The Portrait Read Online Free PDF Page A

low and throaty. "And don't forget that either."
    "I never go anywhere without it." There was sarcasm in his tone, a bitterness that puzzled Imogene, and she tore her gaze away, feeling suddenly embarrassed and intrusive, wishing he would end this now, wishing he would dismiss her, or chastise her, or whatever he intended to do.
    She heard a quiet whisper and then Clarisse's annoying laugh, and Imogene looked up to see him escorting the woman to the door.
    "Later, darlin'." Clarisse blew him a kiss, and then she was gone, swishing from the room in a flurry of burgundy skirt and glaring red hair.
    Whitaker spun around so quickly Imogene had no warning, and no time to look away.
    "I didn't realize you were possessed of such prurient interests, Miss Carter," he said, raising a brow.
    She couldn't help it—she flushed. "Sir—"
    He ignored her. He crossed the room, stopping by the window. "Come here."
    Imogene forced herself to breathe evenly. She got slowly to her feet, smoothing the silk of her pale lilac gown, willing herself to face him with equanimity. If she really tried, she might be able to talk him out of this decision. The thought faded as quickly as she had it. She didn't have Chloe's silver tongue; she didn't even know the first thing to say.
    He pulled a large canvas from the wall with quick, impatient movements, then set it on a worn, paint- spattered chest nearby. "Here," he said shortly. "You're going to prime this."
    The words didn't register for a moment. Imogene stared at him dumbly, sure she hadn't heard correctly, sure that what he'd actually said was "Miss Carter, you are dismissed." But then he lifted his brow and gave her that derisive little smile, and she heard herself stammering in surprise. “You—you want me to prime this?"
    "I believe that's what I said."
    "But I don't know how."
    "Really?" he said in a tone so heavy with sarcasm it sank through her like a stone. "Why do you suppose I asked you to stay, Miss Carter? To discuss theory?"
    She licked her lips, afraid to say the words, afraid that saying them might make them come true. But she had to know, had to be sure, and so she spoke quickly, before she could change her mind. "I thought you were going to dismiss me."
    "A tempting idea." He smiled thinly. "But not today. Today you're going to stay until you prime this canvas for me."
    She worked to disguise her relief, grateful when he turned away to grab something from the table beside him. It gave her a moment to compose herself.
    But he seemed oblivious of her. With sharp, decisive movements, he laid items on the chest beside the canvas: a thick, twisted tube of white lead paint, a small bucket holding thin sheets of a hardened, cloudy substance, a palette knife and a slab of glass, one jar containing turpentine and another full of oil. Then he crossed his arms over his chest and looked at her.
    "I've already done part of your job for you," he informed her. He waited for her nod before he went on. "The linen's been wetted and stretched on the frame. Now it's dry."
    "I understand," she said.
    Ignoring her, he went on without pausing. "Your first job is to make the glue."
    She nodded. "Very well. What do I do?"
    "What do you do? You listen to me carefully. There's isinglass there—" He pointed to the bucket. "Boil it in some water until it's the consistency of jelly. There's a pan on the stove."
    He said nothing else, merely leaned back against the window, arms still crossed, the fingers of his gloved hand tense and curled, eerily shadowed against the gray-white of his shirt. His whole body seemed stiff, as if there were some energy within him that he worked hard to check. But he didn't succeed completely. That energy blazed from his eyes despite his stillness, and she had the peculiar sensation that he missed nothing, that he saw her every movement as she grabbed the bucket of isinglass and added pieces of the fishglue to water.
    The knowledge made her slow and careful. She set the pan on the