by Megan Chance
He released her hand and rose from the chair, quickly, before she could step away. Then he moved in front of her and cupped her chin in his fingers, gently bringing her around to face him. There was wariness in her eyes along with tears and . . . embarrassment. With a little laugh she wiped at her eyes.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I knew it was only a matter of time before you tired of me—"
"I'm not tired of you."
She frowned. "But you want me to go . . . don't you?"
"Yes."
She tried to look away again, but he held her there.
"Look at me, Genie," he said. "Look at who I am. Surely you know you can't stay here."
She didn't try to misunderstand, she didn't protest. She hesitated, and then she nodded slowly. "Yes," she said. "I know."
And those were the saddest words of all. He felt them clear into his soul, and though they made his sacrifice easier, they only increased his need to touch her one last time. He couldn't help himself, he leaned forward and kissed her, feeling relief and completion when she melted into him, when her mouth opened beneath his and he heard the small moan in her throat. He let go of her chin, shoved his hand through her hair, loosening it, letting it fall over his fingers, smooth and heavy, wanting to feel it the way he'd felt it before, against his body, tangling in his hair.
Then the memories returned. All the things he'd denied—her taste, her scent, the feel of her—all those things came rushing back to him, along with the images of the last time they'd made love. He knew when she would whimper, he knew how she would arch back when he touched her breast. He knew how she looked, breathless and flushed and beautiful, when he came inside her. He knew all those things, and he wanted to know them again, wanted them, if not forever, then at least tonight, at least right now.
But the last time he'd taken her on a stool, and she deserved better than that. Jonas pulled away, hearing her little murmur of protest, smiling when she looked up at him, puzzled and unsure, her lips swollen from his kiss.
"Let's go to bed," he whispered, pulling her with him across the studio, past the steaming pot on the stove and a pile of chopped onions, through the uneven path left by dozens of unfinished canvases. Together they dodged the tapestry that covered the door, into the darkness of the bedroom. Darkness, where he wanted it to be light. For the first time in days, he wanted light.
He released her hand and went to the beaten leather trunk against one wall. Its surface was dotted with candles, short stubby ones that had half melted into wax pools. There was a box of matches on the floor beside it, and he took one and lit each stub until the glow they set off suffused the room, a gentle light. Then he turned to her again.
She was standing in the doorway, watching him, and her eyes were dark, her emotions hidden. But they wouldn't be for long, he knew. With two short strides he reached her, pulling her to him, sinking his hand in her hair and pressing his tongue into her mouth. She tasted of parsley and tea, along with a sweetness that was pure Genie, a sweetness that intoxicated him. And when she touched her tongue to his, when he felt her tentative exploration, he groaned and pressed deeper, wanting all of her, wanting to eat her alive, to bring her so far inside him she could never go away.
He struggled with the buttons on her dress, slipping them through the tiny openings, finally loosening the gown far enough to push it down over her shoulders. He felt her corset against him, hard and inviolate, keeping her safe, and frustration made him impatient. He could not undo it, not without two hands, and so he was forced to pull away.
"Take it off for me, darling," he whispered. "Please."
She smiled then, a smile he couldn't remember seeing before, soft and worldly wise, that woman-smile that spoke of power and seduction. It made his insides twist, sent a rush of heat into his loins. He had never felt this way before, never so out of control, never so aroused. Always before he had been removed, always before he had wanted sex and nothing more. But the look in her eyes and the feel of her and the exquisite sweetness he felt when he touched her—ah, God, it was more than he could bear.
He watched as she stepped out of her gown, leaving it pooled on the floor. He ached to touch her, but he waited, letting his desire build with every movement of her hands. Slowly, as if she savored it, she unhooked her corset and let it fall, and then she was standing before him in only a creased cotton shift that clung to her breasts, its shapelessness and simplicity only accenting the indentation of her waist, the curve of her hips.
She lifted her chin. That knowing, sensual expression was still in her eyes. "More?" she asked softly.
Christ, so erotic. He couldn't speak. Only nodded. She was made for flirtation, he thought, even though he'd never seen her flirt before. But the way she untied the string of her chemise, the way she shrugged so it fell enticingly over one shoulder and then the other— ah, God, it was flirtatious, it was seductive. She let the chemise fall, leaning forward to unroll her stockings. The waterfall of her hair shielded her breasts from his view. She stood again and looked at him, a question in her eyes that he answered with a nod, and then she untied her drawers and slid them over her hips, down her legs, until she was naked before him.
"Lie on the bed," he said hoarsely, forcing himself to stand still as she did so, feeling his breath catch in his throat. He wouldn't let himself move as she lay back against the pillows. He wanted to look at her, to see her with his artist's eye, with the palette he used every day. A wash of color and chiaroscuro, ivory and peach, soft pinks and dark swatches of bold shadow. In the candlelight she was a mystery to him, her eyes in shadow, her hair spread against the quilt, glinting with gold. Fine stray hairs caught on her arms—one spun across her breast, a lone gold thread, a spider's web that glittered near her nipple. She was beautiful. Small, full breasts and a slight waist and hips that were wide and softly rounded. All this hidden by clothing and propriety. All this passion disguised by tranquility. Such a contradiction, and he wanted to see it illustrated for him, wanted her legs spread and him between them. Wanted to see her push against him and moan the way she'd done before, to thrash in climax. Wanted to devour her.
He undid his shirt quickly, clumsily, shrugging out of it and throwing it aside, sending his pants to follow. And then he padded to the bed and bent over her, leaning down to kiss her gently, first her mouth, and then her throat, her collarbone, her breast. He heard her sigh as he captured it, as he teased and laved her nipple, as he brought it to a peak against his tongue. This, ah, yes, he remembered this. Remembered it all, and he dipped lower and lower, hearing her moans in his ears and feeling her body twist beneath his touch.
Genie. Her name sang in his mind, magical and enduring. Genie, Genie, Genie. He touched her and she responded. He kissed the curls at the apex of her thighs, felt the softness against his mouth, the slight jerk she gave when he dipped lower still.
"Shh," he whispered against her. "I won't stop."
"1 ... I don't want you ... to stop," she said, a sensual heaviness in her voice, a delightful breathlessness.
He slid his hands beneath her hips, lifted her with one and with whatever strength he had in the other, brought her closer to his mouth and kissed her there, licked her, teased her. She thrashed beneath his assault, and he felt her hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, holding him prisoner against her. She was trembling, and he wanted her to tremble. He wanted to taste her when she climaxed, he wanted to remember her taste forever. She was on the edge, he knew. He felt the tension in her body, and he licked deep and then up, heard her cry out the same moment she stiffened, the moment he felt her throb against his mouth.
"Ah, Genie," he murmured. "Genie, my love." Slowly he moved up, kissing her belly and her waist and her breasts, looking down into her face. Her eyes glinted in the half light, and her smile—ah, her smile was everything he wanted, everything he dreamed of. He kissed her and sheathed himself in her at the same moment. Her body welcomed him, she was wet and hot. Without moving she nearly sent him to climax
. He felt her hand on his chest, her fingers sliding through the dark curls there, pulling gently, an erotic pain. She was thrusting against him, and he reached down and held her hips steady, bringing her up to meet him as he sank inside her and pulled out again, over and over, a slow and tantalizing dance, an arousal that grew more painful and more sweet with every thrust.
She was his—the thought spun through his mind, growing louder and louder, as undeniable as everything else about her. He clutched her to him, rocking against her, hearing the soft slap of flesh and her equally soft cries, feeling her hands on his shoulders and his hair. She was his and he couldn't bear to let her go—God, how could he let her go?
But with every thrust, with every movement that brought him closer and closer to repletion, he knew he had to release her. She was his for the next moments and that was all. Until he climaxed, she was his.
And so he prolonged it. He slowed his thrusts and tasted her mouth and reveled in the sweetness. He worshipped her body with his own and kissed her with hot, open-mouthed kisses that made his blood pound in his ears. But too soon he felt the sharp sweetness of culmination. Too soon . . .
"No," he gasped. "God, no."
But he couldn't stop it. His release crashed through him, a mercy and a punishment, washing over him with a headiness he'd never felt before, had never even imagined. He heard her cry join with his own, felt her throbbing again around him, soft convulsions, and he cradled her in his arms, pulled her to him as closely as he could.
They lay there that way for only moments. Long enough for his breathing to ease, for his heart to slow. It was then he felt the hot wetness against his chest. Tears, he realized. She was crying. He was so startled by the knowledge that he didn't respond when she pulled away from him. She was off the bed before he knew what she was doing, grabbing her clothes from the floor.
"I'll put the onions in the stew," she was saying, her back to him. "It should be done in a few hours. Then you won't have to cook for yourself for a day or so."
Jonas struggled to one elbow. "Genie—"
"I bought some bread too. It's on the table." She stepped into her drawers and tied them, then pulled her chemise over her head.
Desperation washed over him. Panicked, he stood up and reached for her. "Genie, don't."
She turned around at his touch, and he saw the tears she'd been trying to hide, streams of candlelight that trailed over her cheeks. But when she spoke, her voice was devoid of sorrow or pain or any kind of emotion at all.
"Don't what, Jonas?" she asked. "Don't go? We both know I have to. You don't want me here, not really, and I—" She paused and took a deep breath, and then she looked away again. "And I don't want to stay."
He knew it was a lie. He knew it, but he couldn't do a thing about it, because she was right. Because he had meant to send her away. Because he was mad. Because he would destroy her.
But, oh God, how he wanted her to stay. It took everything he had to stand back while she finished dressing, every ounce of control he could muster to keep from running after her as she went out of the bedroom and gathered up her things.
And when she finally went to the studio door and paused, her hand on the lever, he had to bite his lip to keep from calling her back, had to turn away as she opened the door, as she left him without a word, without even a glance back.
She was gone, just as he'd intended. He told himself it was best. He told himself it was what he wanted.
But he couldn't stop the echo of her footsteps in his head. He wondered if he would ever forget the sound.
Chapter 23
She knew the way back to her godfather's by heart. She knew every single turn, knew the feel of every cobblestone. There was a pothole on Ninth Street, just where it turned onto Fifth Avenue— she knew exactly when the carriage would hit it, exactly how much it would jostle her. And at the corner of Washington Square North, there was a rut the wheels always caught on.
It was easier to concentrate on those things, on the sway of the coach and the rattling of the wheels, on the passing brownstones. Easier than thinking about the man she'd just left and the terrible lie she'd told him. "I don't want to stay." God, how untrue that was. The most untrue thing she'd ever said. What she wanted was to be wrapped in his arms, reveling in the warm afterglow of lovemaking. What she wanted was to love him.
Imogene squeezed her eyes shut, clenching her fist in her skirt. Lord, what a fool she was. She had known he would hurt her, she'd told herself not to fall in love with him, and yet she'd done it anyway. She'd stayed with him these last days even knowing how dangerous it was. Just this morning she had told herself it was time to leave, before it was too late.
But it was already too late.
She opened her eyes again, staring out at the thin blanket of snow laying over the city, at bare trees frosted with white. Jonas Whitaker was not for her; she'd known that from the beginning. She'd known he would eventually tire of her, that he would use her and let her go. So why had his rejection been so painful?
Because you hoped he might need you forever. Because you mistook need for affection. Just as she had with Nicholas. Imogene winced at the thought. She'd fallen for Nicholas simply because he needed her comfort, and she'd vowed never to be so stupid again. But here she was, just as foolish as she'd been three years ago, loving the first man who needed her.
It was why she'd let Jonas touch her, why she'd dropped her dignity and her pride and let him make love to her one last time. She had wanted a memory to hold on to through the bitter days ahead, to give her strength when she was nothing again. She had wanted just once more to touch the shooting star.
Instead, it only made her realize just what a failure she was. Deep inside she had wanted things to be different. She had wanted to be the one who could help Jonas through his nightmares, she had wanted to believe she could be important to him.
But he didn't want her, and it was time to face that. It was time to return to her old life. She tried to convince herself it was what she wanted, but when the carriage jerked to a stop and the gothic facade of her godfather's town house loomed up through the window, Imogene wondered how she could ever do that. How did one forget a man like Jonas Whitaker? How did a person get used to being without that intensity? How could she live without him?
There was no other choice, she reminded herself. Jonas had sent her away. He didn't need her any longer, and she knew he was trying hard to be kind with his rejection, to not hurt her. But all the same she hurt. All the same, she couldn't help wishing . . .
Imogene took a deep breath, banishing the thoughts. There was no point in torturing herself. It was over. Over. She chanted the word in her mind, forced herself to repeat it as she stepped determinedly from the carriage, into the falling snow. She paid the driver, and then she made her way up the stairs, holding on to the rail to keep from slipping. Out of habit she grabbed the knob to go inside, stopping just before she turned it. She wasn't even sure she was welcome here, not anymore. Slowly she uncurled her hand from around the doorknob and knocked.
There were rapid footsteps on the other side. The door swung open, revealing Mary, the housekeeper, whose mouth fell open in surprise.
"Miss Carter!" she said, her ruddy face growing redder. "Come in, do, outta the cold. Why it's snowin' and ye forgot yer hat!"
Imogene frowned, putting a hand to her hair, realizing for the first time that she'd left her bonnet at the studio. It sent an odd little surge of pain through her; she wondered briefly what he would think when he found it, what he would do. She wondered if he would keep it as a reminder of her. The thought made her chest tight; she blinked back sudden tears.
"Y-yes," she stammered, struggling for control. "Yes, I—I left in a hurry, I'm afraid."
Mary backed away from the door, motioning her inside. "Yer just in time. They're all in the dining room. Just sat down to dinner, they have."
The words eased Imogene's apprehension. At least she wouldn't have to face Thomas alone, not yet. She
didn't really feel up to handling his anger or his disappointment tonight, and Katherine was so very good at soothing him.
Distractedly Imogene took off her gloves and her mantle and handed them to Mary. Then, forcing a calm she didn't feel, Imogene walked to the dining room. She heard the sound of voices just before she got there, deep masculine tones that contrasted with Katherine's light chatter, three voices instead of two. They had company. All the better. Imogene stopped at the side of the doorway, mustering her courage, closing her ears and her eyes for one short moment, struggling to gather her composure. Then she raised her chin and stepped inside.
She stopped short. At the table was the last person she expected to see.
Her father.
Samuel Carter sat at Thomas's table as if he owned it, his shirtsleeved elbows splayed on the polished surface, his wineglass clutched in his pale, square hand. He was gesturing to Thomas, and laughing, his bushy gray mustache bobbing.
Abruptly Thomas's words from three days ago burst through her shock. "You leave me no choice, Imogene, you realize that." Of course. She should have remembered. She had known the moment he'd said it that he was planning to contact her father, but she'd forgotten. And now Samuel Carter was here, in New York City. Longing and pleasure warred with wariness—and
a sense of dread she tried desperately to squelch. She had nothing to fear, she told herself. Her father had spent the last three years wanting her to take Chloe's place in the art world, and now she was there. In love with an artist, as much a bohemian as Chloe had ever been. He would be happy about that, surely. It was what he'd always wanted.
Still . . .
She eased into the room, forcing a smile. "Papa," she said.
The single word was explosive. The conversation snapped to a stop. In unison the three people at the table turned to look at her. But Imogene didn't take her gaze from her father. With relief she saw a smile spread over his face.
