After Innocence (46 page)

Sofie cried out in fear as she was bombarded with small, sharp objects. Then she realized that he had thrown diamonds at her—diamonds in all shapes and sizes, all cut and polished and afire—and now they lay scattered about the bed and in the folds of her robe, winking up at her.

“What’s wrong, Sofie?” Edward shouted. “Damn you! Damn you! I’m not good enough—is that it? But doesn’t
this make me good enough?” He gestured at the sparkling bed. He gripped her robe and thrust a handful of silk and diamonds in her face, revealing the length of her naked thighs as he did so.

Sofie covered her face with her hands and sobbed.

Edward cursed. Sofie cried out when he dropped her robe, only to grip her shoulders far too hard, jerking her upright on the bed. They were nose to nose, eye to eye. Sofie had never seen anyone as angry as Edward.

“You are not marrying Henry Marten,” he rasped. He released her abruptly and she fell back against the pillows in a boneless heap.

“Damn you,” he said, and he left the room.

The front door of me suite slammed closed.

Sofie choked, curling up on her side, Edward’s diamonds digging painfully into her hip and thigh. With a bitter, angry cry, she flung out her arm, sending more of the bright, hard stones flying to the floor. “Damn you,” she whispered back hoarsely. “Damn you.”

Edward stood waiting for the elevator, hands in his pockets, his jaws clamped hard together. Some of his rage was settling very much the way dust does after a windstorm, but it was by no means gone. It fluttered in his veins very much like dust motes riding a breeze.

Although he did regret his terrible loss of temper, he could not regret their lovemaking. Despite her bohemian past, Sofie could not have the experience that he had, so she would not know how extraordinary their union was. But he understood. He understood exactly why the passion they shared was unlike any other. For he had never made love to a woman whom he was head over heels in love with before—a woman he had missed body and soul for nearly two years.

Edward trembled again, this time less with anger than with anguish, hurt, and steel-edged determination. How could she be considering marriage to Henry Marten—while having unequivocally rejected his own suit? It was incomprehensible. It made him want to turn on his heel, stride down the corridor, bash her door in, and rip that suite apart
before her very eyes—and then drag her by her hair to the nearest city judge.

Edward closed his eyes, fighting the new wave of red-hot rage that swept over him. He had never been this angry before. He was sane enough to know that his earlier display had been far more than childish—it had been unforgivable. But he had never been in love before, either. In fact, if he were not this angry, he might find the situation so ironic that it was amusing.

For the woman he loved had rejected his proposal not once but twice, and if that morning counted, three times. Not only that, she had carried and borne his baby girl without attempting to tell him until it was too late—so that he had not found out he had a daughter until many months after the fact. And now she was considering marriage to another man.

No, there was nothing to laugh about, nothing at all. It was too heartbreaking—this was a matter for tears. How could she have deceived him about Edana—and how could she have run away with her? How could she have refused him without even thinking about his offer? God—over the years he’d had hundreds of women hint to him that they would dearly love to become his wife! Glancing up at the dial, Edward saw that the elevator was only on the third floor. He cursed the elevator; he cursed her.

Perhaps he really did not know Sofie O’Neil. He would have never in his life dreamed that such behavior was possible from her. He had thought her to be honest and incapable of deceit or treachery. But he had never thought her capable of living like a bohemian, either, and he had witnessed that with his own two eyes. Edward trembled with jealousy, thinking about the Frenchman Georges, so clearly infatuated with her. Had he been the one to teach her to be so free with her passion? The elevator door finally opened and Edward stalked inside the wood-paneled box.

He told himself that the past no longer mattered. What mattered was that Sofie was the mother of his child, that he loved her, that he could make her love him—he was certain of it—and he was going to get her to the altar, one way or another. A few more days in his suite at the Savoy and she
would be so thoroughly compromised that she would have no choice. And this time he was not about to trust her. Although he believed she regretted her deception about Edana and having run away from him in Paris, this time he would not take any chances. The stakes were too high. Emotions were running too hot, too wild. He knew he could not survive if he lost them both, forever. He would keep a close eye on her—to make sure she did not try to run away again, or worse, elope with Henry Marten.

Edward moved up the hall on the second floor, suddenly drained and tired. He had hardly slept last night. He had been so elated with having finally found Sofie and his daughter, and he had been so angry whenever he had thought about all that she had done or about her relationship with Henry Marten. And whenever he had remembered how she had looked in that sexy dress, or how her lips and body had felt beneath his, he had become wound up with a lust that threatened to derail his self-control. After all, he was acutely aware of the fact that she slept just a few floors above him in his suite, in his bed.

Now, his anger finally evaporating, a weariness as emotional as it was physical settled over him like a shroud.

Edward retrieved his key, then froze, instantly aware that the door of his hotel room was unlocked. He glanced at the floor. Sure enough, the thin matchstick that he had left inserted between door and jamb lay on the rug. Someone had been in his room—or was still inside.

In Africa Edward had always carried a concealed knife and a small gun. In New York he rarely did, and never during the day. Tensing, he pushed the door open, but did not walk inside. The single bed and two nightstands greeted his view.

Edward took one more step forward, not quite on the threshold. While doing so, he swung the door open even more. Now he could see the brocade wing chair by the window with the red-striped draperies, and the bureau and armoire on the other side of the room just opposite. Whoever was inside—if someone was indeed inside—was standing behind the open door or flat on the wall on its other side.

Edward chose to believe there was an intruder and that he stood behind the door. He kicked the door open as hard as he could, charging inside, expecting the intruder to scream in pain, expecting to hear bone cracking from impact with the heavy maple wood.

Instead, someone gripped him from behind from the other side of the doorway, spinning him powerfully around. Edward was ready to attack, but too late, he was the one being attacked. A shattering blow landed on his jaw, followed quickly by one to his abdomen. Edward grunted in pain and fell backwards against the bureau. Something crashed to the floor and shattered.

The next blow stunned Edward and white lights danced before his eyes.

“Fight back, you lousy prick, I want to enjoy this!”

Edward was being dragged upright. He was dazed, but he gripped the man’s wrists in an effort to dislodge him. Unfortunately, his attacker was as tall as he, perhaps taller, and muscular and fit. But Edward was a very powerful man, and as they struggled, he finally managed to fling the assailant off him.

Instantly Edward crouched to attack. His vision was clearing. Edward saw that his attacker was the man who had hustled him in the hotel lobby those many months ago. As his attacker lurched to his feet, Edward had no time to think. He drew back his arm and landed a solid blow to the man’s abdomen, which was as hard as a washboard. He hardly flinched.

“I’m going to take you apart and enjoy every minute of it,” the man growled.

Edward blocked the man’s next blow. He launched himself forward, pushing the older man back against the wall. They began to wrestle, each one relying on superior strength and weight to overcome the other. They were face-to-face, eye to eye. As Edward finally looked into the man’s golden eyes, he said, “Who the hell are you?” But he knew.

The man relaxed ever so slightly, the two men locked in each other’s grips, braced against one another, pound for pound and panting. “I am Sofie’s father,” he said, soft and
dangerous. Savage satisfaction glittered in his eyes. “I’m finally getting my chance to make amends,” he said. “And I am going to enjoy taking you apart, bone by bone and hair by hair. And
then
you’re going to marry her.”

Edward stared into his enraged eyes. “Jesus,” he whispered. Jake O’Neil wasn’t dead. He had suspected as much before and he had been right.

But relaxing was a mistake.

“Fight me!” Jake O’Neil roared, breaking free of Edward’s loose grip. His first shot out. Edward’s head snapped back so hard that he heard a crack and he was propelled backwards across the room.

Jake grunted in satisfaction, diving after him.

Edward hit the floor, beginning to realize that the other man did not understand and that he had motivation to kill him. When Jake landed on top of him, Edward rolled. And Edward wound up on his feet, as quick as a jungle cat, poised now to defend himself from the other man—from Sofie’s father.

“I’m not going to fight you,” he gasped.

Slowly Jake got to his feet. The two men danced warily around each other like bareknuckle boxers. “I’m not giving you a choice.”

Edward decided to get right to the point. “I love your daughter—I always have.”

Jake barked with laughter.

“I’ve asked her to marry me two times—three times if you include this morning.”

Jake paused. “I don’t believe you.”

Edward came down from the balls of his feet, although he remained ready to leap aside should Jake go after him yet again. “Obviously yon know that she’s the mother of my child.”

“Yes.”

“Did you know that she never told me about the child until a month ago? Did you know that I proposed to her two summers ago when I first took her innocence? Did you know that I proposed to her again when next we met—last month in Paris? Did you know that she not only refused, but that she ran away—taking my daughter with her?”
By now Edward was unable to contain his own anger, his own anguish, or the bitterness in his heart. His fists fell to his sides, but they were clenched and they shook. “She’s the one who should be turned upside down over your knee, O’Neil, and spanked like a bad child. She’s the one who has denied me my rights as a father—denied me my child. She’s the one considering marrying
another man.”

Jake’s fists lowered, too. “You really are in love with her,” he said, amazed.

“I’m going to marry her,” Edward said, eyes blazing. “Even if it’s against her will.”

Jake studied him intently, wiping perspiration from his brow with one sleeve. “Why has she refused you? What did you do to make her run away?”

“Nothing!” Edward shouted. He struggled for calm. “Your daughter says she will not marry me because she does not love me. She prefers to live like a bohemian in Montmartre—taking lovers as she chooses, while studying art.”

Jake stared. “I don’t believe you.”

“Then maybe you should go and ask her,” Edward said tightly. His smile was dangerous now. Their roles of attacker and defender had been reversed. “But you can’t do that, can you? Because you’re dead.”

Jake’s shoulders squared. “That’s right.”

Edward stepped forward, his face contorted with new anger. “And just how right is that, Mr. O’Neil? Your daughter needs you—she always has. But you’ve never been there for her, you son of a bitch.”

Jake stared, shadows flirting across his eyes. He said nothing, making no attempt to defend himself.

“Your disappearance from her life is inexcusable,” Edward said harshly.

Jake’s jaw flexed. “Who gave you the goddamn right to be judge and jury?”

“Loving Sofie gave me the right,” Edward said fiercely.

Jake suddenly reached out and grabbed Edward’s arm. “Maybe you’re right.” His eyes looked suspiciously moist.
“Let’s go and have a drink. I’m buying, and we’re talking.”

Edward looked into his haunted eyes and saw too many ghosts—and regrets—to count. “All right,” he said more evenly. Then he smiled ever so slightly. “But I’ll do the buying, Jake.”

S
ofie checked to make sure that Edana was sleeping peacefully. Then she moved to the window of the master bedroom, which overlooked Grand Army Plaza and Central Park. She stared out at the snow-carpeted square, at the oversize statue of the soldiers, at the horse-drawn carriages and heavily cloaked pedestrians on the snowy street below. Her heart was beating unsteadily and each stroke was painful.

Her eyes were red and swollen and she closed them, pierced with anguish. How could she continue to stay like this, in Edward’s rooms? How could she function, living apart from him, yet having him enter her life at will—and perhaps even her bed? And his anger was so frightening. She could not blame him for being angry with her for running away from him with Edana. And she understood his jealousy of Henry, too—for it was coupled with fear. He was afraid to lose Edana to the other man. Sofie knew she must work hard to reassure him that she would never deny him Edana again. How sorry she was for doing so the first time.

The question burned. Had he made love to her in anger—or in real, honest, uncontrollable desire?

Sofie was afraid of the answer. She was afraid that only his anger had brought him to her. And she was afraid of herself. How could she yearn for more under the circumstances? She was so close to succumbing to his demands. If desire was a genuine bond between them, could she not marry him after all? For Edana, who needed a father? Forgoing love for Edana’s sake? Accepting his body and his passion in its stead?

Sofie turned slightly at the sound of a knock on her door. Rachelle came into the bedroom, looking anxious and worried. “Sofie, your mother is here.”