After Innocence (34 page)

Edward dropped the cigarette and ground out the butt with his heel on the ancient floor. Too late he realized that it was clean, even if in need of repair. He turned abruptly to descend the stairs, to go to the Galerie Durand-Ruel. Surely someone there would know of her whereabouts.

Someone was coming upstairs. Edward paused, wondering if he might gain information about her from the passerby. But the man froze when he saw Edward, staring at him in stunned surprise.

Instantly the hairs on Edward’s nape prickled with unease. He was positive that he had never before met this stranger who was staring at him with the wide-eyed shock of recognition. Worse, as they stared at each other, dark anger boiled visibly in the other man’s blue eyes. Edward had the feeling that this man not only knew him—but that he hated him as well.

Yet he could not know him. Edward was certain that they had never met.

The man recovered, continuing up the stairs until he stood on the landing with Edward. He was shabbily dressed in patched trousers, black boots, a cotton shirt, and a lightweight jacket, but he was handsome nevertheless. He faced Edward. “Are you looking for Sofie?”

Edward’s heart lurched painfully. Dear God. Sofie did live here—and she knew this man. He began to tremble ever so slightly, beginning to fathom the other man’s hostility. He was too worldly not to understand. “Does she
live here?” Edward asked, lighting up another cigarette, his pulse racing, his hand shaking discemibly.

“Yes.” The man’s blue eyes blazed. Abruptly he turned his back on Edward and rapped on the door. “Sofie?
Chérie. c’est Georges. Ouvrez la porte.”

Edward’s mouth formed a snarl. He did not speak French, but he understood the word
chérie.
just as he understood Georges’s undisguised hostility.

Georges turned. “She is not at home.”

“No.”

“Does she know you are here?”

“No.” Edward’s smile was unpleasant. “Not yet.”

For a moment Georges said nothing and the two men stared at each other like two bulls in one small ring. Then he said, “She is not in her atelier either, I have just been there—I imagine she might be with Paul at Zut.”

“Who is Paul?”

“Her friend. Her best friend.”

Edward reassessed. Georges was obviously very interested in Sofie, and Edward was already wondering just what kind of relationship he had with her. Exactly. But who in hell was Paul? Edward thought the name sounded familiar, and he struggled to remember. “Paul Verault?”

“Yes.” Georges was not volunteering any information.

“Where is Zut?” Edward asked, grinding down his jaw.

“I’m going there now,” Georges said. “Do you wish to come?”

“Yes,” Edward said tersely, following the stranger down the stairs and outside, where it was a pleasant fall day, brisk but not cool, all the trees on the streets flaming red. “I don’t know you, but you know me. Why?”

“We all know you, monsieur, from Sofie’s paintings.”

“From Sofie’s paintings?” he echoed.

Georges shot him a dark glance. “
Oui.
She has used you as a model several times.”

Edward tried to fathom what he had said. He was reeling in surprise. Sofie had painted him—again. Several times. How many times? And why? Excitement crept along his veins, defusing some of his anger. She must have some small tendresse for him, she must.

But then he thought about the fact that painters all over the world had been painting various subjects since the beginning of time, and whether it was an apple or a man being portrayed, the artist need not be in love with his subject matter. His initial euphoria died rapidly. His mouth formed a hard, determined line.

They didn’t exchange another word, continuing across the narrow streets. They finally turned a corner and the sounds of a piano’s lively refrain became discernible, followed by the deep pitch of male laughter, some of it inebriated. Edward thought he also heard the higher sounds of feminine voices, as well.

They entered Zut. It was not a café. It was a saloon.

Edward’s eyes widened. This
was
a mistake! Sofie could not be found at a saloon! Ladies did not frequent bars filled with drunken, lecherous men, not even unconventional ladies like Sofie. And she was a mother! But even as he tried to reassure himself, he knew damn well that she lived in that rat-hole a few blocks away—and that this man was her friend and he said she might be here.

Rigid, stunned, rage creeping over him, he scanned the saloon. The bar consisted of a single crowded, smoky room. Edward’s glance slid quickly around. It’s inhabitants were raucous and animated. Most of the tables, crowded together, were occupied, and another dozen men and two women stood at the bar. He was struck by an awareness that many of the patrons were turning to stare at him, recognizing him as Georges had.

Edward did not give a damn. For Sofie was here, as this fellow had said. His gaze riveted on her, and he was frozen in time, in place.

His heart twisted. A raw aching began in his gut. She sat at a small, crowded table with three men, two her own age, one far older and gray-haired. She had changed. He saw that immediately. She still wore a navy blue skirt and a plain white shirtwaist, but she had a brightly patterned red and gold scarf thrown about her shoulders. Her hair was pulled loosely back in one thick braid, as was often the case for her, but she was not sitting as if in school with a book upon her head. She almost lolled in her chair. She was
not so slender now, not as fragile-looking. And her cheeks were flushed, perhaps from the effects of the glass of white wine that sat on the table before her, and she was laughing at something someone had said. Her smile was sunny and bright. She
had
changed.

The Sofie O’Neil Edward knew never would have dreamed of sitting in a smoky bar at a table with boisterous young men, drinking wine and smoking cigarettes.

He felt as if the stick of dynamite that had derailed the Kimberley train in Africa had gone off again—this time inside him.

He looked at her, the shock turning to real anger.

All this time he had been in a living hell—because of her. All this time she had been in gay, carefree Paris, painting and playing with bohemian abandon. Which one was her lover? he wondered in icy rage. And where in hell was their child?

Edward stalked towards her. She sat with her back to him, hadn’t seen him yet, but the others had, and they all stopped speaking and stared. Sofie stilled. Edward smiled grimly. Then his heart stopped, for Georges was squatting beside her, whispering rapidly in her ear. Murderous rage engulfed Edward. He knew that he was her lover. He had never been more sure of anything.

Georges stood. Sofie turned slowly, still sitting, her face as white as a freshly laundered sheet. She saw him and cried out. Georges stepped closer to her, putting his hand protectively on her shoulder.

Edward wanted to smash it off, then smash him in the balls.

Sofie was on her feet.

Edward halted in front of her. He did not smash the Frenchman as he longed to do. Instead, he smiled coldly. He made no attempt to hide his rage or to keep his tone low and discreet. “Where the hell is our child, Sofie?” he demanded, fists clenched. “And what in hell are you doing here?”

S
ofie stared at him, briefly incapable of assimilating the fact that Edward stood there in Zut, somehow larger than life and more devastating than ever. It felt like a dream. But this was no dream—he had finally come. Oh, God!

She was speechless.

“I am not a ghost,” Edward said, his blue gaze frigid and piercing. “But you’re looking at me as if I am one. What’s wrong, Sofie? Aren’t you glad to see me? After all, you did write me a letter. Or am I interrupting something?”

She finally caught the anger and mockery in his tone and she stiffened. Almost frantically she tried to gather her composure around her, which she must wear as one would a shield while he remained in Paris. Hadn’t she known he would come? Hadn’t she prayed he would come?

Yet he had not come in time. Rough, distorted images flashed through her mind. Of Rachelle’s and Paul’s worried faces as Sofie clawed at their arms, screaming in pain that was beyond any and all imagination. Bitterness rose up fast, like a flood tide. Edward had not been there for the birth of her daughter. It had been a long and difficult delivery. Sofie had labored for almost twenty-four hours, most of the time in intense pain, and only sheer will had enabled her to finally push Edana from her womb when she was so utterly exhausted that she had nothing left to give. By that time, Georges had been there, too, holding her hand. When Sofie had been handed her tiny daughter she had wept, not in joy, but in relief.

But not Edward. He had not even come in July, or August, or September. Sofie trembled with anger, clenching
her fists in a fierce attempt to control it. “Of course you are not interrupting. I am startled, that is all.”

“Really?” His smile flashed, dimples deep, but it was insincere. It was ugly. “Now, why would you be surprised to find me in a watering hole like this? Men have been coming to places like this since the beginning of time. Of course, I didn’t realize that ladies frequent saloons nowadays, too.”

Sofie told herself that she need not defend her behavior to him. “Paul Durand-Ruel is holding an exhibition for me in New York, not Paris, where the critics are kinder. It is definitely cause to celebrate, Edward. And my friends insisted.”

He leered. “Is that what you were doing here? Celebrating? With your
friends!
”

Her shoulders squared. “Yes.”

His blazing eyes raked her not just with insolence, but with contempt. “Where is the baby?” he shot.

She inhaled. “With Rachelle. Rachelle is my dearest friend. They have gone for a walk. Edana goes for a walk every morning and every afternoon.”

He stood utterly still. “Edana?”

“Yes. Edana Jacqueline O’Neil.”

Their gazes locked. Edward’s expression was peculiar, strained. “I want to see her.”

“Of course,” Sofie said. “They’ll be back soon. Perhaps if you come to my flat later—”

“We’ll go there together,” he interrupted quickly, flatly.

Sofie tensed. Dread consumed her—while her pulse rioted.

Edward’s mouth turned up then, not pleasantly—knowingly. “Yeah,” he said, low and rough. Reading her mind. “We can do that, too.”

Sofie whirled to flee him.

Edward was so fast that it was a blur of movement, nothing more. His hand shot out, gripping her elbow. Sofie cried out, because he was hardly gentle. “Oh, no,” he ground out. “You’re not running from me now. We’re going to talk.” And before Sofie could protest, he was propelling her across the room.

Sofie did not want to make a scene. “All right. Just let me go. Before someone decides you are manhandling me and tries to do something about it.”

Edward slanted her a cold glance. Then he dropped her arm. Side by side but not touching, they walked out of Zut and into the nip of the autumn afternoon. She could feel the tension coiled up in him, simmering, sizzling, sparking—explosive.

She was trembling, out of breath. Sofie told herself that she must remain in control. She had half expected Edward to appear, after all, but not like this. She had not expected him to be so cold and hostile that he was almost unrecognizable. Now was not the time to dwell on cherished memories. Now was not the time to succumb to anguish and heartache. Nor was it the time to be aware of his overpowering masculinity. Sofie inhaled, blinking back tears. In her most proper, polite voice, she asked, “What is it you wish to discuss?”

He eyed her, then threw back his head and barked with laughter. “What in hell do you think I want to discuss? I want to talk about my daughter—and I want to know what the hell you think you’re doing in a goddamn saloon.”

Sofie had had enough. “You have no rights over me, Edward. I am not going to explain my behavior.”

He caught her arms, hauled her up against his shockingly hard body. “I have lots of rights,” he said, soft and dangerous. “Because I’m Edana’s father.”

Sofie tensed as his gaze slid over her, at once angry and hot, stripping away her clothes, lingering on her milk-swollen breasts. Although Sofie was angry, she was frozen, acutely aware of the power of his thighs against hers.

“How often do you come here?” he shot, shaking her once.

Sofie wanted to fight. Fighting was not as dangerous as succumbing to the desire kindling so fiercely within her. “That is none of your affair.”

“I’m making it my affair.”

Their gazes met. Edward’s expression changed. Suddenly one of his hands was on her buttocks, and he had pressed her forward so that her loins touched his. Sofie cried out
incoherently. His manhood was fully enlarged. “I’m making
you
my affair,” he said.

“No,” she whimpered.

“Yeah,” he said roughly. “I still want you, too.”

Sofie could not believe that this was happening. She had loved Edward once, and perhaps she still did. It was hard to say. She had been so angry that he had not come to be with her for Edana’s birth, or even shortly afterwards. So angry, so disappointed, yet so relieved. And all of her passion had gone to the baby from the very moment she was born. There had not been any room in her life for another love.

But Edward was not in love with her. He had never been in love with her. But at least he had been kind and gallant in the past. No longer. He was rough and crude and shockingly frank. He was making her feel cheap, like some hussy from the streets.

And Sofie was trying very hard not to recall how his hands had played her when he’d taken her to his bed the night of the hurricane. How they had played her then—how they could play her again. Unwillingly she remembered the scorching heat they had shared, a desire so strong, she had cried out repeatedly, shamelessly, in her rapture. She could even remember the expression on his face as he moved over her—inside her. Eestasy and agony combined, potent, unforgettable, and male.

And afterwards he had held her tenderly, as if he loved her.

This time, if she succumbed to the feverish need building within her, there would not be a single moment of tenderness.