Chapter 11

 

 

She had expected silence, or if not that, then at least respectful quiet. But the studios on the first floor hummed with activity. Artists scurried through the open lower gallery, hanging paintings and propping easels, laughing and teasing and toasting each other with glasses of deep red wine.

The commotion reassured Imogene. She told herself it would be silent if something was wrong with Whitaker, that the air would be heavy with fear and worry instead of fragrant with cigar smoke and the rich, gamey scent of roasting fowl.

But she had no idea if that was true.

She glanced up at Childs as he led her toward the stairs. "Is it always like this?" she asked quietly.

He shrugged. "There's a showing tonight."

Which told her nothing, Imogene realized. She tried to banish her nagging sense of worry as she climbed the stairs to the third floor. But it wouldn't go away; in fact, it only grew worse when they reached the top, because unlike the rooms downstairs, the studio doors up here were tightly shut, the hallway quiet.

Deadly quiet, she thought. Except for their footsteps and the rustle of her skirts, there was no other sound at all.

The stillness didn't seem to faze Childs. His step didn't falter as he guided her to the last door on the left; he didn't hesitate before he rapped sharply on the panel and pushed the door open.

"Jonas!" he called, ushering her inside and shutting the door behind them. "Jonas, we're here."

There was no answer. The studio was as still as the hallway had been. The only movement was the flickering lamp on the table and the growing shadows of sunset. Imogene frowned, glancing about her. The studio looked different, more crowded than before. She'd never seen so many brushes soaking in jars, and dishes of color were scattered everywhere. Propped against the wall were three sketches—wildly painted, uncontrolled swathes of bright color and bold forms—all similar, as if he'd tried repeatedly to capture the same image. When she looked around, she saw at least six others leaning against books and statuettes and upended pans, each frenzied, each like the rest.

She thought of the black paintings Peter had told her about. These were nothing like that. These were light and airy. There was no darkness in them, no bleak landscapes, and she was startled at the extent of her relief. She had not realized how completely she'd expected to find him as he'd been last spring, yet it was clear—at least from the paintings—that he was not.

"Lord," she breathed. "He's been painting."

Childs threw her an amused glance. "How observant you are, chérie," he said. "Yes, he's been painting like a demon. Now, if I could only figure out where the hell he—"

"Ah, you're here!"

The voice seemed to come from nowhere. Imogene jerked around to see Jonas Whitaker shoving aside the tapestry covering the far doorway. The sight of him startled her even more than his voice had. Whitaker was smiling as he stepped into the room. Smiling. A lightning-quick smile, one so foreign and strange it looked out of place on his lips, somehow bizarre. Imogene stared at him in stunned amazement, waiting for his smile to twist, to become the familiar thin sarcasm. But as he crossed the room to them, she realized that his smile was real. She thought again of Childs's words. "I think you'll find him changed." Yes, he was that, but except for his smile she didn't know why she thought it, didn't understand why she felt such a magnitude of difference. There was something about the way he walked ... a curious energy in his motion. It pulsed from him, restless and fast and involving, and she couldn't take her eyes from him.

Not even when he came to a stop in front of her, his gaze caressing her as if he couldn't look at her enough, his green eyes glimmering and passionate and so intense they nearly burned. They paralyzed her. She felt that tense excitement again, the elation that had possessed her the last time she'd seen his eyes like this, the day he'd leaned over her shoulder and talked of Michelangelo.

Whitaker stepped closer. He took her hand—so quickly she didn't have time to pull away or protest— and tightened his grip as if he were afraid she would do just that. She felt the soft caress of his thumb against her fingers. There was a subtle energy in his touch, a quivering excitement, and when he looked at her she saw it in his eyes too, that same exhilaration. It

was strangely heady. She felt trapped by it, mesmerized.

"Tell me, Genie," he said, drawing out her name the way he always did, so it sounded like a touch. "Are you ready to see the world with us tonight?"

His words, his touch, were overwhelming. The world ... He made it sound exotic, enticing, compelling. Like everything she'd ever dreamed of, everything she'd ever wanted.

He leaned closer. "'Stop this day and night with me,' " he quoted, and his voice took on the deep, rich tones of a song. " 'And you shall possess the origin of all poems.' "

His words sounded familiar, but she couldn't place them, and it wasn't the words that mattered anyway, but the way he said them, the way his fingers stroked rhythms on her skin. She couldn't look away, didn't want to look away, and when she felt again the soft shivers of desire, she told herself he was only playing with her.

But this time she didn't care. She wanted to lose herself in his eyes, to hear him talk and feel his touch. Without conscious thought she leaned toward him, wanting to feel that magic again, waiting for it, needing it.

But then that look disappeared from Whitaker's eyes —or ... it wasn't that it disappeared, not really. It was more as if he'd cloaked it, banked it the way one banked a fire, covering the hot, dangerous coals with deceptively cool ashes, and when he finally released her hand, saying "So you'll come," Imogene felt a surge of disappointment. She stepped back, trying to compose herself, watching as he moved quickly across the studio, grabbing a shiny black beaver hat from a table littered with tubes of paint and brushes. He settled it on his head and motioned to the door. "Hurry now, or we'll be late."

He was confusing, bewildering. Imogene felt as if some important part of a puzzle were missing, but the spell he'd woven around her was still too strong, and she couldn't think of what the missing piece was, couldn't seem to gather her thoughts at all. She threw a puzzled glance at Childs, who was watching Whitaker with detached amusement. "But where are we—"

"No questions," Whitaker interrupted lightly. "It's a surprise, Miss Carter. Don't you like surprises?"

"But I—"

"Come along, chérie," Childs said easily. "Trust me. You'll be in no danger."

No danger. Imogene looked at Childs, at his blond hair gleaming in the last rays of light streaming through the window, at his perfect features, and then she glanced at Whitaker. No danger. He looked like a panther, with his green eyes and that long, dark hair falling over his shoulders, contrasting subtly and tactily with the gleaming top hat. She realized suddenly that he had dressed for this evening as well, but unlike Frederic Childs's blue superfine and richly embroidered waistcoat, Jonas Whitaker's clothes were starkly black. A black frock coat and tight black trousers and a broad black tie that covered his collar. The only relief was the white shirt he wore, the only concession to decoration the gold buttons on his black waistcoat.

Yes, he looked very much like a panther. Sleek and black and captivating.

No danger.

Oh, what a lie that was. What a terrible lie. She thought of how she'd lost herself only moments before, how he made her forget who she was, forget everything. She was in the worst kind of danger, she knew it, and yet when he looked at her with those glittering, compelling eyes and crooked his finger at her, she found herself going to him, following him and Childs without a word out the doorway and down the hall, through the bustle on the first floor. And when he waved away her godfather's brougham—and Henry— in favor of a cab that waited just outside, she didn't say a word, merely got inside and settled her skirts and felt the press of him beside her and the warmth of Childs's leg across from hers.

But when Whitaker rapped on the ceiling and the carriage sped off, wheels spinning wetly through the New York streets, Imogene felt the danger again, a danger that shivered in the close, too-warm air, that hovered around Jonas Whitaker. She clenched her fists in her lap and looked out the window and felt a breathless excitement more terrifying than anything she'd felt before. Because though she felt the danger, it was warm and welcoming and tempting. More tempting than it had ever been with Nicholas. Impossible to resist.

She only hoped she could survive it this time.

 

 

 

He couldn't stop watching her, even though she didn't look at him, even though her shoulders looked rigid and her hands were clenched tightly in her lap. It didn't matter; she would relax once they got to Anne Webster's. Once they got to the salon it would all begin—the thought brought exhilaration shivering up his spine, sent the cold heat of adrenaline coursing through him.

He had dreamed of this, had thought of nothing else. He had struggled with the portrait the last two days, inspired but unable to truly capture the mystery he wanted. The essential core of her eluded him. It eluded him as he tried new forms and played with color. It eluded him as he tried to sketch the shadows of her face. Even though he could see her before him, the image shifted and changed, and this morning he had looked out the window and seen the gray streaks of rain and known—suddenly and completely—what was missing.

She was an innocent, untried and naive, still closed to the world. Why had he not remembered that before? He couldn't see the beauty of her soul because he hadn't found it yet. It was still buried beneath convention, wrapped in silks and wools and velvets. She was truly the butterfly of his vision, suffocated by society's strictures as well as its clothes, and he wanted suddenly to take those clothes off, to tear away the cocoon and bring her shining and newborn into the world, to liberate her.

He knew he would see her then, truly see her. Once she was released, he would find the soul that he ached so to capture on canvas. He would free her, and in turn, she would be his courtesan, his masterpiece. She would be his gift to the world. It was why he'd sent Rico to find her. He was too impatient to wait, and Anne Webster's Thursday night salon was the perfect place to start.

Ah, he could hardly wait to get there. He felt restless and on fire; his blood was pulsing in his veins, tingling in his fingertips. He glanced at her again, but she kept her gaze fastened on the window of the carriage, on the lights that grew brighter and brighter as the darkness of twilight began to fall. He tried to see what she was seeing, and found himself mesmerized by the way the light reflected on the window and the dark red of her bonnet, by the way it glanced off the satin to send a vibrant glow of color into her face. It made her look ruddy and alive, and he took it as a sign. Alive, yes. She would be twice as alive by the end of the night. Like the genie in Aladdin's lamp, she was a prisoner— a captive waiting to be freed with a gentle touch.

He smiled at the thought, and imagined he saw the swish of smoke surrounding her, smelled the soft rich scent of Arabian spice.

"Something amusing?" Childs asked.

Jonas glanced at him. Rico leaned into the corner of the carriage, looking every inch the cynical and jaded artist. It made Jonas laugh. "How dour you look," he said. "Dour and sour. You'll make Genie think we're going to a funeral."

She turned from the window. "Where are we going?"

He gave her a smile. "The world awaits us, Genie. Make your three wishes. Or should I make mine?"

He saw the puzzled look in her eyes.

"Three wishes?" she asked.

Jonas leaned forward. The red glow cast by her bonnet seemed to intensify, the dawn-pink of her skin was captivating. He wanted suddenly to take her just as she was; for a minute the urge was so strong he trembled with it. He wanted to seduce her, he wanted her to seduce him. And then he realized she was seducing him, though he didn't think she knew it. "I know what my first wish would be," he whispered.

She sat back, swallowing hard, and turned away so abruptly all he was left with was the back of her head, her impenetrable bonnet. He heard Rico's snort of laughter, and Jonas grinned and sat back again, ignoring Childs to watch the lights pass by. They were like fireworks, welcoming and celebratory, and for just a moment he forgot her and Rico, for just a moment he was caught up in the idea that the lights were for him, that they were a message from God. "Change the world ..." The words matched the rhythm of the passing lights, the sharp burst of yellow that slowly melted away through the window. "Show us what art can be. Mankind awaits your brilliance—"

The carriage lurched to a stop.

"Looks like we're here," Childs said, sitting up straighter. He glanced out the window. "Ah, yes. Waverly Place."

Waverly Place. The words filled Jonas with anticipation and impatience. Without waiting for the driver, he wrenched open the door. The clean scent of rain- cleared air met his nostrils, along with the smell of mud and the faint hot odor of the gaslights lining the street. He stepped out, looking at the well-kept brown- stones and brick town houses that lined the road, their steps guarded by pillared balustrades and wrought- iron gates. It was still early, and people were walking along the flagstones, their voices carrying easily on the cold air, echoing up and up until they filled the clear, dark sky with sound.

He tilted his head to follow them up. The sky wasn't dark enough for stars, not yet, but it would be soon enough. For now, the gaslights could be stars, their light seemed to penetrate his soul, to fill it with laughter and talk and warm, beautiful places. Prisms of color danced on puddles still left from yesterday's rain, and he stared at them, mesmerized by the changing

patterns, the shapes, until he heard the creak of the carriage and turned to see Rico helping Genie from the step.

Jonas caught her gaze. He saw her puzzlement as she looked at the building before them, and it made him want to laugh, to taunt and tease her, to ease her uneasiness away, bit by bit, one piece at a time. Shoes first and then stockings, pantaloons and corset and chemise. One by one, until she stood in front of him, naked and ready to face the world . . .

He grinned at her and then laughed at the startled look on her face before he strode through the open gate of the brownstone in front of them. He took the steps quickly, stopping at the stoop to wait impatiently for her and Rico. When they reached the bottom step, he rapped sharply on the door.

It opened almost instantly, flooding the twilight with light and talk, with the tinkling notes of a piano. A man in a checkered waistcoat and heavy gray beard stood at the doorway.

"Whitaker!" he said, and there was a warmth in his voice that made Jonas smile in return. "Where the hell have you been lately? And Childs too! This is an occasion."

"It's good to see you, Webster," Jonas said. He looked into the hallway, into the press of people. "A busy night, eh?"

"Yes, of course. It wouldn't be successful if it wasn't too crowded to move," Leonard Webster said easily. "Come in, come in." He stood back until they'd squeezed inside, and then he shut the door and leaned against it. "Who is this you've brought with you? Have we met, Miss—"

"Allow me to present Miss Imogene Carter," Childs said with his usual gallant charm. "Miss Carter, this is Leonard Webster, our host."

She smiled an enigmatic smile, and now that the street lamps were gone, her face looked pale beneath the harsh red bonnet, almost ethereal. "How do you do, Mr. Webster," she said.

Webster smiled politely, and Jonas knew the man was wondering who the hell she was. It was obvious she was no actress, and though she had her own quiet charm, she was not the kind of woman he and Rico usually brought to the salon. He could almost see Webster ticking off the possibilities in his mind: Actress? No. Mistress? Not their type. One of those Bohemian thinkers? Perhaps, but ... no.

"Feeling confused, Leonard?" Jonas asked dryly.

Webster only gave him a bland look. "An original, I see," he said, and then he squinted at Childs. "A friend of yours, Childs?"

"A student of Jonas's," Rico said.

Jonas nearly laughed aloud at the look of surprise on Webster's face. "A student of mine, yes," he said, teasing. "She's a brilliant painter, Leonard, the next Raphael—so be kind to her, won't you? Where's Anne?"

"At the piano." Webster motioned to a wide doorway flanked with velvet curtains of red and gold. 'Where else? That young musician from the Broadway is here tonight."

Jonas nodded, anxious to get into the crowd, to feel the energy of talk and ideas pulse around him, to see evelation flicker over Genie's skin with the candlelight. He glanced into the parlor. It was crowded tonight; people leaned against walls and filled every seat, and the rush of talk lifted over the piano, heavy and enticing. Anne Webster preferred candles to lamps on these nights, even though the house was piped for gas, and what seemed like hundreds of candles covered tables and the sideboards and the piano, dripping waxy and fragrant over silver and crystal holders, shivering in the drafts caused by movement and talk.

He saw Anne across the room, resplendent in pink satin, her dark hair caught up in a spray of roses. As if she sensed his gaze, she glanced up and smiled, motioning him over with a silent wave.

He looked over his shoulder, Rico was watching him, waiting for the next step, and beside him Imogene Carter stood, her brown eyes darting as she looked at the people talking in the foyer, her cheeks unnaturally flushed.

Excitement made him impatient and a little rough. He grabbed her gloved hand in his and heard her startled little rush of breath as he jerked her closer. She stumbled against him, a quick press of silk and wool and warmth, a whiff of almond, before she pulled away again.

"Where are we—"

"Shh," he said, touching his false finger to his lips, then glancing at Rico. "Coming?"

"As always," Rico said wryly. "Lead the way, mon ami."

Jonas tightened his hold on Genie's hand, pulling her after him as he made his way through the crowd. Many people he recognized; they were the same artists and writers and actors who were always in attendance at Anne's little soirees, and he smiled a hello and pushed through them on his way to her, anxious to introduce Genie and set his plans in motion.

By the time they finally reached their hostess, his excitement was at a fever pitch. He saw the way Anne looked at him, the speculation in her stare, but when they approached, she only leaned forward and gave him a brief hug, touching her lips to his cheek before she pulled away again, leaving in her wake the faint scent of roses.

"Why, Jonas," she said, smiling. "How good of you to come—and you too, Frederic. The two of you have been making yourselves scarce lately."

Rico took her hand and bent over it, his blue eyes twinkling. "Only because the longer we stay away, the more beautiful you are when we return."

Anne laughed. "You never change, my dear," she said. "It appears even Paris leaves you unaffected."

"Or perhaps too affected," Jonas said.

Anne's smile widened. She drew her hand from Rico's, her eyes were dark with curiosity as she looked at Genie. "I see you've brought a guest."

"Miss Imogene Carter," Jonas said. "One of my . . . students."

That surprised her, he noted with a smile. Anne's finely arched brow rose. "A student?" She looked at Genie again, more sharply this time, and Jonas imagined that she saw what he did, the pearl beneath the shell, a mystery hidden by the mundane. His heart beat faster when Anne turned her gaze to him and he saw a knowing look in her eyes and knew she understood. It made him feel vindicated and confident, so exalted he wanted to laugh out loud.

"I'm pleased to know you," Anne said, looking back to Genie with a small nod. "I hope you enjoy yourself this evening."

Jonas felt the nervous flexing of Genie's hand beneath his fingers, but she only smiled—a soft, quiet smile—and said, "I'm sure I shall."

"Come, let me introduce you all to a new friend of mine. I believe he intends to read from Whitman's new poetry collection this evening. It should be quite exciting." Anne took Jonas's arm, leaving Childs and Genie to follow. She leaned close as they moved through the crowd. "A student, hmmm, Jonas? Or perhaps—something else?"

Ah, she was clever. Jonas delighted in it, as he always did.

"You never miss a trick, do you, darling?" he asked with a quick laugh. He leaned close to whisper against her ear, and the words came spilling out, he couldn't say them fast enough. "She's my masterpiece, Anne. Can't you see it? She's so fresh, so untried, but I tell you there's something else there—a great mystery—"

"She's your new model, then," Anne said with amusement. "An interesting choice, Jonas. Though innocents are a bit passé, don't you think? And certainly not your style."

He was confused for just a moment. Innocents not his style? He'd been corrupting innocents most of his life, or at least women who pretended to be so. Now that he thought about it, he wasn't sure he'd ever had a true innocent. Not until now. Perhaps that was what captivated him so. Perhaps it was only that she was the real thing, naive and pure, something to despoil. . . .

The cynicism of the thought put his nerves on edge. No, he didn't want to despoil her. But to teach her— ah, yes, he did want that—to see the change in her eyes, from purity to sensuality, from naivete to wisdom. His own Aphrodite, the most sensual of the gods.

"Help me find her divinity," he said urgently, and when he saw the bewilderment on Anne's face, he plunged ahead, wanting her to understand. "I'm looking for a goddess, Anne."

Anne's brow furrowed. "You speak in riddles, Jonas. I—oh, excuse me, there he is." She pulled away from him, gesturing to a man in the crowd. "Davis! Davis!"

Jonas threw a curious glance at Rico, who came up just behind him, Genie in tow.

"Davis Tremaine," Rico explained in a low voice. "He was in Paris during the summer. An art critic who fancies himself another Ruskin." Rico lifted a brow and smiled. "He has a reputation for having a true eye for beauty—as well as an . . . unfortunate . . . hunger for it."

Anne stepped back, waiting for Tremaine to make his way through the crowd. She spoke sotto voce. "Tremaine's quite popular lately. He'll give the girl the cachet you're looking for." Then, when Tremaine reached them, she straightened, breaking into a practiced hostess smile. "Ah, here you are now. Davis, have you met Jonas Whitaker and Frederic Childs?"

"Childs, of course. Haven't seen you since Paris. Delighted." Tremaine nodded at Rico. He leaned closer, squinting in a nearsighted way, and held out his hand. "Regret to say I haven't had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Whitaker yet. I've heard of you, of course, sir. Saw that last exhibition—when was that, a year or so ago? Particularly liked that provincial thing you did— "Women with Sheaves,' I believe you called it."

An ass, Jonas thought, dismissing Tremaine summarily. He barely remembered "Women with Sheaves." He'd done it at Barbizon, years ago, and it was an inferior painting, a test of color, a minor work even to his own eyes. It offended him somewhat that Tremaine hadn't seen anything of his new attempts, and the fact that he felt that way irritated Jonas even more. Normally critics mattered little to him—bad critics especially. And he knew instantly that Davis Tremaine, whatever his ambition, was a bad critic. Jonas wondered why the hell Anne had brought him over.

"And Davis, this is Imogene Carter," Anne continued blithely. "She's one of Jonas's students."

"Charmed, Miss Carter." Tremaine's words were short and clipped and rigidly polite. Dismissal rang in his tone, disinterest deadened his eyes. It only angered Jonas more. Tremaine was as stupid as he was pretentious. There was a living work of art in front of him, and he failed to even see it. Annoyed, Jonas took Genie's arm and started to turn away.

"Mr. Tremaine, I'm pleased to meet you."

Genie's soft voice stopped Jonas in his tracks. It was calm and even, and he released her arm, surprised. Even more surprised when he realized that, but for the flush in her cheeks, he'd never seen her look so calm, so self-possessed.

Except once. Jonas swallowed as the vision came into his head. A creamy shoulder, a knowing smile—

"My father admired your writings very much, Mr. Tremaine." She was smiling at the critic now, a quiet, shy smile. "He told me he thought you were insightful."

Tremaine stopped short. "Insightful?"

"He liked what you said about Hiram Powers," Her face wrinkled as if she were trying hard to concentrate. "That statue—the 'Greek Slave.' About how the chain she wore made it clear she was a slave, so no one cared about the fact that she was . . . nude."

Tremaine visibly puffed. "Yes, of course. Once you saw the chain, you knew the story. Perfect sculpture for those too lazy to interpret truly great art." He leaned closer, pulling a pair of fragile glasses from his pocket and settling them on his long, thin face, scrutinizing her though the lenses. "So you're a student, Miss Carter? Are you also an aficionada of fine art?"

She laughed.

It was a small laugh, but it startled Jonas. He'd never heard her laugh before—or he supposed he had, once; he thought he remembered seeing her laugh with McBride. But he hadn't heard it then, and now the sound of it galvanized him, made him feel light-headed and strange.

"I try to understand what little I can, Mr. Tremaine," she said. "Though sometimes I'm not sure it's fine art I'm seeing."

Tremaine chuckled. Jonas stared. He hadn't expected her to have the presence to hold her own with these people. He remembered suddenly that she'd come from an upper-class family in Nashville; she'd probably spent hours at her parents' parties, had no doubt learned all the niceties of conversation. But he'd forgotten that, had seen that upbringing only in how cossetted she was, how protected.

And now here she was, not just smiling but conversing. Captivating Tremaine the way she'd captivated him, and looking as if she wasn't sure whether to be confused or delighted by the critic's attention. It was charming—it was more than that. It was so innocently erotic that it paralyzed him. There it was, the mystery he'd been looking for, shining from her so brightly he couldn't believe the others didn't see, that they weren't blinded by her presence.

"An honest woman," Tremaine said, taking off his glasses and shaking his head as he tucked them back into his pocket. "My compliments, my dear." He looked at Jonas. "She is quite perfect, sir—I look forward to seeing her in paint."

And then, with a quick good-bye, Tremaine disappeared again through the crowd.

"Well." Anne turned with a smile. "Congratulations, Jonas, you've captured Davis's attention."

"An easy enough feat when you've any intelligence at all," Rico commented dryly. He smiled at Genie. "You've another fan, Miss Imogene."

She smiled back, but it was frayed at the edges, distracted and self-conscious. "Another fan," she repeated, the words so soft it was as if she spoke to herself. She looked at Jonas. "What do you suppose he meant—about seeing me in paint?"

And it was gone. In that second, the mystery fell away, and she was ordinary again, the colorless girl who had walked into his studio two weeks ago.

But that was the masquerade, and now he knew it— and knew what he had to do to find the mystery again.

"Perhaps some wine," he said, looking to Childs.

Rico smiled, a knowing light in his pale blue eyes. "Ah, yes, some wine." He held out his hand to Genie. "What do you say, Miss Imogene? Shall we have a glass?"

 

 

 

She watched him the way everyone in the room watched him, and for the same reasons—because it was impossible to look away. He was mesmerizing, intoxicating. A god, almost, Imogene thought, seeing the religious zeal in his expression as he talked and gestured. Though a group of people surrounded him, he stood out from them, tall and finely made, his intense green eyes and flashing smile hypnotizing. He gestured with his glass, but not a drop of wine spilled, and though he drank it almost as quickly as he spoke, his movements were graceful and alluring.

Tonight, the entire room seemed to spin around him. People flitted to him like moths to a flame, and he kept them there, circling his orbit, flushed and laughing. She could imagine their dazzling repartee even though she couldn't hear them, could imagine the sheer brilliance of their ideas, the sharpness of their wit.

She wanted to be one of them.

It was a ludicrous thought, she knew. She could not keep up with them. She was no Bohemian thinker; she was barely an artist. Her father was right, after all, when he told her she needed steel instead of milk and water. But still . . .

She forced her gaze deliberately to the women who stood beside him. Anne Webster seemed to sparkle beneath the onslaught of his gaze; her dark eyes were vibrant and shining, and her laughter rang through the room. How beautiful she was, flushed with his attention, alive in the sound of his words. And the woman on his left, a woman elegantly clothed in green satin and black velvet, was equally lovely. A woman who smiled into his eyes and hung on his every word. A beautiful, interesting woman.

Imogene's throat tightened. She was nothing like them. She'd already proved it once tonight, when she'd tried to charm Tremaine, when she'd tried to impress Whitaker, impress them all. She flushed with embarrassment when she remembered the way she'd stammered, offering her father's opinions instead of her own, mangling them in her usual way. When she remembered Tremaine's patronizing comment. "An honest woman. My compliments, my dear." He'd been laughing at her—even Childs's kind attempt to camouflage it hadn't hidden the truth.

She heard Whitaker's laugh across the room and winced. She wondered why he'd even brought her here. Earlier tonight, in the carriage, she had hoped maybe—just maybe—they were on their way to someplace special, that he wanted to show her something magical, to give her some insight into his art. And that hope had lasted until they stepped into the Websters' glittering parlor, and Imogene realized this was no special place at all. It was only a salon, like all the others she'd been to, like the ones her father had held when Chloe had been alive—a sparkling collection of literati and artists that left her feeling out of place and alone. She could not compete with their wit then, and she couldn't now.

This time the failing was more painful than ever. More disappointing. Because Whitaker had brought her here and she wanted to impress him, wanted that magnetic gaze turned on her. She remembered what Peter had said, how he'd told her that when Whitaker was in a certain mood, he was brilliant, a shooting star. She understood what he meant now. A shooting star. Yes, Whitaker was that.

How did one capture a shooting star?

She wished she knew. She had the feeling that if she could get close enough, if she could wait for just a little while, he might be able to help her understand the things the rest of them all took for granted. Maybe he could make her feel—for even a moment—the sheer exaltation of philosophies and ideas, or give her again the vision, the blinding passion, she'd felt the other day. The vision she had always wanted, the vision that everyone but she seemed to access so easily.

She saw him lean close to Anne Webster, whispering something in her ear, and Imogene felt a longing so strong it took her breath—and then the quick, hopeless drop of resignation. She would never get that close to him. He would never whisper in her ear that way, or laugh with her the way he was laughing with Anne now. What a silly wish it was. What a silly, stupid wish.

Still, she couldn't help thinking it, couldn't help the enticing little voice murmuring in her ear, Oh, I wish he would smile at me that way.

Imogene turned away, taking a desperate sip of wine before she started through the crowd again—away from him, though every step putting distance between them felt painful. She heard snippets of conversations, the glib and abstract flood of thought: "But as Swedenborg said ...""... he claims to be a Transcendentalist, but I have my suspicions ...""... if all men are capable of divine inspiration, then shall we consider that 'sin' is simply a lack of spiritual development ..."

She maneuvered around the crowd, smiling a smile that felt pasted on, murmuring hellos to people who were nothing more than strangers, drifting away again before they could involve her in a conversation she could not maintain. She drank her wine until her first glass was empty, then a second, until her smile was no longer such an effort to keep up even though the room felt too close and too hot.

But she could not ignore him. In this mood he was too irresistible. She searched for a place where she could watch him surreptitiously, without interruption, and found it—a corner where the musty-smelling, heavy drapes were pulled back from the entryway. She settled into the shadows and glanced toward him, expecting to see him gesturing enthusiastically to one of the others.

He was gone.

Anxiously Imogene glanced through the crowd, looking for his tall form, for Childs's bright blond hair. They had simply disappeared. She stepped away from the curtain to scan the room more closely.

"More wine, Miss Imogene?"

She jerked around so quickly her head spun. Childs was standing beside her, a smile on his face as he held out a bottle of wine. Right behind him stood Jonas Whitaker. They'd come from nowhere; it was impossible that she hadn't heard them. It disconcerted her that she hadn't, but her confusion faded in the sharp, soaring joy of their company.

Childs poured more wine into her glass. "You'd best drink up," he said, nudging it toward her. "God knows you'll need it. Tremaine's readying to torment us with a poetry reading."

She looked down at the glass, trying to keep from grinning like an idiot over the fact that they'd searched her out. "A poetry reading?" she asked.

"We're hoping Tremaine knows more about literature than he knows about art," Whitaker said. He leaned close, smiling at her, his green eyes warm and beguiling. "How about you, Genie?" he asked. "Do you like poetry?"

He was teasing her; it made her feel strangely giddy. "Some poetry," she managed.

"That's a greater appreciation than Tremaine has, I'll warrant," Childs said dryly. "The last rhyme I heard him read began 'There was a young lady from Nice.'" He grinned audaciously at her. "And he mangled that."

Whitaker laughed. "Your polish is slipping, Rico."

"Says the man who never had any to begin with." Childs lifted his glass in tribute. He nodded at the goblet in her hand. "Miss Imogene, you're falling behind."

Obediently she took a sip. The wine tasted better than it had all night, rich and spicy and dusty on her tongue. It relaxed her now, and along with the light in Whitaker's eyes, and Childs's quick tongue, the wine took away her isolation, made her feel warm, as if she suddenly belonged. She wanted to stand here and talk with them all night—in fact, she wished she could. Because in this moment, the specter of her father's words, her own inadequacies, faded away. Standing beside them, she was touching the star.

She laughed at the thought.

Whitaker's smile broadened. He curled his fingers around her arm, and then he was bending close, whispering in her ear. "Come with me."

Come with me. She would not have refused even if he'd given her the chance, and before she knew it, Childs was at her other side, and she was being led through the crowd so quickly the flickering lights of the candles made her dizzy, the hot, fragrant smells of beeswax and perfume stole her breath. It took her a moment to realize everyone was moving, the little social cliques were breaking up, heading toward the far end of the room. The piano music grew louder, the chattering voices sang in her head.

Then Whitaker stopped so suddenly she stumbled. She felt his hand tighten on her arm to steady her. They were standing at the front of a half circle of chairs, and she realized the room was already set up for the poetry reading Tremaine had promised. Five minutes ago, she would have taken a seat in the back and listened in silence, feeling out of place and alone. But now everything was different. In five minutes, Whitaker had changed it, and his hand on her arm, his smile, was such a startling acceptance she felt dazzled and a little winded.

"That's the way." Whitaker spoke in her ear, the words sounded strange, breathless and shivery. "You know, you're beautiful when you smile."

The comment startled her. Imogene looked up at him, sure she was hearing things, sure he could not have said the words. It was the wine. It was all illusion.

He laughed and motioned to a huge chair covered in burgundy brocade.

"Sit, Genie," he said, and his voice was deep and smooth and tantalizing. The room seemed to sway to the sound of it, the smooth, deep reds of the furniture and the drapes seemed to shimmer and pulse with light and dark shadows.

You've had too much wine, she thought, sitting, but it felt good—decadent and somehow enlightening. It reminded her of how she'd felt the day she modeled for the class—that powerful, seductive feeling, and when Childs came to stand at the other side of her chair and poured more wine into her glass, she didn't protest. Nothing felt real. It was as if she were in a dream, a beautiful, enticing dream. She watched the people taking their seats, their exaggerated gestures and expressions, the fine satins and velvets of their clothes glimmering, their skin golden and beautiful in the light. The vision elated her, embraced her.

A laughing Anne Webster tore herself away from a group of people and moved to the front. "We've a special treat tonight," she said, beaming. "Mr. Davis Tremaine has offered to read from Walt Whitman's new poetry collection. It's a stunning achievement, I understand."

"Quite stunning," Tremaine said, ambling over to stand beside Anne. "And quite shameless, I might add."

"All the better." Anne laughed. "Please, Davis, the floor is yours."

Tremaine smiled. His frock coat was unbuttoned to reveal a gold-embroidered waistcoat, the shiny threads glinting in the glow of the candles. He reached into a pocket and took out his glasses, settling them on his thin, pointed nose before he reached for the book lying on a nearby table. Though the intricate, tendriled lettering was hard to read through her unfocused eyes, Imogene made out the words Leaves of Grass stamped onto the dark green leather cover of the thin chapbook.

"Which one shall you read, Davis?" Anne asked. "I must confess I've barely read it myself, but I've heard such scandalous things."

"Which is precisely why you decided you had to own it," Leonard Webster teased from his place against the far wall. He toasted his wife with his glass. "Find Anne the most decadent poem, won't you, Tremaine? If you don't, tonight's conversation could be most dreary."

"The one thing Anne isn't is dreary," came a voice from the crowd. "Scandalous poems or no."

Laughter greeted the remark. Imogene heard Childs's chuckle just behind her. He was leaning against the right side of her chair, with Whitaker flanking the left, and the two of them made her feel oddly safe—her own archangels, guardians of the gate. She laughed at the thought.

Far too much wine, she thought, looking down into her glass and knowing she should put it aside. But almost as she had the thought, Childs poured more, and there was such a sense of companionship in his gesture, such an engaging smile on his face, that she took another sip just to please him.

"Perhaps this one," Tremaine said, pausing as he leafed through the pages of the book. He read a few lines silently and then looked up at his audience with a smile. He adjusted his glasses and spread the volume wider and cleared his throat.

" 'I sing the body electric .' . ."'he began, his tones slow and lilting. "'The armies of those 1 love engirth me and I engirth them . . ."'

The room was hushed, the rise and fall of breathing pulsed around Imogene. She saw the rapt faces of those listening, the flushed cheeks and glittering eyes.

" '. . . And if the body does not do fully as much as the soul? And if the body were not the soul, what is the soul?' "

She took another sip of wine, and another. She thought the glass was almost empty, but when she looked down again it was full, and she wondered if she'd really been drinking it at all, or if she'd just imagined it, too caught up in the words of the poem to remember the drink. She blinked, looking up at Tremaine, who gestured softly while he spoke.

The words were so pretty, graceful and full of sound, like a lullaby. Imogene closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair, feeling drowsy and warm and good, feeling herself sway to the cadences.

"'. . . You would wish long and long to be with him, you would wish to sit by him in the boat that you and he might touch each other . . .' "

The poem was seductive—innocently so, the way a spring day was seductive—full of light breezes and sunshine smells. His voice encompassed the rhythms of the words, and she got lost in the sounds and forgot to hear the meaning. It was so easy to fall into it, into darkness and song, to drink the soft, soothing wine and feel her limbs grow heavier and heavier, and listen the way they all did, enraptured, one collective breath, connected by the fine mesh of words and music.

"'This is the female form ... it attracts with fierce undeniable attraction . . .'”

She wished it could go on forever. In the caressing melody of the words, in the heady warmth of Whitaker's care, she almost believed she wasn't plain Imogene Carter. She almost believed she was really part of this night, a Bohemian artist like the rest of them, a philosopher. For the first time she felt capable of offering an opinion on something, on the beauty of Whitman's words, the sublimity of his vision. Yes, she could tell them that. She opened her eyes, feeling a rush of excitement, and leaned forward, ready to speak at the first opportunity—

" 'Hair, bosom, hips, bend of legs, negligent falling hands all diffused, mine too diffused, Stung by the flow and flow stung by the ebb, love-flesh swelling and deliciously aching, Limitless limpid jets of love hot and enormous—' "

The words were razor sharp, startling and so lurid they scattered her thoughts, sent heat flooding her face. She caught her breath, heard the sound echo in the stillness of the room, too loud, too shocked. It cut Tremaine short. There was dead silence.

Tremaine took his glasses off to look at her. From the corner of her eye she saw Anne lean forward, felt the combined breath of anticipation. Imogene felt suddenly sick. In a matter of seconds, she was a pretender again, an outsider who didn't belong and never would. It was ludicrous that she'd thought she could talk to them. She was a fraud, nothing more. A fraud who was shocked at a few lines of a poem they accepted as inspiration. Lord, what a fool she'd been to think she could belong here, how horribly, horribly naive. "Shocked, my dear?" Tremaine asked with a smile. She stared at him, unable to answer. He seemed to be wavering against the red and gold wallpaper, the edges of his body blending into it, soft shadows, blurred details.

Anne laughed breathlessly. "You were right, Davis, it is quite . . . scandalous. 1 loved it."

"Nothing like a little decadence to brighten up an evening," Childs drawled quietly. "Is there, Anne?"

Anne flushed, her eyes hardened, her smile was too bright. "I'm surprised you didn't like it, Frederic," she said brittlely.

"Oh, I think we all liked it," Tremaine cut in. "Except perhaps for Miss Carter."

Imogene flushed. She felt their eyes on her; bright, expectant eyes, and she was immediately tongue-tied. "I—it was fine," she whispered.

"Except for those last lines," Tremaine insisted. "Didn't care for those, did you?"

"Down, Tremaine," Childs said wryly from his place behind her. "Be a good boy."

Davis Tremaine glared at Childs, and then his gaze slid back to Imogene. She felt its scrutinizing heat against her skin.

"For discussion's sake, what was it that offended you, Miss Carter?" he insisted. "Assume you're familiar with the human form—I know you've seen Homer—"

"And having seen Homer, was offended by its simplicity." It was Whitaker's voice, soft and firm and fast with feeling. "Art offends, great or otherwise."

"You're saying if it didn't, it wouldn't be art?"

"I'm saying we all see art differently," Whitaker said. He surged forward, his eyes glittering, his body tense with feeling. "You see it in 'Women with Sheaves,' and I see it in—" He twisted around, and before Imogene could move or think, he grabbed her hand, pulled her to her feet. "I see it in this."

She stood there, too confused to move, too uncertain to comprehend what was happening, or why Whitaker had brought her forward. She was dimly aware of Childs taking her glass, but mostly all she saw was that they were staring at her—all of them.

"Careful, mon ami," Childs said. His voice was soft and chiding.

Whitaker ignored him. "Look at her. Look at her and tell me you don't see art." He talked quickly, his words falling over themselves. "It's as Kant says, everything is point of view—how we see something gives it significance. When I look at her I see art in all its finest forms—art that encompasses the entire universe. Look at her, Tremaine, and tell me you don't see it. Tell me you don't see the whole of life in her face. She is much more than eyes and hair and breasts—she is . . . like music—like the parts of a symphony. Think about it—every instrument is separate, every note, but together they shape the music—they are the music. It is only separateness that offends—sex without interpretation, naked limbs without reference. The notes without the symphony. I can take her clothes off and offend half this room, but it won't change the essential truth of her, and it won't make her any less a work of art."

"Good Lord," Tremaine said eagerly. "And beauty is the same, then? Just an interpretation?"

"Or essential truth?" Anne asked. "Do you think ..."

Their voices swirled around Imogene; she felt dizzy and strange, sick with wine and confusion. She looked at them all around her, at their avid faces, their lips flushed with wine. She looked at Childs leaning languidly against the chair, watching them talk with that lazy, too-jaded gaze, and at Whitaker, who had forgotten her in the heat of discussion, and she felt bewildered and oddly humiliated, an outcast again. She stared numbly at the others. They were gathered around each other now, talking wildly, eyes intense, words fired with inspiration.

She did not belong here. The thought slammed through her, a painful revelation that hurt doubly now, because she knew what it felt like to be part of things, because she'd had those first few minutes of basking in his sun. Misery made a knot in her stomach, pressed behind her eyes in the ache of tears. Slowly, carefully, she made her way through the crowd, slipping past the others until she reached the entryway and then the hall. It was an old habit; during her father's parties she'd often sought refuge in empty rooms. There was a reassuring familiarity in the quiet, in the sound of distant talk echoing from the salon. Now she needed that solitude, needed the comforting stillness to creep inside her until she could tell herself it didn't matter, until her tears disappeared along with her illusions and she became plain Imogene Carter again, a woman who was tired and hungry and wondering what time it was.

Imogene took a deep breath, looking at the rapidly dwindling row of cloaks and mantles and coats hanging on the pegs near the door. It felt late; perhaps she could find a place to lie down. Just for a while, just until Whitaker and Childs were ready to leave.

She wandered down the hall, feeling graceless and clumsy from the effects of wine. The candles only went as far as the foyer; the rest of the corridor faded to darkness. She stumbled along it, exclaiming with pain as she bumped into something. A settee. She reached out and felt the slippery hardness of satin and wood. With a sigh of relief, she sank into it, pulling her legs up and leaning her head back, closing her eyes. The upholstery was slick and hard, and combined with the slickness of her gown, it was difficult to keep her balance. But she was so tired, and her limbs felt so heavy, and her mind was befuddled with drink and confusion. She couldn't think, not about tonight. Not about Tremaine or Whitaker, not about anything. But sleep— sleep sounded good now, a way to forget her humiliation, her failure. She let her head fall back, let her hands drop. Just a short nap, just until they came for her—

She heard the step in the hall an instant before the dreams came. Imogene opened her eyes.

Whitaker was standing there, holding a single candle —a candle that sent light glowing around him like a halo. It turned his skin to gold and put colors in his hair, touched his deep-set eyes with radiance and sent his black-clad form disappearing in shadow. For a moment, she thought he was a dream—a vision conjured by her wine- and sleep-befuddled mind. For a moment, she felt no surprise at all, only a warm, reassuring acceptance.

Then he spoke.

"Genie," he said. "Don't run away from me." And his voice was a deep, soft whisper that floated on the soundless air, a voice that hinted of temptation and the dark, secret places of night. A voice that belonged to every nightmare she'd ever had.

And every fantasy.