wanted to understand the secrets he held, the passion she saw on his face—the same kind of passion she'd often seen on Chloe's.
She was suddenly sure he could give that to her. After all, he'd already given her that moment today, that moment when she'd seen in colors and brushstrokes, that split second when she'd found the form Chloe had always seen.
Jonas Whitaker was touched with fire, and Imogene had the strange and curious feeling that his madness only added to that, that the streak of brilliance her father and Thomas talked about somehow came from there. It was nothing to be afraid of, that madness; instead it was something to embrace, the price for genius.
The thought filled her with anticipation, with a stronger determination than ever. The things Jonas Whitaker could teach her if she could only get close enough, the things he knew. . . .
"Miss Carter?"
Peter's voice broke into her thoughts. Imogene looked up at him, at his long, drawn face, his unsure expression, and felt such a wave of gratitude for his candor that she gave him a bright, reassuring smile.
"Imogene," she said. "Please, Peter, call me Imogene—all my friends do."
Chapter 6
J onas watched her enter the room with Peter McBride. She was laughing at something McBride had said, and her cheeks were flushed, ruddy from the cold, her small nose touched with red. She still wore that puce monstrosity, but her eyes sparkled beneath the stiff fabric, and she untied the bonnet and set it aside with a shake of her head that caused a few more strands of light brown hair to loosen and dangle against her throat.
She seemed . . . different today, Jonas thought. More confident, somehow. He watched as she unfastened her mantle and shrugged out of it, hanging it on the peg next to the door. She never stopped talking to McBride, who was also strangely animated, his hooded eyes unusually bright.
Something had happened between them, Jonas thought, watching the couple from the corner of his eye while he pretended to study the canvas before him. Something that had caused them to band together. He wondered what it was, wondered if he should be concerned. Perhaps Peter wanted her. . . . Jonas frowned at the thought, but then he dismissed it when he saw Peter follow her to her chair. McBride didn't spare a glance for the sway of her skirts or the subtle turn of her waist, he didn't watch her from behind the way a man does when he wants a woman. Granted, she looked pale and too delicate in that pink-striped satin, but there was still a shape there, still the soft rounding of hips and breasts, still the sensual indentation of waist.
No, McBride didn't want her; the knowledge eased Jonas's tension. It made it easier to implement his plan if there was no suitor about—though the idea that McBride might be any competition at all was ludicrous.
A sudden commotion at the door put an end to Jonas's thoughts, and he looked up to see Clarisse enter, Tobias and Daniel just behind. Jonas lifted the palette off his stiff thumb and put it aside. It was time to put things in motion. He made his way to Clarisse, his anticipation sharpening with every step.
She was fumbling with her cloak, and when he approached she glanced up, frowning. "What're you so happy about this mornin'?" she snapped. "My head is poundin', and it's all your fault. You and that wretched Rico Childs."
Images from last night flickered through his mind— warm cognac and deep red wine and tangled bodies— and Jonas smiled more broadly and held out his hand for her cloak. "I didn't hear any complaints then," he said, hanging the rusty black velvet on the peg. "You seemed to enjoy yourself."
She put a hand to her eyes. "I didn't know I'd have a headache this bad this mornin'," she complained. She glanced at the class and sighed. "So what d'ya want me to do today, darlin'? Somethin' that lets me sleep, I hope."
He leaned closer, brushing his lips against the coarse, hennaed hair at her
She was suddenly sure he could give that to her. After all, he'd already given her that moment today, that moment when she'd seen in colors and brushstrokes, that split second when she'd found the form Chloe had always seen.
Jonas Whitaker was touched with fire, and Imogene had the strange and curious feeling that his madness only added to that, that the streak of brilliance her father and Thomas talked about somehow came from there. It was nothing to be afraid of, that madness; instead it was something to embrace, the price for genius.
The thought filled her with anticipation, with a stronger determination than ever. The things Jonas Whitaker could teach her if she could only get close enough, the things he knew. . . .
"Miss Carter?"
Peter's voice broke into her thoughts. Imogene looked up at him, at his long, drawn face, his unsure expression, and felt such a wave of gratitude for his candor that she gave him a bright, reassuring smile.
"Imogene," she said. "Please, Peter, call me Imogene—all my friends do."
Chapter 6
J onas watched her enter the room with Peter McBride. She was laughing at something McBride had said, and her cheeks were flushed, ruddy from the cold, her small nose touched with red. She still wore that puce monstrosity, but her eyes sparkled beneath the stiff fabric, and she untied the bonnet and set it aside with a shake of her head that caused a few more strands of light brown hair to loosen and dangle against her throat.
She seemed . . . different today, Jonas thought. More confident, somehow. He watched as she unfastened her mantle and shrugged out of it, hanging it on the peg next to the door. She never stopped talking to McBride, who was also strangely animated, his hooded eyes unusually bright.
Something had happened between them, Jonas thought, watching the couple from the corner of his eye while he pretended to study the canvas before him. Something that had caused them to band together. He wondered what it was, wondered if he should be concerned. Perhaps Peter wanted her. . . . Jonas frowned at the thought, but then he dismissed it when he saw Peter follow her to her chair. McBride didn't spare a glance for the sway of her skirts or the subtle turn of her waist, he didn't watch her from behind the way a man does when he wants a woman. Granted, she looked pale and too delicate in that pink-striped satin, but there was still a shape there, still the soft rounding of hips and breasts, still the sensual indentation of waist.
No, McBride didn't want her; the knowledge eased Jonas's tension. It made it easier to implement his plan if there was no suitor about—though the idea that McBride might be any competition at all was ludicrous.
A sudden commotion at the door put an end to Jonas's thoughts, and he looked up to see Clarisse enter, Tobias and Daniel just behind. Jonas lifted the palette off his stiff thumb and put it aside. It was time to put things in motion. He made his way to Clarisse, his anticipation sharpening with every step.
She was fumbling with her cloak, and when he approached she glanced up, frowning. "What're you so happy about this mornin'?" she snapped. "My head is poundin', and it's all your fault. You and that wretched Rico Childs."
Images from last night flickered through his mind— warm cognac and deep red wine and tangled bodies— and Jonas smiled more broadly and held out his hand for her cloak. "I didn't hear any complaints then," he said, hanging the rusty black velvet on the peg. "You seemed to enjoy yourself."
She put a hand to her eyes. "I didn't know I'd have a headache this bad this mornin'," she complained. She glanced at the class and sighed. "So what d'ya want me to do today, darlin'? Somethin' that lets me sleep, I hope."
He leaned closer, brushing his lips against the coarse, hennaed hair at her
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