After Innocence (13 page)

She shouldn’t care. She
didn’t
care, she corrected herself. He had no right even being there in her home. Why had he come? To toy with her, to seduce her? Was he tired of Hilary? Did he think her easy fodder for his mill?
Why had he come!

“That does look like me,” Miss Ames said grudgingly. She stared at herself on canvas. “A bit too real, don’t you think? Couldn’t you have prettied it up a bit, gel?”

Sofie didn’t respond. Edward was gazing at the portrait, his brow furrowed, then he turned to look sharply at her. “You are very talented, Miss O’Neil.”

Sofie’s jaw was tight. If she ground down any harder, she might crack a tooth. “Thank you, Mr. Delanza,” she said stiffly.

“You claimed that you were passionate about your art,” Edward said, gazing at her as if perplexed. His glance went back to the portrait. “You have captured Miss Ames exactly.”

Sofie felt herself flushing, because this portrait was devoid of passion, and she knew it. Did he? Was his comment a
veiled criticism? “With photography one can do the same thing—even better,” Sofie said tartly.

Edward started.

“There, there, he’s complimented you, gel,” Miss Ames said suddenly, but Sofie could not regret her candor, even though it had been nothing short of rude. “You are a talent, that you are. Come, Jenson, bring it out to my carriage.” She looked at Edward. “I see you’ve got one of them damn fool motorcars, but as far as I can see, a horse and buggy was good enough for my parents and it’s good enough for me.”

Edward smiled at the old lady. “I went to an automobile show in London last November. I’ve been hooked like a mountain trout ever since.”

“Humph,” Miss Ames said. Then she winked. “Take her driving. All the young gels quite like it, it seems to me.”

Sofie’s pulses rioted as she walked Miss Ames to the door. Whatever was the old lady thinking? Still, she had the unwanted image of herself in the front seat of some fancy black roadster, with Edward in cap and goggles beside her. She had never set foot in an automobile before, probably would die without ever doing so. To imagine herself in one, with Edward Delanza, no less, was romantic nonsense.

But when she returned, she was terribly aware of being alone with Edward, and her pulse had yet to quiet down. He had left the salon, and she found him studying a painting in the corridor, which she had done some years ago. He turned. “You did this one, too.”

It was a portrait of Lisa as a child. Sofie had painted it from memory, with the aid of a photograph. “You are a connoisseur of art, Mr. Delanza?” She was uneasy with the thought, just as she was uneasy with him.

“Hardly.” His smile flashed.

“You have a good eye, then, Mr. Delanza.” She smoothed nonexistent wrinkles from her skirt. To her dismay, her hand came away streaked red. “I am afraid you have caught me somewhat
en déshabillé.”

His grin turned rakish, secrets sparked in his eyes. “Not precisely, Miss O’Neil.”

His words stirred up fantasies she had thought securely shoved aside. Her body seemed to tighten. Defensively she folded her arms across her breasts. “Why are you here?” she asked hoarsely.

“Why do you think I’m here, Sofie?” he returned softly.

Sofie felt a rush of unwanted longing, felt the blood heat in her veins. She reminded herself that he was a rake, an unprincipled one. Did he really think to seduce her? It hardly seemed possible.

Yet why else would he be there—why else would he call her by her given name in such a seductive manner? Sofie stiffened her spine, and with it, her resolve. She had almost fallen for his looks and charm once before; she would not be so foolish this time. He could do what he wanted, say what he wanted, but she would remain rational and in full control of any unwanted desire. “I cannot fathom why you are here, Mr. Delanza,” she heard herself say briskly.

“I’m calling on you, of course.” His dimples were deep, his teeth very white and bright. His bold blue eyes locked with hers.

Despite her determination, Sofie felt herself begin to fall inexorably under his spell. His magnetism was overpowering. “Mr. Delanza, I do not understand,” she said stiffly. “Why are you calling on me?”

“Do you ask the other gentlemen why they call upon you?”

She flushed with genuine embarrassment. “I believe I told you that I do not have admirers.”

He stared, his smile gone. “You do not have callers?”

Her chin lifted. “Not gentlemen callers, no.”

His gaze was wide, incredulous. Then his dimples reappeared. “Well, now you have one—me.”

She inhaled. Her pulse still pounded recklessly. “You are a man of the world,” Sofie said, choosing her words carefully. She was determined to learn his intentions. Determined to end this hopeless charade once and for all.

His left brow rose in a high, inquiring arch.

“And I am, as you can see, a dedicated but eccentric artist. And …” She couldn’t say it. She couldn’t bring up the real reason he could not find her interesting.

His eyes had darkened. “And what?”

“Why would you call on me?” she cried, losing her precarious control, and with it, her temper.

He loomed over her. “So you’re eccentric, are you? That’s funny, because I don’t find you eccentric. Original, talented, intriguing, yes. Eccentric? No. Whose words are those, Sofie? Yours or your mother’s?”

Sofie gasped.

He moved towards her—Sofie backed away. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

Sofie licked her lips. He had backed her into the wall. She was shaking and afraid—she stared at him, stubbornly mute. She wondered if he might take thorough advantage of her now and kiss her. Then what would she do?

It flashed through her mind that, as she had never been kissed before, she could enjoy it.

His eyes had turned storm blue. “I don’t give a damn that you’ve got a bad ankle, Sofie.”

Sofie did not believe him. “Then you are the only one.”

“Then everyone else is a pack of damn fools.”

Sofie stared, acutely aware of the fact that mere inches separated their bodies. She could feel his heat. Worse, she could feel herself heating up, too, in ways she had never felt before. “What are you saying, precisely?”

He lifted one hand. For a heart-stopping moment, Sofie thought he was going to touch her. His hand seemed to linger near her shoulder, and then he placed his palm against the wall, just to the side and over her head, and leaned his weight on it. “I’m saying that I’ve come to call on you like any other man might. All nice and proper-like. Because I find you intriguing. Yet you, you act as if I’m a leper.”

“I did not mean to give you that impression,” Sofie said thickly. The sleeve of his jacket was so close that she could feel the soft fibers of fine blue wool against her cheek.

Edward stared at her. “Why are you afraid of me?”

“I’m not.” But she was—oh, she was.
What on earth would she do if he kissed her?

His smile was twisted. His blue eyes held a bitter light. “I guess I don’t blame you. But I promise, Sofie, I wouldn’t hurt you. I want to be your friend.”

He had spoken that last sentence in a soft, seductive murmur. Sofie’s response was immediate. Her heart rate tripled. She could not breathe, could not even swallow. What kind of friendship, she wondered, did he have in mind?

Sofie looked into his brilliant blue eyes. And an image leaped into her head, of a man and woman entwined. The man was Edward, the woman was herself. Surely there was another, deeper, more sophisticated meaning to his words; Suzanne would insist that it was so. But Sofie could not decide. For she recalled how protective of her he had been on the veranda in Newport that night. And she did not know if she would be relieved or disappointed if he was speaking with utter sincerity now.

He commanded her gaze with his own. “Are we friends, Sofie?”

Sofie trembled. She knew he could feel it, because her cheek brushed his arm. And if he leaned just a bit more on his hand, their knees would brush, too.

“Sofie?”

She tried to think of how to answer him. There was no way to avoid the trap of a double meaning. “Of course we are friends, if that is what you wish.” She knew she was blushing.

He appeared pleased. And then his next words truly undid her. “Would you paint something for me?”

“What?”

“Would you paint something for me, Sofie?” he repeated.

She stared, unmoving. Inside her chest, her heart thundered anew.

“Paint something for me,” he cajoled. “Anything. Whatever strikes your fancy.” He spoke in a tone and manner that Sofie imagined he had used many times before, to many women, when he was intent on coaxing his prey into his arms and his bed.

Sofie pressed her back into the wall. “No. I don’t think so. No.”

His smile faded. “Why not?”

“It’s not a good idea.”

“Why?”

Sofie wasn’t sure herself. Instinct warned her against yielding to his request. Perhaps it was because she found him so irresistible, and because she wanted his approval even though it was irrelevant to her work and her success. Somehow she sensed that to bring Edward into her world of art was a very dangerous thing—far more dangerous than being alone with him right now, or than agreeing to be friends. “It’s a great deal to ask.”

“Is it? You painted the portrait for Miss Ames.”

“That’s not the same.”

“Why not?”

Sofie could not answer. She was not about to tell him that Miss Ames was an old but likable crone, while he was every woman’s prince of dreams. That her own mother had insisted on the one commission, not a gorgeous, threatening male stranger. “I am very busy,” she finally said, her tongue tripping on the truth that was, as an excuse, a lie. “My classes and my studies take up almost all of my time.”

“I see.” He appeared hurt. He dropped his arm from the wall. “I thought, being as we are new friends, you might make the time—for me.”

Sofie was frozen. What if he really was gallant? What if he really wanted to be her friend? What if they succeeded in forming a platonic yet warm bond? Sofie’s heart twisted with yearning. With a start, she realized that she was loath to see him exit her life. That already he had become a part of her world, despite his having hardly entered it. “Why are you doing this?” she whispered.

“Because it needs to be done,” he returned as softly. His gaze was bold. “You need me, Sofie. You need shaking up.”

Sofie could only stare.

Suddenly both of his hands were on the wall, just above either side of her head. “You need shaking up,” he said again, this time roughly, and suddenly his thighs closed in on hers. “Badly.”

Sofie was frozen, agonizingly aware of the weight of his muscular thighs against her own soft ones, and of the heat
that his flesh engendered in her own. She was lost in the brilliant, gleaming depths of his eyes, which had begun to glitter wildly in a manner that Sofie had never witnessed before, not in man or woman. She licked her lips. Her heart beat wildly. It did not seem possible, but … Sofie had the absurd idea that he was going to kiss her. And if her instincts were right, then she should send him away, in no uncertain manner. Sofie tried to summon up the words to do so, and failed.

“I’m going to shake you up, Sofie,” he murmured, eyes blazing, and he leaned even closer until his chest was just grazing her breasts.

Their glances locked and something sizzled between them, something so strong and so bright that Sofie forgot propriety and all of Suzanne’s warnings and every decent inclination that she had. She thought “yes” with all her heart. He knew and his lips curved slightly and he bent his head. Waiting for his kiss was the most wonderful, and the most painful, moment of her life.

Sofie forgot everything then. Fire rushed along her veins, burning up her skin, swelling the softness at the apex of her thighs, making her ache with a strange and new sexual awareness. She heard a small, breathy sound escape her own lips, just before his full weight touched her. Sofie gasped as the entire length of his swollen, steel-hard manhood was pressed against her belly, and she was paralyzed.

His mouth touched hers. Sofie made a sound, a soft whimper of desire. His lips brushed hers again. Sofie curled her hands into fists to prevent herself from gripping his broad shoulders. Her body throbbed wildly in response to the delicate and feather light touch of his lips, to the massive and heated weight of his groin. She was astounded with the blazing need she felt for him, a need to melt into his arms, touching him everywhere, yes,
everywhere,
a need to sink to the floor, her soft naked flesh against his pulsating hardness. She wanted to weep with it, she wanted to moan and groan and shriek with it, she wanted to shout “Yes!” She wanted to shout “Now!” And she wanted him to kiss her the way she had seen him kiss Hilary. Deep and
open mouthed, as if he were drinking from the chalice of her lips, in a prelude to the way he would claim her with his magnificent and virile body.

But none of that happened. Instead, after the briefest moment, after the gentlest brush of his mouth upon hers, he froze.

Sofie’s eyes were closed. But she was breathing hard, as if she’d run an entire marathon. Her own nails dug into her palms. Her body quivered like a finely strung bow.

“Jesus,” he whispered roughly.

Sofie dared to open her eyes, dared to look into his. And she was scalded by the male lust she saw there.

“Jesus!” he exclaimed, and he moved away from her, nearly shoving her against the wall.

Sofie could not believe it. She leaned against the wall, desperate for air, her heart beating madly and so loudly, she thought he could hear it. Realization dawned slowly. He had kissed her, but so briefly, it could not have lasted for more than a handful of seconds. And she had been complacent.

No, not complacent. She had not even been remotely complacent. She had been wanton and wild and mindless, and on the verge of acting out the most shocking fantasies.

Sofie covered her mouth with her hands, unwanted tears rushing to fill her eyes. Dear, sweet God!

“Dammit,” he said. He had stridden across the room, away from her, and now he stood with his back to her, raking his hair with one hand repeatedly.