by Megan Chance
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?"
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 wa
nted 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.