The Portrait (20 page)

"No," he repeated softly, and then, "Yes," and then he took a step closer and threaded his hand through her hair, keeping her in place as he bent to brush his lips over hers—a simple touch, an erotic tease. But this time he didn't pull away. This time he pressed closer, slanting his lips across hers, and she opened her mouth for him, tasted him, humid and sweet, brandy and smoke. It was intoxicating, captivating, and when he kissed her more deeply, when she felt the thrusting of his tongue, the imitation of intimacy, she melted against him, heard a moan coming from somewhere— from her.

"Genie." He breathed the word into her mouth, pulled back before she could stop him, leaving her limp and wanting, too dazed to move, too aroused to do more than stare at him as he traced the line of her jaw, her throat. His exploration stopped at the edge of her collar, his fingers touched the cut-out lace, slipped over the onyx buttons of her bodice. She felt the warmth of him through the fabric of her gown, even through her corset.

"Green," he mused, glancing at her dress. "Pale green."

"R-reseda green," she managed.

A small smile curved his mouth, amusement danced in his eyes. "Reseda green," he repeated. And then, in a voice that sent shivers up her spine, he said, "I don't like you in reseda green, Genie. And I don't like you in pink or lavender or watered blue. In fact, I think I'd prefer you in nothing at all."

He reached for a button. She was caught in his eyes as he undid it, a practiced movement, an easy conquest. She didn't move as he unfastened another and another, and she felt her dress loosening as her breath grew tighter and tighter. Then it was open to her waist, and she watched as he eased the material down, over her shoulders, down her arms. She felt the hardness of his gloved hand. The leather was cool, quickly heated by her skin, soft and rigid, an erotic contrast. His good hand traced her—her collarbone, the hollow of her throat, the lace edging of her chemise—and she followed his movement with her gaze, her breath coming shallow and fast as she saw the paint he left behind, mapping the trail of his touch. Blue and red and yellow, marking her skin. She had the sudden, seductive thought that he was painting her, that he was bringing her alive with color and caresses, making her real where before she had been just illusion.

And when his hand slipped beneath the fabric of the chemise, when she felt his fingers on her breast, she knew he was bringing her alive. When he lifted her from the confines of her corset, bending to touch his mouth to her skin, to kiss the swelling of her breast, Imogene pressed into him, closing her eyes and throwing back her head, gasping as his mouth closed over her nipple, suckling her, arousing her until she could only stand there helplessly, bracing her hands on his shoulders, arching back to press harder into his mouth, feeling the erotic pull and nip of his tongue, his teeth.

"You're as beautiful as I imagined you, Genie," he whispered against her, looking up at her with those incredible eyes, and though she knew the words were a lie, Imogene felt a strange heat work its way through her, from her stomach to her heart, into her face. Embarrassed, she glanced away, but he drew back, grabbing her chin and forcing her to look at him again, and the drowsy, intimate way he looked at her made her feel swollen and tight and beautiful.

His hand dropped from her chin; she felt it suddenly at her thigh, and then he knelt in front of her. She felt his hands beneath her skirts, on her legs, felt the gown and her petticoats moving up and up and up as he rose with them. Slowly, slowly he pressed into her, backing her up, step by step, until she felt the hard edge of a stool at her buttocks. And then he was lifting her, seating her on the stool, and she grabbed its edge, trying to hold her balance as he moved between her legs.

His hand was tight on her hip, his body hard against hers. "Kiss me, Genie," he murmured, the intense green fire of his eyes burning through to her heart, beckoning her. "Kiss me."

She couldn't deny him, didn't want to. In the end she had no choice but to lean into him, no choice but to kiss him the way he'd asked her to, to touch her tongue to his and tease him the way he teased her.

His fingers gripped her hip, he moaned deep in his throat, and she was lost. She let go of the stool, wrapping her arms around his neck, trusting him to keep her from falling, pulling him closer. His hair was heavy against her fingers, heavy and soft and sinful. The feel of him, the taste of him, pulled at something deep inside her.

It was the magic she'd yearned for, the burning touch of the shooting star. She was alive with it, inflamed with it, and she wanted it to go on forever, to never end.

It seemed as if it never would as he kissed her throat, the tender spot behind her ear, moved lower still until she felt his kiss at her breasts, laving and teasing. She pressed into him, felt the smooth touch of her hair against her back, felt it tangling over her shoulders, and it was erotic too, as erotic as the warmth of his hands through the thin cotton of her drawers, all heat and temptation. She felt his thigh between her legs, against her very center, a burning touch, and involuntarily she raised her hips, wanting him harder against her, wanting . . . something. Wanting—oh, Lord, wanting.

"Slowly, darling," he whispered against her; she felt the words rather than heard them—heated, moist breath against her nipple. "Slowly, slowly." Then he was moving away from her again. The cold air caressed her breasts, danced across the moist kisses he'd left on her skin.

She moaned in protest, and he quieted her with a touch, quieted her by moving his hand from her hip to her inner thigh. Imogene held her breath, gasping when his hand eased through the slit in her drawers, when she felt his fingers tangle in the curls there, when she felt the heat of his caress. She couldn't help herself; she arched into his hand, her fingers digging into the hard wood of the stool.

"Please," she heard herself begging. "Please. . . ."

Before she knew what he was doing, before she could even begin to imagine it, he was kneeling before her, and his mouth was where his hand had been, kissing her, tasting her. She jerked against him, trembling, embarrassed, but he didn't stop. His kisses deepened; suddenly her embarrassment fled in the rich flood of sensation. Suddenly she didn't want him to stop, wanted nothing but this feeling, this building pressure, this ache that spread through her as his tongue played over her, tormenting and hot, wet kisses that left her trembling and straining.

She shook against him, yearned to grab on to him. She could not control herself, and the pressure was spiraling, spiraling . . . She heard herself moan, felt herself waver, and then he stroked her deeply with his tongue, and she cried out, nearly falling off the stool with the force of the climax that ripped through her.

But he was there, his arms around her, holding her steady. She heard him whisper something though she didn't hear the words, and suddenly he was inside her too, a swift, deep thrust that eased the throbbing of her body and intensified it at the same time, a fierce, sure possession that had her arching against him. He caught her moans with his mouth, lifted her slightly, eased her forward, and then he was moving against her, long, slow thrusts, exquisite torture—a torture she craved, a torture she wanted. She looked into his eyes and saw him watching her, felt scorched and sensuous and beautiful—Lord, yes, beautiful, as she'd never been before. Not ever.

She clutched his arms and pulled him closer, wanting to drown in him, wanting to be a part of him, wanting to
be
him. Imogene wrapped her legs around his hips and rocked with him, wanting him all over her, aroused by the feel of satin against her thighs, the rub of corset and the lace of chemise, aroused by his taste and scent and feel.

"Slower," she said, gasping, wanting the pleasure never to end. "Slower."

He smiled then and kissed her, slowing until she felt that building pressure again, circling his hips against hers until she was mindless with need and yearning, until she was twisting against him and calling his name.

Then it collapsed around her, and Imogene heard herself groan—in repletion or denial, she didn't know, didn't want to know. She shattered in his hands, arching into him, jerking against him. Then he was thrusting hard inside her, and she heard the hoarseness of his voice, felt him stiffen. She felt the harsh expulsion of his breath against her throat, and he was collapsing in her arms. She felt him throbbing inside her, the soft echo of his rhythm, and he was finally still.

Imogene swallowed, holding tightly to him, wrapping her arms and legs around him, keeping him still against her. It was over.

She closed her eyes and waited for that inevitable moment, that same moment that Nicholas had taught her to expect, the afterglow that faded in recrimination and blame, in shame too great for tears.

The moment she became plain Imogene Carter again.

Chapter 17

H
e was aware of nothing so much as her stillness. She was wrapped around him, her arms

tight across his back, her knees locked about his hips. He heard her soft, shallow breaths, a little rushed, a little panicked—as if she were afraid her breathing would rouse him, as if she were afraid it would break the spell.

Jonas stirred himself, pulling away from her, hearing her little sound of protest as her arms fell away to allow him to move. She was still warm and wet around him, and he eased himself from her body, fastening his trousers before he looked at her.

She was beautiful—as beautiful as he'd known she would be. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair was loose and falling over her shoulders, partially shielding the breasts he'd freed from the confines of her corset. The pale green dress pooled at her waist, her hips, and the modest white cotton of her drawers shielded the rest of her from his gaze. Still inviolate, even though he'd been inside her only moments before, even though her moans still echoed in his ears. She had folded her wings now, but he knew what they looked like spread, knew the colors that lurked there, the same colors he'd smeared on her skin—ultramarine and vermillion. Naples yellow.

It took him a moment to realize she was watching him with wary eyes. Wariness. How silly it was, as if what had transpired between them were ordinary at all, as if it were anything like it had been with Clarisse or any of the others. Those times had always been quick and hasty, leaving him restless and unsatisfied. Never had he left feeling so rejuvenated, so alive. He felt as if he could make love to Genie all day, but there weren't enough hours.

He grinned at her, saw the slight ease in the lines creasing her brow—lines that disappeared completely when he leaned over and kissed her lightly, lingeringly, on the lips.

"How lovely you are," he whispered against her mouth.

She flushed and turned away, straightening her corset and chemise, pulling up her bodice. But he saw the slight smile caressing her lips, the pleased curve of her mouth, as she slipped into the sleeves and buttoned the dress.

Buttoning away her secrets.
The thought made him regretful, but only for an instant. He reached over, brushing hair from her face. When she looked up in surprise, he said, "Are you ready?"

She smiled uncertainly. "Ready for what?"

"Come with me, Genie," he said, grabbing her hand, pulling her off the stool. Her skirt fell in folds back down to her feet, the cocoon again, soft propriety. She stumbled a little against him.

"Where are we going?"

"To a place I know," he said, taking her with him across the studio, to the door.

He felt her hesitate. "But my hair—"

"I like it down," he said, turning to her. He pulled her into his arms, gave her a hard, intemperate kiss. "You look like a princess—what was her name? Rapunzel. 'Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.

She laughed, and he released her, opening the door and then grabbing her hand again. He strode quickly down the hall, the stairs, so quickly he barely saw the two or three other artists haunting the lower gallery. In moments, he had her outside. The cold air felt good against his thin shirt, the late-autumn breeze fluttered his hair.

"Christ, I love this," he said, flinging out his arms to embrace the chill, turning to her with a grin. "Don't you love it, Genie?"

She was hugging herself, her honey-colored hair blowing back from her face, and she gave him a stiff little smile. "Aren't you cold?" she asked.

"Cold?" He laughed. "No, not cold. Invigorated. In love with the world." He swung back, wrapping his arm around her waist, pulling her close. He whispered against her ear, "Half in love with you, I think."

He saw her startled glance and released her, striding to the curb. He hailed a carriage, waited impatiently for Genie to get in and settle her skirts around her "Delmonico's," he told the driver.

Beside him, Genie gasped. "Delmonico's?" she asked. "You can't be serious."

"Why can't I?" he said, feeling a touch of irritation at her question.

"But I couldn't. . . ."

"You couldn't?" His annoyance fled in quick amusement. "How can you not, Genie, when the world lies before us?"

She looked at him uncertainly, and then she laughed slightly and glanced out the window. "The world," she said softly, and he heard wistfulness in her tone.

"It opens up to you if you let it," he said. He leaned close, nuzzling her hair, and immediately caught her elusive perfume again, that soft almond fragrance. Only this time it was more beguiling, because along with almond he caught her scent—that warm muskiness that spoke of darkened rooms and skin on skin. With a groan he leaned over and tangled his hand in her hair, wishing his other hand weren't so useless, wishing he could catch her up and hold her completely still. She made a sound of protest—a little half murmur—and he captured her mouth and swallowed the sound, tasting her, running his tongue over her lips, exploring her mouth, feeling the hot flush of desire as she responded and pressed into him.

The sway of the carriage rocked him against her; he imagined it was the rhythm of lovemaking, the soft thrust of bodies meeting, the gentle slap of skin and wetness. He grabbed her skirt, easing it up over her legs, her knees, pooling the fabric along with her petticoats until he could run his hand up her inner thigh. Christ, how erotic: cotton and lace and heat. He searched for the slit in her drawers, found it, ran his fingers through the curls there, and then caressed her, stroked her. He felt her wet dewiness on his fingers, felt the involuntary jerk of her hips against his hand, heard her small moan.

The squeak of the wheels, the clop of the horses, the swaying gait—ah, it was heaven, as close to ecstasy as he'd ever found. She was open to him, her head thrown back, her eyes half closed. His innocent virgin, his butterfly, was so easy to arouse. There was such beauty in it, such radiance in the flushed pink of her cheeks, the melting in her eyes.

"Come alive for me, Genie," he murmured, stroking her, circling her, watching her. "Come alive, darling
       
"

She did. She grabbed his arms, twisting into his hand. He heard her gasp of surprise, the half-spoken words, the groan that could have been his name. Then she was throbbing against him, breathing heavily, lax and limp and sated. He wanted to take her then, would have taken her if the carriage hadn't jerked to a stop.

He saw she was too dazed to realize they'd arrived. Quickly Jonas backed away, pulling down her skirts, smoothing her hair. By the time the driver opened the door, she only seemed a bit distracted. Charmingly distracted. Jonas wondered if he could talk the waiter at Delmonico's into one of the private rooms on the third floor, someplace where he could take her, make love to her. ...

"Are you sure we should be going here?"

Her voice broke his train of thought. Jonas turned to look at her. She was shoving at her hair, working hard to retain some semblance of dignity. For the first time he noticed the paint streaking her hair and the bright red smear of vermillion at her jaw, the last vestige of the color he'd streaked her breasts with, a hint of her secrets.

"Leave it," he whispered, leaning close. "You look beautiful."

She looked down at the ground, he saw the beginning of her protest. He swung his arm around her waist before she could speak, bringing her up firmly against him. She glanced up, a small, surprised smile on her lips—Christ, what wonderful lips. He kissed her quickly, hurried her up the stairs until they were at the door of the posh restaurant.

He'd eaten at Delmonico's before, though not often. It was a place for businessmen and visitors, too expensive for him most of the time, too staid the rest. But now he wanted badly to be here; he wanted to show her off to the world, to flaunt her in the face of respectability, to show them all how boring it was. She had been a part of that upper-class respectability, and he'd changed her. Already he'd changed her. She was his creation now, vibrant and alive, a laughing, beautiful testament to his talent.

The doorman stood aside to let them pass, and when Jonas saw the man's gaze rake over Genie and himself, saw the lift of eyebrow, he felt a rush of exhilaration. Already people were seeing his brilliance. Christ, even a doorman realized how stunning she was, how perfect. He felt her slight tug at his hand, and he gripped her closer, afraid to let her go for even a moment, afraid someone might steal her away. There were a thousand villains in this city, a thousand opportunities for one to claim her for himself—Jonas saw larceny in every interested gaze that turned to them, saw envy in every eye.

He hurried to the maitre d'.

"A table for two in the cafe," he said.

The man frowned. He stared at Genie, a slow, burning gaze. The sight of it took away Jonas's fear, elation spread through him again. The man saw his artistry, recognized true genius. Even as Jonas realized it, he felt her shrink into his side, and he wondered why. Couldn't she see the admiration in the waiter's eyes? Didn't she know how perfect she was?

Jonas grinned. "I see you understand a work of art when you see it," he said, winking broadly.

The maitre d' hesitated. "Mr. Whitaker," he said. "We are certainly grateful for your patronage, but may I suggest the dining room instead?"

Jonas felt a stab of surprise at the man's recognition, a surprise that faded in sudden self-assurance. Of course the man knew him. Everyone knew him. He was Jonas Whitaker, famous artist. No doubt the moment they saw Genie they knew who he was. After all, she was his greatest work of art.

 
". . . after all, we do have certain standards—"

He heard Genie's rush of breath, saw her flush. "Of course you do," Jonas agreed. "And I appreciate your willingness to keep those idiots at bay. But the cafe will be fine. Just do me a favor, won't you, and don't let the art fanatics hound us while we eat—or the critics. I'll wait to see their opinions in the newspapers."

The maitre d' frowned again. "But, sir—"

"Any table will do." Jonas searched the restaurant. The first-floor cafe was filled with the usual lunch crowd of businessmen, but there was an empty table in the middle of the room. He raised his false hand in its direction. "That one, perhaps."

He felt Genie's tension; she was so stiff he thought she might break. No doubt it was all the attention. She wasn't used to it, not the way he was. He turned to her and smiled. "Relax, darling," he said. "I'm sure we'll be well taken care of here."

She threw a halting glance at the maitre d'. "I'm not sure—"

"I am," Jonas said. He smiled at the man standing so sternly in front of them. "Please, my good sir. The table?"

The maitre d' hesitated, and then he nodded briskly at a hovering white-shirted waiter. Within minutes they were seated at the table Jonas had wanted, where everyone could see them without crowding around. He grinned at the few heads turned their way and ordered an expensive bottle of bordeaux. It was time to celebrate.

He leaned over the table to whisper to her. "Look at the way they stare. They can't believe what they're seeing."

She licked her lips nervously, cast a quick glance around the room. "Perhaps we should go."

"Go?" He laughed. "I don't think so. They'd mob us if we tried." He reached over and grabbed her hand, folding her fingers in his and squeezing. "I can see I've a few things to teach you about moving in art circles, Genie."

She looked supremely uncomfortable. "Yes, I suppose you do," she said.

He released her hand, following her gaze to a man who sat a few tables away. Some scion of a prominent family, no doubt, Jonas thought. The man looked a bit like Henry Wolford—his son, probably. Certainly he was as foppish as his father, and as easily impressed. The younger Wolford was ogling Genie and whispering something to the other man at his table.

Jonas smiled. "I didn't think Wolford's whelp had such taste," he said. "No doubt he'll be pounding on my door tomorrow, demanding a portrait."

She gave him a strange look, one he couldn't interpret. "Will you paint him?"

"If he interests me." Jonas shrugged.

"You can afford to be so selective?"

"Ah, Genie." He sighed. "I can't afford not to be. Portraits are not art. Portraits are merely ways to waste time."

She frowned. "But certainly there are techniques to study. My father used to say—"

"Let me explain something about portraits, darling," Jonas said. "Painting a portrait is like ordering Nathaniel Hawthorne to write a novel about the next person who comes into his office—whether that person interests him or not. There is no art involved, no vision. Techniques can be learned in much more challenging ways."

"But Chloe always said there was so much to see in a person's face."

"Chloe?" Jonas looked up as the steward brought the wine. He motioned for the man to pour. "Who the hell is Chloe?"