The Portrait (31 page)

"Sweet Christ." Her father's voice was a harsh whisper in her ear. "Jesus Christ, what the hell have you done?"

Startled, she tore her gaze away from Jonas. Her father was glaring at the painting before them, his face tight, his nostrils pinched with anger. She glanced at the portrait.

Her heart stopped. Imogene gasped. The painting glistened in front of her with a delicate luminosity, all shades of white except for the background, which was shadowed and dark, nearly black. It was a woman reclining on a stack of white pillows, her pale skin vibrant and alive, the lines of her nude body obscured and yet somehow made more clear by a diaphanous white scarf. She was a mystery of shapes: small breasts, rounded hips, a triangular hint of shadow at the juncture of her thighs. Her hair was a soft golden brown, falling over her shoulders, strands curling against her cheek. It was a shocking portrait. Too alive, too erotic, too beautiful. But those things weren't what made it shocking. What made it shocking was something else, something far more elemental.

It was a portrait of her.

Imogene felt as if the floor had tilted beneath her. It was her, and though she tried hard to deny it, she couldn't. It was her face—those were her eyes looking dispassionately at the crowd, that was her chin. And that tiny mole just below her mouth was hers too. All her. Good Lord, it was her. Except for one thing. The woman in the painting was alluring and beautiful. She was everything Imogene was not, everything she'd ever wanted to be. Vibrant. Exotic. Sensual.

Her father's fingers dug into her arm; Imogene heard him say something, heard the rage in his voice. But it barely registered. She could not look away from the painting, not until she heard her name, not until she heard Jonas's voice cutting through the gleeful murmurs of the crowd.

"Genie."

That was all, just her name, a hush of sound, a rush of breath. She glanced up, catching his gaze, and his eyes seemed impossibly bright, impossibly green. His face tightened; he clenched Rico's arm as if the motion gave him strength. But he didn't move. He just stared at her, and it seemed his features were more finely etched than she'd ever seen them, taut with something, some emotion . . . despair?

"Jonas," she breathed. She stepped toward him, but her father's grip held her tight, pulling her back. She turned to her father. "Let me go," she said, trying to wrench free. "Papa, please. . . ."

She trailed off when she saw her father's face. It was white with anger, his brown eyes flashed with it. His fingers bit more deeply into her arm, so painful she cried out.

"Are you mad?" he asked in a harsh whisper, shaking her so hard her head snapped back. "What did you think you were doing, posing for him this way? Wasn't it enough that you blackened my good name by sleeping with him, you had to advertise it as well?"

She heard the gasps around her, the sudden tittering. Imogene swallowed. She caught a woman's avid stare and Imogene turned away, keeping her voice low. "Papa, no," she said, trying to soothe him. "You don't understand. Please, let's talk about this somewhere else."

"Goddammit, we'll talk about it now!" He shook her again, his voice rising steadily until even those yards away turned to stare. "You didn't seem to mind the attention when you posed for this . . . this filth! You wanted to show your nakedness to the world, so be it! Let them hear this too!"

He flung her away so violently Imogene went sprawling. She fell painfully to the ground, sliding against a woman's skirts, jamming her elbow on a man's leg. Stunned, she tried to rise, tried to grab her father's arm. "Papa, please—"

He shook her off, sending her falling again. "Get out of my sight. You're no better than a whore, and no daughter of mine!"

The rest happened so quickly Imogene saw it in a blur. She heard a curse, heard: "Damn you, that's enough!" and then she saw someone—Jonas—rushing her father, she heard the crack of a fist on a jaw, the loud shout of pain. She gasped, and she saw Jonas turn, saw him look at her and shout, "Get her the hell out of here!" and then hands were on her, pulling her to her feet, surrounding her, closing in on her. She thought she saw Rico in the crowd, and Thomas, thought she heard the sound of a struggle, but it was so confusing, and she couldn't see. Her head was spinning; she tasted blood on her lip from the fall. She tried to push past, but the crowd held fast, mad for the fight. She heard running footsteps, and she turned to see men in black coats dodging the crowd, racing toward the commotion.

"Jonas!" she shouted, trying to move closer. "Jonas!"

But he didn't hear her. No one heard her, she couldn't get close, she couldn't see. Desperately Imogene pushed through the crowd; it eased just enough so she wedged herself between two men, just enough so she could see Rico grabbing for someone, his blond hair falling into his face, a red mark on his cheekbone.

"Rico!" She cried. "Jonas!" And then she heard his voice, a hoarse shout, a desperate cry.

"Get her out of here! Dammit, I told you to get her the fuck out of here!"

And suddenly there were arms around her, pulling her back, wrenching her away.

"No." She struggled against them, fighting to stay, to get to Jonas, to stop her father. "No!"

But they were stronger than she was. And the voice, the weary, anxious voice, was stronger too.

"It's all right, Imogene. Imogene, please, my dear. Come with me."

It was Thomas. Thomas looking harried and worn and dispirited. "The authorities will intervene. There's nothing we can do. Come with me."

She didn't want to go. She tried not to go. But the crowd was yelling now, and the men in black coats were forcing their way through, trying to quiet the mob. Thomas was right. There was nothing they could do. Nothing at all.

She looked up at her godfather, seeing Katherine just behind, a kind and sympathetic look on her face. And in her mind, Imogene heard Jonas's desperate words again, called through a crowd.
"Get her out of here!"

She surrendered, letting Thomas and Katherine guide her from the hall, into the cold winter night. And when Thomas helped them both into the carriage and told the driver to take them home, Imogene said nothing, leaning her head on Katherine's comforting shoulder, hearing the jeering of the crowd echo in her ears as the carriage jerked forward, skidding through the icy streets of New York City, taking her away.

Chapter 27

J
onas shoved his hand deep in the pocket of his overcoat. The cold air stung the cuts on his face, the tender bruise on his jaw. A quiet breeze blew his hair into his face; the strands caught on the roughness of dried blood marking his cheekbone and his eye. He shook his head, closing his eyes against the glowing gaslights and the bright reflection of the gallery windows shining on the snow.

He had wanted one day. One more day to think about her, to stare at her portrait and wish she were beside him. One day, and it had shown him more irrevocably than ever what a danger he was. He had lost control, had lunged at Samuel Carter without a thought as to who he was or where, had been mindless and aching, wanting only to punish the man for the things he'd said to her, wanting to kill him for the things he'd said. If Jonas needed any more proof that he should be locked away forever, tonight had given it to him. He'd been an animal. A madman. He was everything his father had called him that long-ago day in Cincinnati.

But the worst thing was not the fight. The worst thing was that he had been so caught up in his obsession with Genie that he hadn't stopped to think about what it would do to her. He'd painted that portrait and known it was a masterpiece, but he had not expected the crowd's reaction to it, or hers.

He had turned her into a pariah. The good people of New York City might have accepted her as his mistress, but as his model—his nude model—she was labeled no better than a whore. It was ludicrous and hypocritical, but it was the way things were, and he should have known. She would be shunned by the very circle that paid his bills, that purchased his paintings. They would buy the portrait, they would stare at her naked body hanging from their walls, but they would revile the woman who had posed for it.

It didn't matter that she hadn't posed. It didn't matter that he'd painted her from memory. He had ruined her.

Christ, he'd ruined her.

Jonas opened his eyes, staring blankly around him, hearing the rattle of carriages on Broadway, the muffled talk from those leaving the gallery. Truthfully, he had not expected her to come to the exhibition, though he knew her father was in town. He had not expected to see her ever again. He had told himself he wanted it that way. But the moment he'd seen her, he'd known he was lying to himself. She was so beautiful in that bronze gown, with the rich color accenting her hair and eyes, and the sight of her brought such a pure, all- encompassing joy, such a overwhelming gratitude, it was all he could do to keep from running toward her. He would have, he thought. He would have crushed her to him and never let her go if she hadn't looked

away from the portrait at just that moment. If he hadn't seen the stunned expression on her face and the unshed tears in her eyes. Those things had stopped him dead, had left him feeling bereft and uncertain. They were feelings he hated, and so when he heard her father's condemnation, he had gratefully turned to the safer emotion of anger, had let it overtake him.

And had ruined himself as thoughtlessly as he'd ruined her.

Jonas raked his hand through his hair, taking such a deep breath of the frigid air it burned his lungs. Ah, what a mistake he'd made. What a terrible mistake. He belonged in Bedlam, belonged with the other lunatics, the dream-crazed creatures who couldn't be trusted to not do damage to themselves or to others. He belonged in solitude, where his uncontrolled rages and rabid joys would be witnessed only by silence and darkness, where he could let his despair give in to madness and no one would care. He deserved it. He needed it.

He told himself he wanted it.

But what he really wanted was her.

In the near distance a woman's laughter sparkled over the snow, along with the clack of bootheels and an answering baritone chuckle. And for just a moment Jonas allowed himself to wonder what it would be like to have her. What it would be like to have a normal life, to do normal, everyday things. To go to an exhibition on a cold and snowy night and see the gaslights reflected in the snow and the jewels glittering on the ears and throats of every woman there. To walk arm in arm and laugh breathlessly together, whispering secrets and exchanging small flirtations. To go home with her and pull her laughing up the stairs, to take her in his arms and kiss her and know she was his forever, that together they could survive this madness, that with her he could withstand his pain and temper his joys.

It would be like living a fairy tale. Prince Charming and Sleeping Beauty. But in fairy tales the witch was always killed at the end. In fairy tales evil was banished. And Prince Charming never turned back into a frog.

Jonas sighed, leaning back against the wall. There was no point in thinking about it anymore. Genie would never be his. She would go back to Nashville. As Rico said, she would find a nice young man and settle down. She would have children. She would be happy.

Happy. Yes, that was what Jonas wanted for her. It was all he wanted.

"Ah, there you are."

Rico's voice came out of the darkness, disembodied and strange but hardly a surprise. Jonas turned to see his friend standing at the corner of the building, huddled against the cold.

"Yes," he said calmly. "I'm here."

"I finally got Carter settled down. He's decided not to press charges."

Jonas nodded. "Thank you."

Childs came toward him. Jonas heard his friend's footsteps crunching in the frost-covered snow, heard the deep tenor of his breath. Then he felt Rico's warmth beside him, a reassuring presence in the cold night.

"You had no choice," Childs said. "What that man said to her was criminal."

"She's his daughter."

"That doesn't give him leave to abuse her." Rico leaned back against the building, his shoulder close to Jonas's. "You were a brave man to attack him,
mon ami
—or incredibly stupid, 1 can't decide. He had the advantage, after all."

Jonas laughed bitterly, holding up his false hand. It jiggled loosely on his wrist. A broken leather strap dangled down his arm. "Next time I'll think twice before I take on an angry father one-handed."

There was a pause. Then Childs said, carefully, "I would like to think that this is the end of your father- fighting days."

"It's not as if I've made a career of it."

"That's not exactly what I meant." Rico sighed. "You realize, my love, that it would go a long way toward mending things if you simply married the girl."

Jonas said nothing. The pain that speared through him at Rico's words was too great to fight.

"You're not going to, are you?"

Jonas shook his head. "No."

"Will you tell me why?"

He'd already given Rico all the answers. There were no others. Jonas angled his head back, staring at the black sky, wishing he could see the stars tonight, needing to see the stars. A pinpoint of light in the darkness, as bright and elusive as the hope Genie had given him. The hope that was slipping away from him now, slipping through his fingers like water. He let it go, not knowing how to keep it, afraid to try.

He heard Rico sigh again beside him, heard the catch in his breath.

"You're going to do it, aren't you?" Childs asked quietly, a murmur of sound on the breeze. "You're going to let her go."

"Yes."

"And then what? What will you do then, Jonas? Commit yourself? Lock yourself away?"

He knew Rico expected a denial, that he wanted one. Deliberately Jonas kept quiet, kept looking at the black, black sky, at the ineffectual glow of the streetlights against it.

Rico exhaled in disbelief. "That's your plan, isn't it? Dammit, tell me I'm wrong. Tell me."

Slowly Jonas turned to look at him. Childs's eyes sparkled in the darkness, dark and luminous. His face was lit in planes of shadow and light.

"I'm going tomorrow," he said.

"What if I told you I wasn't leaving?" Rico demanded sharply. "What if I told you I'd stay? Would it make a difference?"

Jonas smiled. Tenderly, he touched Rico's shoulder, clasping it tightly, feeling the warmth of his friend's body through the heavy coat. "No," he said softly. "It wouldn't make a difference. Not this time."

He pulled away and started walking, away from the glittering windows of the National Academy, into the gaslit shadows of the night, leaving Rico standing stunned and silent behind.

T
he clock in the hallway chimed two a.m., but Imogene stood at the window of her room, watching the snowy street below. There were still people up at this hour, couples dashing home late from parties and distractions, lovers sharing illicit kisses in dark corners.

Any other night she would have liked watching them. Any other night, she would have made up stories in her head about where they'd been and who they were. But not tonight. Tonight, she could not stop thinking about Jonas, about the painting.

About herself.

Imogene shivered, drawing her arms closer about her chest, feeling the brush of the earrings against her jaw, the smooth touch of the bronze velvet against her knuckles. The trappings of beauty. Jewelry and velvet and brocade. Tonight she had put on this dress and felt that she was pretty. She had seen the way the hue heightened her color and added honey to her hair and she had thought,
now he'll want me. Now he won't be so ashamed.
She had wanted to impress him with fine things, and instead he had shown her how unnecessary such things were. Instead, he had created beauty with nothing.

With nothing
.

She had not even posed for him. He had created a vision from memory alone, had transformed her into a woman who was beautiful and alluring. A woman she had always believed she could never be. At least she had believed that, until tonight. Until she'd looked at the painting and seen in that woman the same things she saw in the sketch hanging above her washstand. Beauty and grace. A subtle eroticism. Tranquility. And something else. Something familiar.

Herself.

Yes, she was the woman in his painting. She knew it when she thought of the way she'd been with Jonas, when she thought of how she'd lain in his arms and cried out for his touch. She had come alive beneath his hands, had felt vibrant and beautiful and sensuous. And perhaps . . . perhaps feeling those things had made them true. Perhaps she had been wrong about who she was, perhaps her father had been wrong. She had spent her life comparing herself to Chloe, and it was true that in comparison to her sister, Imogene was not as pretty, not as talented. But now she wondered if they were really the things that mattered.

She thought about the things she'd always wanted, things that had been defined by Chloe. Talent and beauty and attention. Imogene had wanted, more than anything, to be like her sister, to be the belle of the ball.

Or she had wanted that, once. But wanting those things had become a habit more than anything else. Over the years, over the last weeks, they had somehow lost their attractiveness. Instead of remembering the way Chloe had bloomed beneath the admiration, Imogene remembered the mindless flirtation and superficial talk, the attention that had smothered as much as it flattered.

Chloe had not been able to go anywhere without men falling over themselves to talk to her. She had grown to expect it, had relied on her beauty to give her whatever she wanted. Imogene had always thought her sister was defiant and rebellious, but suddenly she wondered if that wasn't it at all, if maybe Chloe hadn't been a bohemian, or a rebel.

If maybe she had simply been spoiled.

The thought was startling and disconcerting. In death, Chloe had become what she had never been in life: a perfect sister, a glowing talent. Death had given her a heroism, a sharp focus that wasn't blurred by reality or faults. Grief had turned her into a myth, a fantasy.

Imogene had been struggling to become an illusion. For years she had wanted a life that had never existed. She had wanted love—her father's love, her mother's, Nicholas's. She had wanted to be beautiful to someone. She had wanted those things so badly she had given away her own life to have them.

But still no one had given her those things. No one had ever loved her enough to believe she was beautiful or special.

No one except Jonas.

Except Jonas
. She thought of how it felt to lie in his arms, to press her cheek against his chest and hear the rumble of his voice, the steady beating of his heart. And she knew that Chloe would never have fallen in love with Jonas. Chloe would have dismissed him and walked away, because she had no compassion and less understanding. She would never have wanted to try.

But Imogene was not Chloe. She was no artist, and she was no beauty. Except in the eyes of one man. A man who made her believe anything was possible. A man who made her believe she could be the woman in the portrait. A man who looked at her and saw beauty and tranquility.

A man who loved her.

She knew that too, as irrevocably as if he'd told her. And it hadn't been the pain in his eyes tonight that had told her, or the way he'd defended her against her father. It had been simply that he had painted a portrait of her from memory. That he saw her as beautiful. She'd been wrong when she thought he didn't really see her—she knew that now. He not only saw who she was, he made her more than she'd ever thought she could be. His words from the other night came rushing back to her, haunting and doubly painful now, because now she understood what he'd been saying. Now she understood.