The Portrait (26 page)

He said nothing, and she tucked her arm through his, starting back to the street. He didn't move with her.

She looked up at him, puzzled, startled to find that he was staring at her. Staring at her with a softness she'd never seen on his face before. With a pang she realized that his eyes weren't expressionless, as she'd thought. They were brilliant and thoughtful and a little sad, and gently he reached out, smoothing a strand of hair back from her face.

"You've snow in your hair," he said, and then he leaned down and kissed her, a soft, brief kiss, a brush of lips that left her mouth tingling. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" she asked, confused. "Because there's snow in my hair?"

Something that might have been a smile touched his lips. But it was gone so quickly she couldn't be sure. "No. I'm sorry I couldn't dress you in green velvet. I'm sorry because I've disappointed you."

"You haven't—"

"Yes I have," he said slowly. "You wanted today to be . . . fun. Isn't that what you said?"

"Jonas—"

He pressed a finger to her lips, stopping her before he let his hand drop again to his side. "I can't make it fun for you, Genie. I wish I could. I wish I could give you everything you deserve. I wish I could thank you for trying."

"You could," she said quietly. "You could thank me."

He shook his head. "No, I—"

"You could kiss me again."

Her own words surprised her. They seemed to jump out of her mouth, and Imogene didn't realize until she'd said them how much she wanted it. A kiss to make her feel wanted and cherished.

But mostly—oh, mostly what she wanted was to keep that light shining in his eyes, to kiss away the darkness and keep it away. Forever, if she could.

He looked down at her, and she felt his hand at her waist, felt his heat through her mantle, through the cold damp air. The snow fell into her eyes, catching on her eyelashes and melting there so she saw his face in prisms.

"A kiss," he murmured, and with a sharp stab of relief she saw that radiance grow even stronger in his eyes, blinding her, dazzling her as he bent and brushed his mouth against hers. And when he pressed deeper, when he drew her closer and urged her lips apart, and she heard the soft desperation of his moan, she leaned into him and wound her fingers through his snow-wet hair, hearing the gasps around them and not caring, not caring at all as he kissed her senseless in the open air of the Washington Market, there for everyone to see.

Chapter 22

I
t made his heart hurt to look at her. Jonas turned back to the cold window, staring at the falling snow. He heard her moving about the room, putting a chicken on to stew, chopping onions, and he could picture her in his mind: the pale green, wine- stained skirt shifting about her feet, the stretch of satin across her shoulder blades, the strands of hair caressing her cheeks.

Ah, yes, he could picture her all too well. Just as he couldn't erase the image of her at the market this morning, staring up at him with wide brown eyes, snowflakes gilding the loose strands of her hair, drifting onto her eyelashes. She was so beautiful, and this morning had been so ordinary—

He caught himself on the thought. No, not ordinary, that was the wrong word. Normal, perhaps. Yes, this morning had been normal in a way things in his life had rarely been. He had not been able to stop watching her as she moved from vendor to vendor, so self- assured, so at ease. She had bargained and smiled and talked about inconsequential things.
"Oh, see those

bananas—why, they're from Cuba," and "The oysters look good today, don't you think?"
Silly things, things people talked about every day, things to fill the silence.

He had treasured them. In his life there were so few silly things, so few trips to the market, so few smiles. And he found he loved her smile. It brightened her face, lit her eyes. He loved the way it whitened that tiny scar at the top of her lip, the way it squared her jaw. Her smile made him ache for all the things he'd never had, never thought he wanted. A wife, children, a home.

Christ, it frightened him. Everything about her frightened him. He had wanted to turn her into a butterfly and she had exceeded his wildest dreams. She charmed him and soothed him. She eased the pain in his soul. She kept a door closed on the darkness. She was everything he'd ever dreamed of. And today, when he'd kissed her, he'd lost himself in her the way he'd never imagined losing himself before. He had wanted her so badly, badly enough to keep her chained by his side, to trap her with lies and caresses, with pregnancy if he had to. Anything to make sure she didn't leave him.

And that was what frightened him the most, because he destroyed whatever he touched. He had never been able to maintain a friendship—Rico was the closest he'd come to that, and even now he wondered how long that would last, how long it would take for Rico to tire of him completely enough to leave for Paris and never return. Jonas's family had disowned him long ago, had sent him off to Bloomingdale with barely a prayer for his soul. And though there'd been women, they were always temporary. A night, a week, a month, but never through the madness, or the depression. Christ, even Rico couldn't endure it more than once a year.

Genie had survived it.
The thought haunted him, tormented him, surprised him. She was so strong, the strongest person he had ever known, and that strength tempted and cajoled him.
She could bear it,
the voice whispered in his ear.
Maybe she would stay
.

With effort he ignored it. It didn't matter if she could endure him or not. It was unfair to ask her to. She deserved someone who could give her a normal life. Someone who could have fun at the market. Someone who could buy her the green velvet she would look so beautiful in. Not someone like him. Not someone who had no idea how he would be from day to day. Normality eluded him. Money slipped through his fingers. What kind of life was that to promise someone? To promise her?

He should send her back to her godfather, he knew. Gosney would do his best to smooth over the scandal, and Genie was strong—stronger than Jonas had ever imagined she could be. She would endure it and go on. She would find someone who would treat her well.

The thought made his chest tight. Not seeing her again, not touching her. ... It was absurd how desperate it made him feel. But there was no choice, and he knew it. He knew what happened to the people who stayed with him, God knew he'd seen it a hundred times before. He could picture it in his mind, knew that eventually he would see a painfully familiar look in her eyes, the same look he'd seen in those of his family, of his friends. The dull expression, the fear, the pain. And finally, the good-bye.

"They say they love you and then they leave."

Well, it was true. It had always been true. And he suffered for it not just because he was losing them, but because he knew he'd beaten them down, because by leaving they were only trying to survive.

He owed her more than that, more than a life chained to a man who would eventually destroy her, who would whittle away at her strength until it was gone, who would test her every day. He owed her a life away from him. He owed her freedom.

Give it to her,
the voice inside him said.
Give it to her now
.

He grabbed the moment before he could talk himself out of it. "Genie," he said, surprised to hear how hoarse his voice was, how rough. "Genie, come here."

The sound of chopping stopped. He heard her rinse her hands, and then her footsteps behind him, felt the air from the swish of her skirt as she came up beside him. Her presence was like a tonic, invigorating, comforting.

"What is it?" she asked, kneeling beside him, grabbing the arm of his chair for support with one hand, reaching out to touch him with the other. Her skin was cool, still damp. The perfumes of parsley and bay clung to her, mixing with that elusive scent of almond.

He couldn't look at her. It was hard enough to feel her, to smell her. He wanted to take her in his arms and hold her tight. He wanted to kiss her again, to make love to her. If he looked at her he would. So he focused on the window, on the snow, until it was nothing but a blur of white and slate before him, until he felt nothing but the cold.

"Jonas," she said, and he heard the concern in her voice, the worry. She squeezed his hand. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he said. "Much better, thanks to you."

"Much better," she repeated hesitantly.

She withdrew her hand; his skin was suddenly cold where she'd touched him. He felt her guardedness even though he wasn't looking at her, and it hurt him —God, it seemed to pierce right through his heart.

He couldn't say anything. He wanted to tell her she should leave him, that he wanted her to go, but when it came down to it, he couldn't say the words, couldn't make the sacrifice. All his noble thoughts, and yet it came down to selfishness after all. Christ, he couldn't even do this, simple as it was.

As it turned out, he didn't have to. She released her hold on the chair and sat back on her heels in a swish of satin.

"You want me to go," she said bluntly.

He heard the detachment in her voice and the pain behind it. Pain, even though he wanted so badly to spare her from it. He squeezed his eyes shut. Felt her movement as she got to her feet.

"Of course," she said, taking a deep breath. "Of course. I expected you'd want to be alone once you felt better. I—I'll just get my things, and—"

"Don't." He surprised himself with the word. It was harsh and raw, and before he knew it he lashed out, grabbing her wrist, gripping it so tightly he heard her startled gasp. "No."

Then he made the mistake he'd told himself not to make. He twisted in his chair to look at her.

Her eyes were large, bright with tears she fought to blink away. Her jaw was clenched, and her mouth was tight, and it dawned on him that he'd seen that look on her face a dozen times before, that he knew the emotions she was trying to keep at bay, the strength she was struggling to find. She wouldn't look at him, but stared out the window the way he had done only moments before, to the snow and the empty street, to the barrenness that only accentuated pain and didn't ease it. He saw her smooth skin and her soft hair and the trembling of her mouth, and he wanted to kiss it away, to forget that he would hurt her, that she would leave. To show her the only way he could how much she meant to him. But he knew he couldn't. He had to let her go. There was no other choice. But if he could make it easier . . . Christ, he'd give his heart to make it easier.

He released her hand and rose from the chair, quickly, before she could step away. Then he moved in front of her and cupped her chin in his fingers, gently bringing her around to face him. There was wariness in her eyes along with tears and . . . embarrassment. With a little laugh she wiped at her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I knew it was only a matter of time before you tired of me—"

"I'm not tired of you."

She frowned. "But you want me to go . . . don't you?"

"Yes."

She tried to look away again, but he held her there.

"Look at me, Genie," he said. "Look at who I am. Surely you know you can't stay here."

She didn't try to misunderstand, she didn't protest. She hesitated, and then she nodded slowly. "Yes," she said. "I know."

And those were the saddest words of all. He felt them clear into his soul, and though they made his sacrifice easier, they only increased his need to touch her one last time. He couldn't help himself, he leaned forward and kissed her, feeling relief and completion when she melted into him, when her mouth opened beneath his and he heard the small moan in her throat. He let go of her chin, shoved his hand through her hair, loosening it, letting it fall over his fingers, smooth and heavy, wanting to feel it the way he'd felt it before, against his body, tangling in his hair.

Then the memories returned. All the things he'd denied—her taste, her scent, the feel of her—all those things came rushing back to him, along with the images of the last time they'd made love. He knew when she would whimper, he knew how she would arch back when he touched her breast. He knew how she looked, breathless and flushed and beautiful, when he came inside her. He knew all those things, and he wanted to know them again, wanted them, if not forever, then at least tonight, at least right now.

But the last time he'd taken her on a stool, and she deserved better than that. Jonas pulled away, hearing her little murmur of protest, smiling when she looked up at him, puzzled and unsure, her lips swollen from his kiss.

"Let's go to bed," he whispered, pulling her with him across the studio, past the steaming pot on the stove and a pile of chopped onions, through the uneven path left by dozens of unfinished canvases. Together they dodged the tapestry that covered the door, into the darkness of the bedroom. Darkness, where he wanted it to be light. For the first time in days, he wanted light.

He released her hand and went to the beaten leather trunk against one wall. Its surface was dotted with candles, short stubby ones that had half melted into wax pools. There was a box of matches on the floor beside it, and he took one and lit each stub until the glow they set off suffused the room, a gentle light. Then he turned to her again.

She was standing in the doorway, watching him, and her eyes were dark, her emotions hidden. But they wouldn't be for long, he knew. With two short strides he reached her, pulling her to him, sinking his hand in her hair and pressing his tongue into her mouth. She tasted of parsley and tea, along with a sweetness that was pure Genie, a sweetness that intoxicated him. And when she touched her tongue to his, when he felt her tentative exploration, he groaned and pressed deeper, wanting all of her, wanting to eat her alive, to bring her so far inside him she could never go away.

He struggled with the buttons on her dress, slipping them through the tiny openings, finally loosening the gown far enough to push it down over her shoulders. He felt her corset against him, hard and inviolate, keeping her safe, and frustration made him impatient. He could not undo it, not without two hands, and so he was forced to pull away.

"Take it off for me, darling," he whispered. "Please."

She smiled then, a smile he couldn't remember seeing before, soft and worldly wise, that woman-smile that spoke of power and seduction. It made his insides twist, sent a rush of heat into his loins. He had never felt this way before, never so out of control, never so aroused. Always before he had been removed, always before he had wanted sex and nothing more. But the look in her eyes and the feel of her and the exquisite sweetness he felt when he touched her—ah, God, it was more than he could bear.

He watched as she stepped out of her gown, leaving it pooled on the floor. He ached to touch her, but he waited, letting his desire build with every movement of her hands. Slowly, as if she savored it, she unhooked her corset and let it fall, and then she was standing before him in only a creased cotton shift that clung to her breasts, its shapelessness and simplicity only accenting the indentation of her waist, the curve of her hips.

She lifted her chin. That knowing, sensual expression was still in her eyes. "More?" she asked softly.

Christ, so erotic. He couldn't speak. Only nodded. She was made for flirtation, he thought, even though he'd never seen her flirt before. But the way she untied the string of her chemise, the way she shrugged so it fell enticingly over one shoulder and then the other— ah, God, it was flirtatious, it was seductive. She let the chemise fall, leaning forward to unroll her stockings. The waterfall of her hair shielded her breasts from his view. She stood again and looked at him, a question in her eyes that he answered with a nod, and then she untied her drawers and slid them over her hips, down her legs, until she was naked before him.