The Portrait by Megan Chance Read Free Book Online Page A

considering shading.
    Then she felt Whitaker behind her, leaning close, felt the heat from his body against her back. Imogene pressed her lips together, determined not to let his presence ruin her concentration, and suddenly he was leaning over her shoulder, bending close to her ear.
    "To draw her, you need to truly look at her, Miss Carter," he whispered. "Look at her with the eyes of an artist—a lover. Can you do that, do you think? Can you see the line of Clarisse's leg, the muscles in her calf? The way the shadows fall across her ankle? Can you see?"
    His voice was deep and quiet; she heard again the rhythms she'd heard the first time she met him, the music, and it was seductive somehow, so much so she found herself following the gentle instruction of his words, found her gaze following the line of Clarisse's leg, the softly rounded calf that led to a dimpled knee, to the fullness of thigh. Found herself seeing pale flesh and ash-colored shadows she'd never noticed before.
    "I—I see," she murmured, fascinated.
    "Do you?" He was so close she felt the heat of his breath against her ear, the tickle of his hair trailing over her shoulder. "Look closely, Miss Carter. Do you really see the form? Do you see the texture? There are a hundred colors there. Do you think you could match even one?" He said the words, and she saw every detail, the play of light, the colors, the smooth skin that roughened at the knee. She saw things she'd never seen before, in a way she'd never seen them. And she thought suddenly, I could paint this . She felt the full, perfect force of inspiration, the elation of vision and the power of skill, and she listened to the soft murmur of his voice and was mesmerized by it.
    "When you look at Clarisse's leg, do you think of Michelangelo? Do you wonder how he had the strength to go into the morgues, to slit open corpses? He wanted to study their anatomy, Miss Carter. He wanted to see how muscles and bones and sinews all come together, to show that in his art. Do you think you could do such a thing—for art?"
    The loud rapping at the door startled them both.
    Whitaker straightened with a bitten-off curse.
    The spell was broken. Imogene blinked; for a moment she wasn't sure where she was or what had happened, for a moment she couldn't believe it was over. She opened her mouth, started to say, No—no, please, don't stop now , but Whitaker was already striding angrily to the door.
    "No interruptions," he muttered. "How many times do I have to say it?"
    She felt numb with disappointment. She watched him walk across the room and wished he would come back, wanted so badly for him to keep talking. He'd made her see something—truly see it, the way she never had before, and this interruption now was unwelcome, as trivial and unimportant as his dislike and his contempt now seemed. She wanted back that moment when his voice and his nearness had mesmerized her and made her feel she belonged, that moment of artist's sight. For it, she would gladly bear his impatience and anger. He'd made her feel like Chloe in that instant, vibrant and alive and passionate, and it was something she'd never experienced in her life, something she never even thought was inside her. Oh, she would give anything to have it back, anything at all.
    Imogene felt the keen edge of frustration as he reached for the door, flinging it open without regard for the nearly nude woman posing in the middle of the room.
    "Childs," he said irritably. "It's before noon, isn't it?"
    At his words, the man who stood in the doorway smiled broadly.
    Imogene caught her breath in surprise. He was beautiful, with features so fine they looked almost feminine. Blond and tall, he was the perfect foil for Jonas Whitaker's darkness. He walked confidently, almost arrogantly, into the room. "You're overwhelming me with your affection, Whitaker," he said dryly, pulling off his gloves. "I knew you'd be ecstatic to see me,
    especially since I've just returned from Paris