After Innocence

by Brenda Joyce

  Sofie jerked. “Mother, if I am so lucky as to be pregnant, then I am having his baby. And I would never give the baby up.”

  Their gazes locked, Sofie fierce and furious, Suzanne wide-eyed with trepidation. Finally Suzanne smiled and patted her daughter’s hand. “Let us worry about that when the time comes, dear,” she said. “If it does come.”

  Sofie nodded, looking away. Her pulse was racing now. And she was praying to God, whom she had stopped praying to long ago, when he had not brought Jake back to her, alive and free. Let me have his baby, she begged. Dear Lord, let me have his baby. Please.

  Part Two

  La Bohème

  16

  New York City—the fall of 1901

  The diamond lay on the felt tabletop, as large as a man’s fingernail, directly beneath the hanging lamp over the five card players’ heads, sparking fire.

  “Jesus, Delanza, are you out of your mind?” one of the players asked.

  Edward lounged in his chair, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. His jacket had been discarded hours ago, as had his necktie and cuff links. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, his collar unbuttoned, his shirt wrinkled and barely tucked into his gray trousers. There was a heavy growth of beard on his face, and his eyes were rimmed red from either lack of sleep or the sting of too much smoke in the stuffy atmosphere. A voluptuous blonde, barely clad, hung on to his right arm, an equally well-endowed redhead was on his left. There were hundreds of private men’s clubs in the city, many of them catering to the most elite clientele, many of them highly respectable. This was not one of those establishments.

  La Boîte had a notorious reputation as being frequented by the fringe element of society, and its ladies were thoroughly acquainted with every type of pleasure—and perversion—a “gentleman” might require. Edward had entered this establishment for the first time only a few weeks ago, but in the time since, he had become one of La Boîte’s best customers.

  At the sight of the diamond, the women hanging on to him had gasped. The other players stared. Only Edward seemed indifferent to the glittering jewel winking amongst the scattered greenbacks. Edward drawled, “I’m out of cash.” His words were slightly slurred.

  “That gem is worth five times what’s in the pot!” a bearded rake exclaimed.

  Edward did not reply. He stared impassively at the speaker, then eyed the table at large with his bored gaze. “Are we playing or not? If not, I shall take myself elsewhere.”

  Quickly there were murmurs of assent and the play continued. Edward barely seemed to care as one player revealed a diamond flush, which beat out the previously shown two pair. Edward turned over his hand, three of a kind, without expression. The winner whooped and raked in the pot, the large diamond disappearing into his pocket immediately. “You are mad,” he told Edward, grinning from ear to ear. “You have just lost a fortune.”

  Edward shrugged. “Really? I don’t give a damn.” He lurched to his feet, an arm around each woman. When he had regained his balance, he inclined his head to the table of players. Then, the women in tow, he strolled quite drunkenly from the smoky, crowded room.

  Suzanne hurried downstairs, for she was late, not that it made too much difference when it came to the opera, for many other parties would also arrive late. She paused in the foyer to glance at herself, to admire her sleeveless evening gown. It was held up by two small beaded and fringed straps. The satin bodice was almost starkly bare in contrast, and just opaque, but the flared skirt was fringed and beaded at the hem. The ivory color set off her dark hair, which she wore pinned up in order to show off her fabulous dangling pearl and diamond earrings. She’d had to cajole and finally seduce her husband into buying them for her—but he’d balked at buying the matching necklace she also wore. She had purchased that for herself … with some of Sofie’s money. She told herself that Sofie would not have minded if she had known.

  Suzanne called, “Lisa? Where are you?”

  Lisa appeared from within the salon, clad in a more modest evening gown of peach silk with small ruffled sleeves. Around her shoulders she wore a paler hued wrap. Eight-carat diamonds sat on her ears, her only adornment. “I’ve been ready for the past half hour.”

  Suzanne ignored that, pulling her own fringed shawl around her bare shoulders. “Let’s go.”

  But Lisa did not move. “Don’t you think we should ask Sofie to come with us?”

  Suzanne flinched. “She is in her studio, working.”

  “She is always in her studio, working.”

  “She would refuse to come.”

  “Maybe not. Maybe not if I could speak with her.” Lisa smiled, but it was strained. “She is crushed, Suzanne. Before, she was happy with her work. She is not happy anymore.”

  “She will get over it,” Suzanne said tersely. “I do not wish to discuss this, Lisa. I know what is best for my own daughter.”

  Lisa’s face tightened. Her voice quavered. “Suzanne, we both know the truth about what happened. This is not right. He should make amends and do what is proper.”

  Suzanne’s pulse quickened. “You may not approve of how I handled Sofie’s involvement with that man, but I did the right thing—and don’t you dare interfere or even put any stupid ideas into her head!” Her fists found her hips. “Have you not heard the rumors? He is not even allowed in polite society anymore, his behavior is so reprehensible. Why, last week he showed up at a gala to raise funds to finish the new wing at the Metropolitan Museum with a painted woman—one who was half-clad!”

  Lisa’s shoulders were squared. “Perhaps he is unhappy, too.”

  Suzanne was furious. “I advise you to mind your own affairs, Lisa,” she said coldly. “Sofie is my daughter. That man is out of her life, and I will not have him back in it.”

  “She is my sister.”

  “She is your stepsister, nothing more.”

  Lisa gasped. “Perhaps I had better stay home,” she said, her bow-shaped mouth trembling. “I will not enjoy the opera knowing that Sofie is home alone and in such a state of mind.” With that, she turned and fled, tripping on the hem of her gown.

  Suzanne looked after her in frustration. She did not want to stay home. She thought about Benjamin, who even now was ensconced in his study with a lawyer and two bankers. When he concluded his business, they would smoke cigars and drink brandy, or they might adjourn to a private men’s club. Perhaps, a few hours from now, he might seek her out in her bed for a brief interlude of restrained lovemaking, during which time she would fantasize about her dead first husband.

  Suzanne regarded her reflection in the mirror, noticing with pleasure how lovely and desirable she looked. Suzanne had no intention of staying home, alone and bored, waiting for attention from her second husband, attention she did not really want. It was not really improper for married ladies to go to the opera or any other social event alone, not at her age. Suzanne decided that even if Lisa refused to accompany her, she would go anyway. Lisa was becoming far too impertinent for such a young miss, and the opera would be more enjoyable without her. Suzanne made a mental note to speak with Benjamin about arranging a suitable marriage for his daughter. Hadn’t she recently heard that a very poor but very eligible British marquis was in town, looking for a wealthy bride?

  Suzanne called for her carriage, thinking about Lisa while she waited, trying not to think about Sofie and her obvious unhappiness. After all, in time, it would become tolerable. Suzanne knew that firsthand.

  Suzanne was having a wonderful time. The opera hardly interested her. but she was well aware that she was the focus of much attention, and that did interest her very much. Gentlemen in other boxes periodically turned to look at her, some daring to try to catch her eye and smile. Of course, her reputation was now spotless, and had been that way for years. After the horror of being a living scandal, she had no desire to ever repeat the event. The men might admire her from afar, but only from afar. She had been faithful to Benjamin for their entire marriage, no matter how she might yearn for so
mething more. She was wise enough now, after the follies committed in her youth, to know that sex was not as important as respectability.

  But she did crave the male attention she received, almost desperately, perhaps because Benjamin so rarely seemed to notice her as a woman. Suzanne pretended to ignore two keen admirers, but as she turned away, a strangely familiar figure was exiting a full box, a blond woman at his side. Suzanne’s heart lurched.

  When it began to pound again, now erratically, she was staring dry-mouthed and breathless after a tall, broad-shouldered man with thick, sun-streaked hair that brushed the collar of his tuxedo. She was mesmerized, helpless to look away.

  No—she was going mad! It could not be Jake!

  Jake was dead. He had died in 1890 in a horrible fire after escaping prison. He was dead and buried ignominiously in a London cemetery, a grave she had never yet visited, but one day would.

  Suzanne calmed somewhat. Jake was dead, and although she knew that for a fact, having glimpsed a man so physically like him, even from behind, was terribly painful. Suzanne touched her hand briefly to her chest, but could not still her fluttering heart. Would the heartbreak of loss and disillusionment never fade? He had reminded her so of Jake.

  Abruptly Suzanne stood. She was uneasy. She felt compelled, but to do what? Chase down this stranger and demand to see his face? And then what? Even if he resembled her dead husband, she was bound to be bitterly disappointed.

  She bent and whispered to one of the women she knew that she would be right back, and slipped from the box.

  Jake lengthened his strides. It had been a mistake. Coming tonight had been a big mistake.

  But he was sick to death of remaining so anonymous that he never set foot out of his Riverside mansion. He worked there, he slept there. He took his meals there, had his mistress there. Lou Anne had become vocal in her complaints. She wanted to go out, wanted to have fun. Jake had not been insulted; she was still very young, and sex was just not enough of a substitute—not for anyone.

  Not even for him.

  “What are you afraid of?” she had asked.

  Lou Anne certainly wasn’t astute enough to guess the truth. But her innocent remark was accurate enough. Jake could not tell her that he was afraid that someone would recognize him again, in another act of sheer coincidence.

  He could not tell her that he was more than afraid of being caught and sent back to prison.

  He could not tell her that he was terrified.

  He would die before ever being sent back.

  So he hadn’t answered her, had finally agreed to take her to the opera. And it had happened.

  Of all the people to stumble across there at the crowded opera tonight, he had stumbled across his own wife. Thank God she hadn’t seen him.

  He hadn’t been prepared for her. either. Hadn’t been prepared for the surge of shock, followed swiftly by a flood of powerful and competing emotions, not least of which was anger and hatred.

  Suzanne hurried down to the spacious, columned lobby where many operagoers mingled, sipping refreshments and chatting animatedly. She paused, scanning the crowd, clutching her beaded reticule. And she froze.

  The man she was following stood with the blond woman, his back still to Suzanne. But she was closer to him now, and she would swear she was looking at Jake—or at his ghost.

  The couple appeared to be arguing. Suzanne swallowed and stared at the man’s broad back. He was leaning close, murmuring something in the woman’s ear.

  His posture was so familiar—she could almost hear his husky, seductive voice. Something rushed over Suzanne from her head to her toes. Something far headier and far more thrilling than anything she had felt in years. Every fiber of her being tightened.

  It could not be Jake, but he was so like Jake—and Suzanne wanted him. She told herself that, because he was not Jake, she would be disappointed. And she reminded herself that she dared not sacrifice the reputation she had guarded so zealously for so many years.

  The woman moved away, angry and sulking. She headed back in the direction of the opera seats, and as she passed Suzanne, Suzanne saw that she was not just very beautiful but very young—perhaps eighteen or nineteen. Her glance jerked back to the man. He had paused and turned to gaze after his lady friend, and their gazes met.

  Suzanne cried out in shock and genuine disbelief. Then she realized the man was turning, rushing away out the heavy center doors and into the night.

  She came to life. That was Jake! Jake was alive! Without stopping to wonder how that could be, Suzanne began to run in the direction he had taken. She was running after him, unaware that she was parting the crowd or that people were staring after her.

  Suzanne rushed through the doors where he had just disappeared, panting wildly. She paused on the sidewalk beneath an electric streetlamp. The early fall air was warm and pleasant, but she did not notice. Where was Jake? She hadn’t lost him, had she? She could not! She could feel hot tears coursing down her face.

  Then she saw him striding down the block towards Sixth Avenue, nearly lost in shadows. “Jake!” Suzanne cried, lifting her skirts and running after him.

  The man slowed and finally froze. He turned reluctantly and stared. His mouth curved into a hard, grim line. She came to a breathless stop in front of him. He wasn’t dead. He really wasn’t dead.

  Ignoring everyone around them, Suzanne flung herself at him, throwing her arms around his shoulders, kissing his jaw feverishly—the only place she could reach. Instantly Jake jerked her off him.

  Suzanne stumbled, standing a few feet away from him now. “You’re not dead!” Some of the shock was beginning to wear off. It was beginning to sink in. All of these years she had grieved and mourned, missing him, thinking him dead.

  “Really? And just think, I thought this was hell,” Jake drawled, as insolent as ever.

  “I could kill you myself!” Suzanne cried.

  “If that was a murder attempt, I just learned something new.” His gaze moved over her breasts and down her hips, lingering where her sex pulsed so strongly between her legs, with no small amount of contempt.

  It clicked then. Fully. He wasn’t dead—and for eleven years, she had suffered in anguish, in guilt, believing him dead. “You bastard!” she screamed, lifting her hand and swinging it with the force of a madwoman.

  Jake caught her arm, staggered slightly, and then twisted hard once to subdue her. Suzanne obeyed, knowing the harder she pushed, the harder he would respond. For a moment her body was pressed against his, thigh to thigh and groin to groin, her arm pinned painfully against her back, and the blood rushed red-hot to her loins, pumping and swelling them immediately.

  Jake eased the pressure on her arm. Suzanne looked up at him. His face was more weathered now, and there were crow’s-feet around his eyes, but he was still the most handsome man she had ever seen. Suzanne inhaled, trembling with the lust that had seized her. and the love that had never died. “They said you died in a fire!”

  “Apparently not.” He moved away from her, regarding her impassively.

  “You selfish bastard! All these years …” She broke off, choking on the old grief, the new anger, and the intense, frightening elation.

  “All these years what?” Jake mocked. “Don’t tell me that you’ve missed me?”

  “I have!”

  Jake laughed then, loudly. Suddenly he reached out, but lazily, caught her elbow, and reeled her slowly in. When she was in his arms, her throbbing sex pressed to his thigh, nearly riding him, he bent over her. “You didn’t miss me. You missed this.” He rotated his hips—and his huge erection—against her.

  Suzanne felt a thrill go through her. It had been years since she had reached shattering ecstasy with a man without the aid of fantasies—fantasies in which Jake had starred. Jake was still the most devastating man she had ever seen, his body was still hard and strong, still utterly virile.

  “Yes, Jake,” Suzanne whispered, threading her fingers through the hair at his nape, “I m
issed this.”

  He was no longer smiling. Very coldly, he pushed her away. “And you’re going to keep on missing it, darting wife of mine. Because that is dead and buried just like Jake O’Neil.”

  Suzanne froze.

  “Oh, excuse me, how could I forget! You’re not my wife—you’re Ralston’s now!” He was laughing at her.

  Suzanne began to shake. “Oh, God.”

  “What’s wrong—darling?”

  “You know what’s wrong! Oh, God! You’re not dead—I’m married to two men!”

  Jake laughed once, briefly, then his tone turned ugly. “Maybe you should have waited before you remarried. Or was there a reason for your haste at the time?”

  Suzanne was filled with comprehension of her dilemma, and could not respond.

  Jake stood over her now, his fury obvious. “When did you meet him, Suzanne? How soon after I was extradited were you in his bed?”

  Suzanne jerked to attention. “I did not sleep with Benjamin until our wedding night.”

  Jake threw back his head and laughed loudly in absolute disbelief.

  “It’s true!”

  He crossed his arms and stared at her, mouth turned down. “I was going to send for you.”

  “What?”

  “I was going to send for you and Sofie. Have you meet me in Australia. But somehow the idea lost its appeal when you remarried. I never liked sharing, Suzanne.”

  Suzanne felt faint. “I thought you were dead! They said you were dead! There was evidence—”

  He shoved his face close to hers. His breath was warm, clean. “You didn’t even mourn my passing, you little bitch.”

  And Suzanne remembered now why she hated him. “I did! I’ve been mourning you for years!” She shook with her own fury—and her own fear. “Don’t you dare blame me for this! This is all your fault! I remarried for Sofie’s sake as much as for mine! You left us!”

  “I was extradited, baby.”

  “You asked me for a divorce before that!”

  “That’s right.” He stared at her, a bitter twist to his lips. “I guess prison does funny things to a man’s mind. Makes a man think about family, makes him want to find the good and forget the bad. Makes him dream like a barnyard fool.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his black tuxedo trousers.