The Portrait

by Megan Chance

  But he was waiting. She felt him there beside her, felt his impatience, felt that fierce energy. She looked at the still life in front of them, at the opalescent glass, the swirls of pearly color. Saw the silver case and the muted shades of the blue velvet and the delicate green of the apples. She felt a wave of frustration, of hopelessness, that coursed all through her. She would never be able to do this. In a hundred years, she would never be able to do this. She was not Chloe, she was not an artist. She was a fraud.

  Then she felt him move behind her. She felt his hand on hers, his gentle pressure urging her to the palette. "Paint, Genie," he whispered, directing her to the first color, to ultramarine. She watched her hand dipping the brush, pulling color out, mixing it with white until she had a pool of pale blue, a base color. She watched him take her hand to the canvas, watched the vase take shape—vague still, nothing but a start, a wide bottom and a narrower neck, the slash of a wide lip. And all the time she felt him behind her, around her. Felt the press of his fingers on her wrist, his moist breath at her ear.

  She felt mesmerized again, completely lost. Completely his.

  "Pearly tints," he said. "No palette knife, Genie. Mingle the colors with the brush—ah, that's right. Make them sparkle."

  She did as he asked without a word, dipped the brush, let him lead her motions, and the opalescent glass began to shimmer on the canvas.

  She heard his voice in her ear, a quiet brush of sound. "Sfumato here," he whispered, and under his direction she softened the lines, with his help she painted film upon film, creating hazy, smoky shadows.

  "Impasto," he murmured. "Not so much. Slower. That's it, darling. Slower. Slower."

  Like a seduction, his words. He stroked her with them, beguiled her with sounds instead of caresses. Sfumato, impasto, chiaroscuro. And when she was lost, when his words had taken away her will and her strength, he added the touches. He let his hand slip down her wrist until he was covering her hand, until the paint that marked her fingers spread to his, until she felt the gorgeous, buttery feel of it between their hands, the smooth, thick slickness of it spreading over her skin. So delicious. So erotic. She watched, frozen, her mouth dry and her heart pounding, as he dragged his fingers back again, over hers, over the back of her hand, her wrist, leaving color behind, a streak of blue against her skin, marking her.

  Branding her.

  She caught her breath.

  And then she heard the hushed whisper in her ear.

  "I want you, Genie," he said. "I want to be inside you."

  Oh, Lord, the images. The wicked, wicked images.

  "Tell me you want me." Those words again, the soft, barely spoken words. "Tell me."

  Unbidden, other words flew into her mind. Thomas's warnings. "Jonas has always had an eye for the ladies." "He would think nothing of ruining you. ..."

  She felt Whitaker's fingers on her hand, her wrist, felt the sensual friction of paint.

  "I want you, Genie. I want to be inside you."

  She wanted it too. She wanted—oh, Lord, how she wanted—to touch the shooting star. She wanted to burn within it.

  She wanted the magic.

  "Yes," she said, and she heard the harsh whisper of her voice, the desperate crack. "Yes."

  She closed her eyes, afraid to see his face in that moment, afraid of what she would find there. She heard his breathing, as hoarse and ragged as her own, felt his heat against her. Then she felt him move, and she knew he was in front of her, felt the gentle touch of his fingers as he lifted the brush from her hand, heard the soft click of it as he set it aside. Then she felt his hand in her hair, and it was suddenly impossible to breathe at all as he loosened the pins that held it. She heard them clink to the floor and scatter. She felt the heavy mass of her hair falling free, over her shoulders, down her back.

  "Genie," he said.

  She opened her eyes.

  Lord, he was too beautiful. He was too beautiful for her. Too fine for her. She did not deserve him.

  But as he stared at her with those smoldering green eyes, those thoughts melted away, replaced by a yearning so strong she could barely stand to look at him even as she could not tear her gaze away.

  He grabbed her hand, brushed it against his lips. "Frightened, Genie?" he asked.

  The question was familiar now—and so was her answer. Imogene licked her lips, shook her head. It was all she could do to say the one word. "No."

  "No," he repeated softly, and then, "Yes," and then he took a step closer and threaded his hand through her hair, keeping her in place as he bent to brush his lips over hers—a simple touch, an erotic tease. But this time he didn't pull away. This time he pressed closer, slanting his lips across hers, and she opened her mouth for him, tasted him, humid and sweet, brandy and smoke. It was intoxicating, captivating, and when he kissed her more deeply, when she felt the thrusting of his tongue, the imitation of intimacy, she melted against him, heard a moan coming from somewhere— from her.

  "Genie." He breathed the word into her mouth, pulled back before she could stop him, leaving her limp and wanting, too dazed to move, too aroused to do more than stare at him as he traced the line of her jaw, her throat. His exploration stopped at the edge of her collar, his fingers touched the cut-out lace, slipped over the onyx buttons of her bodice. She felt the warmth of him through the fabric of her gown, even through her corset.

  "Green," he mused, glancing at her dress. "Pale green."

  "R-reseda green," she managed.

  A small smile curved his mouth, amusement danced in his eyes. "Reseda green," he repeated. And then, in a voice that sent shivers up her spine, he said, "I don't like you in reseda green, Genie. And I don't like you in pink or lavender or watered blue. In fact, I think I'd prefer you in nothing at all."

  He reached for a button. She was caught in his eyes as he undid it, a practiced movement, an easy conquest. She didn't move as he unfastened another and another, and she felt her dress loosening as her breath grew tighter and tighter. Then it was open to her waist, and she watched as he eased the material down, over her shoulders, down her arms. She felt the hardness of his gloved hand. The leather was cool, quickly heated by her skin, soft and rigid, an erotic contrast. His good hand traced her—her collarbone, the hollow of her throat, the lace edging of her chemise—and she followed his movement with her gaze, her breath coming shallow and fast as she saw the paint he left behind, mapping the trail of his touch. Blue and red and yellow, marking her skin. She had the sudden, seductive thought that he was painting her, that he was bringing her alive with color and caresses, making her real where before she had been just illusion.

  And when his hand slipped beneath the fabric of the chemise, when she felt his fingers on her breast, she knew he was bringing her alive. When he lifted her from the confines of her corset, bending to touch his mouth to her skin, to kiss the swelling of her breast, Imogene pressed into him, closing her eyes and throwing back her head, gasping as his mouth closed over her nipple, suckling her, arousing her until she could only stand there helplessly, bracing her hands on his shoulders, arching back to press harder into his mouth, feeling the erotic pull and nip of his tongue, his teeth.

  "You're as beautiful as I imagined you, Genie," he whispered against her, looking up at her with those incredible eyes, and though she knew the words were a lie, Imogene felt a strange heat work its way through her, from her stomach to her heart, into her face. Embarrassed, she glanced away, but he drew back, grabbing her chin and forcing her to look at him again, and the drowsy, intimate way he looked at her made her feel swollen and tight and beautiful.

  His hand dropped from her chin; she felt it suddenly at her thigh, and then he knelt in front of her. She felt his hands beneath her skirts, on her legs, felt the gown and her petticoats moving up and up and up as he rose with them. Slowly, slowly he pressed into her, backing her up, step by step, until she felt the hard edge of a stool at her buttocks. And then he was lifting her, seating her on the stool, and she grabbed its e
dge, trying to hold her balance as he moved between her legs.

  His hand was tight on her hip, his body hard against hers. "Kiss me, Genie," he murmured, the intense green fire of his eyes burning through to her heart, beckoning her. "Kiss me."

  She couldn't deny him, didn't want to. In the end she had no choice but to lean into him, no choice but to kiss him the way he'd asked her to, to touch her tongue to his and tease him the way he teased her.

  His fingers gripped her hip, he moaned deep in his throat, and she was lost. She let go of the stool, wrapping her arms around his neck, trusting him to keep her from falling, pulling him closer. His hair was heavy against her fingers, heavy and soft and sinful. The feel of him, the taste of him, pulled at something deep inside her.

  It was the magic she'd yearned for, the burning touch of the shooting star. She was alive with it, inflamed with it, and she wanted it to go on forever, to never end.

  It seemed as if it never would as he kissed her throat, the tender spot behind her ear, moved lower still until she felt his kiss at her breasts, laving and teasing. She pressed into him, felt the smooth touch of her hair against her back, felt it tangling over her shoulders, and it was erotic too, as erotic as the warmth of his hands through the thin cotton of her drawers, all heat and temptation. She felt his thigh between her legs, against her very center, a burning touch, and involuntarily she raised her hips, wanting him harder against her, wanting . . . something. Wanting—oh, Lord, wanting.

  "Slowly, darling," he whispered against her; she felt the words rather than heard them—heated, moist breath against her nipple. "Slowly, slowly." Then he was moving away from her again. The cold air caressed her breasts, danced across the moist kisses he'd left on her skin.

  She moaned in protest, and he quieted her with a touch, quieted her by moving his hand from her hip to her inner thigh. Imogene held her breath, gasping when his hand eased through the slit in her drawers, when she felt his fingers tangle in the curls there, when she felt the heat of his caress. She couldn't help herself; she arched into his hand, her fingers digging into the hard wood of the stool.

  "Please," she heard herself begging. "Please. . . ."

  Before she knew what he was doing, before she could even begin to imagine it, he was kneeling before her, and his mouth was where his hand had been, kissing her, tasting her. She jerked against him, trembling, embarrassed, but he didn't stop. His kisses deepened; suddenly her embarrassment fled in the rich flood of sensation. Suddenly she didn't want him to stop, wanted nothing but this feeling, this building pressure, this ache that spread through her as his tongue played over her, tormenting and hot, wet kisses that left her trembling and straining.

  She shook against him, yearned to grab on to him. She could not control herself, and the pressure was spiraling, spiraling . . . She heard herself moan, felt herself waver, and then he stroked her deeply with his tongue, and she cried out, nearly falling off the stool with the force of the climax that ripped through her.

  But he was there, his arms around her, holding her steady. She heard him whisper something though she didn't hear the words, and suddenly he was inside her too, a swift, deep thrust that eased the throbbing of her body and intensified it at the same time, a fierce, sure possession that had her arching against him. He caught her moans with his mouth, lifted her slightly, eased her forward, and then he was moving against her, long, slow thrusts, exquisite torture—a torture she craved, a torture she wanted. She looked into his eyes and saw him watching her, felt scorched and sensuous and beautiful—Lord, yes, beautiful, as she'd never been before. Not ever.

  She clutched his arms and pulled him closer, wanting to drown in him, wanting to be a part of him, wanting to be him. Imogene wrapped her legs around his hips and rocked with him, wanting him all over her, aroused by the feel of satin against her thighs, the rub of corset and the lace of chemise, aroused by his taste and scent and feel.

  "Slower," she said, gasping, wanting the pleasure never to end. "Slower."

  He smiled then and kissed her, slowing until she felt that building pressure again, circling his hips against hers until she was mindless with need and yearning, until she was twisting against him and calling his name.

  Then it collapsed around her, and Imogene heard herself groan—in repletion or denial, she didn't know, didn't want to know. She shattered in his hands, arching into him, jerking against him. Then he was thrusting hard inside her, and she heard the hoarseness of his voice, felt him stiffen. She felt the harsh expulsion of his breath against her throat, and he was collapsing in her arms. She felt him throbbing inside her, the soft echo of his rhythm, and he was finally still.

  Imogene swallowed, holding tightly to him, wrapping her arms and legs around him, keeping him still against her. It was over.

  She closed her eyes and waited for that inevitable moment, that same moment that Nicholas had taught her to expect, the afterglow that faded in recrimination and blame, in shame too great for tears.

  The moment she became plain Imogene Carter again.

  Chapter 17

  He was aware of nothing so much as her stillness. She was wrapped around him, her arms

  tight across his back, her knees locked about his hips. He heard her soft, shallow breaths, a little rushed, a little panicked—as if she were afraid her breathing would rouse him, as if she were afraid it would break the spell.

  Jonas stirred himself, pulling away from her, hearing her little sound of protest as her arms fell away to allow him to move. She was still warm and wet around him, and he eased himself from her body, fastening his trousers before he looked at her.

  She was beautiful—as beautiful as he'd known she would be. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair was loose and falling over her shoulders, partially shielding the breasts he'd freed from the confines of her corset. The pale green dress pooled at her waist, her hips, and the modest white cotton of her drawers shielded the rest of her from his gaze. Still inviolate, even though he'd been inside her only moments before, even though her moans still echoed in his ears. She had folded her wings now, but he knew what they looked like spread, knew the colors that lurked there, the same colors he'd smeared on her skin—ultramarine and vermillion. Naples yellow.

  It took him a moment to realize she was watching him with wary eyes. Wariness. How silly it was, as if what had transpired between them were ordinary at all, as if it were anything like it had been with Clarisse or any of the others. Those times had always been quick and hasty, leaving him restless and unsatisfied. Never had he left feeling so rejuvenated, so alive. He felt as if he could make love to Genie all day, but there weren't enough hours.

  He grinned at her, saw the slight ease in the lines creasing her brow—lines that disappeared completely when he leaned over and kissed her lightly, lingeringly, on the lips.

  "How lovely you are," he whispered against her mouth.

  She flushed and turned away, straightening her corset and chemise, pulling up her bodice. But he saw the slight smile caressing her lips, the pleased curve of her mouth, as she slipped into the sleeves and buttoned the dress.

  Buttoning away her secrets. The thought made him regretful, but only for an instant. He reached over, brushing hair from her face. When she looked up in surprise, he said, "Are you ready?"

  She smiled uncertainly. "Ready for what?"

  "Come with me, Genie," he said, grabbing her hand, pulling her off the stool. Her skirt fell in folds back down to her feet, the cocoon again, soft propriety. She stumbled a little against him.

  "Where are we going?"

  "To a place I know," he said, taking her with him across the studio, to the door.

  He felt her hesitate. "But my hair—"

  "I like it down," he said, turning to her. He pulled her into his arms, gave her a hard, intemperate kiss. "You look like a princess—what was her name? Rapunzel. 'Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.

  She laughed, and he released her, opening the door and then grabbing her hand again. He
strode quickly down the hall, the stairs, so quickly he barely saw the two or three other artists haunting the lower gallery. In moments, he had her outside. The cold air felt good against his thin shirt, the late-autumn breeze fluttered his hair.

  "Christ, I love this," he said, flinging out his arms to embrace the chill, turning to her with a grin. "Don't you love it, Genie?"

  She was hugging herself, her honey-colored hair blowing back from her face, and she gave him a stiff little smile. "Aren't you cold?" she asked.

  "Cold?" He laughed. "No, not cold. Invigorated. In love with the world." He swung back, wrapping his arm around her waist, pulling her close. He whispered against her ear, "Half in love with you, I think."

  He saw her startled glance and released her, striding to the curb. He hailed a carriage, waited impatiently for Genie to get in and settle her skirts around her "Delmonico's," he told the driver.

  Beside him, Genie gasped. "Delmonico's?" she asked. "You can't be serious."

  "Why can't I?" he said, feeling a touch of irritation at her question.

  "But I couldn't. . . ."

  "You couldn't?" His annoyance fled in quick amusement. "How can you not, Genie, when the world lies before us?"

  She looked at him uncertainly, and then she laughed slightly and glanced out the window. "The world," she said softly, and he heard wistfulness in her tone.

  "It opens up to you if you let it," he said. He leaned close, nuzzling her hair, and immediately caught her elusive perfume again, that soft almond fragrance. Only this time it was more beguiling, because along with almond he caught her scent—that warm muskiness that spoke of darkened rooms and skin on skin. With a groan he leaned over and tangled his hand in her hair, wishing his other hand weren't so useless, wishing he could catch her up and hold her completely still. She made a sound of protest—a little half murmur—and he captured her mouth and swallowed the sound, tasting her, running his tongue over her lips, exploring her mouth, feeling the hot flush of desire as she responded and pressed into him.