Jonas smiled. "You can tempt me all you want, Rico, but I'll tell you no secrets today, I'm warning you."
Rico laughed. It was joyous and sweet, and the studio seemed to pulsate with the sound. "I've already told you that you can't threaten me," he said, and he led the way across the hall to his studio, like the Pied Piper leading children to the sea.
I
t was later, much later, that Jonas lounged on the huge bed in the corner of Childs's studio, his eyes bleary and his body drunk on smoke. He watched the golden and black shadows cast by the oil lamp dance over the walls and Rico's paintings, over the large trunk from Paris that still stood in the middle of the room, its lid thrown open to reveal the multicolored fabrics of Rico's wardrobe—waistcoats and morning coats and trousers spread all about, some crumpled on the floor, some strewn on the bed, some crunched beneath Jonas's legs.
It was like a Pandora's box, he thought, eyeing the quivering fringe of the bedcovers, the gold that looked more golden in the lamplight, the rich burgundies and greens that seemed to pulsate in the lying visions of the drug. Rico's chambers were much more opulent than his, but that was because Childs cared about fine things and Jonas did not. Childs loved luxuries, soft velvets and expensive liquors and fine perfumes. Even now the scent of incense hung in the air, mixing with the sweet opium smoke, heavy and deep with spice.
Jonas felt as if he were drowning in it, and he longed to close his eyes and stay here forever, but there was a thrumming in his blood that the opiate hadn't taken away, not yet, and he needed something else to ease it.
"More?" Childs's voice came to him, sounding languid and hopelessly far away, though it wasn't. Rico hadn't moved from where he sat beside Jonas on the bed, the picture of decadent languor, a pipe in one hand while he stroked Jonas's hair with the other, threading his fingers through the strands in an intimate, soothing rhythm.
Jonas reached up and took the pipe, sucking the burning smoke into his lungs, letting it curl around him. So insidious, he thought, closing his eyes. One never knew where the drug would take you, how dangerous it would choose to be, or how alluring.
Like Imogene Carter
. The thought unfurled in his mind, slowly and without surprise. He hadn't been able to lose the image of her, not throughout the long evening and not now, in the dark hours of early morning. He remembered what he'd called her earlier, what Peter had called her. Genie. The name fit her. Like a genie in a bottle, she was magical, seductive, alluring. She was as dangerous as the opium, the way she haunted his thoughts.
He could not get her out of his mind, and though he'd smoked the opium to forget her, it only intensified his vision instead, brought back every detail of this morning in startling clarity. He remembered how much he'd hated her when she walked into the studio, how he'd been looking forward to destroying her today, to discovering her scheme and making her pay for her presumption. He remembered how he'd savored the words
"Genie, will you model for us today?"
and then how shocked he'd been when her small, slender hands went to her collar, how paralyzed he'd been by the smooth grace of her movements. She had never seemed so self-possessed, never so confident. And somehow that was seductive.
Ah, Genie. Genie turning her back to him so he could finish the buttons. Genie bending that long, pale neck, almost like an offering. That heated, almond scent, the silky warm flesh, the honeyed strands of hair dancing over his knuckles as he unfastened the buttons —one, two, and then three, and then clean white lace and freckled skin and smooth softness.
She was all fragrant intrigue, a huge contradiction— quiet and subdued, but with such startling power, a power that had radiated from his sketch, that had flowed from her into his hands. He wanted to savor the discovery of it, to think about that intoxicating conviction in her eyes. It had been so provocative, so alluring. It made him wonder for the first time what she would be like in bed. He imagined it; the smooth satin of her flesh, the soft trembling of her body, the harsh, moist little gasps brushing his cheek. He thought about the way that hair of hers would look tumbled about her shoulders, wondered how it would feel against his skin.
The image drove him nearly insane; he could not forget it, could not erase it. He thought of her and he felt the quick and savage thrust of desire, and it was different from what he'd felt for Clarisse or any of the others. It was more than just carnal lust, and he knew it had everything to do with that look in Imogene Carter's eyes. The look that turned the little brown moth into a beautiful butterfly. The look that had changed his intentions, took his original reasons for wanting her gone and sent them floating away, as elusive as the smoke wisping through the bed hangings. Gosney's threats, his own inability to paint—those things seemed so unimportant now, so ludicrously trivial.
They didn't matter—not in light of what he felt tonight. Because what he felt tonight was the elation of inspiration—the same inspiration that the threat of her presence had taken away just a few weeks ago. The ideas were crowding in his mind now, swirling though his head in the prismatic dance of opiate, pure and fuzzy and beautiful. Hundreds of them, spinning so fast and furiously he barely had time to think of one before another that was even more potent and compelling burst into his brain.
He looked at his hand, lying motionless on his chest, and it seemed to glow with brilliance. Long ago, at Barbizon, Jean-Claude Millet had told Jonas there was fire in his blood, and tonight he believed it. Tonight he wondered if there was anything he couldn't do. Everything fell into place. Abruptly he saw the courtesan he'd been trying to paint in all its vivid detail—his masterpiece, the pièce de résistance he'd intended to be the greatest, most sublime offering at the National Academy exhibition. He had wanted to show contradiction and desire, had wanted the woman to be disturbing, to show the power women had—that elusive power that controlled men whether they wanted to admit it or not. The courtesan's nakedness, her disdain, her strength would reflect all that—ah, God, it would be the greatest thing he had ever done.
Because this morning he'd realized what it needed, the thing he'd been seeking for weeks, the edge that eluded him. He had never been able to see the courtesan's face in his mind, but now suddenly it was there; the guarded eyes, the colorless beauty, the flat monochrome of her skin. Genie Carter.
God, he was so damned brilliant it amazed him. The exultation of earlier still burned in his blood, the fierce joy of inspiration grew until it filled his soul. He laughed at the pure wondrousness of it.
"Hmmm?" Rico stirred slightly beside him, and Jonas opened his eyes to see Childs leaning over him, his expression drowsy, his long blond hair falling forward like a lion's mane.
"Genie Carter," Jonas said, struggling to one elbow. He heard his voice; it was breathless, too fast, but he couldn't slow down. "She's the courtesan, Rico. Christ, can you see it? That face—it's the perfect face. Like a butterfly."
"Like a butterfly?" Rico leaned back against the headboard and closed his eyes, smiling. "You've lost me,
mon ami
. Her face is like a butterfly?"
"She's stunning, don't you see?" Jonas shook his friend's arm until Childs opened his eyes again. "I've got to paint her."
"Oh? I thought your little odalisque was nude."
"Yes, of course."
"And Miss Imogene is going to take her clothes off for you? Ah, you are clever then."
Rico's voice was languid, so slow that Jonas had already forgotten the beginning of the sentence before Childs reached the end. It didn't matter anyway; the only important thing was the nude—and all Jonas could think about was that it might be better if she were draped in some diaphanous material, something that lent an opalescence to her skin, the
luce di dentro
. Yes, perfect. A scarf or something. Rico must have something.
Jonas lunged off the bed, hardly noticing when Rico protested. He went to the trunk in the middle of the room, tossing out clothes—waistcoats and fine linen shirts and stockings—damn, there must be something. He spun around, staring at the room, at the heavy bed hangings and the mulberry-colored drapes and the pillows.
"What are you looking for?"
"A scarf," Jonas said. "A robe—" He spotted a length of mosquito netting draped over a table in the corner of the room. The finely woven cloth shimmered in the dim candlelight. He strode to it, pulling it loose with one quick tug, upsetting bottles and brushes and a few saucers holding color. He held it up, holding it so the candlelight diffused through it. Ah, yes. Like the cocoon of a butterfly—thin and cottony. It added another layer of meaning to the painting that he liked, and he smiled and looked over his shoulder at Childs, who was watching him with a laborious frown.
Rico took another tug on the pipe. He held the smoke in his lungs for a moment and then exhaled with a sigh. "You want Miss Carter to wear that?"
"Yes."
"1 see." Childs smiled. "I was right, wasn't I? You do want the little innocent."
The words blurred together in Jonas's mind.
Theliddleinnocent
, and they were as compelling as she was. Yes, he wanted her. Wanted her in a hundred different ways. Wanted her so badly it was all he could do to keep from hiring a carriage and racing to Gosney's house to get her.
But then he thought of the painting waiting in his studio, and it was even more compelling, the vision burning in his blood too tantalizing to deny or postpone. His fingers itched to get started. He threw the mosquito netting over his shoulder and started for the door.
From the bed, Rico laughed, and then he started humming, a slow chorus, a familiar and compulsive melody, "'I dream of Jeannie with the light brown hair
Jonas turned from the door with a smile. A dream, yes. Genie Carter was that. She was a lovely dream, and the night was shimmering with color and vibrance, and even Childs, languid as he was, looked shining and beautiful as he lounged against the pillow, the candlelight glinting on his hair.
"Come with me," Jonas urged. "The night's still young."
"Ah, yes." Childs struggled from the bed and made his way slowly toward Jonas. "The night's young enough. It's only you and I who get older. Where are we going? Down to the Bowery? Maybe we can find Clarisse, eh? She's probably over being angry with you."
"No, not there," Jonas said, yanking open the door and pulling Rico after him into the hall. "We've more important things to do."
"Oh? What's that?"
"We're going to paint, my friend," Jonas said, pushing open the door to his studio, feeling a surge of excitement and revelation so pure his whole body tingled with it. "We're going to paint a masterpiece."
I
t had been two days since she'd been back to the studio. Two days since she'd received the note from a messenger she'd never seen before, a single line scrawled on a piece of paper torn from a sketch pad, the handwriting bold and black and nearly indecipherable.
No class until further notice. JW.
That was all. No explanations and no apologies, and when Thomas had gone to the studio to inquire, there had been no answer to his knock.
It reminded Imogene of Peter's story about last spring. She wondered if Whitaker had been sitting in his studio, listening to her godfather's summons, lost in his own visions. The thought was disconcerting and uncomfortable, and she found herself feeling that she should go to him, to look in on him if nothing else, to make sure he was all right. But she dismissed the notion. She didn't know Whitaker well enough to intrude, and more than that, she wasn't sure how he would respond if she did visit him—or even what she would feel upon seeing him again.
Imogene glanced at the sketch hanging above her washstand. The paper still looked crumpled and worn, even though she'd worked painstakingly to smooth the wrinkles, hoping to bring out whatever secrets were hidden in the folds, hoping it would explain everything. She'd thought the drawing would explain why he paid her so much attention, what he truly wanted. But instead the sketch only raised more questions than it answered.
The portrait Imogene had rescued from the floor was of a woman she didn't recognize, a woman whose resemblance to herself lay only in the gown and the hairstyle. The rest ... the rest was someone Imogene had never seen before, someone she didn't know.
The woman in that picture looked delicate and beautiful. She was half turned toward the artist, and there was something sublime in her profile, something peaceful and confident in her expression, poise and grace in her pose. She was exquisite and arresting, almost . . . sensual. She was everything Imogene was not. And Imogene couldn't help but look at it and wonder who it was he'd drawn, or why he'd thrown it to the ground in anger, as if there were something ugly in it, something profane. At the time, Imogene had thought maybe it was because she was such a poor subject, or that he saw nothing in her worth drawing. But the sketch was so beautiful that now she wondered if his temper had anything to do with her at all.
She sighed and turned away, going to the window to stare out at the park below. She wished she were the woman in the picture—a woman of mystery and grace, a woman who could interest him, challenge him. The longing frightened her. Jonas Whitaker was not the man for her; it was useless to feel desire or yearning. It was useless to want him. But she did, and she knew that was the most dangerous feeling of all.