After Innocence (21 page)

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.

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.

S
ofie 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. She 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.