After Innocence (16 page)

He paused before a still life of brilliant red and purple flowers. The floral was as different from Lisa’s portrait as night from day. Sofie had used a dramatic, almost harsh palette that was mostly red and very dark, and her brushwork was frenzied and obvious, while the background
remained in unfocused shadow. Edward was impressed. These canvases were not tragic like the oil of the immigrant women, but they had been rendered in passion, and they were somehow as powerful. All of her work was extraordinarily different from the usual drawing room fare, and the effect far more powerful, far more beautiful, than anything she might have labored over with the kind of precision she was capable of.

He had sensed from the first that beneath her serious exterior, there was so much more. Any lingering doubts he might have had were gone. Sofie was capable of boldness and brilliance, of daring and originality, of power and passion—and she must not hide her art or herself from the world any longer. Edward had never been more sure of anything.

He turned to stare at her, deep in thought. What other secrets lurked behind her facade of commonplace propriety? For there was nothing, he saw now, that was commonplace or average about her. His pulse quickened at the very intriguing thought that she might be as powerfully passionate in the bedroom as she was in an art studio.

“What are you thinking?” she whispered, her cheeks stained with a delicate pink color.

“You amaze me, Sofie.” He knew he still stared but could not help himself. Nor could he seem to smile.

She was unsmiling and tense, too, her gaze riveted on him. “You do not like my work.” She spoke hoarsely, but matter-of-factly.

Edward realized that she did not understand. He tried to choose his words with care, his gaze skidding over all the canvases again. Edward froze, riveted now by one of her other paintings, a smaller one he hadn’t paid any attention to before. It was a portrait of a young man, and she had painted it with classical precision. It might have been a photograph, except that it was in color. The tawny-haired man was sitting in a chair, gazing directly at the viewer. Edward grew uneasy. He knew this man. “Sofie—who is that?”

“My father, as I remember him before he died many years ago.”

Edward walked closer and stared at the handsome, golden-eyed man. His heart suddenly skipped. Jesus! He would swear that this man was the same one who had run into him yesterday in the Savoy while he was retrieving his mail—the very same man, just a dozen or so years younger!

But that was impossible, wasn’t it? “Sofie, how did your father die?”

She started. “He died in a fire.”

“Was positive identification made?”

She didn’t blink. “You mean, of his body?”

“I’m sorry,” he said gently. “Yes.”

She nodded. “He was … unrecognizable, but … he had been in prison. He wore a special name tag. It was … intact.”

“I see.” A new thought occurred to Edward. “He was caught in the fire alone?”

Sofie shook her head. “I guess you’ve heard the rumors. Don’t believe them, Edward. My father was a great man. He lost his mother and sister in a village fire set by British soldiers when he was just a boy—and boys don’t think clearly. He sought revenge. He blew up an army camp. Unfortunately, a soldier was killed and Jake had to flee his homeland.” Her jaw flexed. Her nose had reddened slightly. “Of course, he came to New York City. Where he met my mother and married her.” Sofie halted, clenching folds of her skirt.

As she did not seem intent on finishing the story, Edward prodded gently, “What happened?”

“He was successful here. He began as a common laborer, but soon acquired his own building contracts. Suzanne, of course, was from society. He built her—us—a beautiful home on Riverside Drive. Soon they moved in high circles. It was a fluke, an ugly fluke, but one day a visiting Englishman, who just happened to be a retired military officer, one who had been at that army camp that day, recognized him at a social affair they were both attending. Not only did he recognize him, Lord Carrington recalled his name. Foolishly my father had not changed his name, never dreaming the past might catch up with him in New York City.”

“That was an incredible coincidence,” Edward agreed, reaching out to touch her arm lightly, comfortingly. “Your father must have looked so much different, an older man by then.”

“He was twenty-four and I was almost six. You see, he was really only a boy when he met and married Suzanne.”

“I’m sorry, Sofie,” Edward said softly, taking her hand.

For a moment she allowed him to hold it, before pulling her palm away. “I was six years old, but I’ll never forget the day he said good-bye.” Sofie forced a smile. “I was devastated. I cannot remember what he said, and surely he would not have told me that he might never return, but somehow I knew. Children, I think, are astoundingly astute.”

Edward nodded gravely, aching for her.

“Less than a year later, he was captured, and shortly after, he was extradited to Great Britain and imprisoned there—for that single crime of passion. After two years of incarceration, he escaped, with another man—only to die in a fire himself.”

“I’m sorry,” Edward said again. “What happened to the other man?”

“He was never found.”

And then Edward knew.
He knew.
He turned to stare at Jake O’Neil’s portrait.
You son of a bitch,
he was thinking, torn between admiration and anger.
You’re alive, aren’t you? Alive and hiding? But don’t you want to see your daughter again? How could you stay away from her like this? And why were you stalking me the other day?!

Jake O’Neil stared back at him, his golden eyes arrogant and mocking.

“Edward?”

He turned and saw that Sofie’s amber eyes were huge, her face pale. “Are you all right?” he asked. “I didn’t mean to bring up a painful topic.”

“I will always miss him,” she said simply.

Instantly Edward knew that he was going to find Jake O’Neil and make the bastard come forward to a reunion with his daughter. Suddenly that seemed as important as anything else. Then he was struck by a thought.
Jake O’Neil was alive—but Suzanne had remarried. He turned to look at Sofie, who was watching him, trying to imagine the scandal should Jake’s public resurrection ever occur. He flinched, because he did not have to be a wizard to know that a lot of people would be hurt. Was that why Jake had remained dead and buried all these years? Perhaps he did not give a damn about his wife or his daughter. Perhaps he cared too much. In any case, Edward intended to find out.

“Edward?” she said, her voice low and hesitant. “What, exactly, do you think of my work?”

Edward took her arm, moving her with him to stand in front of the floral. He looked at the vibrant still life. “This is my favorite. I don’t know how anyone could make a few simple flowers so exciting.”

“Suzanne saw this in May,” Sofie said slowly, her cheeks coloring slightly. “She said they don’t even remotely resemble flowers. She said a five-year-old could paint flowers like that.”

Edward jerked. “I can’t believe she said that.”

Sofie’s gaze was intense. “You don’t agree?”

“Hell, no! I like this painting
best.
”

“You like my work?”

He turned to her. Very softly, he said, “Very much. You are brilliant, Sofie.”

She ducked her head. He realized that she must seldom hear praise for her work from her own family. Edward turned to stroll around the room, glancing out the windows into the garden. But as he approached the open doorway, only slightly curious about the rest of her studio, Sofie’s head jerked up. Harshly she cried, “Edward!” It was a warning.

He halted. She had turned ashen. “I am not allowed to go into the rest of your studio?”

She seemed incapable of speech.

Now Edward was very curious, because he knew that, once again, Sofie was hiding from him. “What is in the other room, Sofie?”

She opened her mouth, but no words came out. Finally she croaked, “Something I have only just finished.”

Edward could not resist. He heard her moan as he moved decisively forward. But on the threshold of the second room, he froze, reeling with absolute shock.

This, apparently, was where she worked. The room was smaller but very light and bright, one entire wall consisting of floor-to-ceiling windows. The room was completely empty except for a large portrait, which stood on an easel in its center, and one small stool and table, the latter cluttered with tubes of paints and palettes and all size and manner of brushes. The smell within was strong, of oil paint and turpentine.

“Jesus,” he whispered, mesmerized.
She had painted him.

And what a work it was. The canvas vibrated with tension and color, and Edward expected to see his image walk out of the painting and into the room at any moment. “Do I actually look like that?” he heard himself ask.

Sofie did not answer.

He stepped closer and paused again. There was such power and passion in this portrait that he was still stunned. He was also exultant. He turned to look at her, but she refused now to meet his gaze. She was blushing furiously.

Edward studied the portrait. Although his image leapt out of the canvas with lifelike clarity, it was as if Sofie had painted in a mad frenzy, her strokes shorter and more insistent, colors more vividly displayed, the background far less concise, almost a collage of rainbow colors, with soft shades of purple and yellow predominant. The work was tight, bright, and exuberant. It was joyous and hopeful. And she had portrayed him as a hero, not as the flawed man he knew himself to be.

“Say something,” Sofie said.

He turned to look at her, at a loss for words. “I am not a godamned hero,” he finally said.

She lifted her gaze. “I portrayed you as I recalled you.”

He turned back to the canvas and studied the image he saw there, and he wondered if there was really such a roguish, amused, and knowing sparkle in his eyes. He was hardly as handsome, as rakish, as disturbingly powerful, as she had portrayed him.

It finally dawned on him; in order for her to portray him as she had, she might very well be in love with him.

He froze, turned slowly, stared at her, his blood healing now dangerously. How could he direct her passion so that it never became anything more than a schoolgirl crush? And did he even want to?

“You are staring at me,” she said stiffly. “Are you shocked?”

At first he could not speak. He was appalled with his wayward thought. Shocked not with her, but with himself. “Yes.”

She turned away. “I thought so.”

He reached for her. “Sofie—I am shocked, but not the way you’re thinking.” Their gazes locked. He was aware of her arm beneath his hand, of the proximity of their bodies, of her slightly parted lips. Of the now insistent and heavy pulsing between his thighs. “I’m honored, Sofie,” he said low.

She stared, unblinking.

He had already realized that she had worked on his portrait with great stamina and great passion. He now wondered what it would be like to receive that passion directly from her, as a lover would. “I’m shocked because I never expected to find my own portrait here. I’m shocked because, although I am no connoisseur, this is so damn good.”

Sofie inhaled hard, holding his gaze.

Edward felt the heat flare between them, wondered if he had even seen a jagged line of white light, akin to a bolt of lightning. “You just completed this?”

“I finished it this morning.”

“You worked on my portrait last night?”

“Yes.” She was strained, her voice low, husky. “Usually it takes me several days or even several weeks to complete an oil, but I began your portrait last night—and finished it at dawn.”

His jaw flexed. His body blazed to life. Edward forgot his image on the canvas behind him. His hands touched her shoulders. Sofie shuddered visibly, but made no attempt to resist or move away.

“Sofie,” he said huskily, “I am more than honored.”

Her lips parted as he pulled her slowly forward and into his arms. “Edward,” she began hoarsely.

He smiled down at her, his pulses rioting, sliding his hands down her slim but strong back. She inhaled as he pressed her against the full length of his hard, aroused body. His hands slid lower, gripping her hips just above the tempting curve of her buttocks. “Relax,” he whispered, lowering his head. “I’m going to kiss you, Sofie, and I want you to relax and enjoy it.”

She made a sound very much like a whimper, looking into his eyes with both desire and despair. “I’m not sure,” she said, anguished. “I haven’t made up my mind.”

Edward did not really understand her remark, and did not care to, not now. Not when he had just realized that Sofie had melted against him, despite her words, and that her hands gripped the lapels of his jacket. He was instantly aware of the softness of her breasts crushed against his chest, of his phallus lengthening even more in eager response, and straining high against her soft, warm belly. The heat between them coursed electric and red-hot.

“For you, Sofie, just for you,” he murmured, rubbing his mouth against her cheek. And then his lips brushed hers, soft and gentle, and then tenderness was lost to lust.

The passion exploded in him so quickly that Edward was helpless to defy it. His mouth took hers, Sofie’s gasp was smothered by the invasion of his tongue. And Edward felt as if he had finally reached heaven as he sucked her mouth with his the way he had been dreaming of doing for days.

For a long time they kissed, tongue to tongue, his huge, hardened loins burning against hers. Edward scraped the wetness of her mouth dry, invaded as deeply as he knew how, wanting to show her with his tongue what he could do to her with his manhood. Sofie’s tongue flicked ever so lightly against his. Edward made a sound, half gasp, half growl, and found himself gripping her buttocks now, and pressing her up against his erection. He expected her to reject this overt intimacy, but Sofie did not stiffen. Instead, her mouth opened wider for him and she began to spar with him. He heard her whimper.

Edward began to rock himself against her very intently, perilously close to losing control. His hands slid lower on Sofie’s bottom, indecently so. A remnant of sanity returned to him, warningly.