After Innocence (15 page)

He was Jake Ryan now, a respectable international businessman. He’d made his first fortune in construction in New York City, made his second in Ireland in construction and other, more dangerous, endeavors. It was highly ironic to credit Ireland with any of his success at all. When he had fled his country as a young, suddenly homeless boy, running from the British authorities and the crimes he had committed in outraged grief and vengeance, he had never dreamed he would ever be able to return.

Then he had been grief-stricken with the thought of leaving the Emerald Isle forever. He could not realize that one day he would return, and be even more grief-stricken, forced to leave his daughter and wife behind in America.

Sofie. God. How he loved his dear daughter. How hard it was to be so close to her, to actually see her, yet be incapable of coming forth to speak with her, touch her, hold her.

Jake’s hard jaw flexed. He stood and walked to his desk, where an empty silver frame from Tiffany’s stood. One
day, somehow, he’d get her photograph and place it in its frame, keep it with him always.

Jake rubbed at his damp cheeks, picking up the telephone. The operator answered immediately. Jake gave him the number he was calling. A moment later he heard Lou Anne’s breathy, childish voice as she answered, and he almost hung up without a word. But he could not face another night alone.

After Lou Anne had agreed to come, he hung up, staring blindly at the dark brown walls surrounding him. If only he could come forward, if only he could reveal himself—just to Sofie.

Of course, he could not. Sofie would not want to meet her father, a man officially condemned as a murderer and a traitor. If he ever approached her, she would run the other way, screaming, as any refined young lady would. Maybe the shock of learning he was alive would be too much for her. He didn’t give a damn about Suzanne, hardly gave a damn about himself, but the last thing he would ever do was hurt Sofie. She had the best of all worlds now, she had wealth
and
respectability, and she didn’t need a pariah in her life.

Sofie backed up as far as she could go until her back hit the wall of her studio. Across the dimly lit room, Edward stared back at her, smiling that slight smile of his, his gaze suggestive, seductive, sexual—wicked. From a canvas.

Sofie realized that she was hugging herself. Through her studio’s two large windows, she saw that the sky outside was turning gray as dawn tiptoed over the city, and more specifically, over the lush garden outside. She had not slept a wink all night. She had painted in a frenzy. She had painted and painted, not stopping to sleep or eat or drink. Now he stared at her from across her small studio, bold and vibrant and somehow alive. Sofie abruptly collapsed to the floor.

She was exhausted. She lifted her trembling hands to her mouth, knowing that this was the best work she had ever done. Edward moved with negligent grace against a backdrop of sand and sky, the picture of casual elegance,
his hands in the pockets of his pale trousers, his white sack jacket open, necktie askew, glancing ever so slightly over his shoulder at her. Unlike the genre painting of the two immigrant women, she had chosen a light but surprising palette, in which lavender and pale yellow abounded. Like the genre canvas, she had kept the background unfocused and imprecise; Edward’s form was far more detailed, and his face was haunting in its clarity.

She drew her knees up to her breasts, staring. He was the epitome of dashing elegance, of confident masculinity, of nonchalance and intelligence, of male sensuality. She had captured him perfectly and she knew it.

His gaze stared back at her, filled with a promise she did not comprehend fully. Dear God, how she wanted to understand that promise completely! His pull had never been stronger, his lure was now irresistible.

Sofie sighed, the sound loud and shaky. Surely she was still in the throes of madness to be thinking as she was. When the day grew brighter, as the sun moved higher, surely her own sanity would return. The promise Edward offered her or any other woman was utter ruination, nothing more. But Sofie trembled, imagining too well just how pleasurable that fall from grace would be.

Sofie thought about how wickedly carnal he had been with Hilary, she thought about how hot and demanding his open mouthed kisses had been. Hot color stained her cheeks, making them burn, as she recalled the way he had driven himself into Hilary, but she could no more stop her mind now than she could have stopped herself from painting him earlier. If only she could forget what she had seen that day at the beach.

And if only she could forget the touch of his mouth on hers, and the hot, electric feel of his heavy erection thrusting against her skirts.

Sofie hugged herself. Although she was exhausted from working all night in feverish excitement, sleep would be impossible. Never had her body felt more stingingly alive. Every nerve she had seemed to be quivering and strained, on the brink of Sofie knew not what. But she was woman enough to know that she was ensnared in the web
of desire—a desire she would undoubtedly never see fulfilled.

Oh, God. Sofie felt close to weeping. How had she come to this horrendous circumstance? Not so long ago she had been oblivious to men, to passion, to the world that existed outside of her work. Not so long ago she had never even known that Edward Delanza existed. Yet yesterday he had kissed her; tonight she had stayed up in order to paint him. And she had little doubt that this canvas would only be the first of many.

Sofie thought about his claim that they were friends. She was not so unsophisticated that she did not know that sometimes a man might call his paramour his friend. And he had kissed her. Was Suzanne right? Was he preying on her with the intention of seducing her—of taking her as a lover?

She closed her eyes, releasing her breath harshly. The question she had avoided all night finally loomed before her, impossible to turn aside. If that was what he wanted, did she dare become his lover?

Sofie sat on the front stoop with Mrs. Guttenberg, her back slumped. She was too tired to do any more work that day. She had not slept at all. But after finishing Edward’s painting at dawn, she had been so elated that she had decided to go across town to work on her genre painting—much to Billings’s chagrin. She had one week in which to finish the canvas before her family returned from Newport for the start of the fall season, and she was very aware of the clock ticking.

Sofie stiffened. She heard the motorcar first. She heard the roar of its engine and the screech of its tires. Her eyes widened. Careening around the corner was a gleaming black automobile. Its horn was blowing—pedestrians leapt out of the mad driver’s way. Horses bolted from its path. Brakes screeched as the motorcar skidded to a halt behind the Ralston carriage, just missing it. Its front tires jumped the sidewalk.

Sofie did not move as Edward catapulted out of the car without deigning to use the door. He had not dressed for
the drive; he wore no duster, no cap, no goggles. He paused when he saw her sitting on the stoop, his expression drawn and severe. Then he stalked towards her. “I cannot believe you would come here to paint.”

Sofie inhaled, not so much in response to his anger—for he was tight-lipped with it—as in response to
him.
He was dressed as he had been that day at the beach—as she had just painted him—in a pale, rumpled linen jacket and slightly darker, equally rumpled linen trousers. His necktie was askew, his thick, dark hair windblown. He was so utterly male that Sofie could not look at him without feeling a deep, dark response in her own body.

Beside her, she heard Mrs. Guttenberg breathe, “Who is zat?”

Edward crooked one linger at her. “Come here, Sofie.”

His anger made him compelling, exciting. Sofie had never been faced with a man’s anger before. Her eyes wide, she stood up as if a puppet on his string. He crooked his ringer at her again, and Sofie found herself walking towards him, her heart pounding very hard.

She paused in front of him. “What are you doing here?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

And that was when Sofie realized that she had been caught, discovered, found out. “I am painting,” she said, imagining the worst. Edward would tell Suzanne about her defiance, and Suzanne would be furious. “How did you find me?”

“There is a whole city out there where you can paint,” Edward said, avoiding her question, his blue gaze holding hers. “But Jesus, Sofie, you had to pick a place like this?”

Her spine stiffened automatically. “There is nothing wrong with this place.” By now his automobile had drawn a crowd, including most of the neighbors in the tenement and all the vendors on the street. Small boys raced around it, oohing, aahing, gawking.

“No?” His tone was rough. “This is a tenement neighborhood, Sofie, and ! know you know it.”

“Of course I know it. That is why I am here.” She smiled at him too sweetly. “I do not believe that this is your affair, Mr. Delanza.”

His eyes widened. Sofie was a bit surprised with herself as well. She had never argued with a man before—much less such a devilishly handsome one.

“I’ve made you my affair, my dear,” he said, staring her down.

Sofie could not look away. His choice of words, his bedroom tone, his bold, blue gaze, all had quite the effect upon her. Sofie flushed scarlet, finding it difficult to breathe. And she knew Suzanne was right. He wanted to make her his lover. He wanted to take her to his bed. His intention was seduction.

Knowing that, Sofie could not respond. Mutely she stared.

Edward finally sighed. His gaze found her easel, which faced away from them. He cast a long, enigmatic look at Sofie, and started towards it.

Sofie did not like that. She tensed as he went around it to view her work. She gripped her hands, her heart suddenly in her throat. No matter what she might say to herself, it did matter what he thought of not just her, but her work. Sofie was suddenly terrified that he would burst into laughter—and tell her that she was a crazy cripple.

He glanced up at her from where he stood in front of the canvas, the easel between them. “This is very different from Miss Ames’s portrait.”

“Yes.”

His gaze dropped as he studied the oil.

Sofie clasped her hands to her pounding heart. “Do you … like it?”

He looked up. “Yes, I do. I like it a lot.” But his stare was somewhat puzzled, somewhat perplexed. There was a slight furrow on his brow.

“What is it?” she asked, unable to believe that he really liked it.

“I’ve misjudged you,” he said.

Sofie was frozen, not sure if his words were a compliment or a criticism.

He moved away from the canvas and came to face her. “Yesterday I thought your work talented, adequate. But I thought that there was something missing.”

Sofie did not reply, her eyes glued to his.

“Now I know exactly what was missing.” His gaze flared. He jabbed his finger towards the easel. “Because it’s there.”

Sofie whispered, “What?”

His smile was hard. “Power. Passion. That is powerful, Sofie. I look at those women on the stoop and it brings tears to my eyes.”

Sofie was speechless.

“Don’t you ever tell me you are eccentric again,” he said harshly, “because you’re not. You’re extraordinary.”

Sofie’s heart began to beat very hard. Tears rushed to her eyes. “No. I’m not. You exaggerate,” she whispered. Her life was beginning to feel as if it belonged to someone else, or as if it were all a wonderful dream.

He gave her a warning look, then ignored her denial. “Does Suzanne know you do work like this?” Edward asked suddenly.

Sofie began to recover some of her composure. “No. She wouldn’t like it. She wouldn’t understand it.”

“You’re right,” he said. “To hell with her.”

Sofie bit her lip. That was going too far.

Then Edward’s eyes widened with sudden comprehension. “You don’t have permission to come here—do you?”

Sofie did not hesitate. “Of course not.” She searched his gaze. “Are you going to tell her?”

“No.”

She was flooded with relief. “I’m appreciative,” she said softly.

Suddenly his head came up and his gaze pinned her hard. His blue eyes blazed. “Good. You owe me—and I’m calling in my marker.”

Sofie froze, choking on her understanding. Dear God, he was going to make his move now! He moved very close to her, and her eyes widened when he tilted up her face, holding her chin in his long fingers. She was in disbelief and close to swooning. He was going to kiss her now, in public, on the street, in broad daylight. Would he kiss her with the same heated abandon with which he had kissed Hilary?

And then Sofie realized that she had mistaken him completely.

Because he did not kiss her. Seduction was not his intention, not then, not there. He only held her chin and said very softly, his blue gaze determined and bright, “I want to see the rest of your work, Sofie. Will you show me?”

E
dward followed Sofie through the house. She said nothing. Her shoulders were squared, her head held high. He could hear her slightly uneven breathing. He suspected she was afraid.

He wanted to reassure her, but was afraid himself that she’d back down on her invitation into her studio if they began a discussion about it, so he did not. Instead of following her, he quickened his pace and drew abreast of her so he could glance at her tightly drawn face.

They paused at the end of the corridor. She opened the door but did not step inside. Pale and tense, she met his gaze steadily. Edward smiled at her reassuringly. She did not smile back.

“Go in,” she said. “If that is what you still wish to do.”

Edward entered the large, airy room. There were oversize double windows on the far side, and an open doorway directly ahead, leading to another part of the studio. Several canvases were lined up on the walls.

Quickly he moved forward, his gaze roaming over the paintings. In particular, he found himself drawn to a beautiful portrait of Lisa in a frothy, full-skirted ball gown, the rendering soft and romantic, the colors pastel and light. The tulle skirt, similar to that a ballerina might wear, had been portrayed with such interesting effect that Edward almost expected it to froth up out of the canvas at him.