by Megan Chance
But then she saw their eyes on her, saw their rapt attention: Peter's dismay and Daniel's flushed embarrassment and Tobias's unabashed stare. There was something exciting about their reactions, something insidiously decadent. They were watching her the way men never watched her, and with a start she understood what Clarisse had felt, and Chloe. Imogene felt the power of her movement, was aware of her body in a way she'd never been before, the sway of her hips, the dangling hairs bouncing against her cheeks, her throat. Excitement coursed through her, she felt its heat in her face, felt the tingle in her skin.
She felt . . . alive.
Her senses were on fire, the blood raced through her veins. She stepped up on the platform, letting her gaze rest on the others for a moment before she turned and sat with her back to them, closing her eyes as she lowered the sleeves of her dress, the chemise straps. She felt the brush of cool air on her bare shoulders, felt the hot touch of their collective gaze, and satisfaction surged through her, a strange and heady confidence that grew when she saw Whitaker reach for an easel and a sketch pad and join the others. He was going to draw her. He was going to draw her, and she would look at that sketch and know what he saw when he looked at her. She would see with his vision today after all.
The thought was intoxicating. She could imagine now what Chloe must have felt surrounded by the adoring suitors who crowded the parlor. For a moment it seemed her sister's spirit surged into Imogene. She straightened her shoulders and lifted her head, feeling, for the only time in her life, like a woman worthy of attention.
She heard the scratching of charcoal on canvas and waited.
Chapter 9
Jonas stared unseeingly at the sketch before him, at his hastily drawn lines. He did not understand what had happened. Something had changed, something had wrested control from his hands, and it sent the blood racing through his veins, filled him with fear and dread and a disturbing euphoria.
He continually underestimated her. She was never what he expected. He thought of when she'd first arrived this morning, wearing the blue moire silk that was as colorless and unflattering on her as everything else she'd worn. It made her look weak and frail, and he'd let that fool him, even though it shouldn't have, even though he knew she was stronger than she looked.
He was twice the fool, since he could not look at that moire silk now without thinking of how it had looked peeling back under his fingers, slowly—button by button—revealing the virginal pointelle lace of her chemise, the smooth ivory of her flesh. He could not stop remembering how dark and dirty his fingers had looked against her pale skin, or the freckles spattered across her shoulders, or those fine light hairs at the nape of her neck, the pale down . . .
Jonas closed his eyes briefly. He was truly going mad. He had wanted to send her running, and instead he was the one who felt the need to run. Because he could not take his eyes off her. Because sitting there with her back to him, she was captivating and puzzling, a mystery he needed to solve. Because when she named her conditions for posing, he had wanted suddenly and completely to draw her, as she'd asked, and he could not figure out why.
He told himself she was too delicate, too pale, too fragile for his tastes. But the sunlight pouring through the windows added color to her skin, sent highlights flickering through that honey-colored hair, gave her a soft warmth, an ethereal, almost spiritual, strength.
He told himself she was plain, her face too angular for beauty, her jaw too long. But sitting there the way she was, with her chin lifted at an angle to him, he saw the delicate structure of her jaw, the rise of cheekbone, the fine symmetry of her features.
He was entranced by those expressive eyes and the smoothness of her skin and her scent, by the strange force of her words, the wistfulness he heard in them, the threat of intimacy. "I want to know what it's like to be you. I want to understand."
Why the hell wouldn't she run?
Jonas clenched the charcoal in his fingers, feeling overwhelming frustration. He didn't know what else to try, what to do, couldn't even remember why he wanted so badly for her to go. What was it about her? Why was it that she affected him this way? He couldn't remember the last time a woman had gotten so under his skin—
The lines on the paper seemed to congeal suddenly, to take form before his eyes. Not just separate lines, more than a two-dimensional plane, more than space and shadow. He looked down at his sketch pad and saw the woman he'd drawn in exquisite detail. The sketch took his breath away. He stared at it, at the sensuality of the form, the quiet eroticism, and felt a shock and dismay that went clear to his bones.
He shook his head. Ah, Christ. Christ, not this. Not so easily. He'd struggled for days with the courtesan, for weeks. She had never unfurled as easily as this. Every sketch had been a struggle, every line a defeat.
The buzzing in his blood grew. It rang in his ears, pulsed through him like a heartbeat. Jonas dropped the charcoal and stepped away until he could no longer see the drawing, wanting to deny it even existed. She was in everything. Everything. He didn't want her there, didn't want any part of her at all. He glanced up at her, sitting there on that platform, not at all the victim he'd wanted her to be, and his anger came fast and furious. He felt as defeated as the courtesan had made him. Viciously he tore the sketch from the easel, crumpling it and throwing it to the floor.
"Get dressed," he said harshly. He could barely get the words out, but they seemed to echo in the room, too loud and too brutal. "For Christ's sake, get dressed and go home. All of you go home."
She jumped, twisting around to stare at him. He saw her gaze drop to the paper he'd tossed aside, saw the question in her big brown eyes. Then color flooded her cheeks, and she was frowning, pulling up the sleeves of her dress, and McBride was on his feet and moving toward her, helping her with her gown. Jonas felt the stares of the others as well, turning on him, trapping him, and he didn't give a damn what they saw or what they thought.
He turned away, striding past them to the canvas against the window. He grabbed his palette on the way, determined to paint, determined to let his vision take over, to blank out Imogene Carter and her delicate curves and fragile features. Determined to draw the courtesan. Determined not to look at her again, not to think about her.
He heard the door to the studio open. Jonas kept his gaze fastened on the canvas before him, the muted underpainting, the lush lines of the whore. . . .
The studio door crashed shut. Jonas glanced over. It was Childs. The sight of him brought both relief and irritation. "What do you want, Rico?"
"It's past noon, mon ami." Childs shrugged, a loose, beautiful movement that sent his golden hair tumbling over his shoulders. "Time for all the boys and girls to go home." He glanced over the room, and Jonas felt a surge of annoyance as Rico turned his smile on Miss Carter, who was stepping off the platform, blushing prettily, her dress done up again to hide those smooth, creamy shoulders, her pale throat.
"Ah, Miss Imogene," Rico said in his smooth, cultured tone. "How nice to see you again. I—"
"Leave her the hell alone." For a moment, Jonas didn't realize the words had come from him. For a moment, the intensity of his anger startled him. He saw Childs turn to him, a dark blond brow rising in surprise, saw the sudden interest flaring in his friend's eyes.
"Let's go, Imogene."
With a part of his mind, Jonas heard McBride's voice. It was too loud in the sudden silence. He saw the way the man took Imogene Carter's arm, the way he pulled her to the door. She hesitated for only an instant, long enough to grab the crumpled sketch Jonas had thrown away, and when Jonas saw the careful, precious way she held it, he lost whatever illusion of control he had.
"Yes, go, Genie, won't you?" he said, putting all of his anger and self-mockery into the words. "Get the hell out of here."
And even though he knew Childs was watching, even though he knew there would be questions about it later, Jonas couldn't take his eyes off her as Peter escorted her to the door. He expected to feel relief when she
was finally gone, but all he felt was a confusing disappointment, and he could do nothing but stand there while the others left. When Tobias Harrington finally closed the door behind him, Jonas slowly turned his gaze to Rico, who was lounging on the model's chair, the image of careless indolence.
Jonas wasn't fooled. He saw the intense interest in his friend's pale blue eyes, the thinly veiled curiosity.
"Well, well. What was that all about, mon ami?"
There was no excuse he could offer. Briefly Jonas wondered what to tell him. What explanation would satisfy when he didn't understand himself what had just happened? He thought of a dozen offhand comments, vague disclaimers, easy lies, but he knew by the way Rico was watching him that he would never escape so easily.
"Well? Are you going to answer me, or shall I be forced to come up with an explanation myself? Let's see—I know—you've fallen madly in love with the girl-"
"Don't be ridiculous," Jonas snapped.
"Pardon, but it hardly seems ridiculous to me. I heard your last words to that little innocent—not to mention those charming endearments you sent my way. You hardly sounded disinterested."
"Words are easily misunderstood."
"Don't turn philosophical on me, Jonas, I can hardly bear it." Childs groaned, rolling his eyes. “Credit me with a little intelligence, won't you? There's not much room to interpret 'Leave her the hell alone.’”
Jonas worked to keep his face impassive. "Perhaps I was angry at something else."
"Perhaps Paris is in Germany."
"Don't start with me, Rico."
"You forget," Childs said with a limpid smile. "You can't threaten me. I've already seen you at your worst."
"That's what you think."
"And anyway, my curiosity has the better of me."
"I won't insult you by reminding you of the pitfalls of curiosity."
"Or I suppose I could simply ask Clarisse." Rico glanced at the changing screen, and then frowned and looked around the room. "Where is she, anyway? I thought you said she'd be modeling today."
Clarisse. Jonas had forgotten about her. Forgotten her so completely it took a moment for him to react to Childs's words. "Clarisse," he repeated slowly. "She's gone."
"Gone?" Rico's frown deepened. "You say that as if she's dead."
"Dead to me anyway. I'm done with her."
"You're done with her? After only a week?" Childs's scrutiny intensified. "Why do I feel as if I've missed something?"
Jonas tried to keep his words casual. "It's nothing, Rico. I was tired of her, that's all."
"Who have you replaced her with?"
The question stabbed through Jonas with surprising sharpness. It was a valid query, given that he was never without a mistress, but it startled him that he'd forgotten that, and he wanted to answer: No one. I've replaced her with no one at all. He wanted to believe it. But then he saw Imogene Carter sitting on the chair, lowering the straps of her chemise over her shoulders . . .
Jonas's mouth went dry. He swallowed, forced himself to make a dismissive gesture.
"I see."
The studied disbelief in his friend's voice irritated Jonas. He turned away, back to the table, to the glass slab loaded with half-ground ultramarine. "It's easy enough to find a woman. You know that."
"Yes, of course. How silly of me to suspect you're not telling me the whole truth."
Jonas winced. "Rico—"
"Please, mon ami, you sound so tortured. If you're so determined to keep everything such a secret, just say so and be done with it."
"It's a secret."
"Damn you." There was laughter in the words.
Jonas sighed. "It's nothing for you to be concerned about, Rico."
There was silence. Then Rico's voice came, soft and somber, all humor gone. "Isn't it?"
Jonas squeezed his eyes shut. Funny how that concern pierced through him. It almost undid him, and he opened his eyes and stared at the paint on the slab, forcing himself to gain control, trying to come up with some plausible lie, some way to explain to Rico what he could not explain to himself. How could he explain that the thought of a mistress suddenly seemed repulsive and coarse? That a virginal, colorless woman had suddenly taken on such vibrancy that it was impossible to banish or forget her?
He couldn't explain any of it. And he knew if he tried, Rico would just look at him with those too-perceptive, too-blue eyes, and see right through him the way he always had. It was why Jonas hated Childs as much as he loved him, why those months Childs had spent in Paris had been a relief for both of them.
Despite himself, Jonas remembered last spring. He buried the memory as quickly as he had it, forcing himself to speak gently. "It's nothing, Rico. Really, it's nothing."
"I've heard those words before," Childs said quietly.
God, the pain he felt at Rico's soft statement, the misery of memory. Jonas forced himself to forget it, to turn and smile, to pretend nothing had changed at all. He kept his voice deliberately light. "Tell me why you came over this morning."
Childs laughed, a short, dismissive sound, and Jonas knew it was more a response to the fact that he was keeping secrets than to his question.
Rico grinned wryly. "All right, my love, I'll play along like a good boy. I came this morning to invite you over. The other night I'd forgotten—I brought something back from Paris for you—a bit of the devil himself. I thought you might enjoy it—a lungful of wickedness to go with the rest of you, eh?"
Jonas didn't pretend to misunderstand. He closed his eyes, imagining the smooth, sweet heaviness of opium. Ah, it sounded good. It sounded like blessed peace, heady forgetfulness.
And he wanted to forget. He wanted to forget today. Wanted to forget the vision of her eyes and the tantalizing glimpses of her ivory flesh and how easy it had been to draw her. He wanted to forget today and last night and yesterday, wanted to calm the fierce buzzing in his blood that had grown stronger and stronger since she'd looked in his eyes and said "I want to know what it's like ..."
Jonas shook his head slightly as if to clear it. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I'd like that very much."
Childs gave a little bow. "Then come with me. What was that poem? ' "Come into my parlor," said the spider to the fly'—something like that."
Jonas smiled. "You can tempt me all you want, Rico, but I'll tell you no secrets today, I'm warning you."
Rico laughed. It was joyous and sweet, and the studio seemed to pulsate with the sound. "I've already told you that you can't threaten me," he said, and he led the way across the hall to his studio, like the Pied Piper leading children to the sea.
It was later, much later, that Jonas lounged on the huge bed in the corner of Childs's studio, his eyes bleary and his body drunk on smoke. He watched the golden and black shadows cast by the oil lamp dance over the walls and Rico's paintings, over the large trunk from Paris that still stood in the middle of the room, its lid thrown open to reveal the multicolored fabrics of Rico's wardrobe—waistcoats and morning coats and trousers spread all about, some crumpled on the floor, some strewn on the bed, some crunched beneath Jonas's legs.
It was like a Pandora's box, he thought, eyeing the quivering fringe of the bedcovers, the gold that looked more golden in the lamplight, the rich burgundies and greens that seemed to pulsate in the lying visions of the drug. Rico's chambers were much more opulent than his, but that was because Childs cared about fine things and Jonas did not. Childs loved luxuries, soft velvets and expensive liquors and fine perfumes. Even now the scent of incense hung in the air, mixing with the sweet opium smoke, heavy and deep with spice.
Jonas felt as if he were drowning in it, and he longed to close his eyes and stay here forever, but there was a thrumming in his blood that the opiate hadn't taken away, not yet, and he needed something else to ease it.
"More?" Childs's voice came to him, sounding languid and hopelessly far away, though it wasn't. Rico hadn't moved from where he sat beside Jonas on the bed, the picture of decadent languor, a pipe in on
e hand while he stroked Jonas's hair with the other, threading his fingers through the strands in an intimate, soothing rhythm.
Jonas reached up and took the pipe, sucking the burning smoke into his lungs, letting it curl around him. So insidious, he thought, closing his eyes. One never knew where the drug would take you, how dangerous it would choose to be, or how alluring.
Like Imogene Carter. The thought unfurled in his mind, slowly and without surprise. He hadn't been able to lose the image of her, not throughout the long evening and not now, in the dark hours of early morning. He remembered what he'd called her earlier, what Peter had called her. Genie. The name fit her. Like a genie in a bottle, she was magical, seductive, alluring. She was as dangerous as the opium, the way she haunted his thoughts.
He could not get her out of his mind, and though he'd smoked the opium to forget her, it only intensified his vision instead, brought back every detail of this morning in startling clarity. He remembered how much he'd hated her when she walked into the studio, how he'd been looking forward to destroying her today, to discovering her scheme and making her pay for her presumption. He remembered how he'd savored the words "Genie, will you model for us today?" and then how shocked he'd been when her small, slender hands went to her collar, how paralyzed he'd been by the smooth grace of her movements. She had never seemed so self-possessed, never so confident. And somehow that was seductive.
Ah, Genie. Genie turning her back to him so he could finish the buttons. Genie bending that long, pale neck, almost like an offering. That heated, almond scent, the silky warm flesh, the honeyed strands of hair dancing over his knuckles as he unfastened the buttons —one, two, and then three, and then clean white lace and freckled skin and smooth softness.