by Brenda Joyce
But then he thought about the fact that painters all over the world had been painting various subjects since the beginning of time, and whether it was an apple or a man being portrayed, the artist need not be in love with his subject matter. His initial euphoria died rapidly. His mouth formed a hard, determined line.
They didn’t exchange another word, continuing across the narrow streets. They finally turned a corner and the sounds of a piano’s lively refrain became discernible, followed by the deep pitch of male laughter, some of it inebriated. Edward thought he also heard the higher sounds of feminine voices, as well.
They entered Zut. It was not a café. It was a saloon.
Edward’s eyes widened. This was a mistake! Sofie could not be found at a saloon! Ladies did not frequent bars filled with drunken, lecherous men, not even unconventional ladies like Sofie. And she was a mother! But even as he tried to reassure himself, he knew damn well that she lived in that rat-hole a few blocks away—and that this man was her friend and he said she might be here.
Rigid, stunned, rage creeping over him, he scanned the saloon. The bar consisted of a single crowded, smoky room. Edward’s glance slid quickly around. It’s inhabitants were raucous and animated. Most of the tables, crowded together, were occupied, and another dozen men and two women stood at the bar. He was struck by an awareness that many of the patrons were turning to stare at him, recognizing him as Georges had.
Edward did not give a damn. For Sofie was here, as this fellow had said. His gaze riveted on her, and he was frozen in time, in place.
His heart twisted. A raw aching began in his gut. She sat at a small, crowded table with three men, two her own age, one far older and gray-haired. She had changed. He saw that immediately. She still wore a navy blue skirt and a plain white shirtwaist, but she had a brightly patterned red and gold scarf thrown about her shoulders. Her hair was pulled loosely back in one thick braid, as was often the case for her, but she was not sitting as if in school with a book upon her head. She almost lolled in her chair. She was not so slender now, not as fragile-looking. And her cheeks were flushed, perhaps from the effects of the glass of white wine that sat on the table before her, and she was laughing at something someone had said. Her smile was sunny and bright. She had changed.
The Sofie O’Neil Edward knew never would have dreamed of sitting in a smoky bar at a table with boisterous young men, drinking wine and smoking cigarettes.
He felt as if the stick of dynamite that had derailed the Kimberley train in Africa had gone off again—this time inside him.
He looked at her, the shock turning to real anger.
All this time he had been in a living hell—because of her. All this time she had been in gay, carefree Paris, painting and playing with bohemian abandon. Which one was her lover? he wondered in icy rage. And where in hell was their child?
Edward stalked towards her. She sat with her back to him, hadn’t seen him yet, but the others had, and they all stopped speaking and stared. Sofie stilled. Edward smiled grimly. Then his heart stopped, for Georges was squatting beside her, whispering rapidly in her ear. Murderous rage engulfed Edward. He knew that he was her lover. He had never been more sure of anything.
Georges stood. Sofie turned slowly, still sitting, her face as white as a freshly laundered sheet. She saw him and cried out. Georges stepped closer to her, putting his hand protectively on her shoulder.
Edward wanted to smash it off, then smash him in the balls.
Sofie was on her feet.
Edward halted in front of her. He did not smash the Frenchman as he longed to do. Instead, he smiled coldly. He made no attempt to hide his rage or to keep his tone low and discreet. “Where the hell is our child, Sofie?” he demanded, fists clenched. “And what in hell are you doing here?”
20
Sofie stared at him, briefly incapable of assimilating the fact that Edward stood there in Zut, somehow larger than life and more devastating than ever. It felt like a dream. But this was no dream—he had finally come. Oh, God!
She was speechless.
“I am not a ghost,” Edward said, his blue gaze frigid and piercing. “But you’re looking at me as if I am one. What’s wrong, Sofie? Aren’t you glad to see me? After all, you did write me a letter. Or am I interrupting something?”
She finally caught the anger and mockery in his tone and she stiffened. Almost frantically she tried to gather her composure around her, which she must wear as one would a shield while he remained in Paris. Hadn’t she known he would come? Hadn’t she prayed he would come?
Yet he had not come in time. Rough, distorted images flashed through her mind. Of Rachelle’s and Paul’s worried faces as Sofie clawed at their arms, screaming in pain that was beyond any and all imagination. Bitterness rose up fast, like a flood tide. Edward had not been there for the birth of her daughter. It had been a long and difficult delivery. Sofie had labored for almost twenty-four hours, most of the time in intense pain, and only sheer will had enabled her to finally push Edana from her womb when she was so utterly exhausted that she had nothing left to give. By that time, Georges had been there, too, holding her hand. When Sofie had been handed her tiny daughter she had wept, not in joy, but in relief.
But not Edward. He had not even come in July, or August, or September. Sofie trembled with anger, clenching her fists in a fierce attempt to control it. “Of course you are not interrupting. I am startled, that is all.”
“Really?” His smile flashed, dimples deep, but it was insincere. It was ugly. “Now, why would you be surprised to find me in a watering hole like this? Men have been coming to places like this since the beginning of time. Of course, I didn’t realize that ladies frequent saloons nowadays, too.”
Sofie told herself that she need not defend her behavior to him. “Paul Durand-Ruel is holding an exhibition for me in New York, not Paris, where the critics are kinder. It is definitely cause to celebrate, Edward. And my friends insisted.”
He leered. “Is that what you were doing here? Celebrating? With your friends!”
Her shoulders squared. “Yes.”
His blazing eyes raked her not just with insolence, but with contempt. “Where is the baby?” he shot.
She inhaled. “With Rachelle. Rachelle is my dearest friend. They have gone for a walk. Edana goes for a walk every morning and every afternoon.”
He stood utterly still. “Edana?”
“Yes. Edana Jacqueline O’Neil.”
Their gazes locked. Edward’s expression was peculiar, strained. “I want to see her.”
“Of course,” Sofie said. “They’ll be back soon. Perhaps if you come to my flat later—”
“We’ll go there together,” he interrupted quickly, flatly.
Sofie tensed. Dread consumed her—while her pulse rioted.
Edward’s mouth turned up then, not pleasantly—knowingly. “Yeah,” he said, low and rough. Reading her mind. “We can do that, too.”
Sofie whirled to flee him.
Edward was so fast that it was a blur of movement, nothing more. His hand shot out, gripping her elbow. Sofie cried out, because he was hardly gentle. “Oh, no,” he ground out. “You’re not running from me now. We’re going to talk.” And before Sofie could protest, he was propelling her across the room.
Sofie did not want to make a scene. “All right. Just let me go. Before someone decides you are manhandling me and tries to do something about it.”
Edward slanted her a cold glance. Then he dropped her arm. Side by side but not touching, they walked out of Zut and into the nip of the autumn afternoon. She could feel the tension coiled up in him, simmering, sizzling, sparking—explosive.
She was trembling, out of breath. Sofie told herself that she must remain in control. She had half expected Edward to appear, after all, but not like this. She had not expected him to be so cold and hostile that he was almost unrecognizable. Now was not the time to dwell on cherished memories. Now was not the time to succumb to anguish and heartache. Nor w
as it the time to be aware of his overpowering masculinity. Sofie inhaled, blinking back tears. In her most proper, polite voice, she asked, “What is it you wish to discuss?”
He eyed her, then threw back his head and barked with laughter. “What in hell do you think I want to discuss? I want to talk about my daughter—and I want to know what the hell you think you’re doing in a goddamn saloon.”
Sofie had had enough. “You have no rights over me, Edward. I am not going to explain my behavior.”
He caught her arms, hauled her up against his shockingly hard body. “I have lots of rights,” he said, soft and dangerous. “Because I’m Edana’s father.”
Sofie tensed as his gaze slid over her, at once angry and hot, stripping away her clothes, lingering on her milk-swollen breasts. Although Sofie was angry, she was frozen, acutely aware of the power of his thighs against hers.
“How often do you come here?” he shot, shaking her once.
Sofie wanted to fight. Fighting was not as dangerous as succumbing to the desire kindling so fiercely within her. “That is none of your affair.”
“I’m making it my affair.”
Their gazes met. Edward’s expression changed. Suddenly one of his hands was on her buttocks, and he had pressed her forward so that her loins touched his. Sofie cried out incoherently. His manhood was fully enlarged. “I’m making you my affair,” he said.
“No,” she whimpered.
“Yeah,” he said roughly. “I still want you, too.”
Sofie could not believe that this was happening. She had loved Edward once, and perhaps she still did. It was hard to say. She had been so angry that he had not come to be with her for Edana’s birth, or even shortly afterwards. So angry, so disappointed, yet so relieved. And all of her passion had gone to the baby from the very moment she was born. There had not been any room in her life for another love.
But Edward was not in love with her. He had never been in love with her. But at least he had been kind and gallant in the past. No longer. He was rough and crude and shockingly frank. He was making her feel cheap, like some hussy from the streets.
And Sofie was trying very hard not to recall how his hands had played her when he’d taken her to his bed the night of the hurricane. How they had played her then—how they could play her again. Unwillingly she remembered the scorching heat they had shared, a desire so strong, she had cried out repeatedly, shamelessly, in her rapture. She could even remember the expression on his face as he moved over her—inside her. Eestasy and agony combined, potent, unforgettable, and male.
And afterwards he had held her tenderly, as if he loved her.
This time, if she succumbed to the feverish need building within her, there would not be a single moment of tenderness.
“Aren’t you going to invite me to join you in your bed?” Edward asked in a low voice, undulating his pelvis suggestively against her.
Tears filled Sofie’s eyes. “No,” she said in a choked whisper. “No.” If only the desire would go away, but he was stoking it—purposefully, expertly. Her body was quivering against his. It was hard to breathe.
“Whyever not, dear Sofie?” Edward asked, suddenly gripping both of her arms again. His thigh slid between both of hers. Hard, hot. Male. “Surely you are not faithful to dear Georges?”
Sofie stared into his handsome face, eyes wide, determined to ignore the position of their bodies. She stared into his cold blue eyes, as beautiful as ever despite the frost there, and at his firm, mobile, expressive mouth. “How dare you cast stones at me!”
He laughed. “I dare. I dare everything.”
His innuendo was sexual and she knew it. “You are despicable. You have changed. You are every bit as ugly as your reputation claims!” She tried to push away from him.
His laughter died, but he would not release her.
She ceased wriggling and struggling, for her every movement only made her more aware of him. “Let me go. This moment, before I scream for help.”
Edward’s grip only tightened. “Damn you! Are you in love with him, Sofie? Are you?”
“You do not understand!” Sofie cried.
“Oh, I understand, darling. I understand perfectly.” His smile flashed. His thigh pushed harder and higher so that she was forced to ride him. “Come, sweet, we need not play games, we know each other too well for games—unless they are games of pleasure.”
Sofie gasped. With real indignation, she tried to jerk free, to dismount him. He laughed, low and rough, and bent over her, unsmiling. Sofie comprehended that he was going to kiss her—and she froze completely.
“Better,” he murmured, “much, much better. Let’s see how much you’ve learned during your stay in gay Paris,” he murmured in a bedroom tone. He pressed her closer, so that the size of his erection could not be in any doubt.
Immediately Sofie’s hands came up to press him away. She did not want this, she did not. At least, not with her mind. But her body was so hungry, starved, and Sofie had actually forgotten how urgent desire could be. How mind-shattering, how consuming. Images tormented her now, not images of the past—but images of the future. Of her and Edward, naked and entwined and flushed with passion. Straining at each other, clinging, gasping. Edward driving deep and hard and smoothly, so smoothly, inside of her. The ecstasy she had once known. “No, Edward. Not like this.”
“Why?” he whispered, his mouth close to hers, his breath feathering her lips. “We’re friends. Old friends. Don’t you have any fondness for me at all?”
“Old friends?” she gasped, but the rest of her reply was cut off. His mouth touched hers. A moment later she was the subject of a massive invasion, open to him as he thrust his tongue deep inside her, repeatedly. It was not a mating. It was a rape.
Sofie cried out, not because he was hurting her, but because she was becoming afraid. Of him—of herself. She tried to push him away even as her lips yielded and became pliant. He tore his mouth from hers, panting. “God, Sofie! It’s so damn good!”
She was panting, too. “You think that because we were … we were lovers … that gives you a right to treat me like … like …”
“Like what, Sofie?” he gasped, dangerously. “Like a hussy? Like a harlot? Like a whore?”
She whimpered, turning white.
“Forget your new lover.” His eyes blazed. “I’m better than he is. I’ll prove it. We’ll be better. Come. Come willingly, Sofie … This time it won’t be rough. I promise.”
Sofie stared at him, his seductive tone enveloping her like a warm cocoon.
He stared back. “Sofie. We both know you want me. And I want you. It was good. It can be good again. Better now, in fact, because you have experience. It can be the best, Sofie.”
“Get away from me,” she whispered.
“Why? Do you love him?” he snarled.
“You are mad,” she gasped. “I like Georges—I do not love him!”
“Good. I wasn’t too fond of the idea of taking a woman to my bed who was in love with another man.” His smile flashed eerily. “But if that’s the way it was—” he shrugged “—I would.”
She stared, for he had become a monster. Someone she did not know—had never known. “You do not understand.”
His vivid blue eyes were as hard as sapphires. “I understand. I understand how bohemian you are. I understand you Sofie, and your needs. I was your first, remember? I awoke you to desire. I guess that makes me a lucky man.”
“Get away from me,” Sofie said, low, desperate. “Please.”
“You prefer him to me?” His smile flashed, cruel and cold. “You won’t—not after today.”
Panting, Sofie lost all control and struggled against his hold. Wild and crazed. Edward released her immediately. Sofie backed away and stumbled, then hit the redbrick wall. She hugged herself, panting, close to tears. “How dare you!”
“No,” Edward shouted abruptly, pointing his finger at her. “How dare you! How dare you deny me my daughter, damn you, Sofie O’Neil!”
Sofie met his blindingly furious gaze. “I am not denying you Edana.”
“No?” He paced towards her, then halted, raised a hand, fist clenched. It was shaking. “I want to know why you didn’t tell me sooner.”
Sofie hesitated. She decided he deserved the truth. “I was afraid.”
“Afraid! Afraid of what?”
Tears filled her eyes. She hugged herself harder. “I don’t know. Of this.”
He stared, his mouth twisted and down-turned. She saw he was trying to understand but did not. Sofie was not going to enlighten him. Because it was as she had feared. He had come because he cared too much. About their daughter. Not about her.
They walked in silence back to her flat, careful not to touch one another. Sofie was also careful not to look at Edward. Her spine stiffened when they entered her apartment building, for she expected him to hold her elbow to aid her up the narrow, steep stairs. He did not. For the first time in a long time, Sofie became aware of how awkwardly she still moved as she climbed the stairs ahead of Edward. She was quite certain he saw everything.
Sofie heard Rachelle singing when they reached the top of the landing. “They are home.” She inserted her key into the lock and pushed open the door. “Edana. chérie. Mama is home!” Sofie cried, rushing to her daughter.
Rachelle and Edana were on the floor on a big blanket. Rachelle was sitting cross-legged, in a black skirt and a stark white shirt and her heavy black boots. She wore a bright blue shawl. Edana was not sitting up yet. She lay on her back, waving her hands in the air, cooing. But at the sound of Sofie’s voice, the sweet baby sounds stopped and she smiled instead.
Rachelle’s gaze was wide as she got to her feet. Sofie had already scooped up Edana and was hugging her, hard. The baby laughed. Sofie half turned, just enough to glimpse Edward remarking Rachelle, just for an instant. Then his gaze was on the baby—and only on the baby.
“Oh, God,” he said harshly.
Tears came to Sofie’s eyes. There was no mistaking the fact that Edward loved his child already, utterly and irrevocably. His eyes were shining and suspiciously bright. The tip of his nose had turned red. Sofie held Edana out to her father.