would take nothing more than that to send her running, he was sure. Nothing more than a few well-chosen words, a look or two, maybe a touch.
It would be the easiest seduction he'd ever tried— and that was saying something.
Jonas crossed his arms over his chest, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction. Yes, it would work. By next week, Imogene Carter would be nothing more than a faint and vaguely unpleasant memory. By next month, he wouldn't remember her at all. The thought made him smile.
"What the hell is it?" Childs's irritable voice cut into Jonas's thoughts. "Either share your little joke or stop looking so pleased with yourself. It's quite annoying."
Jonas looked at him, and his smile deepened. "It's nothing, Rico," he said. "Nothing at all."
He suddenly felt a great and strong affection for the man who'd been aggravating him intensely only moments before, and he motioned to the door, ignoring Childs's frown and Clarisse's rustlings in the bedroom. "Come on now, and show me to that cognac you were talking about earlier. 1 find I'm suddenly quite thirsty."
I mogene stumbled distractedly down the last flight of stairs, nearly tripping over the hem of her gown. The day spun through her mind in a kaleidoscope of images: Frederic Childs, Nicholas, Whitaker ... Especially Whitaker. The thought of him eclipsed the others; Childs's flirtation was nothing more than a small and insignificant irritation, the memory of Nicholas was easily forgotten in the brilliance of those brief moments when Whitaker had shown her the artist's vision, when he had made her see .. . Lord, it sent her heart racing, made her breath come shallow and too fast. Excitement sped through her blood; she could hardly wait to return tomorrow, to learn more, to see more.
The thought of it absorbed her so entirely she barely heard the voices coming from the studios ringing the bottom-floor exhibition hall, bumped into two artists making their way toward the entrance, and hardly gave more than a nod to the man who held the door open for her. She hurried down the stone steps toward the brougham, anxious to get home, to describe the day to Thomas.
"Miss Carter! Miss Carter!"
The voice pierced her distraction. Frowning, Imogene slowed and turned.
It was Peter McBride.
"Mr. McBride," she said. "I didn't expect to see you."
He'd been leaning against the building, but now he hurried down the stairs toward her. "Did he hurt you?"
"Hurt me?" Imogene stared at him in surprise. "Of course not. Why would you think—"
"You're sure he didn't harm you?"
The intensity of his tone was a little frightening. Imogene frowned, puzzled by his concern. "No. No, he didn't."
"Good." He sighed with relief, released her arm. "I should have waited upstairs. I planned to. But then Childs came in, and you were talking to him . . ." He looked chagrined. "I thought it better to wait here."
"You were waiting for me?"
He nodded. He took her elbow and steered her away from the steps. "Where's your carriage? I'll walk you to it, if you'll allow me."
Imogene motioned down the street, to where Thomas's shiny black brougham stood waiting.
"I told you yesterday that there were some things you should know about him," Peter continued, leaning closer, as if he didn't want anyone to hear, even though there was no one near—only a few people across the street, strolling in the cold autumn sunshine, and an old man who walked ahead of them with quick, shuffling steps, his booted feet rustling the few fallen leaves the wind had blown onto the walk. "I think you should hear them now."
The memory of the last hours faded in the rush of curiosity. There was such secrecy in his tone that for a moment she heard her mother's voice in her ear, chiding her to turn away from gossip, but Imogene pushed it aside. The truth was, she wanted to know more about Jonas Whitaker, now more than ever. She wanted to understand him, to understand why he'd
been able to make her see Clarisse with
It would be the easiest seduction he'd ever tried— and that was saying something.
Jonas crossed his arms over his chest, feeling a deep sense of satisfaction. Yes, it would work. By next week, Imogene Carter would be nothing more than a faint and vaguely unpleasant memory. By next month, he wouldn't remember her at all. The thought made him smile.
"What the hell is it?" Childs's irritable voice cut into Jonas's thoughts. "Either share your little joke or stop looking so pleased with yourself. It's quite annoying."
Jonas looked at him, and his smile deepened. "It's nothing, Rico," he said. "Nothing at all."
He suddenly felt a great and strong affection for the man who'd been aggravating him intensely only moments before, and he motioned to the door, ignoring Childs's frown and Clarisse's rustlings in the bedroom. "Come on now, and show me to that cognac you were talking about earlier. 1 find I'm suddenly quite thirsty."
I mogene stumbled distractedly down the last flight of stairs, nearly tripping over the hem of her gown. The day spun through her mind in a kaleidoscope of images: Frederic Childs, Nicholas, Whitaker ... Especially Whitaker. The thought of him eclipsed the others; Childs's flirtation was nothing more than a small and insignificant irritation, the memory of Nicholas was easily forgotten in the brilliance of those brief moments when Whitaker had shown her the artist's vision, when he had made her see .. . Lord, it sent her heart racing, made her breath come shallow and too fast. Excitement sped through her blood; she could hardly wait to return tomorrow, to learn more, to see more.
The thought of it absorbed her so entirely she barely heard the voices coming from the studios ringing the bottom-floor exhibition hall, bumped into two artists making their way toward the entrance, and hardly gave more than a nod to the man who held the door open for her. She hurried down the stone steps toward the brougham, anxious to get home, to describe the day to Thomas.
"Miss Carter! Miss Carter!"
The voice pierced her distraction. Frowning, Imogene slowed and turned.
It was Peter McBride.
"Mr. McBride," she said. "I didn't expect to see you."
He'd been leaning against the building, but now he hurried down the stairs toward her. "Did he hurt you?"
"Hurt me?" Imogene stared at him in surprise. "Of course not. Why would you think—"
"You're sure he didn't harm you?"
The intensity of his tone was a little frightening. Imogene frowned, puzzled by his concern. "No. No, he didn't."
"Good." He sighed with relief, released her arm. "I should have waited upstairs. I planned to. But then Childs came in, and you were talking to him . . ." He looked chagrined. "I thought it better to wait here."
"You were waiting for me?"
He nodded. He took her elbow and steered her away from the steps. "Where's your carriage? I'll walk you to it, if you'll allow me."
Imogene motioned down the street, to where Thomas's shiny black brougham stood waiting.
"I told you yesterday that there were some things you should know about him," Peter continued, leaning closer, as if he didn't want anyone to hear, even though there was no one near—only a few people across the street, strolling in the cold autumn sunshine, and an old man who walked ahead of them with quick, shuffling steps, his booted feet rustling the few fallen leaves the wind had blown onto the walk. "I think you should hear them now."
The memory of the last hours faded in the rush of curiosity. There was such secrecy in his tone that for a moment she heard her mother's voice in her ear, chiding her to turn away from gossip, but Imogene pushed it aside. The truth was, she wanted to know more about Jonas Whitaker, now more than ever. She wanted to understand him, to understand why he'd
been able to make her see Clarisse with
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