by Brenda Joyce
Christ, he had maneuvered himself into an impossible position.
Suddenly Sofie slid from his lap. She backed away from him, eyes wide, then turned and fled across the room. “I’m … It’s rather warm in here … don’t you think? Let me open the windows.”
Edward stared after her. If he could not play by the rules, then the game had to be stopped. Before Sofie really suffered at his hands. Before he proved himself irredeemable and far worse than his reputation.
Sofie had turned on the ceiling fan, and it began to whir. From across the room, she faced him slowly, blushing like a schoolgirl.
“I am sorry, Sofie,” Edward said harshly, standing. Staring.
“You do not have to apologize,” Sofie said, appearing as strained. But then her next words came, completely unexpected, shocking him. “Because I am not sorry, Edward, not at all.”
Edward started.
Sofie glanced away, her cheeks turning red.
He could not even guess her meaning. Or could he? Sofie looked up, and he was worldly enough to recognize the yearning in her eyes. He was wordly enough to fathom that the next time—if there was a next time—she would not resist him.
And Edward grimly realized that he had already gone too far. Sofie had her virtue, but she had been seduced.
13
Sofie was unable to move, speak, or smile. She gripped her hands so hard that she was hurting herself. Jacques Durand-Ruel, a small, dapper man in his thirties, stood staring at Edward’s portrait, now titled A Gentleman at Newport Beach. He had shown up promptly at noon, and this was the first painting he looked at.
Beside her, Edward stood with his hands shoved casually in his pockets, also watching the young art dealer. Occasionally Sofie could feel his gaze slipping to her, but she could not look away from the Frenchman. If only she could be as calm and cool as Edward: but then, it was not his art that Jacques was about to pass judgment on, it was not his very soul, his very life.
Jacques moved on. He had studied Edward’s portrait for a long time, perhaps five full minutes. He ignored the genre painting, eyed the still life of florals briefly, stared at Lisa’s portrait for about half that long, then bypassed all the rest of her work, except for Jake’s portrait. He studied that for about thirty seconds and turned. He was not smiling.
Sofie thought that she might die. She felt Edward grip her elbow.
“Mademoiselle O’Neil,” Jacques said in his heavy accent, “you are very talented.”
Sofie thought she would weep, right then and there, for his next word resounded, unspoken. But …
And then he said, “I can only buy what I think I can sell. All your work is interesting to me as a connoisseur. I am certain that I could sell Portrait of Jake O’Neil and Lisa.”
Sofie nodded. At least he liked Jake’s and Lisa’s portraits, which she had painted with such love. She told herself that she was not going to cry, not in front of him. She was stronger than that.
“That’s it?” Edward asked, incredulous.
“The tenement scene is excellent, I truly admire it, but my clients do not even buy Millet’s genre scenes, so they will not be interested in Mademoiselle’s. Regrettably, I cannot take it.”
Sofie swallowed hard.
“What about the floral?” Edward demanded. “It’s fantastic.”
“I agree. But I will never sell it.”
Sofie blinked.
“But you like it?” Edward pursued.
“I like it very much. It is extraordinary. Powerful. It reminds me a bit of Cézanne. Have you heard of him? But we rarely buy him, either. He is very difficult to sell, if not impossible. Generally speaking, still lifes are a far more difficult market.”
The urge to weep had vanished. Sofie could not believe what she had heard. “I have seen his work,” she whispered, “just once. He is very, very good.”
“And so are you,” Jacques said, smiling. “You must not be discouraged. Perhaps this will help. I also wish to purchase Monsieur Delanza’s portrait.”
Sofie went utterly still, then her heart began to race. “You do?”
“I do not know if I can sell it. I have several clients who might be interested. Clearly your forte, mademoiselle, is figural painting. This work is beautiful. It is astounding. I will take a chance on it because I am so enamored of it.”
Sofie’s despair had become ecstasy. “Edward! He wants your portrait!”
“I heard,” Edward said, grinning at her.
“You know,” Jacques said, smiling back at Sofie, “I am a businessman. It is very unusual for me to buy so many works of an unknown, untried artist.” His brown eyes were warm.
“It is?” Sofie squeaked.
“Oui,” he said emphatically. “Vraiment, When I say you have talent and I purchase three canvases, you can know I mean my every word.”
Sofie had to anchor herself to the floor so she would not begin to float upwards like a hot-air balloon. She did so by holding tightly on to Edward’s hand. “I have just started another canvas, monsieur.”
“If I can sell what I am buying now, I shall purchase more,” Jacques said, and Sofie beamed. “But let me advise you—if you wish to sell your work, mademoiselle, stay away from the still lifes and genres, only because they are so difficult to find buyers for. Remain with the figural studies.”
Sofie nodded, rapt. “The new work is similar to A Gentleman at Newport Beach.”
“Good,” Jacques said. “Now, to business?”
Sofie’s eyes widened as Jacques withdrew his billfold from his jacket. He pulled out a number of bills. “I am prepared to give you two hundred dollars,” he said. “For the three portraits.”
“Two hundred dollars!” she echoed. It was not much, but she had never really believed she would sell anything at all, and she was thrilled to be making a genuine financial transaction.
But Edward stepped forward before Jacques could hand her the money. “Pardon me,” he said, his smile dry. “Two hundred dollars is not acceptable.”
“Edward!” Sofie gasped.
Jacques cocked his head. “Are you Mademoiselle’s agent, monsieur?”
“Evidently. A hundred dollars for each of the smaller portraits—a thousand for mine.”
Sofie gasped again.
“Fifty for each small portrait, three hundred for yours,” Jacques countered without missing a beat.
“Seventy-five for each small portrait—five hundred for mine.”
“Done.” Both men smiled, satisfied, Sofie gaping, and then Jacques Durand-Ruel handed her six hundred fifty dollars in cash. “If I have success with your work, I will be back,” he promised her.
Sofie was speechless. She managed to nod, somewhat dazed now.
“I will send someone for the paintings tomorrow afternoon.” Jacques murmured, “Au revoir,” and left.
“Sofie?” Edward asked, grinning.
“Oh!” Sofie cried. Arms outstretched, she whirled in joy. She whirled and whirled, forgetting all about her weak ankle, until she stumbled ever so slightly, only to fall instantly into Edward’s arms.
“Happy?” he asked, smiling down at her.
Sofie gripped the lapels of his jacket. “Ecstatic. Oh, Edward, I owe all of this to you! This is the greatest day of my life!”
His hands had moved to the small of her back, splaying out there. They tightened on her fractionally. “You do not owe me, sweetheart,” he said. “You owe yourself, Sofie. You are extraordinarily talented, my dear.”
Sofie threw back her head and laughed, exhilarated with her success.
And Edward laughed, too, his deep, masculine rumble blending with her feminine alto. And then she was airborne. Sofie laughed again as he swung her around and around and around in a moment of joyous celebration. When her feet finally touched the ground again, she needed no encouragement. Sofie hugged him hard. He hugged her back. In that single heartbeat of time, Sofie felt love rush with dizzying speed and overpowering force through every one of her veins. Sh
e did not care. She had finally succumbed, and it was glorious.
“I’m so happy for you, Sofie,” he whispered in her ear. “And I like seeing you happy like this,” he added, low.
Sofie lifted her cheek from his chest and met his gaze. She had to let him know. “You have made me happy, Edward,” she heard herself say.
He stared, his smile fading, his blue eyes wide and dark and piercing.
Sofie felt the tremor in his body—and the answering shudder in her own. “Thank you,” she said softly. Their union was inevitable. She recognized it then.
His expression became strangely intense. “You’re welcome.”
Sofie felt wild and reckless, bold and unconquerable, knowing he desired her in that moment as much as she did him. She reached up and laid her palm against his cheek, aching with the love that ran so hot and turbulent in her breast. Edward did not move. He was frozen, his gaze brilliant upon hers, and Sofie allowed her fingers to slide over his jaw, thrilled with the feel of his rough skin, wishing she could caress him openly, everywhere.
Unsmiling, Edward caught her hand, removed it, stepping slightly away from her. His expression was unreadable. And Sofie realized the liberties she had just taken, beginning to flush with embarrassment. Did she seem wanton now? Did it even matter, considering that she was wanton? For she was intending an illicit relationship with him. She knew she must apologize, but could not seem to find the right words. How did one say one was sorry for loving another person? Apologizing seemed absurd.
Edward had moved a few more steps from her, staring at her, arms folded across his chest.
“Sofie?”
Sofie jerked at the sound of Suzanne’s voice. The sound of briskly clicking heels coming to a halt caused Sofie to face the door. Tension stiffened her shoulders, her spine.
Suzanne stood in the doorway, eyes dark with anger. “I was just told that he was here!” she cried.
It was then that Sofie recalled that Suzanne had warned her to stay away from Edward, and that she had promised to do so. “Hello, Mother.”
Suzanne trembled, her gaze locking with Edward’s. “I was right.”
Edward stepped forward, standing slightly in front of Sofie as if protecting her. “Good morning, Mrs. Ralston.”
“Oh—I do not think it is a good morning,” Suzanne said.
“Mother,” Sofie protested, genuinely embarrassed by her display of animosity. She had never seen her mother with such a vicious look in her eyes before.
Suzanne ignored her. “Did I not make myself clear?” She said to Edward. “You are not a welcome caller for my daughter, Mr. Delanza—even if your intentions were honorable, which we both know they are not.”
Sofie gasped in mortification, well aware that Suzanne had just spoken the truth. “Mother—” she was desperate to defuse the situation—“you misunderstand. Edward is not a caller. He has helped me sell my art.”
Suzanne finally looked at her daughter. “What?”
Sofie came to life. “Mother,” she said, moving to her and taking her hand, “Edward arranged for one of the foremost art dealers in the world to view my art.” She smiled brightly. “And he has just purchased three of my canvases for his gallery.”
Suzanne stared at Sofie as if she had spoken incomprehensible gibberish.
“Mother?”
“You have sold your art?”
Sofie smiled again. “Yes. To Durand-Ruel. Surely you have heard of them. I know Benjamin has.”
Suzanne was as pale now as she had been red-faced before. Her wide gaze swept around the studio. When she finally saw Edward’s portrait, she froze, her regard riveted there.
No one moved. Suzanne was motionless, staring, incredulous. “What is this?”
“Edward at Newport Beach, of course,” Sofie said, trying to breathe more evenly.
“I can see that,” Suzanne almost snarled, whirling to face Sofie. “When did you do that, Sofie?”
Sofie wet her lips. “Recently.” She hesitated. “Mother—you don’t like it?”
Suzanne’s bosom rose and fell. “No. No—I do not like it. I hate it!”
Sofie felt like a child again, a child who had been struck across the face. She blinked back sudden bitter, childish tears.
Suzanne whirled on Edward. “I can only assume you are responsible for this! I must ask you to leave—now.”
“What’s wrong, Mrs. Ralston?” An unpleasant smile twisted his features, and his eyes were diamond-bright. “Are you afraid to see your daughter succeed? Afraid to see her excel? Afraid to see her fly?”
“You speak nonsense! I don’t want Sofie seeing you!” Suzanne cried. She faced him, unmoving, eyes wild. “How far has it gone?”
“Too far for your liking,” Edward said flatly.
Suzanne jerked.
His tone was dangerous. “After all, Sofie doesn’t quite think she’s so awful and unlikable anymore. She starting to live like a woman should. She’s even begun to realize her dream of being a professional artist. What’s wrong, Mrs. Ralston? Why don’t you like the fact that Sofie’s sold her art?”
Suzanne sputtered before grinding out, “I want you gone, now. Or shall I have you thrown out?”
Listening to them, watching them, caused something to twist painfully inside Sofie. “Mother!” Sofie was aghast, “Edward has helped me to sell my work!” She hesitated, aware of her cheeks being damp. “And he is my friend.”
“He is not your friend, Sofie,” Suzanne said forcefully. “You may trust me on that account. Mr. Delanza?”
Edward gave her a dark look, as openly hateful as the one she was giving him, before he turned to Sofie. Instantly he softened. His tone was as warm as his gaze. “Remember the success you have had this day,” he told her. “And remember what you have told me. Your mother does not understand modern art.”
Sofie understood what he was trying to do, and she felt like crying in earnest then. He understood her completely. He knew that her mother’s rejection hurt her and he was trying to soothe her wounds. Sofie managed a small, quivering smile. “I will.”
Edward smiled back at her, ignored Suzanne, and strode from the room.
And Sofie was left alone to face her mother.
Suzanne managed to find a shred of self-control. But when she turned to look at Edward Delanza’s portrait, she felt another surge of red-hot rage. God, she had sensed that something was going on, and she had been right. But the real question was, was it too late? “What has happened between the two of you?” Suzanne demanded.
Sofie did not move. “Mother, I know you disapprove of Edward, but I can assure you, nothing untoward has happened.”
Suzanne swallowed. “So it is ‘Edward’ now, is it? And do not lie to me. I can see that you are lying, Sofie. What has he done?”
Sofie had paled and she did not speak.
“Are you still a virgin?”
Sofie did not move a muscle. When the seconds ticked by and she did not respond, Suzanne was sick at heart, and filled with disbelief. Surely her precious daughter had not been touched by that amoral rake—touched and defiled. Too well, Suzanne could recall how she herself had succumbed to Jake at the age of fifteen. But Sofie was not at all like herself, and Suzanne clung to that fact, hard.
But Sofie’s next words were a bomb, blowing up in her face, destroying her hope, shocking her. “I am not a child. You cannot ask me those kinds of questions.”
“Oh, God,” Suzanne said, staring at her daughter, unable to comprehend her defiance, unwilling to comprehend it. And what was the significance of what she was saying? Was her virtue lost? Could this really be her daughter? “I am trying to protect you. I have always tried to protect you.”
“Maybe I do not want to be protected anymore, Mother. Maybe—” Sofie trembled visibly “—maybe I want to live—just this once—even if it is wrong.” She turned and walked away.
“Sofie!” Suzanne cried, chasing after her. “You do not mean it!”
Sofie paused at the d
oor, turned slightly. She was trying not to cry. “But I do mean it. You see, Mother, I am tired of being a crazy cripple.”
Suzanne gasped and stared in bewilderment as Sofie walked away.
Upstairs, Sofie hugged her pillow to her breast and refused to cry. It did not matter that Suzanne hated her art. She did not understand it, and Sofie knew that. What mattered, incomprehensibly, was that Suzanne was right about Edward. He was dishonorable. Suzanne, in fighting him tooth and nail, was only trying to protect her own daughter from destruction. But Sofie had meant what she had said, too. She was tired of being protected, and she wanted to live.
But did she really want to live as a wanton, shameless woman? Could she really be happy as a man’s mistress?
Sofie looked up as Lisa slipped into her room, her small face tense with worry, her large eyes dark and concerned. She had accompanied Suzanne back to New York. “Sofie? Are you all right?”
Sofie shook her head. Tears filled her eyes.
“Oh, dear,” Lisa said, sitting down beside her and prying the pillow away. She held her hands tightly. “Sofie, whatever is going on?”
“I don’t know,” Sofie cried. “I am so confused. Lisa, I am so very confused.”
Lisa studied her face. “Have you been seeing Edward Delanza?”
Sofie blinked back tears, nodding.
“Oh, Sofie. Surely you realize the error you are making!”
Sofie gripped Lisa’s hands tightly. “Mother is right, I realize that. I know Edward wants to seduce me, Lisa.”
Lisa bit off a gasp, wide-eyed. “Has he tried anything?”
“Not really. Not yet.”
“Sofie, Suzanne is right. You must not see him anymore.”
Sofie stared sadly at Lisa. “That is easy for you to say.”
“Sofie, you haven’t fallen in love with him, have you?” Lisa cried.
“Of course I have,” Sofie said, whisper-soft. “How could I not?”
Lisa stood up, dismayed. “You must obey your mother. You must not see him anymore. Before you allow him liberties you will regret for the rest of your life.”
“You are probably right,” Sofie said softly. “But I can not stay away from him.”
