of strength of his false hand, the uselessness af it. But in the same moment he realized she was not drawing back, was not protesting with maidenly affectations and trembling hands the way he'd anticipated.

But she was not kissing him back either. She was stiff and awkward against him, and he drew away and looked into her eyes and saw her uncertainty and her longing.
Longing.
It nearly undid him. He saw her in colors suddenly, bright blues and pinks that suffused her skin, that played with luminescence in the moonlight, fell into her hair in rainbow prisms. Ah God, his butterfly . . .

"This way," he whispered, and he bent and took her mouth again, tracing her lips with his tongue, hearing the hush of her breath with his body, the soft sound in her throat. He released her chin and grabbed her hand, bringing it up to his shoulder, feeling a numbing relief when he felt her fingers touch his hair tentatively. It inflamed him, that simple touch, and he pressed her mouth open, pressed deeper, wanting the heat of her, the taste—wine and sleep and sweet, humid warmth. She was nothing like he'd imagined, everything like he'd imagined. As rich and heady as he'd wanted, more giving than he had expected, and he unfastened one of the frogs of her mantle, eased his hand between the heavy wool folds, warm from the heat from her body, felt the hard wrap of her corset beneath the satin of her dress, the armor that kept him from touching her ribs, from cupping her breast. Ah, God, how frustrating, that cocoon of safety, as frustrating as the courtesan, as incomplete.

And he wanted completion, wanted to hold her soul in his hand, to press into her body and feel her convulse around him, to know he'd possessed her as no one else had. The truth of her, the essence, would be his tonight, the way her thoughts already were.

He broke the kiss, pulled back. She opened her eyes slowly, as if drugged, and then she blinked and looked away, laughing slightly, a nervous, shaky sound. She touched her hand to her swollen lips.

"I suppose ... I suppose you think—"

"Come with me." Jonas barely heard her words. He lunged to his feet, pulling her with him. He felt the vibration in his body. It was burning him up, using him, and he wanted to slake it in her now, wanted to feel the strength of her soul caress his, to take her breath and wrap himself in that hair of hers. Christ, he couldn't wait.

He heard her footsteps behind him, heard the harsh rasp of her breath, but he didn't slow, kept his grip firmly on her hand. He strode to the door, down the stairs. She stumbled once against him, and the press of her body nearly had him turning around to grab her, to take her right there on the steps, but he waited until they reached the bottom of the narrow stairwell, waited until they were safely in his bedroom, and then he backed her against the wall and held her prisoner with his body.

"Tell me you want me, Genie," he said. He wanted her to say the words, ached for her to say the words. He looked down into her eyes, eyes that seemed suddenly infinitely deep, infinitely dark. Eyes that held the secrets of the world. Eyes that held salvation.
"I want to know what it's like to be you,"
she'd said once, and he thought that this would do it, that he could show her now what it felt like, the elation of climax, the uneasy peace of repletion.

She hesitated. One second, and then two, and he thought he would go crazy then, thought he would tear off her clothes and take her without consent, without caring. But he couldn't do it. He wanted the words. He needed the words.

He heard the ache in his voice. "Please. Tell me."

Her breathing was deep and labored. She swallowed and looked away, and he saw the uncomfortable tightening of her jaw, the indecision. Then she looked back at him again, and he saw the yes in her eyes, the answer he wanted. The answer he suddenly felt he could not live without.

She opened her mouth to speak. "I—"

"So there you are,
mon ami
."

It was Childs's voice. Light and teasing, taut with amusement. It was like ice water crashing over Jonas, and with a sound of frustration he released her and whipped around to face his friend, who was leaning against the door jamb, a steaming bowl in his hand. "Christ, Rico—"

"The hair down is a stunning look for you,
chérie
," Childs said, ignoring him, stepping fully into the room. He held out the bowl to Genie and smiled. "Care for some dinner?"

Chapter 14

I
mogene watched him as he paced, his long hair flying out behind him, his movements restless, violent. His words cascaded like a waterfall, sounds bubbling and twisting as if he couldn't get the ideas out quickly enough, and though he paused now and again, laying his hand flat on the table, leaning forward to nod at her or Childs for emphasis, the moment was always gone so soon Imogene was left wondering if he'd truly stopped at all, or if she'd simply imagined it.

She did not understand him. Imogene looked down into her half-eaten
boeuf bourguignon
, suddenly losing her appetite. Her stomach twisted, the smell of wine and beef nauseated her.

She did not understand herself.

She thought of where she'd been less than an hour ago, pressed against Jonas Whitaker's body, her hands in his hair, his taste on her tongue. She thought of how she'd almost given herself to him, how she'd wanted to give herself to him, wanted that passion, that intensity, touching her everywhere. Like a mesmerist, he had cast a spell over her, and she had been ready to say the words he wanted, had been ready to say
"I want you,"
knowing that there would be no turning back if she did, no escape, no reprieve.

But the interlude ended before it began, and she wasn't sure how she felt about that, couldn't help thinking of where she would be if Childs had not interrupted them, if he had not done as he promised and protected her from herself. The images pressed into her mind, tantalizing, erotic. Lying in Whitaker's arms. Touching him. Holding him. Kissing him.

And then what?

Then what?

The question burrowed into her, an uncomfortable reminder. Suddenly the memories came flooding back, images from a time she tried not to think about, a time too painful to remember. She saw the morning sun streaming through a window, the breeze blowing fine muslin curtains as the man beside her pulled away and swung out of bed. She saw him wince when he looked at her, the regret deadening his fine blue eyes. She heard his voice, heavy with self-recrimination, angry with a loathing she still wasn't sure hadn't been directed at her.
"Imogene, I'm sorry. God, you'll never know how sorry. ..."

She clenched her jaw, pushing the memories away. She glanced at Whitaker, at his rough pacing, his scattered talk, and felt the same longing she'd once felt for Nicholas, the same hope that intimacy would somehow give her a piece of him, an understanding she could not find on her own. That it could change plain Imogene Carter into someone brilliant and talented. Someone like Chloe.

Yes, it was just the same, and just like with Nicholas, Imogene knew how it would end. Jonas Whitaker was so intense, so brilliant, a man with a genius that far surpassed anything she had ever seen. A man like that didn't need someone like her. A man like that would take his pleasure because he could, would use her until he tired of her.

And then he would leave her behind.

The thought pierced her heart, a sharp, desperate pain. She remembered how it had been when Nicholas left her, remembered the ache that stayed with her for months afterward, for years. Even then she'd known it couldn't last, had known he would never stay with her, that she could not hold him. She'd told herself it wouldn't matter.

But it had mattered. And it had hurt much more than she wanted it to. Lord, it was still hurting.

She wondered sometimes if it would hurt forever.

You could not survive it again
. The voice slid into her mind, a mocking reminder, a relentless murmur.
You would not survive it
.

No, she would not, she knew. She should leave now. Should run far away from him and never look back. Because she was so close to destruction—she knew too well the feel of it, the smell. It was there, waiting for her, tempting her—

". . . isn't he, Genie?"

She jerked, her thoughts splintering at the sound of Whitaker's words. He was regarding her impatiently, but he turned to Childs before she had a chance to say anything, and kept speaking as if he'd never posed a question at all.

"You soothe yourself with mindless platitudes," he said, gesturing at Childs. "I've heard you, Rico, and I tell you it's nothing but prattle. You say: 'God in His wisdom has a purpose,
I
have a purpose, all this is meant to be. . . God has no reasons. He sits on His throne and plays chess with all of us—a checkmate here, a nothing little pawn there. And why is that? I'll tell you why. Because He has no equal, that's why. No friends, no lovers. How jealous He must be of man, who actually has someone to talk to, someone who understands. No wonder man irritates Him. No wonder He torments us." He flashed a warm, meaningful smile at Imogene that made her blush. "God cannot make love. He cannot have companionship."

"I've heard this before,
mon ami
." Childs grinned and tossed back the final sip in his wineglass, barely pausing before he poured some more. "So how does that theory explain the great works of mankind? Why would an envious God let art survive, for example? Or doesn't God have the capacity to appreciate Da Vinci?"

"Da Vinci is God."

"Really, Jonas, you go too far—"

"No, Rico, think. God created us; doesn't it make sense that there is some of Him in everyone? A bit of divinity, a way to fight the devil—"

"There is the argument that if there's a God there can't be a Satan."

"Of course there can be a Satan. Temptation is the devil, if nothing else. What do you call the urge to torment Anne Webster the way you do?"

Childs smiled and lifted a brow. He glanced at Imogene and winked. "Ah, so I'm Anne's personal devil? How appealing."

Imogene laughed.

Whitaker whirled to face her. "Like Genie there," he said, pointing to her. "Divinity shines from her. She's a butterfly with a goddess's face come to earth. . . ." He paused, frowning. "Perhaps that's the secret then. Yes. Yes, it must be. . . . Of course, Aphrodite was as much a whore as a goddess . . . like God."

Childs frowned. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Jonas laughed. He put his hand on the table, leaned forward. "Creation, Rico—don't you see? Creation comes from evil, from temptation. From that green darkness."

Imogene tried to make sense of his words. Green darkness? He was looking at them as if they ought to know what he was talking about, and she tried to understand him, stared at him as if she could divine the meaning from his expression.

She licked her lips. "Of course," she said, searching for something, anything, to say, wanting badly to be a part of the conversation even though she could barely follow it. Something to soothe him. "Of course it must come from evil."

She felt an overwhelming relief when his eyes lightened. He smiled at her, a quizzical, puzzling smile that sent a shiver running deep inside her, made her heart race. "Ah, I see your colors, Genie," he said softly.

"I see your colors."
It sounded like a compliment, but she wasn't sure, had no idea what he meant by the words. But then again, the words didn't matter. He was looking at her as if she belonged here, in this room, this conversation. As if her comments were important, as if she were someone extraordinary.

The warnings came trembling back, the small voice in her mind:
You would not survive it
, and she realized suddenly that she didn't care. Because on the roof he had looked at her and she had seen herself reflected in his eyes, and she had looked beautiful there. Because right now he made her feel like she belonged. He made her understand things she had always wanted to understand. There was so much she could learn from him, so much, and though she knew he would hurt her, knew she could not satisfy him forever, that pain would be a small price to pay for feeling his passion, for learning whatever tiny bit of knowledge he cared to teach her. Whatever sacrifice he demanded, she would make it. Lord, she would make it a hundred times if he asked her.

The decision took the weight from her shoulders. She smiled at him, feeling warm and beloved in the heat of his answering grin. He turned to Rico.

"Do you see it?" he asked. "Look at her face and tell me you see it."

Childs took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. Slowly he looked at her. "See what, Jonas?"

"Aphrodite."

Childs chuckled. His eyes were warm. "What I see is a very tired Miss Imogene. Perhaps we should send you home, eh,
chérie
? Your godmama will be furious with us."

"
No
," she said, and she heard the thin edge of desperation in her voice. "No, please ... I'd like to stay awhile longer."

"But—"

"But I'd like to stay." She grabbed her glass of wine and took the last sip, pushing the empty glass toward him to fill.

"No, no, she must not go," Whitaker said, laughing a little. He said it again, singsongy this time, emphasizing the rhyme. "No, no, she must not go. No, no, she must not go."

Childs hesitated, and she saw his concern, a thoughtfulness that turned quickly to resignation. With a sigh he poured more wine into her glass. "There goes my commission," he said dryly. "Ah, well, I suppose the night's still young."

"Too young to give to sleep," Whitaker agreed. He lifted his glass from the table, downed the contents in a single gulp and poured some more. "We've hours yet to dance with the spirits, but then they must go away. No doubt they'll take Genie with them. So tell me, Rico, do you think Caravaggio's angels were simply manifestations of spirits? Religious visions? I've heard it said, but there's such evil in their faces, it grounds them too much in earthly things, in man. But perhaps it's only the models he used. Whores and thieves . . . You know Millet used to say there was divinity in the peasants. ..."

I
t was the light that woke her. It streamed into her consciousness, god-beams that caressed her eyelids, the faint light of dawn.

Imogene opened her eyes, blinking in the brightness, momentarily disoriented when she saw the uncurtained windows. For a split second she had no idea where she was, and then she saw the half-empty wineglass before her, and Rico Childs sprawled, sleeping, in a nearby chair, and the memories of last night came flooding back, along with an instantaneous panic. Good Lord, it was morning. Morning, and she was still here in the studio, still with Jonas Whitaker and Childs.

She was wide awake in an instant, struggling from the clumsy arms of the chair she'd fallen asleep in. The last thing she remembered was the taste of deep red wine and an argument Childs and Whitaker had been having over Rembrandt. She didn't remember falling asleep, didn't remember even thinking that she should go.

Imogene scrambled to her feet. Her stomach twisted with anxiety when she thought of how worried Thomas and Katherine would be, what they would think when she arrived back home now. Oh, Lord, what they would think. . . .

She took a deep breath, anxiously searching the room for Whitaker. Childs was snoring softly in a chair, but Whitaker was nowhere to be seen. There was no time to look for him. She had to get home.

Imogene grabbed her mantle and hurried as quietly as she could through the studio, out the door. She nearly ran down the hallway, down the stairs, a hundred excuses flew through her mind. She felt a growing sense of panic when she stepped outside and realized how late it was—a panic that turned to guilt the moment she saw the brougham waiting. Whitaker had ordered Childs to send it away, but Thomas's carriage was still here. Waiting for her.

She winced and hurried quickly to the door, opening it to find Henry curled in what looked like a supremely uncomfortable position on the seat. He woke the moment she opened the door, sat up with a groan, blinking at her.

"Oh, pardon, miss. I—I didn't mean to fall asleep."

She felt sick. "Don't be ridiculous, Henry," she said. "I'm so sorry. I thought they'd sent you home. I didn't know you'd been here all night."

He rubbed his eyes. "I did go home," he said, frowning. "It was Mr. Thomas who sent me back this mornin'. Said I was to fetch you home an hour ago."

Imogene's heart seemed to stop. "I see," she said quietly, standing aside for the driver to climb out and then getting inside herself, sitting stiffly against the seat.

It seemed to take only minutes to reach Washington Square, and her godfather's house. The carriage jerked to a stop, and when Henry opened the door and helped her to the walk, Imogene's mouth was so dry she couldn't swallow. She struggled for calm as she went inside. In the quiet of the foyer she stopped and closed her eyes, inhaling deeply, searching for strength and explanation.

"Genie."

Thomas's voice came before she was ready. Imogene's eyes snapped open. She saw her godfather standing at the door to his study, his white hair rumpled as if he'd run his fingers through it many times, the circles beneath his eyes evident.