by Megan Chance
As if he weren't truly mad.
But he was. He was.
And now she knew it too.
Chapter 18
She left Jonas sleeping. He'd been morose and silent on the trip home, and once they returned to the studio he collapsed in a chair, ordering her to leave as if he couldn't stand the sight of her. She had not gone. She'd waited the few minutes until his eyes closed and she heard his steady breathing, and then she carefully went out, hurrying across the hall to Childs's studio. There was no answer when she rapped on the door. Feeling numb and bewildered, not knowing what else to do, she settled herself on the floor to wait for him.
It seemed like hours before she heard his step on the landing. Imogene caught her breath, not relaxing until she saw the top of his golden head through the railing.
He caught sight of her almost instantly; she saw him stiffen in surprise, saw his sudden worry.
"Miss Imogene?"
She rose, smoothing her skirts. "Do you think I might have a word with you?" she asked softly.
He frowned and glanced at the door to Jonas's studio.
"He's sleeping."
"Sleeping?"
"Yes."
He seemed to relax slightly. "Well, in that case, chérie," he said, opening the door to his studio and motioning her inside, "please come in."
She stepped into the room, stopping in astonishment as she caught sight of the splendor of his studio. It was nothing like Jonas's. Where Whitaker's was sparse, furnished with old furniture and littered with paraphernalia, Childs's was opulent. A huge centerpiece of a bed covered with brocaded pillows and dark, highly polished tables made it look more like a wealthy man's bedroom than an artist's workspace. If not for the canvases and painting implements set up near the windows, she would never have known it was a studio at all.
Childs chuckled as he closed the door. "You look surprised," he noted. "Surely you didn't think I lived in squalor."
"Not squalor, no," she said. "But this—"
"A rich father who died young," he explained. "And a mother who remarried money and feels guilty."
"I see.
He smiled. "You look distressed, chérie," he said, changing the subject with smooth aplomb. "And as flattered as I am by your visit, something tells me it's not my company you crave. What has you so worried, eh? What made you wait in the hallway for me?"
Imogene took a deep breath, wishing she knew exactly what to tell him, how she could explain that it had seemed somehow right to come to him, that she had wanted comfort and answers and she'd hoped he could provide both. She felt unsettled and vulnerable, unsure what to do, how to feel. All she knew was that she couldn't stop the question that chanted ceaselessly in her brain. It had consumed her while she waited, impossible to ignore, too strong to push away. She looked at Childs, trying to decide how best to word it, what to say. In the end she simply said it.
"How mad is he?"
Childs didn't look the least bit surprised. "Mad enough. But I expect you know that already."
His answer didn't soothe her. She sighed. "We were just at Delmonico's," she said.
Childs raised a brow. "Delmonico's?"
"I'm not sure why he took me there." The words rushed out, falling over themselves before she had time to think them through. "It was ... he had a temper tantrum ... or ... I'm not sure what to call it really."
"He broke a bottle of wine, I take it?"
Imogene looked at him in surprise.
He motioned to her skirt. "It's all over you. Along with an interesting amount of paint. I'm almost afraid to ask."
She felt heat move into her face. Imogene looked away. "I don't think he knew what he was doing."
"Which time?" Childs asked softly. "At Delmonico's, or when he made love to you?"
Startled, she jerked around again to face him.
"It's quite obvious, chérie." He paused, studying her with a detachment that made her uncomfortable. "What would you like me to say? That you're wrong, that he knew what he was doing when he kissed you?" He shrugged dismissively; his indifference seemed painfully deliberate. "1 can't tell you that. I don't know. You'll have to find your reassurance elsewhere."
His words angered her. Imogene forced herself to hold his gaze. "You're not normally so cruel," she said. "I thought we were friends."
He gave her a bland look. "You don't know me that well."
"I know you well enough," she insisted. "I know you care for him. I've seen the way you protect him. You've even protected me."
"And succeeded admirably, as you can see," he said wryly. "As a result of my 'protection,' you have been seduced, assaulted, and abandoned. I am overwhelmed at my success."
"No," she said quietly. "I'm not so fragile as you think. If he seduced me, it was because I wanted to be seduced. The way you describe it—that's not how it happened."
Childs's gaze swept over her, disbelieving, a little cynical. "No? Suppose you tell me how it was then."
She licked her lips, trying to put her thoughts in order, wondering what she wanted from him, what she'd expected. Perhaps it was reassurance, as he'd said, or maybe it was simply hope—something to soothe her scattered emotions, to ease her confusion. She wanted to know what had happened to turn Jonas Whitaker into a madman. She wanted to understand.
"I thought I understood what people meant when they said he was mad," she began hesitantly. "I thought I did. Now I realize how stupid that was, how impossible it is to understand unless you see it for yourself. He was—" She stopped, searching for words. She saw Jonas before her, the wild rage in his eyes, his stiff anger. She saw spilling wine and expansive gestures. She heard his harsh, condemning words. "You're looking at a goddess! Damn you! A goddess!"
Now those words echoed painfully in her mind. He'd wanted to convince her she was beautiful and instead he'd shown her something else. Instead he'd shown her that he didn't truly see her at all. To him she was only some vague ideal, some visionary goddess that had little to do with who she really was.
And the words he'd murmured in her ear only convinced her further. "Half in love with you, 1 think." The words of a man who had loved a hundred women. A man used to making people look better than they were, to finding beauty in everything. A man who made his living from illusion. What had he said today? That an artist's job was to transform reality, to transcend the material. That was what he did with her. In his mind he transformed her into someone he could be proud of, someone worth his time. But he didn't really see her. He did not know her at all, or he would never have said the words.
She closed her eyes briefly, pushing away her sadness, forcing herself to remember Childs, who was waiting for her to finish. She swallowed painfully. "He was in his own world."
She saw sympathy in Childs's expression. "What shall I tell you, chérie? That he is not always so difficult? That he is easy to love? Is that what you want?"
She looked at him steadily. "I want the truth."
"The truth?" He laughed lightly. "The truth is that there is nothing you can do. The truth is that he goes from mood to mood the way others change mistresses. And you are not even seeing the worst, I'm afraid. As much as I love him, I find myself escaping him once a year—to Paris, for sanity." He gave a bitter, self-contemptuous laugh. "As ludicrous as that is."
His admission made her uncomfortable. It was so intense, so painful. In a way she understood it too well. She wished there were simple answers, but she had the feeling nothing would ever be simple with Jonas Whitaker.
Lord, she wished she understood him, wished she understood herself. She wished she knew why she wasn't running from him as fast as she could. A reasonable person would. After all, he was a madman. He was everything they'd ever told her he was.
She looked at Childs, working to keep her voice steady. "You said it gets worse."
Childs took a deep breath. "Yes. It gets worse."
She waited, her chest tightening.
"You have seen his charm . . . this . . . this m
esmerist he becomes, this—"
"Shooting star," she said.
Childs nodded. "A shooting star. Yes, he is that. But there is another side to him too, a side not everyone sees."
"Like last spring."
Childs shook his head. "You don't know all of it," he said quietly, and then he hesitated, a pause so long that the sounds from the street intruded on the silence, the thunder of carriages, the strident whoas of the drivers. Normal sounds. Day-to-day sounds. They made Imogene suddenly sad, as if things were changing so quickly she might never hear the rumbling clatter of wheels on cobblestones again, as if she were entering a place where nothing would ever be the same.
Finally, Childs looked up. "Last spring was . . . ah. . . ." He closed his eyes briefly, hanging his head, and his next words were weak and pained. "He tried to kill himself," he said bluntly. "If I had not been here, he would have succeeded. It was not ... the first time." Childs looked at her, his expression bleak. "Now do you understand, chérie? Now do you see?"
Imogene hesitated. Her throat was tight, her lungs felt paralyzed. His question chimed in her mind. "Now do you understand, chérie? Now do you see?" and she knew what he was really asking her, heard the words as clearly as if he'd said them. Can you love him now for me too? Can you help him?
She squeezed her eyes shut. "Don't ask me," she said softly. "Look at me, Rico. I'm nobody. He won't ... he can't . . ." She took a deep breath. "I'm not a fool. He won't want me long, I know. I'm not his kind."
"Perhaps you'll become his kind."
She laughed, hearing unfamiliar bitterness in the sound, and glanced back at him again. "You don't believe that, I can hear it in your voice."
"I don't know what I believe."
"How world-weary you sound, Rico."
He glanced up at her. For the first time his handsomeness didn't shine from his features, didn't overwhelm her. He looked drawn and somber, ascetically, bleakly beautiful. He sighed. "Perhaps. Perhaps I've simply lost the will to deal with him any longer."
She felt a stab of fear. "You don't mean that."
"Don't I?" He gave her a slight smile. "Should I consign him to your care, chérie? You've survived him once. You've still a good hundred times or so left within you."
"He won't stay with me."
"I think you underestimate yourself."
Imogene folded her arms over her chest, shook her head. "You don't know. You don't know me at all."
"Then perhaps you should tell me who you are, eh?" Rico sank into a well-padded chair, steepling his fingers, watching her. His tone was cajoling, charming —the same beguiling voice he'd used on her before. "Tell me about Imogene Carter, Genie."
"Genie," she repeated, feeling the name roll off her tongue, the quick thrust of it against her teeth. "You and Jonas keep calling me that." She didn't tell him that the name made her feel warm inside, somehow beloved. She'd never had a nickname before. Never a name that implied intimacy. She'd never been called anything but Imogene. Imogene Elizabeth Carter. A staid, steady name. A name heavy with the implications of inviolate spinsterhood, rigid with propriety.
"It's Jonas's name for you," Childs said. "Not mine."
She looked down at the floor. "Oh, Rico," she sighed. "I—I know he's using me. I know he won't be interested for long. But 1 thought—I thought perhaps I could learn from him while he was. I thought he could teach me how to be somebody"—she laughed self-consciously—"somebody important. It's a silly dream, I know, but—"
"What makes you think you're not already important?"
The question bewildered her. She looked up at him with a frown. "Because I'm not. I'm nobody. Just another art student, and not even a very good one."
Childs looked at her thoughtfully. "You think so? I—"
"Geenniiee!!!"
The shout came from the hallway, a loud, anguished cry that followed the slamming of a door, running footsteps.
Jonas.
Imogene's head snapped up. Rico stiffened in his chair.
"Genie! Geeennniee!"
"Mon dieu!" Childs shot from his chair, stopping her with a gesture. "Stay here," he warned.
She shook her head, hurrying across the studio. "He's calling me."
"I can't keep you safe."
"Geenniiee!!!"
"I don't care." Imogene surged toward him, halting when he blocked her path. "He won't hurt me."
Rico's eyes blazed. "Don't be so certain."
"Genie! Genie!"
"Rico, he's calling me!"
Childs muttered a curse beneath his breath. "Be careful, then," he cautioned. He turned back to the door, wrenching it open so hard it crashed against the walls. He raced into the hallway. Imogene was right behind him.
Jonas was at the far end, toward the stairs. He was screaming; harsh, jarring shouts she could barely understand. It took her a moment to make out the words, and when she did, they startled her so much she froze against the doorway, her heart thudding in her chest.
"They've taken her away! Christ, I knew they would. Those bastards—"
"Jonas, please . . ." Rico was hurrying toward him, almost sliding in his haste. "Jonas—"
"Where the hell is she, Rico? Do you have her? Goddammit, I'll kill you for that!" He lunged at Rico. There was the sickening sound of crunching bodies, the thud of a punch. Rico went sprawling to the floor.
"She's fine," he shouted, scrambling to his feet, blocking the hall so Jonas couldn't get by. "She's right here—mon dieu, Jonas—" He ducked Jonas's second punch and came up spitting, his golden hair flying into his face. "Look for yourself, you fool! She's just up the hall!"
"Jonas!" she called. "Jonas, I'm right here!"
He looked up, his eyes blazing, and even though he was looking straight at her, she had the feeling he didn't see her at all. He shook his head and glared at Childs. "You liar," he said. "Do you think I don't know you're trying to fool me? Do you think I don't know?"
"It's no lie," Rico protested. "It's Genie."
"You think I'll fall for such a trick? I can see right through her, you bastard! She's not real! You've taken her and you don't want me to know." Jonas was wild- eyed and raging. "Where is she? What have you done with her? Geenniiee!" He lunged at Childs again, but just as he made the move, there was a commotion on the stairs. Several artists from the building were clambering en masse to the landing, shouting and laughing.
Jonas whipped around, crying out when Rico took his chance and tackled him.
"What have you done with her, you bastard? Genie!" Jonas twisted from Childs's grasp, shouting at the top of his lungs. He crashed against the wall so hard his false hand went through it. Plaster flew. Then Childs was on him again, clinging to him, trying to hold him still.
The other artists didn't budge. They watched with unconcealed interest, as if it were an entertainment put on for their benefit. As if they'd seen its like before. For a moment Imogene almost expected to hear them lay down bets.
It was more than she could bear. It was inhumane, the way they watched him, like spectators at a cockfight. A sob caught in Imogene's throat as she picked up her skirts and ran toward them. "Jonas!" She called his name, nearly screaming it, heard the thud of bodies against the wall, the hard smack of a blow.
She wanted to touch him. She had the feeling he would hear her then, if she could only touch him, if she could only prove to him that she was here, that she was no illusion. She reached out, but before she could touch him he swung around, slamming Childs into the wall. She heard Rico's grunt of pain, heard the crack of his shoulder.
"Ah, God," he groaned.
"Where are you hiding her?" Jonas's shouting echoed into the rafters, reverberated against the walls. "Damn it, where is she?"
She couldn't get close, couldn't touch him. He was flailing too desperately to see her, yelling so loudly she knew he couldn't hear her call his name. Desperation rushed through her. Desperation and Worry that made her voice crack when she called to him, that had her nearly crying in a
n attempt to make him hear.
"Jonas, I'm here," she shouted. "It's me! I'm here!"
She tried to move closer, caught Rico's desperate glance and couldn't help him at all. Jonas lunged and jerked, trying to dislodge Childs, crashing into the walls.
"Geenniiee!" he screamed.
All she could do was scream back at him. All she could do was shout "I'm here," over and over again, until it was a ceaseless prayer in her head, a desperate litany. And then finally, when her voice was hoarse with shouting, when she was sure she couldn't calm him at all, he spun around. His eyes were dark with fear that faded the moment he saw her. Fear that simply melted away. He quieted. Suddenly. Completely.
"Genie," he said, and his voice as hoarse as hers, heavy with relief and something else.
Joy, she thought. She heard joy.
"I thought you'd gone," he said, sinking to his knees, sliding from Childs's arms. Rico backed warily away. "I thought you'd gone."
"No," she said. “I’m right here." She moved closer, reached out to touch his hair, to smooth it back from his face. "I'm right here."
He leaned into her, sighing, pressing his face against her stomach. She heard the sounds of the others going downstairs, talking among themselves, laughing as if it had all been a great show, a huge joke. She threaded her fingers through his hair and glanced up at Childs, who was rubbing his shoulder and watching, a strange expression on his face—startled curiosity, puzzled surprise.
"You're not important, eh, chérie?" he asked softly.
Chapter 19
Jonas woke the next morning safe in his bed, with no idea of how he'd got there. For a half second it didn't matter. For a moment he saw the cracked plaster of his ceiling and felt the relief of waking, the peace just before realization set in. Then the memory—or lack of it—came crashing down, crushing his soul, half illusions and craziness and disbelief. He struggled to remember; the old familiar dread came slamming back. What have I done? Christ, what did I do?
