Authors: Brenda Joyce
Sofie felt the tremor in his body—and the answering shudder in her own. “Thank you,” she said softly. Their union was inevitable. She recognized it then.
His expression became strangely intense. “You’re welcome.”
Sofie felt wild and reckless, bold and unconquerable, knowing he desired her in that moment as much as she did him. She reached up and laid her palm against his cheek, aching with the love that ran so hot and turbulent in her breast. Edward did not move. He was frozen, his gaze brilliant upon hers, and Sofie allowed her fingers to slide over his jaw, thrilled with the feel of his rough skin, wishing she could caress him openly, everywhere.
Unsmiling, Edward caught her hand, removed it, stepping slightly away from her. His expression was unreadable. And Sofie realized the liberties she had just taken, beginning to flush with embarrassment. Did she seem wanton now? Did it even matter, considering that she was wanton? For she was intending an illicit relationship with him. She knew she must apologize, but could not seem to find the right words. How did one say one was sorry for loving another person? Apologizing seemed absurd.
Edward had moved a few more steps from her, staring at her, arms folded across his chest.
“Sofie?”
Sofie jerked at the sound of Suzanne’s voice. The sound of briskly clicking heels coming to a halt caused Sofie to face the door. Tension stiffened her shoulders, her spine.
Suzanne stood in the doorway, eyes dark with anger. “I was just told that
he
was here!” she cried.
It was then that Sofie recalled that Suzanne had warned her to stay away from Edward, and that she had promised to do so. “Hello, Mother.”
Suzanne trembled, her gaze locking with Edward’s. “I was right.”
Edward stepped forward, standing slightly in front of Sofie as if protecting her. “Good morning, Mrs. Ralston.”
“Oh—I do not think it is a good morning,” Suzanne said.
“Mother,” Sofie protested, genuinely embarrassed by her display of animosity. She had never seen her mother with such a vicious look in her eyes before.
Suzanne ignored her. “Did I not make myself clear?”
She said to Edward. “You are not a welcome caller for my daughter, Mr. Delanza—even if your intentions were honorable, which we both know they are not.”
Sofie gasped in mortification, well aware that Suzanne had just spoken the truth. “Mother—” she was desperate to defuse the situation—“you misunderstand. Edward is not a caller. He has helped me sell my art.”
Suzanne finally looked at her daughter. “What?”
Sofie came to life. “Mother,” she said, moving to her and taking her hand, “Edward arranged for one of the foremost art dealers in the world to view my art.” She smiled brightly. “And he has just purchased three of my canvases for his gallery.”
Suzanne stared at Sofie as if she had spoken incomprehensible gibberish.
“Mother?”
“You have sold your art?”
Sofie smiled again. “Yes. To Durand-Ruel. Surely you have heard of them. I know Benjamin has.”
Suzanne was as pale now as she had been red-faced before. Her wide gaze swept around the studio. When she finally saw Edward’s portrait, she froze, her regard riveted there.
No one moved. Suzanne was motionless, staring, incredulous.
“What is this?
”
“Edward at Newport Beach, of course,” Sofie said, trying to breathe more evenly.
“I can see that,” Suzanne almost snarled, whirling to face Sofie. “When did you do that, Sofie?”
Sofie wet her lips. “Recently.” She hesitated. “Mother—you don’t like it?”
Suzanne’s bosom rose and fell. “No. No—I do not like it. I hate it!”
Sofie felt like a child again, a child who had been struck across the face. She blinked back sudden bitter, childish tears.
Suzanne whirled on Edward. “I can only assume you are responsible for this! I must ask you to leave—now.”
“What’s wrong, Mrs. Ralston?” An unpleasant smile twisted his features, and his eyes were diamond-bright.
“Are you afraid to see your daughter succeed? Afraid to see her excel? Afraid to see
her fly?
”
“You speak nonsense! I don’t want Sofie seeing you!” Suzanne cried. She faced him, unmoving, eyes wild. “How far has it gone?”
“Too far for your liking,” Edward said flatly.
Suzanne jerked.
His tone was dangerous. “After all, Sofie doesn’t quite think she’s so awful and unlikable anymore. She starting to
live
like a woman should. She’s even begun to realize her dream of being a professional artist. What’s wrong, Mrs. Ralston? Why don’t you like the fact that Sofie’s sold her art?”
Suzanne sputtered before grinding out, “I want you gone, now. Or shall I have you thrown out?”
Listening to them, watching them, caused something to twist painfully inside Sofie. “Mother!” Sofie was aghast, “Edward has helped me to sell my work!” She hesitated, aware of her cheeks being damp. “And he is my friend.”
“He is not your friend, Sofie,” Suzanne said forcefully. “You may trust me on that account. Mr. Delanza?”
Edward gave her a dark look, as openly hateful as the one she was giving him, before he turned to Sofie. Instantly he softened. His tone was as warm as his gaze. “Remember the success you have had this day,” he told her. “And remember what you have told me. Your mother does not understand modern art.”
Sofie understood what he was trying to do, and she felt like crying in earnest then. He understood her completely. He knew that her mother’s rejection hurt her and he was trying to soothe her wounds. Sofie managed a small, quivering smile. “I will.”
Edward smiled back at her, ignored Suzanne, and strode from the room.
And Sofie was left alone to face her mother.
Suzanne managed to find a shred of self-control. But when she turned to look at Edward Delanza’s portrait, she felt another surge of red-hot rage. God, she had sensed that something was going on, and she had been right. But the
real question was, was it too late? “What has happened between the two of you?” Suzanne demanded.
Sofie did not move. “Mother, I know you disapprove of Edward, but I can assure you, nothing untoward has happened.”
Suzanne swallowed. “So it is ‘Edward’ now, is it? And do not lie to me. I can see that you are lying, Sofie. What has he done?”
Sofie had paled and she did not speak.
“Are you still a virgin?”
Sofie did not move a muscle. When the seconds ticked by and she did not respond, Suzanne was sick at heart, and filled with disbelief. Surely her precious daughter had not been touched by that amoral rake—touched and defiled. Too well, Suzanne could recall how she herself had succumbed to Jake at the age of fifteen. But Sofie was not at all like herself, and Suzanne clung to that fact, hard.
But Sofie’s next words were a bomb, blowing up in her face, destroying her hope, shocking her. “I am not a child. You cannot ask me those kinds of questions.”
“Oh, God,” Suzanne said, staring at her daughter, unable to comprehend her defiance, unwilling to comprehend it. And what was the significance of what she was saying? Was her virtue lost? Could this really be her daughter? “I am trying to protect you. I have always tried to protect you.”
“Maybe I do not want to be protected anymore, Mother. Maybe—” Sofie trembled visibly “—maybe I want to live—just this once—even if it is wrong.” She turned and walked away.
“Sofie!” Suzanne cried, chasing after her. “You do not mean it!”
Sofie paused at the door, turned slightly. She was trying not to cry. “But I do mean it. You see, Mother, I am tired of being a crazy cripple.”
Suzanne gasped and stared in bewilderment as Sofie walked away.
Upstairs, Sofie hugged her pillow to her breast and refused to cry. It did not matter that Suzanne hated her
art. She did not understand it, and Sofie knew that. What mattered, incomprehensibly, was that Suzanne was right about Edward. He was dishonorable. Suzanne, in fighting him tooth and nail, was only trying to protect her own daughter from destruction. But Sofie had meant what she had said, too. She was tired of being protected, and she wanted to live.
But did she really want to live as a wanton, shameless woman? Could she really be happy as a man’s mistress?
Sofie looked up as Lisa slipped into her room, her small face tense with worry, her large eyes dark and concerned. She had accompanied Suzanne back to New York. “Sofie? Are you all right?”
Sofie shook her head. Tears filled her eyes.
“Oh, dear,” Lisa said, sitting down beside her and prying the pillow away. She held her hands tightly. “Sofie, whatever is going on?”
“I don’t know,” Sofie cried. “I am so confused. Lisa, I am so very confused.”
Lisa studied her face. “Have you been seeing Edward Delanza?”
Sofie blinked back tears, nodding.
“Oh, Sofie. Surely you realize the error you are making!”
Sofie gripped Lisa’s hands tightly. “Mother is right, I realize that. I know Edward wants to seduce me, Lisa.”
Lisa bit off a gasp, wide-eyed. “Has he tried anything?”
“Not really. Not yet.”
“Sofie, Suzanne is right. You must not see him anymore.”
Sofie stared sadly at Lisa. “That is easy for you to say.”
“Sofie, you haven’t fallen in love with him, have you?” Lisa cried.
“Of course I have,” Sofie said, whisper-soft. “How could I not?”
Lisa stood up, dismayed. “You must obey your mother. You must not see him anymore. Before you allow him liberties you will regret for the rest of your life.”
“You are probably right,” Sofie said softly. “But I can not stay away from him.”
“You must!”
“Lisa, he is more than just a dishonorable rake intent upon seduction. He is my friend. My very good friend. I cannot imagine life without him in it.”
Lisa stared, her dark eyes wide with horror. Then she said, very tersely, “Sofie, you are wrong. Edward Delanza is not your friend. If he were your friend, his intentions would be honorable.”
And Sofie flinched, faced with the truth of her words.
E
dward lay on his back, fully dressed except for his jacket, which hung in disarray on the back of a chair. His hands were behind his head, and he stared at the slowly moving fan on the ceiling of his hotel room. His expression was strained.
No matter how hard he tried, he could not stop thinking about Sofie. He remembered her exhilaration when Jacques had told her that he was buying the Newport Beach portrait, just as he remembered her stunned hurt when Suzanne had so cruelly told her that she hated that very same work. He recalled her anger yesterday when he had dared to maneuver her into an outing with Henry, doing what he thought best for her even though he had been resentful of the mere concept of Sofie enjoying herself with another man. And he recalled the way she had kissed him in her studio after he had failed to deport himself as a gentleman should.
And every time he remembered the way she had touched his face after the Frenchman left, his heart did a funny hopscotch kind of jump. His jaw clenched and a muscle ticked there. He was experienced enough to recognize when a woman was in love with him, and he had understood that Sofie was in love with him the moment she had touched him today. Perhaps, heartless as he was. he had recognized the extent of her feelings sooner. That day in the studio, he had seen her longing for him and understood that her capitulation was complete, but not wanting to leave her yet, he’d ignored the possibility that she might be in love with him. Thinking back, there had been so many warning signs.
Of course, undoubtedly it was a love based on gratitude as well as desire, for Sofie was a woman of great common sense. But it didn’t really matter. The damage was done. He had to stop it, now.
Edward hated himself. He had come into her life to teach her to live fully; he had never meant her to fall in love with him. He certainly was completely wrong for her. Even if he wanted to marry Sofie, which he did
not,
he would never do so, because he couldn’t bear the idea of the shambles that their marriage would undoubtedly become.
Edward squeezed his eyes closed, as if to ward off painful memories. It did not work. His parents’ marriage had been a farce; his own mother had betrayed his father in a shocking way, and tried to cover it up with lies and manipulations. That marriage was now over, but not before Edward had seen the horrendous results. He would never be able to forgive his mother for her selfish actions.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, sitting up abruptly. When he had told Sofie that his values were old-fashioned, it had been the truth. It was because of his values that he lived his life as such a rake. Marriage was forever, vows were made to be kept, and Edward knew firsthand how impossible it was for most people to live up to their promises.
Sofie seemed to see him as some kind of goddamned hero, but soon she would know better. He made a lousy champion. He was not a knight in shining armor and he never would be one.
But, God, he did want to be one in Sofie’s eyes. He realized that he had
needed
her to mink the best of him, to believe in him, to see him as a gallant adventurer, a storybook hero, because nobody else did. He’d made rescuing Sofie his goal—and he’d even screwed up that one single, lousy ambition, because now Sofie was in love with him.
Edward was loath to leave her now, like this, when they’d only just begun. He wanted to see her realize her dreams—all of them. He wanted to share in all of her triumphs—one by one. Yet it was impossible. He had no choice. He
had to get out now, before he did more than damage her heart, before he destroyed what was left of her innocence and all her hopes for the future.
Sofie refused to think. She had left home in a near panic, shoving aside Suzanne’s warnings and Lisa’s sisterly advice. But as she crossed the lavish lobby of the Savoy, she felt as if everyone were staring at her, as if everyone knew what she intended, where she was going, and to whom.
But she would not stop, not now. Even though she was sane enough to know that Lisa was right. Edward could not be her friend, for his intentions were not honorable. Yet she felt in her heart that he
was
her greatest ally, that he
was
a genuine friend, that she could trust him with her very life. And by agreeing to show her art to Jacques Durand-Ruel, hadn’t she done precisely that?