by Brenda Joyce
BRENDA
JOYCE
After Innocence
This one’s for Marjorie Braman, my editor and my friend.
Not only because of her enthusiasm, her energy,
her loyalty and support,
but because she understands my need to be challenged,
because she encourages me to take risks,
because she pushes me to be
the best that I can be—
and because she is one great editor!
Thank you, Marjorie.
“COME HERE, SOFIE.”
His anger made him compelling, exciting. Her eyes wide, Sofie stood up as if a puppet on his string. He crooked his finger at her again and Sofie found herself walking toward him, her heart pounding very hard.
“How did you find me?”
“I’ve made you my affair, my dear,” he said, staring her down.
Sofie could not look away. His choice of words, his bedroom tone, his bold, blue gaze, it all had quite the effect on her. Sofie flushed scarlet. She found it difficult to breathe. And she knew Suzanne was right. He wanted to make her his lover. He wanted to take her to his bed. His intention was seduction.
Knowing that, Sofie could not respond.
Table of Contents
Cover
Titile Page
Prologue
Part One - The Prodigal Daughter
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
Part Two - La Bohème
16
17
18
19
20
Part Three - A Woman of Principle
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
Part Four - After Innocence
Epilogue
About the Author
Avon Books by Brenda Joyce
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
New York City, 1890
“Sofie, where are you?”
The little girl cringed. She set her mouth stubbornly and did not move from the small corner in her bedroom, trapped between the cheerfully papered wall and the adult-sized bed.
Footsteps sounded, approaching. “Sofie?” Her mother’s tone was sharp, annoyed. “Sofie! Where are you?”
Sofie inhaled hard, tears filling her eyes, as the door banged open and Suzanne appeared in the doorway. If only Papa were here. If only he hadn’t gone away. If only he would come home.
“Sofie! When I call, you come! What are you doing? I have something important to tell you!” Suzanne said in a strident voice.
Sofie reluctantly met her mother’s gaze, which quickly turned furious, spotting the paper at her feet.
“What is this?” Suzanne cried, bending. She snatched the sheet of paper, brilliantly, boldly colored, from her. Still, even to an adult, there was no mistaking the figures in the drawing, which, while childish, were surprisingly vivid and real. The picture was composed of a man, whose proportions were gigantic, heroic, and a very small blond child. Both characters were running, the child after the adult.
“Look at you—you’re a mess!” Suzanne cried, tearing the pastel painting in two. “Stop drawing your father—do you hear me? Stop it!”
Sofie dug her back more deeply into the corner. She said nothing. She wanted her papa. How she wanted him. How she missed him.
Her big, handsome papa, always laughing, always hugging her, always telling her how much he loved her and how good and smart and beautiful she was.
Please come home, Papa, Sofie thought.
Suzanne made an effort to relax. She held out her hand. “Come here, dear,” she said, softly now.
Sofie didn’t hesitate. She gave her palm to her mother, who pulled her to her feet. “Sofie,” Suzanne began, then hesitated. “You must know. I have bad news. Jake is not coming back.”
Sofie recoiled, jerking free of her mother. “No! He promised! He promised me!”
Suzanne’s beautiful jaw flexed. Her eyes were hard. “He is not coming back. He cannot. Sofie—your father is dead.”
Sofie stared. She understood death. A few months ago her cat had died and Sofie had found it, stiff and unmoving, its eyes open but unseeing. But her papa, Papa could not be like that!
“He is not coming back,” Suzanne repeated firmly. “He is dead.” Suzanne grimaced. “Just what he deserved, if you ask me,” she muttered to no one in particular.
“No!” Sofie shrieked. “No, I do not believe you!”
“Sofie!”
But it was too late. Sofie flew from the room, as fast as her gangly legs would carry her. She raced down the corridor of the huge, frightening home her father had built so proudly for them, a home they had moved into only a few months before he had left. He could not be dead! He had promised to come home!
“Sofie, come back!” Suzanne was shouting.
Sofie ignored her. The marble stairs were ahead of her. She did not care, did not slow. Sofie hit the first step, the second. It was only when she lost her balance that she realized she should have slowed much sooner. With a cry she fell, tumbling down one step after another, like a Raggedy Ann doll, limbs sprawling, hair flying, around and around, down and down, until she landed with a final thump on the floor below.
And there she lay, unmoving.
Sofie was stunned. But whether from the fail or the news of her father’s death, she hardly knew. Slowly her head stopped spinning and her vision cleared. She did not move. Papa was dead. Oh, Papa, she wept.
She became aware of an excruciating pain shooting through her ankle, and when she sat up, it was so intense that white light blinded her. She panted and the light disappeared, but the pain did not. Still, instead of holding her leg, she held her chest with both hands, curling into a ball, weeping.
“Miss Sofie, Miss Sofie, are you all right?” The housekeeper came rushing to her.
Sofie looked up the stairs at her mother, who stood silent and frozen on the landing two floors above, her face white, her eyes wide.
Sofie looked at the ground. “I am fine, Mrs. Murdock,” she lied. Her mother didn’t love her, and Papa was dead—how could she survive?
“You are hurt,” Mrs. Murdock cried, bending to help her up.
“If she is hurt, it is her own fault,” Suzanne said coldly from above. Glaring at Sofie, she turned away.
Sofie gazed after her mother, starting to cry again. I am hurt, Mama. Please come back! But she did not call after her.
Mrs. Murdock lifted her to her feet after Suzanne was gone. Sofie could not stand on her right foot and leaned heavily against the kind housekeeper. She had to bite her lip to keep from screaming now.
“I’ll see you to bed and get the doctor,” Mrs. Murdock said.
“No!” Sofie cried, panicked. Tears started to stream down her cheeks again. She knew Suzanne would be furious if she was really hurt, and she was sure that if she rested, it would go away. And maybe, maybe if she was good, if she was very good, if she stopped drawing and did as she was told, Suzanne would love her more. “No, no, I am fine!”
But she was not fine. She would never be fine again.
Part One
The Prodigal Daughter
1
Newport Beach, 1901
It was a glorious day. Sofie no longer regretted leaving the city in order to attend her mother’s weekend beach party.
A l
arge sketchbook in one hand, charcoal in the other, Sofie paused on the crest of a dune to take in the view. The Atlantic Ocean lapped the shore, dappled from the sun. Above, gulls wheeled. The sky was a nearly blinding shade of blue. Sofie smiled, lifting her face, shadowed by a straw hat, towards the sunlight. It was moments like these that made Sofie realize that there was life outside of her studio’s four walls.
Then the throbbing of her ankle brought her back to her senses. She should not linger. Coming down to the beach could still prove to be a mistake. She did have a wonderful preliminary rendering of Newport’s shore, which she would begin in oils as soon as she returned to the city, but an entire evening awaited her, and it would be even less pleasant for her if she was limping more than was usual. Suzanne had a houseful of weekend guests, and Sofie could not help but feel some dread. In truth, if she had her choice, she would lock herself in her room and paint. But she did not have her choice, she had promised Suzanne to be her most sociable self, and Sofie intended to try her best to please her mother.
Sighing, Sofie imagined the long evening ahead as she began to descend the dune. She wondered if she would know any of her mother’s guests. She hoped so. As immersed in her world of art as she was, Sofie rarely ventured out into society, and could not converse with strangers and mere acquaintances with the casual ease that seemed to be second nature to everyone else. Her younger sister, Lisa, had once told her that one conversed upon whatever topic was at hand or in sight—such as the beautiful porcelain vase one stood near. It sounded much easier than it actually was. Sofie decided not to worry about the impending evening. No one expected her to be the belle of the ball.
Sofie moved awkwardly down the scrub-covered dune in her uneven gait, and after several feet, paused to rest. Trying to catch her breath, she glanced about and her eye caught a flash of bright white. Sofie looked again. She glimpsed a man strolling down another path in the dunes just below her. Like herself, he was leaving the beach, but he had not seen her.
The sight of him was so arresting that Sofie froze, completely forgetting herself and the rest of her surroundings. He was bareheaded, his thick black hair a startling contrast to the stark white of his finely tailored linen sack jacket. He wore it casually open, its sides billowing in the breeze, and his hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his pale cream-hued trousers. He was a large man, Sofie could see that, for he was tall and broad-shouldered, but he moved with the grace of someone much smaller, somehow as lithe and sleek as a black panther she had once seen in the Bronx Zoo. Sofie was captivated. From this distance she could just make out his tanned features, which seemed to be extraordinarily handsome. She had to paint him. Abruptly she. sat down, flipping open her notebook. Her heart thundering in excitement, she began to draw.
“Edward! Wait!”
Sofie’s hand froze as, startled, she watched a woman flying up the path after the stranger. Sofie recognized her neighbor, Mrs. Hilary Stewart. Why on earth would Hilary be running after this man in such a fashion, with her skirts lifted high in one hand, shamelessly revealing long, white-stockinged legs? Then it dawned on Sofie what Hilary might be about, and she blanched, shocked.
Sofie sternly told herself that it was not her affair and that she should go. Quickly she tried to finish the study of the stranger, adding a few last strokes. Then the sound of his voice, male and low, silken and baritone, made her hand still. Sofie lifted her head, finding herself helplessly ensnared by the masculine sound, involuntarily straining to hear.
Hilary was clutching his shoulders. She swayed a little, as if pushed by the breeze—or as if waiting for his kiss.
Sofie’s heart beat double time. It was as she had thought—as she had feared. She dug her fingers into the warm sand, her sketch forgotten, knowing she must go before she saw something she had no right to see—but she was unable to move, absurdly paralyzed.
Hilary’s throaty laughter sounded. Sofie eyes widened. Hilary slowly unbuttoned her pin-striped jacket.
He wondered if he was growing old before his time—he was certainly too old for this. Africa had not solely been responsible for jading him, but it had certainly convinced him that life’s comforts were worth waiting for. He had no intention of fornicating in the sand when cool, clean sheets would be available later. Besides, Hilary Stewart had only left his bed a few hours ago.
His smile was wry. He had met Hilary at a party a few weeks ago almost immediately upon his return to the city. He learned that she had married a much older man just a few years ago and was now newly widowed. Edward preferred widows; they tended to enjoy sinning without feeling guilt or making demands. The attraction between them had been mutual, and they had been carrying on ever since.
Now they were both guests at the Ralstons’ summer home. Hilary was undoubtedly responsible for his invitation, but Edward did not mind. He liked her outside of bed as well as inside it, and the city was hell in the summertime. Suzanne Ralston, their hostess, had kindly given them adjoining rooms, and last night Hilary had preoccupied him from midnight until dawn. Yet apparently Hilary was far less sated than he was.
He wondered when his enthusiasm, once boundless when it came to pretty, available women, had begun to die.
Still, he was a man, and his gaze flitted from her brown bedroom eyes to her pale, white hands as they worked the buttons of her jacket free. Hilary was ravishing and voluptuous; despite his better intentions, knowing her as he did, his loins stirred.
“Darling, this might be indiscreet,” Edward drawled.
Hilary’s only answer was a coy smile as she pulled open her fitted jacket. She wore nothing underneath, not even a corset. Her breasts were large and milk white, the nipples ruby red.
Edward’s mouth twisted and he sighed. Still, he slipped one hand around her waist as his other palm cupped her weight. “I’ll meet you later tonight,” he told her in a low, somewhat husky voice.
She moaned, arching her neck back. His thumb moved over her nipple, methodical and skilled. She moaned. “Edward, I am so mad about you, I simply cannot wait.”
Her skin was silk, and for another moment he fondled her, too much of a hedonist not to enjoy what he was doing, his trousers becoming painfully tight. For a moment he was quite tempted and he debated; then he flashed his dimples. “We’re both old enough to understand anticipation, darling,” he said, kissing one nipple tightly, then pulling her jacket closed. Quickly and efficiently he slipped each black button into its frog.
She gripped his wrists. “Edward—I don’t want to wait. I’m not sure I can wait.”
“Of course you can wait,” he murmured, his smile quick. “We both know it will be better if you do.”
Her hand snaked out and she gripped his steel-hard erection. “How can you wait?” she whispered.
“Honey, rolling in the sand is uncomfortable.”
She sighed with frustration, with resignation. “I’m afraid you’ll go back to southern Africa and I’ll lose you.”
He laughed, prying her hand free—with more than a little reluctance. “Not a chance in hell,” he said, meaning it. Edward put his arm around her shoulders to pull her forward for a quick, good-natured kiss. Instead a flash of movement caught his attention and he started.
His gaze swiftly sifted through the scrub-covered dunes just above and beyond Hilary. His eyes widened. Crouched in the dunes above them was a voyeur.
He swallowed his surprise, quickly looking away. But the sight of a pair of wide, avid eyes in a pretty oval face remained in his mind. The voyeur was a young lady with a blue-ribboned straw hat, apparently fascinated with them.
Hilary now gripped his wrists, he still had one arm around her, and his erection was suddenly the size of a cannon.
Edward was swept with a rush of excitement. He pulled Hilary close, wondering how much the voyeur had already seen and if she would go away now and kissed her. It struck him that he was truly depraved. For he was far more excited by the thought of some young lady watching him making love than he
was by the prospect of the actual act itself. Fornicating in a bed of sand no longer daunted him.
Acutely aware of being watched, he kissed Hilary. He kissed her deep and openmouthed, stroking her tongue with his, pressing her up against his rock-hard cock, until she was moaning loudly and clinging to him, her knees so weak, he had to hold her up. When he broke away he saw that the intruder was frozen and mesmerized. She had not moved from her crouched position behind the scrubby bush, but her hat had blown off and tawny golden hair blew around her face. Even from the distance separating them, he could feel her excitement, too. She hadn’t realized that he had seen her.
His hand flicked down and quickly he worked the buttons of his trousers open, his breathing coming harsh and fast. His mind was disapproving even as his manhood sprang free. He heard a gasp and knew damn well that it had not come from Hilary, whose eyes were closed.
“C’mon, sweet,” he whispered, nipping her neck even as his conscience sternly berated him for his appalling behavior. But he couldn’t stop seeing the voyeur with his mind’s eye, couldn’t stop seeing what she must be witnessing. He closed Hilary’s hand around him. He found her mouth again. He rained kisses down her throat to her collarbone and lower, working the frogs free as he did so, finally taking one large red nipple deep into his mouth. Hilary collapsed, but Edward was prepared and he caught her, slowly sliding her down to the sand.
A moment later he dropped down to his knees, lifting Hilary’s skirts and sliding deeply into her in one smooth, practiced thrust. As he moved inside her, fighting for self-control that should have been second nature after the previous night’s excess, he was aware of the blood boiling inside his veins, expanding there. He felt as if there were two women lying beneath him. Suddenly he wanted to know who the tawny-haired stranger was. And then he could take it no more, and even as he was undone, he glanced up and glimpsed a wide-eyed face framed by golden hair. When he looked up again, sometime later, the voyeur was gone.
Edward closed his eyes. What had become of him? Suddenly he was ashamed, and worse, he was frightened. It occurred to him that his black reputation was not as exaggerated as he liked to think.