The Portrait by Megan Chance Page A

bedeviled him, nagged him; he kept seeing how ill at ease she'd looked when Childs was flirting with her. There was something about it, something that tugged at the edge of his mind. . . .
    "I suppose it's too much to hope for fidelity from those you love." Childs sighed.
    "Ha!" Clarisse grunted. "Like you didn't have yer little tramps in Paris !" She stepped out from behind the screen, her generous breasts crammed into the confines of her green satin gown, her feet bare. She glared at Childs, then turned to Jonas with a superior sniff. "Where're my stockin's, darlin'? I asked you to bring 'em."
    "In the bedroom." He gestured to the doorway, waiting until she disappeared behind the tapestry before he looked back at Childs. "It's not that I'm not glad to see you, Rico," he said. "But get the hell out of here."
    Childs grinned. "It's good to know some things never change," he said, settling onto the windowsill with languid affectation—much to Jonas's dismay. "But I'm not ready to leave yet. Not until you tell me the story behind the intriguing Miss Carter."
    Intriguing. That was one word for her. Jonas remembered the way she lifted her chin and asked him if she could sketch Clarisse today, the way she'd stared at the model instead of looking away as he'd expected. He had wanted to embarrass her, and she'd refused to be embarrassed, had instead been . . . interested. Not vulnerable at all, not frightened as he'd anticipated. He frowned and looked at Childs. "There is no story."
    " Au contraire ." Childs shook his finger. "I can see it in your eyes, mon ami , and even if I didn't, the idea of Gosney asking you to take her on—and you acquiescing—is simply too delicious to resist."
    "It's not what you think," Jonas said dryly.
    "How interesting, since I'm thinking nothing. I simply don't know what to make of this, Whitaker, so you must fill me in." He looked toward the bedroom. "And if I remember correctly, it will take Clarisse a full fifteen minutes to recall how to put on her stockings, so there's plenty of time."
    Jonas said nothing, wondering if he could get Childs to leave by simply ignoring him.
    "If you don't tell me, Jonas, I'll start the rumors at the Century myself. Let's see, how should the story go? Ah yes, how about this: You saw the girl and wanted her, and so you blackmailed Gosney into bringing her here." Childs tilted his head, a gleam came into his eyes. "Or perhaps you've already compromised her?"
    Jonas glared at him. "I haven't touched her."
    "Why not?" Childs grinned. "She's a woman, and you have a certain reputation—"
    "Not for innocents."
    "Ah yes, she is that, isn't she?" Childs sighed melodramatically, leaning his blond head back against the window. "Rather delightful, isn't it, for a woman to be so uncomfortable at such harmless flirtation? What is it, Jonas? Are you all right?"
    Uncomfortable. Harmless flirtation . That was it, the something that had been eluding him all evening. Everything clicked into place.
    Of course. The idea came into his head full blown, so clear and simple he couldn't believe he hadn't thought of it before, couldn't believe the solution had been there, in his grasp, the entire time. Childs was right; Imogene Carter would run at the slightest flirtation—she'd done exactly that today. It was what had been nagging him since she left, the vulnerability he'd been waiting for, the weakness he needed.
    He stared at the window, not seeing the wavering glass or the buildings beyond. Instead, he saw Imogene Carter as Childs smiled down at her, flustered and embarrassed and uncomfortable, stepping back from his touch. Miss Imogene Carter could bear criticism, she could withstand Jonas's impossible demands. But when it came to sex . . . well, that was another thing altogether.
    He licked his lips, remembering her nervous clumsiness and imagining how she would react if he got her into a corner, the way she would try to back away, how she would grip her skirt or push at her hair. It