Carole Mortimer - The Flame of Desire

by Carole Mortimer

  Carole Mortimer - The Flame of Desire

  Only Luke made her feel so alive!

  Sophie didn't like anything about Luke Vittorio—but she fell in love with him just the same.

  Luke was attractive to women; as a portrait painter there were many in his life. Worse, Sophie suspected he was having an affair with Rosemary, her stepmother. He was bossy and arrogant.

  Yet Sophie knew that no other man could arouse the fiery response in her that the magnetic Luke had. When he asked her to marry him, she accepted—hoping that someday his desire would turn to love!

  CHAPTER ONE

  SOPHIE'S FATHER PUT DOWN HIS NEWSPAPER long enough to look at her. "If you go out this evening, I do not want a repeat of yesterday," he said sternly. "We have guests arriving this afternoon, and I wouldn't like them to witness a scene like last night's."

  Sophie pouted sulkily. "That wasn't my fault."

  He looked skeptical; "And just whose fault would you say it was? Mine? Your stepmother's? We weren't the ones trying to creep into the house at two o’clock in the morning.”

  Sophie gave up all pretense of trying to look as if she were eating her-breakfast. "I had been to a party. You knew I was going."

  Her stepmother pursed her lips. "But not the time of morning you would be arriving home. Really, Simon, this foaming about the countryside at all hours of the day and night will have to stop. After all, Sophie is only nineteen."

  Simon Bedford sighed, beginning to wish now that he hadn't brought the subject up. "I know, Rosemary, I know. And I've already made my opinion concerning Sophie's actions last night very clear. And I trust her to see that it doesn't happen again."

  "I should hope so," sniffed her stepmother. "Why on earth she has to mix with those….. ruffians, I have no idea. Goodness knows we've tried to introduce her to the right sort of people."

  "Oh, yes—" Sophie's mouth turned back in a sneer''—people like Nicholas Sedgwick- Jones. He’s about as exciting as a cold rice pudding.”

  Her stepmother's eyes snapped angrily, china-blue eyes set in a beautiful doll-like face. Rosemary Bedford was small and delicately made, her appearance belied by the streak of ruthlessness predominant in her personality. At thirty-six she looked much younger than her years, often being mistaken for Sophie's older sister instead of her stepmother.

  She had married Simon Bedford when only eighteen to his already thirty-seven, and she had exploited .his love for her to the full until now, eighteen years later, that love had turned to amused tolerance. Simon had soon come to realize that his main attraction to his young wife had been the money he possessed in abundance. And he had also realized that he couldn't hope to compete with the younger men his wife amused herself with from time to time, and had soon even given up trying to do so.

  Their marriage may not be the idyllic thing Simon had, expected it to be when they first married, but at least he had Sophie from his first marriage. Of course he and Rosemary had expected to have children of their own, he desperately wanting a son to carry on the family name and fortune, but year after year had passed with no sign of the desired child, and now they had given up hope of there ever being one.

  "Nicholas is a very nice young man,” Rosemary insisted. “And he likes you."

  ”The feeling isn't reciprocated,” Sophia said scathingly. "He's boring, pompous and egotistical. He only asks me out because he's after daddy’s money. Everyone knows the Sedgwick-Joneses are broke.”

  'Sophie!" Her stepmother’s voice rose shrilly. “Your father didn’t pay for you to go to a private school so that you could come out with things like ‘as exciting as a cold rice pudding' and 'broke.' You have been taught how to talk properly—please do so."

  “Oh, mommy, you know I'm right about Nicholas. All he can talk about is his boring old farm."

  Rosemary gave her stepdaughter a cool look. "I'm sure his conversation is preferable to anything those hooligans you call friends have to say. Their main topic of conversation seems to be fashion and sex—and not always in that order." Her nose wrinkled her distaste. "And look at you, you even look like them."

  Sophie was aware that her stepmother didn't approve of her long blond hair being worn loose, or her choice of jeans and tight sweaters as suitable clothing: And Rosemary didn't approve of the friends Sophie had made at the local college, either, but Sophie refused to give them up, no matter what the pressures might be.

  She shrugged. "Everyone at college looks like this."

  "Exactly! You should make an effort to remember who you are. Just think of your father's humiliation when he sees the people you go around with." She sighed. "Well, at least make sure you behave yourself in front of our weekend guests. A lot of them wont understand your need to rebel in this way."

  "Who's coming?"

  "Just a few friends, about a dozen or so." Rosemary studied her painted nails. "Luke Vittorio has "agreed to comedown."

  Simon gave her a sharp look. "I didn't know that."

  His wife smiled at him brightly. "I thought I had told you, darling. He's bringing that girl he's going around with at the moment."

  "Eve Jeffers," Sophie supplied. "She's one of the leading models in the world at the moment." And Luke Vittorio had been a fashionable portrait painter for the last ten years. He was an outrageous extrovert, his exploits almost as well known as his portraits. And his scandals. He was ruggedly attractive, emitting a sensual aura that seemed to act like a magnet on all women. And the women he attracted weren't always single.

  "I know who she is, Sophie," her stepmother snapped. "They have been seen everywhere together the last few months."

  "I didn't know if daddy knew her," Sophie said defensively.

  Rosemary's mouth turned back. "I would doubt it— fashion isn't your father's strongest point. Or yours, either, for that matter. Look at your clothes. If those jeans were any tighter they would be indecent."

  "She's slender enough to carry them off," Simon remarked from the depths of his newspaper. "I don't give a damn what she wears as long as she's well covered. When did you invite Luke Vittorio down here?" he demanded of his wife.

  "I can't remember now," she answered vaguely. "At Pamela's party last week, I think. What difference does it make when I invited him? He's coming. That's all we need to know."

  Simon scowled. "I can't understand why a man like him would want to come here," he muttered. "He'll probably be bored within a few hours. He's used to much more exciting entertainment than we can offer."

  "Exactly," Rosemary's mouth tightened. "He enjoys peace and quiet like the rest of us."

  "I haven't noticed you've been enjoying it much lately. You're spending more and more time in town. I suppose the only reason we're honored with your company this weekend is because you have all your friends coming down."

  "Don't make a scene, Simon," his wife said impatiently. "We've been through this so many times. I like the London society, you don't."

  "That's right, I don't. I do like to see my wife occasionally, though."

  Sophie stood up, excusing herself before this developed into a full-scale argument. There had been a lot of these arguments of late, and she had found that it was better to make herself scarce when one was brewing.

  "Where are you going?" her stepmother demanded.

  "Down to the village."

  "To see those friends of yours, I suppose?"

  "To see Helen, yes." She wouldn't be drawn into her stepmother's spiteful mood.

  "I don't want you to be back late. Luke will want to "have a look at you."

  "At me?" Sophie looked at her curiously. "Whatever for?"

  "Your father has commissioned him to paint you."
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  She looked at her father, her eyes wide. "Daddy?"

  He was still intent on his wife. "You asked him, Rosemary?"

  "One doesn't ask Luke. He decides whom he will paint and whom he won't. I merely asked him if he would look at Sophie. He will make the final decision."

  "Daddy?" Sophie cut in, frowning her puzzlement. "Luke Vittorio is going to paint me?"

  "Well, he is the best, chicken. And we would like a portrait of you for the family record. It's to be your mother's birthday present to me."

  "A Luke Vittorio portrait! He'll never paint me, daddy,” she denied. "He only paints beautiful women. He's very exclusive. He's turned down some really important people merely because he didn't think them beautiful."

  "You're attractive enough when you take the trouble to dress properly," her stepmother admitted grudgingly. “And he hasn't agreed to do it yet, only to look at you."

  Sophie squirmed. "I'm not sure I care to be 'looked over' by him."

  She had seen hint on a talk show on the television once, a tall arrogant man who hadn't lived his thirty-eight years without being aware of his blatant good looks and cashing in on them. And he had the most piercing brown eyes she had ever seen, eyes that appeared to miss nothing, and she felt sure they didn't. He was an artist, trained to observe and take note.

  He had made Sophie feel nervous just looking at him, his self-confidence awe inspiring. And he was very mocking, making her feel quite sorry for the interviewer by the end of the program. For someone who was so much in the public eye he was curiously clamlike about his real private life, refusing point-blank to discuss any of the women in his life, except to acknowledge there had been quite a few.

  But she hadn't needed him to tell her that; she had only to open a daily newspaper to see that taunting arrogant face peering back at her, and always with a beautiful companion, and hardly ever the same one twice. He always seemed to be either entering or leaving the country, never in one place for long at a time.

  "You'll do as your father and I want," Rosemary said irritably. "If Luke decides to paint you, you'll sit for him. You can't refuse when it's to be a present to your father."

  "But his birthday isn't for months yet."

  "Three months away. And Luke can't, paint you overnight. He may not even be able to start right away; in fact I'm sure he won't be able to. You have to understand that Luke isn't just any artist; he's the best of his time, able to dictate his own terms, And you'll treat him with the respect he deserves when you meet him at dinner," she warned.

  Sophie couldn't see anyone treating him "any other way—he would soon put them in their place if they didn't. She could imagine him being quite cruel on occasion; that quirk to his mouth indicated a hardness that was a natural pact of the man himself and not something he had acquired.

  "What time is he arriving?" She intended making sure she wasn't here, despite her stepmother's warning. Her father was a rich and important man himself, and she didn't care to be looked over by anyone.

  Her stepmother shrugged. "When he feels like it I would imagine. Luke lives by his own rules."

  Sophie opened the dining-room door. "Arrogant devil," she muttered.

  "We'll have none of that when he gets here," Rosemary said sharply.

  "I'll be on my best behavior," she promised with a certain amount of sarcasm.

  "That isn't always good enough. The tunes you have embarrassed your father and me——“

  "Let the girl go," Simon interrupted. "You'll only make her more determined to do the opposite of what you say."

  She grinned at her father. How well he knew her! "Thank you, daddy."

  Her stepmother's mouth was a thin angry line. "Why do you always side with her, Simon?" she asked petulantly, the easy tears appearing in her china-blue eyes. "The two of you always gang up on me. It's no wonder I spend more and more time in London. I might just as well not bother to come home at all."

  Simon put his newspaper down with a sigh, realizing he was in for one of the scenes that always left him feeling drained. Rosemary should never have had to cope with a child; her jealousy and spitefulness of his only child were always making it difficult for him to show any love and understanding for Sophie without a near-hysterical outburst from his wife.

  "Leave us, Sophie," he advised, standing up to put his arm about his wife. "Now calm down, Rosemary," he said gently. "You're ruining your makeup."

  Sophie quietly left the room. Poor daddy, he was in for a difficult time of it. She wondered what her stepmother would wheedle out of him this time. One of these scenes usually resulted in Rosemary acquiring something blatantly extravagant. The last time it had been a diamond broach, the diamond being one of the biggest in the world.

  She met Mrs. Joyce, the housekeeper, in the hallway, a fresh pot of coffee in her hand. "I wouldn't go in there right now." Sophie stopped her. "Mommy…Mommy's a little upset."

  Mrs. Joyce a member of the household since Sophie had been a baby, tutted, as she was as familiar with these scenes as Sophie. "What happened this time?"

  "I'm afraid it was my fault, Joycy." She used the familiar name for the housekeeper. "Mommy gets upset by my behavior. I don't mean to upset her, but I—-" She broke off as her stepmother left the dining room, no evidence of tears on her face now as she smiled at them.

  "Mr. Bedford's coffee, Joycy," she smiled. "He's never human until he's drunk several cups of your delicious brew." She hummed to herself as she left them.

  Joycy watched her mistress leave. "I wonder what your poor father has promised her this time," she remarked with amused tolerance.

  "Something else she doesn't need," Sophie said dully, aware that once again she had caused her father to be put in an awkward position. It was a terrible way to think, but things were a lot quieter around here when her stepmother stayed in London.

  She and her father lived a peaceful existence here, her father traveling rarely to his firm situated twenty miles out of London, and she going to the local college. The two of them spent a lot of time together, a lot of their tastes similar despite their age difference.

  Joycy smiled. "I had better take this coffee in. It should help soothe your father."

  Sophie grimaced. "I think he's going to need it," was her parting comment.

  Poor daddy, she thought as she cycled the mile to Helen’s house. He didn't ask much from life, just a loving daughter and the continuous success of his prosperous firm. But she and her stepmother had never got on. Sophie had spent most of her childhood brought up by servants and so every time she had met her stepmother the sparks started to fly.

  Not that she didn't care for Rosemary—after all, she the only mother she had ever known, but to Rosemary she was just a constant reminder of the passing of the years, a reminder Rosemary neither wanted nor welcomed. What on earth her stepmother would do if she ever presented her with a grandchild she didn't dare think. Not that that was a possibility for years yet—she didn't even have a boyfriend.

  Helen was out in the back garden sunbathing when Sophie arrived. "You look hot." She poured her a long cool drink of lime from the jug on the table.

  "I am." Sophie collapsed onto the adjoining lounger.

  "You didn't cycle over in this heat?"

  Sophie sipped gratefully at the lime. "It's quicker than walking."

  "But more exhausting. It's a pity you don't like driving."

  "I don't have the concentration. Did you get into trouble for being late last night?" she changed the subject.

  Helen giggled, a petite girl with bubbly red hair and mischievous green eyes. "This morning, you mean. Dad was furious. How about you?"

  "About the same. Mommy turned up last night when I was out," she added pointedly.

  Helen grimaced. "The outcome of my late night was that dad's forbidden me to go out for a week. He'll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow, but h means I won't be able to go anywhere tonight."

  "Neither will I. Mommy's invited some people down for the weekend, wh
ich means I have to stay in to dinner tonight." .She sighed. "I wouldn't mind, but she will insist on inviting Nicholas as my dinner partner."

  "Poor you," Helen sympathized. "Who's been invited for the weekend? Your mother usually knows the interesting people."

  "I only know two of the guests, Eve Jeffers and… Luke Vittorio."

  Helen choked over her lime juice. "Luke Vittorio?"

  "The one and only."

  Helen looked impressed. "I saw him on television the other, night. God, he's handsome. He has mesmerizing come-to-bed eyes."

  "Yes." .

  "And he's so dark. That must be his Italian blood, I suppose.”

  "Possibly."

  Helen noticed her lack of enthusiasm for the first time. "You aren't looking forward to him being there?"

  That must be the understatement of the year! "Most of mommy's friends I can take, but him Well, it's like daddy said, what can we possibly do to entertain him? We aren't exactly surrounded by night spots.''

  "I would think there must be lots of ways he could be entertained," Helen said teasingly. "I can think of a few ways myself."

  "He's bringing his own girl friend down for that," Sophie informed her with disgust. "I don't suppose he can go for very long without a woman."

  Helen raised her eyebrows. "What's he done to upset you? You don't usually take dislikes to people like this."

  "I'm not usually forced into their company," she said with ill-humor. "Mommy has asked the great man to paint me."

  That really startled Helen. "A Luke Vittorio portrait…"

  "That's what I said. Oh, he'll say no, of course, but I don't like the idea of him dissecting each little part of me before he rejects me. He's so damned arrogant."

  "I suppose so."

  "You don't sound very sure. I'll tell you what—come over tomorrow afternoon and you can meet him."

  Helen sat up, smiling eagerly; "Really?" she asked excitedly.

  "Yes, and welcome to him."

  Her friend laughed. "Let's go and have a game of tennis, so you can run off some of this steam. Stay for lunch and then go home when Mr. Vittorio is safely installed in your house. Mom and dad have gone out for the day shop-ling, so we have the house to ourselves."