by Brenda Joyce
“Of course,” Edward said.
When they were all seated, a moment of silence reigned. Edward studied first Henry, then her, as Henry sipped his coffee. Sofie sensed his curiosity. She wondered what he was thinking about her being present with Henry Marten. Edward finally spoke, addressing Henry. “What brings you to this side of town?”
“I was hoping to call on Miss O’Neil several weeks ago, but my practice has been keeping me far too busy. I had thought to entice her to a ride in Central Park today, but she was expecting you, as it turns out.”
For a moment Edward said nothing, but then he grinned, teeth flashing white. “Perhaps she will be free on the morrow?” he suggested.
Sofie stiffened, incredulous.
Henry’s brows drew together and he stared at Edward, who still smiled, now benignly, then he turned eagerly towards her. “Are you free tomorrow. Miss O’Neil?”
“I …” Sofie was at a loss. And she was not pleased with Edward for his interference. Tomorrow she had class, and afterwards she intended to work on Edward’s new portrait. “I expect to be working tomorrow,” she finally said.
“Surely you can spare Henry an hour,” Edward interjected smoothly.
Sofie stared at him. Henry was waiting anxiously for her reply. She managed a smile. “Perhaps later in the day—at four o’clock?”
“That would be perfect,” Henry said, pleased.
Sofie looked from him to Edward, who stared now at them both. His mouth had a peculiar curve to it. Sofie trembled, comprehension beginning to sink in. And with it came hurt.
He had just foisted her off on another man. Even though his plans for her had been thoroughly dishonorable to begin with, it hurt—how it hurt.
“I have news, Sofie,” Edward said quietly.
She turned slightly.
“Jacques Durand-Ruel has agreed to see your work. Mornings are convenient for him. Would you be available tomorrow morning should he come to view your work?”
It was hard to speak. Nervousness assailed her, culling into her wounded feelings. Of course she would skip class if he would come. “Yes,” she whispered.
Edward nodded and turned to Henry. “Sofie will be entertaining one of the premier art dealers in the world. If he purchases some of her work, it will be quite an achievement.”
“I see,” Henry said, looking shocked.
Sofie spoke up then, aware of exactly what she was doing. “One day I hope to live exclusively from the sale of my work, as a professional artist,” she said. She was aware of Edward’s shooting her a dark look, but she ignored him. If Henry was really calling on her, such eccentricity would drive him away quickly enough. “I shall reside in Paris, of course, with other bohemian artists.”
Henry was now speechless.
Edward glowered; clearly he comprehended her game. He said, “Of course, that is only if some dashing gentleman does not sweep you off your feet and to the altar first.”
Sofie felt her face burning. And she felt her wounds bleed. She thought, But that will not be you, will it, Edward! “I do not think that is going to happen, Mr. Delanza.”
He arched a brow, as stiff as she. “No, I don’t think it will—not when you fling your odd ideas into the faces of your suitors.”
The stinging of her cheeks increased. Sofie could not find a suitable reply.
Henry rose to his feet, looking from one to the other. He cleared his throat. “I think it is time for me to leave.”
Edward was standing as well. “There is no rush.”
Sofie rose. “We must begin our work, Edward.”
He ignored her. “Perhaps you would like to see some of Sofie’s art before you go?”
Sofie almost choked.
Henry’s eyes widened. “You know, I would like that.” He turned to Sofie, suddenly eager. “Miss O’Neil, if you don’t mind, I would like to see the work which you are so devoted to.”
Sofie had no choice but to agree. To deny him would be the height of discourtesy, especially when she had allowed Edward into her world of art, and Henry knew it. But Sofie felt like murdering Edward—for everything.
Sofie could tell from the expression on Henry’s face that he was at a loss. He turned to face her, coughed to clear his throat. “You are indeed talented. Miss O’Neil,” he said.
She knew he lied, he did not understand her art at all, did not feel it or admire it. Sofie managed a smile. “Thank you.”
“Of course, I am quite the amateur.” He cleared his throat again. “I have seen this kind of art once before, though. Italian, isn’t it?”
“The impressionists are French,” Sofie said softly.
“Yes, well, you are every bit as good as they are,” Henry assured her. He was ill at ease, eager now to be gone. “I think I must leave. Tomorrow, then, at four?”
Sofie nodded, walking Henry to the door of her studio. “I will be right back,” she told Edward, who only nodded at her.
Sofie saw Henry to the front door and through it. Once he was gone, she marched back to her studio. She faced Edward, hands on her hips. “Just what was all that about?”
Edward smiled as if innocent. “I beg your pardon?”
“I think you had very well beg my pardon!” Sofie cried. “You maneuvered Henry into my studio—and he does not appreciate my art at all—and you forced the issue of an outing between us!”
He touched the tip of her nose. “You are not eager about your date tomorrow?”
“I most certainly am not.”
His forefinger skidded to her lip and then was gone. “You see,” he said, low, “you have a suitor, Sofie, despite your attempts to chase him away.”
She stared at him, hurt and angry and at a loss. Did Edward hope for a real engagement between her and Henry? Did he think to marry her off? Did that mean he no longer sought to seduce her—to have an affair with her? “I do not want a suitor, Edward.” Her tone was strained. “And you are not my father, to arrange for men to call upon me!”
“No, I am not your father,” he said somewhat grimly, no longer smiling at all. “But someone has to set you straight.”
“How bold and … how presumptuous … you are!” Sofie cried.
“I am guilty as charged, Sofie,” he whispered. “But someone has to take care of you.”
“So you have appointed yourself my caretaker?”
“Yes.”
She batted his hand away when it rose to touch her face again. “You are so arrogant, Edward.”
“I am your friend.”
Sofie turned her back to him. To her dismay he cupped her shoulders from behind. He pulled her backwards against his body. “Why are you so upset?”
She could not tell him the truth, not ever, so she shook her head and said nothing.
“I apologize. Maybe I made a mistake. Henry is a nice chap, but awfully rigid in his views. And he is not smitten with your art like I am.”
“Oh, Edward,” Sofie cried softly, gripping his strong arms. “In the end, do you ever not say the right thing?”
“God, Sofie, I mess up all the time.” His mouth touched her cheek. Sofie froze, because his groin cupped her buttocks, and she thought she felt a movement there. But he released her and turned her to face him. “You flatter me, sweetheart, more than you can know.”
“Everyone flatters you, I am sure.” His endearment wrung a response in her she was determined to ignore. Edward was only a rogue, nothing more. Love was not the issue, it never had been—never would be. Her recent hysteria was as out of character as it was inexplicable. Sofie felt grim. She sighed and redirected herself. “Are we ready to begin?”
Edward’s smile faded. “That’s why I’m here.”
Edward obeyed Sofie’s instructions and took his seat at the table set for two. He was aware of sitting unnaturally and being tense. But as he watched Sofie flitting about her art supplies, preparing herself to begin working, he began to forget about being a model. He studied her, enjoying the way she moved, quick and gracef
ul in spite of her small limp. He liked the swing of her round hips. Finally Sofie turned to face him. Aware that he must be a model now, he tensed. Instantly she frowned.
“Edward, you must relax.”
“That’s not as easy as it sounds.”
“Whyever not?”
He could not think of an answer, so he shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable, aware of Sofie watching him very closely. It was a bit unnerving, like being undressed by her with her eyes. God only knew, he had undressed thousands of women with his eyes, yet it was very different to be on the receiving end. His pulse raced a bit faster than normal, and there was an incipient fullness in his loins. He could think of things he would much rather do, right now, alone with Sofie.
He shoved his wandering thoughts aside very sternly. He had promised to model for her. As much as he wanted to kiss her, to pet her, to hold her, their last kiss the other day had taught him how dangerous that could be. Their next kiss must be more chaste. God. The very idea was laughable, but he could not give up on Sofie now, he could not.
Edward inhaled deeply. He must not think such thoughts. Not if he was really going to model for her.
Besides, there was nothing sexual about what she was doing—she was only painting him, for God’s sake. He was the one with the lewd, wandering mind. When he had finally settled somewhat comfortably into his chair, he looked up at her for approval.
“Edward,” she said, “can you not lounge?”
His smile faded. “Lounge?” The word conjured up images of being in bed.
“Yes. When we were dining that day, you were lounging in your chair, utterly relaxed and utterly confident, at once negligent but impossibly elegant and so … so male. I am determined to capture you in such a mood exactly.”
“Christ,” Edward muttered, his cock stretching and hardening instantly. He expelled his breath shakily, staring into her eyes, wondering how he was going to survive the next few hours. Her admiration did things to him that no woman had ever done to him before with either hands or mouth or any other tempting portion of nubile female anatomy. Unfortunately, if she ever put her hands—or her mouth—on any private part of his body … he imagined he would respond as he had never responded to any woman before.
He muttered a curse, reaching for the collar of his shirt and tugging at it, when he would have much preferred tugging at his trousers.
“Edward? Whatever is wrong?” She was perplexed—and growing exasperated.
He managed a phony smile. “I have a feeling you’ll rind out before too much longer,” he muttered, having opened the collar on his shirt and loosened his necktie.
But Sofie did not guess at the source of his agitation. She smiled. “Yes, that is much better! See—you have an innate talent for modeling!”
Edward laughed, the sound rough and sharp.
Sofie began to work, talking as she did so. “I am not painting the both of us, of course—just you. You will be very close to the viewer. You will take up most of the canvas, now that I’ve actually got you as a model.” Her voice was husky now, and it vibrated with eagerness. “It will be an unusual composition, making the viewer feel that he is facing you from a close distance, as if he is there in the painting with you.” She beamed, peeking over her easel at him. “Indeed, I hope that the viewer will feel that he is standing right there in Delmonico’s, perhaps even conversing with you!”
Edward felt her excitement as he might her touch. “That is quite a challenge you have taken up, is it not?” he murmured.
Her head was bobbing now as she worked, looking up repeatedly at him. “It is a great challenge, one I intend to meet.” She was using her brush swiftly now, frowning, eyes lowered. “Your portrait … I intend for it to be like you … unusual … outstanding.”
He took a deep breath. Her head was out of sight, and Edward took the opportunity to adjust one of his pants legs. She was only painting him, for God’s sake, but he was as aroused as if they were naked and entwined in bed. He wasn’t at all sure he could sit like this for many more minutes, much less a few hours. Why did she have to be so frank with her admiration? And why did it have to affect him like this? Undoubtedly she put this kind of energy into all of her subjects. He doubted she felt anything special just because she was painting him.
Yet logic could not change the fact that every stroke of her brush upon the canvas felt like a caress upon his skin.
She popped out from behind the easel, a becoming flush staining her cheeks and throat. “Edward—might you open your jacket, please?”
Edward was startled. And dismayed.
She met his gaze, her eyes quite bright. “You did not sit with your jacket buttoned that day, and there are funny wrinkles that will not look right in the portrait.”
Edward took a deep breath. This session would soon end. He was not cut out to be a model. Sofie was about to realize that—and just what she did to him with her words, her excitement, and her totally unique self as well. He opened his jacket. His sexuality had never embarrassed him before, but he could feel his cheeks tingling with a warm flush.
But Sofie was immersed in her art. Before he knew it, she was at his side, tugging on his coat so it would drape as she pleased. Inadvertently her hands brushed his thighs; he wanted it to be purposeful. He held his breath, watching her face, and saw the moment she realized that his thoughts were not on modeling. Her cheeks colored, her hands stilled. She lifted her gaze to his, wide-eyed.
Edward held her gaze. “Sofie.”
“I … I hope you do not mind,” she said in a strangled tone, “that I … that I …” She trailed off.
Edward caught her hands so she could not flee. “You know I do not mind anything that you do,” he said, low and rough.
Her startled gaze shot to his. Her bosom heaved. “Edward, we are working.”
“I don’t seem to be very good at it,” he muttered, a hairsbreadth away from pulling her onto his lap. “Surely you can see that?”
Her gaze flicked downwards, her blush now a fiery shade of crimson. “I’m sure you could be an excellent model if you wanted to be,” she said hoarsely.
Edward felt a surge of male triumph. “Come here, Sofie,” he ordered. When she remained frozen and undecided, he smiled at her—then yanked once on her hands and she tumbled exactly where he wanted her to be. On his lap.
“Edward.” It wasn’t much of a protest.
“I cannot model for you, not like this,” he murmured, scalded by the pressure of her hip against his pounding loins. She did not move, did not even breathe. What had happened the last time they had kissed flashed through his mind. He knew he must be careful not to go as far as they had then. The thought, as soon as it came, was dismissed. The blood had flowed too hot and too hard into his veins, expanding every inch of him. He cupped the back of her head with one hand. “Give me your mouth.”
Sofie whimpered as he guided her face to his.
Edward touched the seam of her lips with his tongue. “Open up,” he whispered hoarsely. “I want in, Sofie.” The thought of another kind of entrance, one he must never make, seared his mind, and as he probed her lips again, he saw himself in bed with Sofie, driving every inch of his hardness into her.
“Open up,” he whispered again, feeling too ripe, too ready to explode. His hand slid from her waist to her hip, and then lower, to the outer curve of her thigh.
She whimpered again, obeying, immediately Edward thrust deep into her mouth with his tongue. She began to spar with him as instantly, until sparring became sucking. Edward realized that Sofie clenched his neck and sucked on his mouth as hard as he was trying to devour her. Impossibly, he swelled yet again, and he knew she felt it, for she moaned.
Edward forgot everything then but the urgency in his loins and the woman shuddering in his arms. Reflexively he shitted her so that she straddled his lap, and then, when that was not enough, he gripped her skirts and lifted them so that the hot, moist juncture between her thighs had settled upon his long,
swollen loins. For Edward, the thin silk, of her drawers and the line linen of his trousers only enhanced the sensation of Sofie astride him.
He could not stand his need. She squirmed atop him, an invitation he understood instantly, but one she probably did not even know that she issued. Moving his mouth to the underside of her neck, one hand fluttering over her breasts and teasing her nipples, Edward reached between them and under her skirts and pressed his thumb against the apex of her cleft.
And Sofie tensed. “Edward?” she gasped, clinging, her face buried against his shoulder.
It was a question. There was trust in it, and surprise—and fear, too.
Edward froze, his hand wedged intimately between her thighs, his enormous erection straining against her, beneath her, robbing him of the will to seek self-discipline or to think.
“Edward,” Sofie whimpered again. “Edward.”
Edward did not welcome the return of sanity, he did not. He was too ripe, too ready. But his mind began to function furiously. As desperately aroused as he was, Edward was also appalled. This was hardly a kiss. This was far, far more. And far, far too dangerous.
It seemed Sofie was recovering, too. She hid her face in his neck, breathing hard, shaking, and he could feel her thoughts spinning. If only he could discern what they were.
But did he really have to read her mind? He could make a logical guess. Surely Sofie was as shocked with his behavior as he was dismayed. Abruptly he shifted her so that her skirts came down, so she no longer rode him as a lover would. He was stricken with disbelief.
Sofie was innocent and trusting, a lady and his friend. In another moment he would have been deep inside her. And she would have welcomed him. He had almost seduced her.
He had merely intended to give her the kind of kiss that would awaken her desire to live more fully as a woman should. He had broken every single rule he had laid out for himself. More important, he despised the game now, and the rules he had made, because he wanted her so badly—and could not stand the thought of someone like Henry Marten one day having her in his stead.
