The Portrait (21 page)

She seemed to cringe before him. "My sister."

"Your sister—ah, yes, the artist. An optimist, no doubt. Probably she would have been one of those idiots at Barbizon, finding God in every peasant."

He was gratified by Genie's small smile. "She admired Millet."

"Millet. Of course, who did not? Even I did for a while—until I realized I didn't want to glorify dirty poverty and illiterate stupidity."

She took a sip of wine. "You didn't find the purity everyone talks about?"

"You mean 'the noble savage'?" Jonas laughed. "Hardly. Few men would choose to live like that, Genie. And there are other ways to portray the best of humanity, you know. Take Rico, for instance. There is divinity in every still life he paints, a glimpse of heaven or hell, a subtle violence in his arrangements. Isn't that as noble? In the end, an artist's job is to transform experience however he can, to transcend the material, to elicit emotion and religion. Otherwise we are nothing more than one of those photographers—copying nature so men have pretty pictures to hang on their walls."

She was staring at him, her eyes wide. "You are astounding," she whispered.

Christ, he wanted to devour her. That adulation in her gaze, the soft innocence of her face, the dawning awareness. He felt he could expound for hours, talk to her about everything: God and heaven, morality and martyrdom, spirituality and pure love. He wanted to keep that look on her face—ah, how precious it was— understanding without wariness, reverence without fear. She was looking at him as if he were God, and in that moment he felt as if he were. He was God, and she was his Eve, more perfect than Adam had ever been, more interesting. He wanted to shout it to everyone in the room, to run out onto Broadway and bring in the promenaders to worship at her feet.

"Divinity is in so many things," he said in a low voice. "You, for instance."

She gave a startled laugh. "Me?"

"Yes, you," he said. "I see it every time I look at you, Genie. God had perfection in mind when He made you."

"I don't think so." A warm flush moved up her cheeks, she looked away. "Perhaps Chloe, but not— not me."

"You think not?" Jonas smiled. "It shines from your eyes. Did Chloe have such beautiful eyes?"

"More beautiful." She took her wineglass in her hand, swirling the dark red liquid inside the globe. "Hers were blue. The color of the sky."

"But she didn't have hair like yours."

She made a small sound of protest. "No. She had golden hair."

"I imagine she didn't have paint in it," he teased.

Genie gasped and put her hand to her hair. "Oh, no. No wonder—"

"It's quite charming," he told her. "Much more charming than I warrant your sister ever was."

"No," she protested. "You don't understand. She was perfect. In everything."

"You're describing a paragon," he said gently. "And paragons are notoriously boring."

She looked up at him with eyes that were distressingly blank. "Chloe was never boring."

He heard the longing in her voice, the resignation, and it moved him, twisted his heart in some strange and fascinating way. "Ah, Genie," he said softly. "You are so beautiful."

She looked away. Her fingers tightened on her glass. "I'm not," she said. "I know I'm not. You needn't keep saying it."

There was something about the way she said it, a distress, a despair, that was more than yearning or acceptance—much more. It seemed to come from deep inside her, and it startled him, sent a flash of anger stabbing through him. Jonas leaned across the table so quickly the glasses rocked, the silverware scattered. He grabbed her chin in his hand, forcing her to look at him.

The look in her eyes stole his breath, sent his blood racing. There was pain there. Pain. Those beautiful eyes were brimming with it, with a misery that said more clearly than words what someone had once done to her. She had no idea of what she was, he realized suddenly. She had no idea of her beauty or her desirability. She was as naive as he'd first thought her. Naive and newborn, just as he'd once wanted to see her. And someone had hurt her. Someone had put that expression on her face.

The thought infuriated him. "Who was it?" he said harshly, gripping her chin so hard she winced. "Who told you that you weren't beautiful? Tell me and I'll kill him."

She made a sound, a half laugh, a breath of despair, and tried to pull away. "No one," she said.

"I don't believe you."

She swallowed. "It doesn't matter."

"Like hell it doesn't."

The waiter was suddenly at the table. "Sir, please—"

Jonas ignored him. He released her quickly, jerking to his feet. He knocked the table; her wine overturned, spreading across the white tablecloth like the blood that pounded in his head, like the rage swirling through him. He heard her gasp, felt the waiter's restraining hold on his arm.

Jonas wrenched away. "Goddammit!" He pushed past the waiter, hearing the man's frenzied words and Genie's protest with some part of his mind, the part that screamed reason, that screamed for control.
Stop this, stop this, stop this. . . .
But it was too late; anger thrummed in his veins—it felt as if his head might burst.

"Listen to me! Damn you—all of you—listen to me!" he shouted, spreading his arms until he saw every eye in the restaurant on him. He jerked his hand at Genie. "Look at her. She's beautiful, isn't she? Isn't she?"

There was dead silence. It enraged him. He saw Wolford's son turn to whisper to his partner, and Jonas's fury exploded. He grabbed the bottle of bordeaux, slamming it to the table, soaking the stained tablecloth, feeling the wetness of it course over his arm, his shirt. Wolford jerked back again, startled.

Jonas pointed to him. "You," he said. "You there. Look at her. What do you see?"

The man blanched. "I—"

"I said look at her! What the hell do you see?"

The waiter advanced. "Sir . . ."

Jonas brandished the half-empty bottle. "Get the hell away from me." He felt a grim satisfaction when the waiter retreated. Jonas turned back to Wolford. "Well?"

"She—she's quite lovely."

Pacifying words. Insincere words. For a moment Jonas was so angry he couldn't see. "Damn you for a coward," he screamed. "You fucking cowards! All of you! Don't you see it? Can't you see a goddamn thing? All of you—"

"Please, Jonas . . ."

Something tugged on his arm. Jonas jerked away. "You're looking at a goddess! Damn you! A goddess!" He took a step, holding the bottle, spilling the rest of the wine over his pants, his boots. He pointed to Wolford. "How dare you even look at her, you fucking bastard! You don't deserve to see—" He faltered as he noticed the look in Wolford's eyes, the way the man turned back to his friend, shaking his head. It confused Jonas, distracted him. "Damn you," he said. "You son of a—"

"Jonas."

The voice was so soft it seemed to come from inside his head. He could barely hear it. Desperately he tried to hold on to his anger. "Dammit! You're all . . . you're all—" The rest of the sentence eluded him. He forgot what he was going to say. "You—"

"Jonas ..."

It unsettled him, that voice. So soft, so strong. Bewildered, feeling suddenly lost, he turned in its direction.

And saw Genie. Genie, her pale skin splashed with red wine, marked with paint. Genie. There was something in her face that puzzled him. Something—oh Christ, what? He tried to remember, but his heart was beating so fast he couldn't hear, could barely see. . . . She reached out; he felt her hand on his arm, a warm caress, a comforting touch.

"Please, Jonas . . ."

Ah, the way she said his name—so quiet, a breath of sound, the soft
s
that faded into the rhythm of her voice. It wrapped around his heart and comforted him, took his anger and his will, and he found himself staring at her, getting lost in those deep brown eyes, in the distress of her expression. Distress. Christ, he didn't want that. It made his heart ache to see that look on her face.

His butterfly was opening up to the world, and he wanted to protect her suddenly, wanted to keep those still-wet wings folded inside the cocoon, to let them out only bit by bit, to make sure she was safe before she flew away. It bothered him that he hadn't succeeded, that someone had got to her first, that someone had already wounded her—and wounded her in a way he couldn't quite fathom.

He wanted to understand it. He wanted to ease it.

The yearning took his anger and the last of his strength, fed his confusion. He fell to his knees in front of her, buried his face in her lap, exhausted and dazed and ashamed. Christ, so ashamed.

"Oh, Jonas," she whispered. He felt her hand on his hair, smoothing it back from his face, caressing him.

"Madam." The waiter's voice, stiff with disapproval and wariness. "I'm afraid I must ask you—"

"We're leaving," she said, and there was such authority in her voice, such a tranquil strength, it silenced the waiter. "Please send me the bill." She stopped her stroking; Jonas heard the scratch of writing, knew she was giving the man her address, but he couldn't lift his head from her lap to protest. Christ, he felt so empty, so helpless.

He heard the waiter's retreat, and then the restaurant was quiet. Not even the tinkle of silverware on china. He felt her touch on his hair, felt the warmth of her sigh, and he waited stiffly for the words he'd heard a hundred times before, the words he knew he deserved.
"You're mad. Good Lord, you are quite mad."
In a way he even wanted to hear her say them, wanted the bleak comfort of knowing he'd disappointed her too. He had ruined everything. This interlude with her was over, along with the waiting—he felt a dismal relief at the knowledge. He'd finally done it, finally disgraced her the way he ultimately disgraced everyone.
Say it
, he thought.
Go ahead, say it.

But instead, all she said was "Oh, Jonas" again, and there was a gentleness in her words that astounded him, a serenity that called to him through his torment, a promise of redemption. Then, most surprising of all, he felt her bend closer, felt the brush of her hair against his, heard her soft whisper in his ear.

"Let's go, shall we?"

She got to her feet before he knew what she was doing, took his arm and helped him to his. And then his paint- and wine-stained beauty smiled—a small, determined smile—and twined her arm through his. She walked with him through Delmonico's with her head held high, as if she were truly the goddess he'd told them all she was, as if he hadn't lost his temper and his mind in the finest restaurant in New York City.

As if he weren't truly mad.

But he was.
He was
.

And now she knew it too.

Chapter 18

S
he left Jonas sleeping. He'd been morose and silent on the trip home, and once they returned to the studio he collapsed in a chair, ordering her to leave as if he couldn't stand the sight of her. She had not gone. She'd waited the few minutes until his eyes closed and she heard his steady breathing, and then she carefully went out, hurrying across the hall to Childs's studio. There was no answer when she rapped on the door. Feeling numb and bewildered, not knowing what else to do, she settled herself on the floor to wait for him.

It seemed like hours before she heard his step on the landing. Imogene caught her breath, not relaxing until she saw the top of his golden head through the railing.

He caught sight of her almost instantly; she saw him stiffen in surprise, saw his sudden worry.

"Miss Imogene?"

She rose, smoothing her skirts. "Do you think I might have a word with you?" she asked softly.

He frowned and glanced at the door to Jonas's studio.

"He's sleeping."

"Sleeping?"

"Yes."

He seemed to relax slightly. "Well, in that case,
chérie
," he said, opening the door to his studio and motioning her inside, "please come in."

She stepped into the room, stopping in astonishment as she caught sight of the splendor of his studio. It was nothing like Jonas's. Where Whitaker's was sparse, furnished with old furniture and littered with paraphernalia, Childs's was opulent. A huge centerpiece of a bed covered with brocaded pillows and dark, highly polished tables made it look more like a wealthy man's bedroom than an artist's workspace. If not for the canvases and painting implements set up near the windows, she would never have known it was a studio at all.

Childs chuckled as he closed the door. "You look surprised," he noted. "Surely you didn't think I lived in squalor."

"Not squalor, no," she said. "But this—"

"A rich father who died young," he explained. "And a mother who remarried money and feels guilty."

"I see.

He smiled. "You look distressed,
chérie
," he said, changing the subject with smooth aplomb. "And as flattered as I am by your visit, something tells me it's not my company you crave. What has you so worried, eh? What made you wait in the hallway for me?"

Imogene took a deep breath, wishing she knew exactly what to tell him, how she could explain that it had seemed somehow right to come to him, that she had wanted comfort and answers and she'd hoped he could provide both. She felt unsettled and vulnerable, unsure what to do, how to feel. All she knew was that she couldn't stop the question that chanted ceaselessly in her brain. It had consumed her while she waited, impossible to ignore, too strong to push away. She looked at Childs, trying to decide how best to word it, what to say. In the end she simply said it.

"How mad is he?"

Childs didn't look the least bit surprised. "Mad enough. But I expect you know that already."

His answer didn't soothe her. She sighed. "We were just at Delmonico's," she said.

Childs raised a brow. "Delmonico's?"

"I'm not sure why he took me there." The words rushed out, falling over themselves before she had time to think them through. "It was ... he had a temper tantrum ... or ... I'm not sure what to call it really."

"He broke a bottle of wine, I take it?"

Imogene looked at him in surprise.

He motioned to her skirt. "It's all over you. Along with an interesting amount of paint. I'm almost afraid to ask."

She felt heat move into her face. Imogene looked away. "I don't think he knew what he was doing."

"Which time?" Childs asked softly. "At Delmonico's, or when he made love to you?"

Startled, she jerked around again to face him.

"It's quite obvious,
chérie
." He paused, studying her with a detachment that made her uncomfortable. "What would you like me to say? That you're wrong, that he knew what he was doing when he kissed you?" He shrugged dismissively; his indifference seemed painfully deliberate. "1 can't tell you that. I don't know. You'll have to find your reassurance elsewhere."

His words angered her. Imogene forced herself to hold his gaze. "You're not normally so cruel," she said. "I thought we were friends."

He gave her a bland look. "You don't know me that well."

"I know you well enough," she insisted. "I know you care for him. I've seen the way you protect him. You've even protected me."

"And succeeded admirably, as you can see," he said wryly. "As a result of my 'protection,' you have been seduced, assaulted, and abandoned. I am overwhelmed at my success."

"No," she said quietly. "I'm not so fragile as you think. If he seduced me, it was because I wanted to be seduced. The way you describe it—that's not how it happened."

Childs's gaze swept over her, disbelieving, a little cynical. "No? Suppose you tell me how it was then."

She licked her lips, trying to put her thoughts in order, wondering what she wanted from him, what she'd expected. Perhaps it was reassurance, as he'd said, or maybe it was simply hope—something to soothe her scattered emotions, to ease her confusion. She wanted to know what had happened to turn Jonas Whitaker into a madman. She wanted to understand.

"I thought I understood what people meant when they said he was mad," she began hesitantly. "I thought I did. Now I realize how stupid that was, how impossible it is to understand unless you see it for yourself. He was—" She stopped, searching for words. She saw Jonas before her, the wild rage in his eyes, his stiff anger. She saw spilling wine and expansive gestures. She heard his harsh, condemning words.
"You're looking at a goddess! Damn you! A goddess!"

Now those words echoed painfully in her mind. He'd wanted to convince her she was beautiful and instead he'd shown her something else. Instead he'd shown her that he didn't truly see her at all. To him she was only some vague ideal, some visionary goddess that had little to do with who she really was.

And the words he'd murmured in her ear only convinced her further.
"Half in love with you, 1 think."
The words of a man who had loved a hundred women. A man used to making people look better than they were, to finding beauty in everything. A man who made his living from illusion. What had he said today? That an artist's job was to transform reality, to transcend the material. That was what he did with her. In his mind he transformed her into someone he could be proud of, someone worth his time. But he didn't really see her. He did not know her at all, or he would never have said the words.

She closed her eyes briefly, pushing away her sadness, forcing herself to remember Childs, who was waiting for her to finish. She swallowed painfully. "He was in his own world."

She saw sympathy in Childs's expression. "What shall I tell you,
chérie
? That he is not always so difficult? That he is easy to love? Is that what you want?"

She looked at him steadily. "I want the truth."

"The truth?" He laughed lightly. "The truth is that there is nothing you can do. The truth is that he goes from mood to mood the way others change mistresses. And you are not even seeing the worst, I'm afraid. As much as I love him, I find myself escaping him once a year—to Paris, for sanity." He gave a bitter, self-contemptuous laugh. "As ludicrous as that is."

His admission made her uncomfortable. It was so intense, so painful. In a way she understood it too well. She wished there were simple answers, but she had the feeling nothing would ever be simple with Jonas Whitaker.

Lord, she wished she understood him, wished she understood herself. She wished she knew why she wasn't running from him as fast as she could. A reasonable person would. After all, he was a madman. He was everything they'd ever told her he was.

She looked at Childs, working to keep her voice steady. "You said it gets worse."

Childs took a deep breath. "Yes. It gets worse."

She waited, her chest tightening.

"You have seen his charm . . . this . . . this mesmerist he becomes, this—"

"Shooting star," she said.

Childs nodded. "A shooting star. Yes, he is that. But there is another side to him too, a side not everyone sees."

"Like last spring."

Childs shook his head. "You don't know all of it," he said quietly, and then he hesitated, a pause so long that the sounds from the street intruded on the silence, the thunder of carriages, the strident whoas of the drivers. Normal sounds. Day-to-day sounds. They made Imogene suddenly sad, as if things were changing so quickly she might never hear the rumbling clatter of wheels on cobblestones again, as if she were entering a place where nothing would ever be the same.

Finally, Childs looked up. "Last spring was . . . ah. . . ." He closed his eyes briefly, hanging his head, and his next words were weak and pained. "He tried to kill himself," he said bluntly. "If I had not been here, he would have succeeded. It was not ... the first time." Childs looked at her, his expression bleak. "Now do you understand,
chérie
? Now do you see?"

Imogene hesitated. Her throat was tight, her lungs felt paralyzed. His question chimed in her mind.
"Now do you understand,
chérie?
Now do you see?"
and she knew what he was really asking her, heard the words as clearly as if he'd said them.
Can you love him now for me too? Can you help him?

She squeezed her eyes shut. "Don't ask me," she said softly. "Look at me, Rico. I'm nobody. He won't ... he can't . . ." She took a deep breath. "I'm not a fool. He won't want me long, I know. I'm not his kind."

"Perhaps you'll become his kind."

She laughed, hearing unfamiliar bitterness in the sound, and glanced back at him again. "You don't believe that, I can hear it in your voice."

"I don't know what I believe."

"How world-weary you sound, Rico."

He glanced up at her. For the first time his handsomeness didn't shine from his features, didn't overwhelm her. He looked drawn and somber, ascetically, bleakly beautiful. He sighed. "Perhaps. Perhaps I've simply lost the will to deal with him any longer."

She felt a stab of fear. "You don't mean that."

"Don't I?" He gave her a slight smile. "Should I consign him to your care,
chérie
? You've survived him once. You've still a good hundred times or so left within you."

"He won't stay with me."

"I think you underestimate yourself."

Imogene folded her arms over her chest, shook her head. "You don't know. You don't know me at all."

"Then perhaps you should tell me who you are, eh?" Rico sank into a well-padded chair, steepling his fingers, watching her. His tone was cajoling, charming —the same beguiling voice he'd used on her before. "Tell me about Imogene Carter, Genie."

"Genie," she repeated, feeling the name roll off her tongue, the quick thrust of it against her teeth. "You and Jonas keep calling me that." She didn't tell him that the name made her feel warm inside, somehow beloved. She'd never had a nickname before. Never a name that implied intimacy. She'd never been called anything but Imogene. Imogene Elizabeth Carter. A staid, steady name. A name heavy with the implications of inviolate spinsterhood, rigid with propriety.

"It's Jonas's name for you," Childs said. "Not mine."

She looked down at the floor. "Oh, Rico," she sighed. "I—I know he's using me. I know he won't be interested for long. But 1 thought—I thought perhaps I could learn from him while he was. I thought he could teach me how to be somebody"—she laughed self-consciously—"somebody important. It's a silly dream, I know, but—"

"What makes you think you're not already important?"

The question bewildered her. She looked up at him with a frown. "Because I'm not. I'm nobody. Just another art student, and not even a very good one."

Childs looked at her thoughtfully. "You think so? I—"

"Geenniiee!!!"

The shout came from the hallway, a loud, anguished cry that followed the slamming of a door, running footsteps.

Jonas
.

Imogene's head snapped up. Rico stiffened in his chair.

"Genie! Geeennniee!"

"
Mon dieu
!" Childs shot from his chair, stopping her with a gesture. "Stay here," he warned.

She shook her head, hurrying across the studio. "He's calling me."

"I can't keep you safe."

"Geenniiee!!!"

"I don't care." Imogene surged toward him, halting when he blocked her path. "He won't hurt me."

Rico's eyes blazed. "Don't be so certain."

"Genie! Genie!"

"Rico, he's calling me!"

Childs muttered a curse beneath his breath. "Be careful, then," he cautioned. He turned back to the door, wrenching it open so hard it crashed against the walls. He raced into the hallway. Imogene was right behind him.