by Megan Chance
"Jonas?" Clarisse's voice from the bedroom. Low and throaty, breaking the rhythm in his head. "Darlin', is he gone?"
Jonas dropped his hands, felt the need rising up in him again, hard and fast. "Yes," he called. "He's gone."
"Why're you waitin', then?"
Why indeed?
Jonas strode to the bedroom, banishing the voices in his head. Tonight he would let Clarisse's soft heat and the erotic touch of her skin soothe him. Tonight he would forget about Imogene Carter and her reasons for not telling Gosney the truth, her reasons for wanting to stay.
But tomorrow . . .
Tomorrow he would find out why.
Tomorrow he would break her.
Chapter 8
Today we'll be studying the female back." Whitaker stepped up to the platform where Clarisse sat, his long, elegant fingers unfastening the buttons at the back of the model's too-tight green gown. Slowly he eased the satin over Clarisse's shoulders to reveal her back.
It was seductive, the way he did it, the lingering motion, the way he brushed his fingers over the woman's skin. So tactile and suggestive Imogene shivered, feeling the fine hairs at the back of her neck rise. Too well she could imagine what that touch would feel like. Far too well.
Imogene swallowed and focused her gaze on Clarisse's back, trying to banish the thought, to forget about yesterday and the way he'd touched her. It was obvious it had meant nothing to him; this morning he'd graced her arrival with a single glowering look that reminded her of the way he'd ordered her to leave yesterday, of that black anger that darkened his eyes. It was just as well. She didn't want him to touch her again. It only made it harder to concentrate, only clouded her real aim. But still she wished she knew what she'd done to make him so angry, wished she knew how to ease it. As long as he was angry, he was unlikely to be the teacher she longed for. As long as he was angry, she doubted there would be a repeat of two days ago.
The thought depressed her, but she held her charcoal tightly in her fingers and leaned forward when he began to talk, hoping that maybe she would find the magic anyway, that perhaps she could reach it alone.
"Now look closely," Whitaker said. He splayed his fingers over Clarisse's shoulder blade. "See how smooth the muscles are? Concentrate on just the shoulder for now. In a moment we'll move to the spine."
He stepped away, and Imogene stared at the model's back, wishing she understood anatomy better, the way Chloe had. She remembered her sister poring over medical papers with their father, sketching for hours in an attempt to get a single line right. Imogene narrowed her eyes, trying to see with her sister's vision, working to follow the lines of the muscles.
She set the charcoal to the paper, drew the first sweep of shoulder, and glanced up—just as Jonas Whitaker stepped down from the platform. He was looking directly at her. Imogene stopped, startled by the bitter anger in his glare.
"Miss Carter," he said, his tone all soft menace. His eyes glittered when he crooked his finger at her. "Come with me a moment, won't you?"
She couldn't help her swift joy at his notice, no matter the reason. It was so intense she leapt clumsily to her feet, knocking the easel with her arm. He was already striding to the far side of the room toward the windows, and she hurried after him, ignoring the scowl Clarisse threw her way.
She followed him to the table where her primed canvases waited, stopping a few feet away from him.
He turned toward her. "It's time for another private lesson, Miss Carter," he said. He pushed the frames aside. They went clattering to the floor. Imogene tried not to wince.
He dragged a slab of glass and a short palette knife toward him. "I'm assuming you know nothing about grinding colors," he said, setting out a jar of oil and another of varnish. He looked up at her, a smug expression on his face. "Well, today is your day to learn. Come closer."
Imogene hesitated. Unbidden, images from yesterday came flooding back: the feel of his hair on her cheek, the press of his body against hers.
He smiled coldly at her. "Well?"
Imogene banished the images. She told herself she could ignore his touches, that she could control her yearning, and moved to where he'd motioned. Close enough to feel him beside her even though they weren't touching. Close enough to feel his warmth, the rush of air when he moved.
"Certain colors need to be ground more than others," he said in a low, compelling voice. "Some need to be washed as well. Ultramarine is one." He lifted a small bowl. A fine ultramarine dust clung to the bottom, the residue of a liquid that had long since evaporated. "This is color that's been washed already, first in hot water, then in cold," he said, tilting the bowl over the glass slab. He tapped it a few times with his other hand; she heard the hollow sound of his false finger against the ceramic.
"This is pure color," he said, his breath stirring the bright blue particles. He lifted the jar of oil and let a few drops puddle on the glass. "Add the oil a little at a time," he said, setting the jar aside and picking up a palette knife. With swift, efficient movements, he mixed the powder into the oil, kneading the mixture with the knife, spreading it over the slab and scraping it up again. Carefully, step by step, he added drops of oil and a few of varnish and blended, his movements so precise and rhythmic Imogene felt herself falling into a trance. Pour, spread, scrape. Pour, spread, scrape. How finely he did it, how gracefully. It was so measured and easy she had to remind herself he was performing all the motions with only one hand.
He straightened suddenly; she felt the brush of his rigid hand against her skirts, felt him move closer even as he seemed to be moving away. "Now you try," he whispered, and his breath was hot against her ear, she felt the shivering of the little hairs at her temple.
The air grew close and tight. She felt the press of him against her hip, and despite her resolution not to let his touches affect her, a shiver spun up her spine. Imogene struggled to control her reaction, to keep her breathing even, to cool the flush heating her skin. She stepped away, a single step, but it was enough to ease the tension in the air and steady her breathing.
She reached to take the palette knife and the oil, thinking he would hand them to her and move away. But instead he moved closer, and his fingers seemed to linger against hers as he placed the items in her hands.
Imogene tightened her jaw and tried to ignore his proximity. But her hands shook slightly as she poured the oil. A few drops only, but they puddled on the glass and spread, colorless and silky, into the paint. Too much. Hastily she pushed paint into it, trying to catch it before he had the chance to berate her, cursing herself for not being able to do even this simple thing correctly. She waited for him to say something, waited for his impatient anger.
But instead he moved behind her and looked over her shoulder. Instead his voice was low and seductive in her ear. "Slow down," he said. "Slower, that's the way." Then his hands were suddenly on either side of her and he was against her back, his good hand holding her wrist steady, guiding her gently into the motion of kneading: back and forth, back and forth, spread, scrape, spread, scrape.
She stared at the glowing color, at the paint-stained fingers wrapped around her wrist. They were long and well formed, elegant. Bits of faded color—vermillion and ultramarine and Naples yellow—accentuated the wrinkles of his knuckles, the texture of his skin. She found herself entranced by the play of sinews in his hand, mesmerized by the rhythm, by the gentle pressure of his fingers, his heat at her back. But it was the rhythm more than anything, and it was so hypnotizing that when he released her wrist she kept moving the palette knife against the glass, loath to stop, taking pleasure in the way the paint built up, the way it thickened and gained body, the stiff wet sound of it. She was so focused on the kneading she almost forgot he was there.
Until she felt the touch of his fingers on her cheek. The spell shattered, so abruptly that Imogene jumped. But he held her tightly against him, and she couldn't move or pull away.
"Darling," he whispered, and his voice was low and seductive a
nd heavy with loathing while his fingers stroked her skin with the most delicate of touches. "I had a visit from your goddaddy last night, did he tell you?"
His words confused her, his touch, his voice. Bewildered, she shook her head.
"He kept it a secret from you? Tsk, tsk." His hair danced against her throat. "He wanted to tell me something. What do you suppose it was, Miss Carter, hmmmm?"
She felt the briefest of kisses against her ear, the light, heated brush of his lips.
"I—I don't know," she whispered.
"He asked me to treat you gently," he murmured. She heard the faint amusement in his tone, the derision. "I forgot to ask him exactly how gently he meant. Perhaps you know." His breath was heated and moist against her skin, his lips caressed her throat. "Is this gentle enough, darling?"
Lord, oh, Lord. She was dizzy and trembling and too hot. Desperately she thought of Chloe, but even imagining her sister couldn't bring to mind a single setdown, not a single course of action. Move, she told herself. Step away. But she couldn't move, couldn't do anything but stand there trembling in his arms, mesmerized by a touch she told herself not to want, seduced by words that stole her breath and her will.
"What is it you want from me, Miss Imogene Carter, hmmm?" he asked. She felt the cradle of his hips through her skirt, pressed to her buttocks. His voice was quieter than a whisper, his fingers played with the loose curls at her throat, stroked her jaw. "Why don't you run away, I wonder? Why—"
"Take your hands off her, you son of a bitch!" Clarisse screeched.
Whitaker started, his hands dropped, and Imogene sprang away, nearly falling into the paint, cracking her hip on the table in her haste. She'd forgotten all about the others, had forgotten everything but Whitaker, and now their faces filled her vision, all stiff with curiosity and fear. Heat rushed into Imogene's face, along with the ache of humiliation. They had been watching. No doubt they'd seen her lean into him, seen how easily she was persuaded, how simple it was to seduce her. Lord, what they must think.
She tried to catch Peter's eye, to explain with expression if not with words, but he wouldn't look at her, and she felt alone and abandoned until she suddenly realized they weren't staring at her at all. They were staring at Whitaker.
Frowning, she glanced at him. His face was so hard and cold and expressionless he seemed cut from marble. It was obvious he'd already forgotten her. He was looking at Clarisse as if the rest of them had disappeared.
Clarisse surged to her feet, her skin blotchy with rage, her eyes burning with self-righteous anger. She marched across the studio until she was even with Whitaker.
"How dare you touch her like that!" she spat out. She raised her hand to slap him.
He caught it easily. "Don't cause a scene, Clarisse," he said calmly. "Or you'll make me angry."
She jerked away from his touch. "Like I give a damn! I'll cause a scene if I like." She threw a glance at Imogene; it was so baleful Imogene stepped back, gripping the table to steady herself. "You must think I'm daft, makin' love to the girl right afore my eyes like that. Didya think I wouldn't see?"
"To tell you the truth, I didn't much care." Whitaker said, smiling coldly.
"Well, I won't put up with it," Clarisse threatened. "Get rid of her or I'm goin'."
"Don't tell me what to do, Clarisse." Whitaker's voice was soft, too soft, and so full of warning Imogene's heart stopped.
But Clarisse didn't seem to notice. "I tell you I won't put up with it," she said again.
He shrugged. "If you don't like it, you can always leave," he said lightly. "In fact, I'd prefer it if you would. Right now. And don't come back."
It took only a second for his words to register. Clarisse blanched. Her skin went sallow, accenting the shadows beneath her eyes, the creases framing her mouth. Then her expression tightened, her pretty eyes narrowed.
"You son of a bitch," she spat, spinning away from him. "To hell with you and your little whore both!" Her curses filled the air as she grabbed her cloak off the peg and yanked open the door.
It slammed shut behind her.
There was silence.
Then there was a frantic surge of activity. Tobias grabbed clumsily for his paintbox, Daniel suddenly found his palette fascinating, and Peter began painting furiously, even though there was nothing to paint.
Imogene stood there, stunned and disbelieving. She was the cause of this; her befuddled mind struggled with the knowledge. She—sickly little Imogene Carter —was the cause of a jealous rage. It was incredible, and oddly flattering. As foreign as the feeling was, it was rather exciting, almost heady. And it made her curious. She was a nobody, yet Clarisse had been jealous
of her, and Jonas Whitaker had pressed against her, had kissed her ear, had caressed her throat. He had made love to her, just as Clarisse had said, and now Imogene wondered why, wondered what the two of them saw in her, wondered what he saw in her. It fascinated her suddenly, the simple question: What did Whitaker see in her?
From across the room came the sound of a throat clearing, Daniel's deep but wavering voice. "Sir, shall we—shall we continue? Or shall we . . . go?"
Slowly Whitaker turned to face him. "Go?" he asked, and Imogene heard again that amusement in his tone, the touch of contempt. "Ah, now, that is the question, isn't it?"
He turned to look at her, and the sharp speculation in his eyes, his small smile, made her wary. But she didn't look away, and it seemed that only made his smile broader.
"Miss Carter," he said, drawing the syllables of her name out until they sounded like a caress. "It seems we're in need of a model."
The suggestion was there, in his voice, startling and illusory. She couldn't believe it, told herself not to believe it. He couldn't want her to model for them. But she saw the query in his eyes as he moved closer to her, saw it when he stopped just before her, close enough that she could feel his heat and smell the scent of turpentine and oil that clung to him, the faint remnants of smoke. She found herself staring at his chest, at the open collar of his shirt, and with a shiver she noticed the dark curls that started there and disappeared beneath the threadbare cotton. Curls that Nicholas had never had.
She felt again that stab of desire, the sinking in her stomach, the heat that started there and spun into her blood, clear into her fingertips, and she knew he was deliberately trying to make her feel that way, that his every move and word had been intended to seduce her, that his question now was a compliment meant to manipulate her, an insincere and calculated flattery. And she wondered again what he wanted from her, who he saw when he looked at her. The questions suddenly seemed more important than ever, somehow necessary. This was Jonas Whitaker, a handsome, brilliant artist. A man she wanted to understand, to learn from. She was nothing but an inexperienced student, a woman who could not possibly tempt him, a woman he could not possibly want. So why all the attention? Why?
Her throat felt dry; it took all Imogene's effort to keep her breathing steady when he reached out, cupping her chin and tilting it up, forcing her to look into his eyes.
"So what should we do, Miss Carter?" Whitaker's fingers stroked her skin, his voice was smooth and beguiling. "The others are waiting for me to show them a woman's back."
"Imogene. Genie—" Peter's voice, a quick protest. It seemed to come from miles away.
Whitaker smiled. "Genie?" he repeated, and then he said the name again, a tentative test, rolling it over his tongue as if he liked the feel of it, the taste. He bent until she felt his breath against her lips, the whispered accents. "Genie, darling, will you model for us today?"
There it was, the question he'd alluded to. But hearing the words startled her. For some reason she'd expected them to blast through the room, a loud and obscene declaration, words that would bring her to her senses, that would take away the possibilities and leave her with emotions and respectability intact.
But instead the words were soft, a forbidden temptation that cajoled with compliments. Instead, they seduced her, whispe
red against her skin, danced around her. "Genie, darling, will you model for us today?" Her questions came flooding back, leaving her weak and flattered and curious. Why me? What does he want from me? How does he see me?
Lord, she wanted to know, wanted to know so badly it was all she could think about. In the light of it, propriety didn't matter, nothing mattered but knowing more about him, answering those questions. And oh, she wanted to know the answers. She wanted it more than anything she had ever wanted.
Imogene took a deep breath and looked steadily into his eyes.
"Christ." The word was a harsh whisper, startled surprise. He dropped his hand so quickly it was as if she'd burned him. He stepped back.
"I'll pose," she said quietly, not taking her gaze from his. "I'll pose for the others ... if you draw me too."
He stared at her, and she saw the wariness on his face, the suspicious question, and thought he would refuse, but he only frowned and said, "You want me to draw you?"
"Please."
He looked at her steadily, assessingly. Then finally he nodded, and that thin smile was back in place again, the faint contempt. "Very well then," he said.
She nodded, trying to control the excitement that soared through her, the fluttering in her stomach. She took a deep, calming breath and reached behind her neck, feeling for the buttons at the back of her collar. "You'll have to help me," she said, and it amazed her how calm her voice sounded, how unemotional.
Without waiting for his assent, she turned her back to him. It seemed an eternity before she felt his fingers working the buttons, slipping them through the fastenings easily, smoothly. She felt the loosening of her collar, the cool air of the room touching the back of her neck. She felt the unfolding of the material at her back, the soft scrape of his knuckles over the flimsy protection of her chemise, loosening her laces.
Then he was at her waist, and he stopped and moved back. She thought she heard his breathing grow more strained as she stepped away from him and went to the chair Clarisse had occupied earlier. It was a long distance; she held the front of her dress to her breasts, thinking of Clarisse and the way the woman had bared her nakedness without a qualm, the sheer confidence of the way she moved. Imogene felt disembodied, keenly aware of her movement without feeling it at all. This is someone else entirely, she thought. Some stranger . . .
