by Brenda Joyce
His mouth touched hers. Sofie made a sound, a soft whimper of desire. His lips brushed hers again. Sofie curled her hands into fists to prevent herself from gripping his broad shoulders. Her body throbbed wildly in response to the delicate and feather light touch of his lips, to the massive and heated weight of his groin. She was astounded with the blazing need she felt for him, a need to melt into his arms, touching him everywhere, yes, everywhere, a need to sink to the floor, her soft naked flesh against his pulsating hardness. She wanted to weep with it, she wanted to moan and groan and shriek with it, she wanted to shout “Yes!” She wanted to shout “Now!” And she wanted him to kiss her the way she had seen him kiss Hilary. Deep and open mouthed, as if he were drinking from the chalice of her lips, in a prelude to the way he would claim her with his magnificent and virile body.
But none of that happened. Instead, after the briefest moment, after the gentlest brush of his mouth upon hers, he froze.
Sofie’s eyes were closed. But she was breathing hard, as if she’d run an entire marathon. Her own nails dug into her palms. Her body quivered like a finely strung bow.
“Jesus,” he whispered roughly.
Sofie dared to open her eyes, dared to look into his. And she was scalded by the male lust she saw there.
“Jesus!” he exclaimed, and he moved away from her, nearly shoving her against the wall.
Sofie could not believe it. She leaned against the wall, desperate for air, her heart beating madly and so loudly, she thought he could hear it. Realization dawned slowly. He had kissed her, but so briefly, it could not have lasted for more than a handful of seconds. And she had been complacent.
No, not complacent. She had not even been remotely complacent. She had been wanton and wild and mindless, and on the verge of acting out the most shocking fantasies.
Sofie covered her mouth with her hands, unwanted tears rushing to fill her eyes. Dear, sweet God!
“Dammit,” he said. He had stridden across the room, away from her, and now he stood with his back to her, raking his hair with one hand repeatedly.
Finally he turned. The entire room separated them; he flashed a smile. It seemed less cocky, more uncertain. “I guess I really want that painting,” he joked.
Sofie did not answer because she could not speak. But if a painting would make him go away, forever, leaving her with her virginity and her sanity intact, why, then, he could have one. Or could he?
“Sofie? Are you all right?” He wasn’t smiling anymore.
She wondered if he could see just how distressed she was. Sofie forced herself to stand straight and smile brightly—hoping against hope that he would not remark the wetness of her eyes, and that he had not remarked the insanely frantic response of her eager and yielding body to his hard, aggressive one. “Of course.”
His smile seemed forced. “I’m sorry.” He hesitated. “You’re very pretty, Sofie, and I … forgot myself. Will you accept my apology?”
“There is nothing to apologize for,” Sofie said, trying to decipher his meaning. She was aware of her mouth trembling. And she was amazed despite her aching distress. Did he realty find her pretty? Why else would he have kissed her? But she was plain—and she was lame. “Really, Mr. Delanza,” Sofie added, swallowing hard.
“Once again, you are far too charitable,” he murmured, his eyes locked on hers.
Sofie could not bear the intimate joining of their gazes, and she glanced down at the floor. Every muscle froze as she heard him coming towards her. When she looked up, he had stopped, apparently careful to leave a good distance between them. “Have I endangered our friendship?”
She hesitated, then decided to be bold. “I don’t know. Have you?”
“If I have, I will make it up to you,” he vowed instantly, his jaw hard. “I promise you that, Sofie O’Neil.”
He could not be insincere. Sofie spoke from the heart. “We are still friends.”
He smiled, relieved. “Does that mean I get my painting?”
She ignored the warning voice inside her. “Yes.”
“What will you paint?”
“I don’t know.”
He said, “I know what I want.”
“You … do?” Her voice had become husky. For she imagined herself in his arms again, and she was feeling every inch of his intriguingly masculine body as if she really were in his embrace.
“I want a portrait of you.”
Sofie gave a nervous little laugh. “You are still trying to shake me up, I see.”
“A self-portrait would shake you up?”
“I don’t do self-portraits.”
He stared. “Then do one for me.”
“No.” She crossed her arms, almost hugging herself. “That is impossible.”
“Why? Why don’t you do self-portraits?”
Sofie stared, at a loss. “You can have something else—but not a self-portrait.”
He nodded after a pause. “I know when to admit defeat.” Then he came forward briskly and took her hand, lifting it but not kissing it. “I am late.” He smiled. “I hope to see you again, soon.”
Sofie extricated her hand, aware of being breathless and hoping he did not notice. “It will take me some time to complete an oil, if it is an oil you prefer.”
“You are the artist; you may chose the medium as well as the subject.”
Sofie nodded, clasping her hands as she walked him to the door. It wasn’t until he had left that she realized she should have made a bargain with him. In return for a painting, she should have asked him to model for her.
He stood with his back to Central Park, facing the five-story, fifty-eight-room mansion across the street, his hands deep in the pockets of his beige trousers, a rakish straw hat shielding his tan weathered face from the glare of the summer sun. And from the curious stares of any passersby who just might happen to glance at him. It was unlikely anyone would recognize him, but he couldn’t take the chance.
It was time to go. Very reluctantly, he turned away and began to walk slowly down Fifth Avenue. He’d gotten what he’d come for, even though he’d waited all day for it.
He’d waited all day for a glimpse of her. Just a glimpse of his dear daughter. It had been manna for his starved soul.
8
Edward cruised his gleaming black Packard to a stop in front of the Savoy Hotel on the southeast corner of Fifty-ninth Street and Fifth Avenue. A hansom and a carriage were ahead of him, discharging their passengers, and at the sound of the Packard’s engine, the carriage horses began to prance wildly. Edward shifted into idle, awaiting his turn to pull up in front of the hotel’s granite steps. The matched bays harnessed to the open coach finally quieted.
He clenched the braided leather steering wheel, staring straight ahead without really seeing anything. He could not believe himself. More precisely, he could not believe what he had done—and what he had wanted to do.
For a moment he had forgotten every notion of decency he had. He had forgotten his intentions. He had forgotten that Sofie was too young and too innocent for him. All he could think about was kissing her, and now, however briefly, he supposed that he had. How had it happened?
It was true that Sofie had been enchanting with her thick, mussed braid and her paint-splattered clothes. There was no question that she was pretty enough to kindle a man’s interest. But surely not a man like himself, one used to far more beautiful and far more flamboyant women, a man whose only real interest in women was based on mutual carnal pleasure.
Yet the attraction was there. It made no sense. Or did it? He had never come across a woman quite like her before. She was so refreshingly original and so startlingly unique. Unquestionably she was talented and dedicated to her art. Her talent was enough to pique a man’s curiosity, yet somehow her art perplexed him, too. She had told him that she was passionate about her work, yet he had not seen any passion in the portraits of Miss Ames and Lisa. He did not believe her incapable of passion. Any woman whose declared ambition was to live off the sa
le of her work and to remain unwed was capable of more than the circumscribed propriety he had so far seen. Yes, Edward was intrigued by her originality and her independence and by the contradictions he felt rather than saw within her. He was certain that beneath the calm surface she liked to present, there was so much more to Sofie O’Neil than anyone would ever guess.
There was no question that Sofie needed shaking up, Edward thought very seriously. But could he really rescue her from herself? Could he set off a volcano in her private little world, could he make her forget that she had ever labeled herself an eccentric or a cripple? Could he make her realize just how extraordinary she was? Could he show her all that life had to offer, drag the passion out of her, make her want to live the way a woman should—without mining her?
It was a startling thought. Until now, Edward’s intentions had not included any form of lovemaking. He imagined kissing her the way a man was meant to kiss a woman. If he could kiss her and then walk away, why, there would be nothing wrong with that. In fact, a few red-hot kisses were just what was missing from Sofie O’Neil’s life. That would shake her up, all right, make her want to live the way every woman should.
Did he dare? Edward was an experienced hand when it came to seduction, but he had never before indulged in the kind of games that did not provide a satisfactory conclusion for both parties involved. He wondered if he could exercise the kind of self-control that would be necessary to play in such a game. He wondered if he could follow his own rules, rules he had never had to follow before.
As the carriage ahead of him drove off, Edward shifted into gear and moved forward. The liveried doorman came down the steps to direct him to a parking place. He drove the Packard ahead into the allotted space and slid out and locked the door, aware of his enthusiasm for his next meeting with Sofie. If he did not know better, he might think himself somewhat infatuated with her. But the very idea, for a man such as himself, was ridiculous.
Edward bounded up the red-carpeted steps of the Savoy, while the doorman in his red livery opened the glass door, saluting him. Edward nodded, thoroughly preoccupied. If he was going to see to it that Sofie began to enjoy life, why, there were many amusements for them to experience together. He crossed the voluptuous, marble-floored lobby briskly. Perhaps they would start with a drive and lunch at Delmonico’s.
As he stopped at the front desk for his mail, he glimpsed a tall, bronzed man turning to stare after him. Edward thought perhaps he should know him, but one glance assured him the man was a stranger. As he turned, sorting through envelopes the clerk had handed him, he was bumped by someone standing near him. His mail scattered to the floor.
“Sorry, pal,” the man drawled in a husky, lazy tone. “Here, let me help you.”
Edward stared as the tall, tanned man whom he had just seen staring at him now stooped down to gather up his letters. The man stood, as tall as Edward but some fifteen years older, handing him his mail. His mouth formed a smile, but his very unusual eyes were piercing.
For an instant Edward stared. He knew those eyes. Those eyes were unforgettable. “Do I know you?”
The man’s mouth formed a smile. “I don’t think so.”
Edward felt sure, now that he had seen the man’s eyes, that they had met somewhere before. He also knew a hustle when he’d been the victim of one. His own grin flashed. “Thank you, sir.” He wondered if the man had stolen one of his letters, and not having had the chance to glimpse them all, he could not know. He wondered what this man would want with his mail. He was expecting a communication from the DeBeers company, the great mining consortium in southern Africa, but all else was irrelevant. Perhaps this man wanted his mine as DeBeers did.
“Hope I haven’t disturbed anything,” the man drawled, his gaze cool, his tone wry. A very engaging smile flashed, one Edward was certain was false. Then the stranger turned and strode away.
Edward stared after him, wondering who the hell he was and what the hell he wanted—and where he knew him from. He was very disturbed.
Jake O’Neil walked through one room, and then another, and then another and another. He walked through the entire spanking new mansion. His footsteps echoed on the marble floors and in the high-ceilinged hall. After he had toured the first floor, he went to the second, the third, and finally the fourth. There in the servants’ quarters he paused to gaze out the window. The Hudson River gleamed like a slippery black snake in the whitewashed moonlit night far below him.
The only room he did not enter was the nursery.
In the course of his tour, he remarked every piece of furniture, every single rug, every painting. He noted the colors of the walls, the fabrics on the chairs and sofas and beds, the draperies and wall-mounted lights and chandeliers. He eyed each cornice and every molding.
If he was pleased, no one would know from his impassive expression. If he was pleased, no one could know. For he was alone.
Jake moved downstairs at the same steady pace, his strides carefully controlled. Still no emotion showed on his darkly tanned, weather-beaten face. Again his footsteps echoed as he crossed the foyer. He moved into the room he had appointed his library. It was dark with wood paneling, made darker still by the burgundy hues of the Turkish rug underfoot, two walls filled with shelves of books, the mantel over the fireplace green granite. No fire burned there. The room was unlit, with the exception of the small lamp on his large Chippendale desk, and somehow it was cold, sterile.
He crossed without pause. He stopped only to pour himself a glass of the finest scotch whiskey his money could buy, and he downed it in a single gulp, then poured himself another. Now he moved to the green leather sofa, sinking down upon it. The fiery feel of the whiskey in his gut did not, could not, alleviate his misery. His chest was constricted with it.
He closed his eyes, his long, muscular legs stretched out, his expression strained with pain that was not physical.
Jake made a sound, half sigh, half sob.
He was alone in his huge three-million-dollar home, alone, without even a single servant—but he wanted it that way. He had been alone for a very long time, and it was the only existence he knew.
Of course, now that he was back, now that this house was finally finished, he would need an army of servants to run it. He supposed he would have his secretary begin to hire tomorrow.
Wouldn’t servants be some comfort?
He heard it then. Sweet, childish laughter. Echoing in the hall outside.
Jake stiffened, not daring to open his eyes, listening acutely for a sound so dear to him—a sound he hadn’t heard in fourteen years—a sound he would never hear again. But he had only imagined it, lost as he was in this mausoleum he now called home; he had only imagined it in his never-ending grief. It wasn’t the first time he had listened for and been rewarded by her sweet laughter, and he knew it wouldn’t be the last. For Jake allowed himself fantasies—because that was all that was left to him.
And for just an instant, Jake wondered if he was succumbing to madness.
He’d had that horrendous notion before, too—while rotting in prison.
But if he was, he could not deny himself his memories, he could not. It was those very same memories that had kept him alive and somewhat sane during the two years of his incarceration, before his successful escape.
Eyes closed, he listened for her laughter and heard it again. It was hard to breathe. He heard her footsteps as she came racing though the door. Her blond braids were flying, her cheeks rosy and flushed as she came galloping to him. How beautiful, how dear, how perfect she was. “Papa, Papa!” she cried, arms outstretched.
He almost smiled—except that long ago be had forgotten how.
Besides, there was nothing to smile about, certainly not about a thirty-eight-year-old man on the verge of insanity, whose only gratification came from his imagination, from heartbreaking memories of the past.
Sofie. God, how he missed her. Sometimes, on days like today, he could hardly stand it. He wasn’t sure that coming b
ack to New York with the intention of residing there after all these years was a good idea after all, and his doubt had nothing to do with fear of discovery by the authorities. Jake O’Neil was dead and buried, the victim of a shootout with the police that had turned a small warehouse into a blazing inferno. His partner in escape had been shot to death, and Jake barely remembered changing name tags with him while the flaming walls began to cave in. But be did remember the London newspaper accounts the next day. He had even gone to his own short, unattended funeral, both to grieve for the young man who had died in his place and to grimly salute himself—for Jake O’Neil would never be resurrected again.
He was Jake Ryan now, a respectable international businessman. He’d made his first fortune in construction in New York City, made his second in Ireland in construction and other, more dangerous, endeavors. It was highly ironic to credit Ireland with any of his success at all. When he had fled his country as a young, suddenly homeless boy, running from the British authorities and the crimes he had committed in outraged grief and vengeance, he had never dreamed he would ever be able to return.
Then he had been grief-stricken with the thought of leaving the Emerald Isle forever. He could not realize that one day he would return, and be even more grief-stricken, forced to leave his daughter and wife behind in America.
Sofie. God. How he loved his dear daughter. How hard it was to be so close to her, to actually see her, yet be incapable of coming forth to speak with her, touch her, hold her.
Jake’s hard jaw flexed. He stood and walked to his desk, where an empty silver frame from Tiffany’s stood. One day, somehow, he’d get her photograph and place it in its frame, keep it with him always.
Jake rubbed at his damp cheeks, picking up the telephone. The operator answered immediately. Jake gave him the number he was calling. A moment later he heard Lou Anne’s breathy, childish voice as she answered, and he almost hung up without a word. But he could not face another night alone.