“Fine,” she relented. “Take whatever you want.”
He smiled then, showing a flash of brilliant white teeth against his bronzed skin. “Good. You won’t regret this. I promise you.”
She hoped he was right.
It hadn’t hurt as much as she had thought it would, Sophie reflected calmly as she sat in her art studio. It was Wednesday morning and she was alone. The library had given her the week off to recuperate. Trevor had returned to New York City, where he belonged. Everything was back to normal. Life’s steady, monotonous pace had resumed.
Sophie was sitting on her high pine stool, her bare feet hooked comfortably through its rungs. It had been a long time since she had ventured into this room, let alone sat on her precious stool. Peter had bought it for her as a gift for their first anniversary and it had been a treasured fixture in her studio ever since.
Her gaze traveled to the window. Here, from her stool, she was afforded the optimum view of her yard. She’d spent many Saturdays right here, watching Peter and Elizabeth playing below, compelled to capture them with charcoals and oil paints. The fruit of those labors dotted the sage-green walls of her studio, those that she hadn’t given to Claire, anyway, because they were just too precious. They were snippets of a life she would never have again.
Sophie had been terrified to come in here again. She had hovered at the doorway for a full fifteen minutes before deciding to cross the threshold. The studio was still filled to the brim with memories, all of them good. Elizabeth holding out multicolored hands and giggling at the mess she’d made. Sitting at the pottery wheel and sculpting the mother-and-child figurine while she’d been eight months pregnant and as big as a house.
She supposed she owed Trevor her thanks. His persistence, after all, had led her here, to this moment. In more ways than one. He had saved her, and not just that day. What was it about him?
But it didn’t matter, did it? She would likely never see him again. No one would be interested in her art. He’d ship the pieces back to her and that would be the end of it. Which was how Sophie wanted it to be, she reminded herself.
Down the hall, the phone rang. She was reluctant to actually get up and leave her studio but she did. Her feet padded toward her bedroom. The moment she picked it up and said hello, she was surprised to hear the deep voice she recognized all too well.
“Sophie, it’s Trevor James,” he said needlessly. “What are you doing?”
What an odd question for him to ask her, she reflected, hesitating a moment.
“Crossing the Alps,” she said, a glimpse of her old sarcasm showing through. “I’m talking to you. What an obvious question.”
He chuckled. “Glad to hear you still have a sense of humor.”
Warmth crept through her. It was crazy, the effect he had on her, even via telephone. Claire had told her his rugged sex appeal should be bottled and sold. Sophie was ashamed to admit her sister was right. The man exuded a magnetic sensuality unlike anything she’d ever known.
“You still there?” Trevor interrupted her musings.
“Yes.” She frowned. It sounded like he was on a cell.
“Good. Now listen very carefully. Get that pretty little butt of yours to the nearest canvas. You’re a hit.”
“What?” Excitement fluttered in her stomach. “People like my work?” It was incomprehensible. She dabbled. She certainly wasn’t a trained artist.
“They more than like you, Sophie,” Trevor assured her. “They love you. I’ve got two words for you. Bidding war.”
Sophie felt faint. People were fighting over her paintings, bidding up the prices? Had she misheard him?
There was static on his end of the line, then, “Sophie? Damn it, I didn’t lose you, did I?”
“No. I’m still here,” she managed. But she felt as if she were a million miles away.
“Good,” he said again. “Don’t go anywhere. I’m on my way to you.”
He was on his way to her house? Now? What had happened to the comforting thought of never having to see him again? She was both dismayed and thrilled at the same time.
“Why?” she asked at last. “Why would you drive here from New York City in the middle of rush hour?”
“Stupid timing, I know,” he conceded, “but there are some things I need to tell you that are just too important for over the phone. Besides, I need to see the other paintings you’ve been hiding from me.”
“Trevor,” she hedged, “I don’t know about this.” Things were moving too fast, too fast for her anyway, and she was having a difficult time adjusting.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of, Sophie.”
Maybe he was right. What would it hurt to share the rest of her work with him, to see him one more time? Her resistance was crumbling by the second.
“Okay,” she agreed, startling herself with her easy capitulation.
“Excellent. See you in half an hour.”
“Half an hour?” she squeaked, but Trevor had already ended the call.
It took a good two hours to get to her house from New York. He had waited to call her until he had nearly arrived. He was so certain he’d be welcomed. Of course, she hadn’t disappointed him, readily agreeing to whatever he asked of her.
Irritated, she returned her telephone to its charging cradle. How did he do that, anyway? Maybe she’d never know. Annoying man.
Sophie caught sight of herself in the mirror hanging on her wall just then and was instantly distracted. God, she looked awful! Her dark-brown hair was a wavy mess that trailed down past her shoulders. She usually scraped it into a ponytail for convenience’s sake, but she’d taken a shower a few hours earlier and she’d been allowing it to air dry. Sophie frowned as she fingered a wild tendril. She had always wanted beautiful, pale-blonde hair like Claire and her mother had—straight, silky, luxurious. But she got dark-brown and unruly run-of-the-mill hair instead. Sophie perused her face, startled by the realization this was the first time she’d looked in a mirror, wanting to look her best, in a very long time.
Her best? Sophie dropped her hair, her frown deepening. Why should she want to look her best for Trevor? She had no interest in him, after all, or in any man for that matter. Claire had urged her to begin dating again, but Sophie hadn’t been ready for that step yet. Of course she didn’t care what Trevor thought of her.
Still, she stood before the mirror, wishing she was seeing someone prettier. Her face, in her own estimation, was unremarkable. Her nose was straight, small but not too small, her cheekbones defined but not harshly so. Her sole outstanding quality was her eyes.
Her gaze traveled away from the mirror to inspect the portion of her body that wasn’t visible in the oval mirror. Not good. She was still wearing her pajamas. How had she failed to notice? Then again, Sophie often felt as though she went through life on autopilot. There was precious little joy, nothing to make one day stand apart from the next. She was here, in her big, empty house, wallowing in memories.
Except she wouldn’t be alone for long.
Duly reminded, she rummaged through her wardrobe to find something suitably casual yet fashionable. She decided on a dress Claire had given her for her last birthday but she’d never worn. It was a bright sapphire color that draped in delicate folds from an empire waist. She held her breath as she slipped it over her head. Thank goodness it actually fit.
Before she could question herself, she headed to the bathroom and applied some blush along with a touch of lipstick. Wow. Sophie stared at herself, the new-and-improved version, anyway and was almost impressed by what she saw. It was amazing what a little makeup could do.
Mommy, make me pretty.
An image of Elizabeth sitting on the granite countertop rose in her mind. Elizabeth had loved playing dress-up. Sophie had indulged her daughter by purchasing nearly a dozen different costumes, some pink and sequined, others purple taffeta, with matching shoes, tiaras and feather boas. Elizabeth had adored makeup. Sophie smiled sadly, thinking of how she would pretend t
he bathroom was a world-class spa and beauty salon and invite “Princess” Elizabeth inside for the works.
She pictured Elizabeth perched on the counter like a garden fairy, her tiara askew atop her blonde curls, glittery plastic shoes slipping from her feet as her chubby legs dangled in the air.
“Mommy, make me pretty,” she’d proclaim with all the airs of a real princess.
Sophie had always answered first by telling Elizabeth how beautiful she already was and Elizabeth would clap her hands together and say, “But makeup’s fun!”
The logic of a three-year-old.
Sophie laughed at the happy memories, but the laugh turned into a full-fledged sob. Tears were streaming down her cheeks before she could contain them. She reached for a tissue and blew her nose loudly in the quiet of the house. God, she missed them so much. She wanted them back. She wanted to be a wife again, to sleep with Peter’s reassuring arms wrapped around her. Most of all, she wanted to be a mother again, to have a small hand slip trustingly into hers, to read bedtime stories and braid hair and play endless rounds of dress-up. She wanted her life back.
But she wasn’t going to get it.
Sophie thought she heard a car pulling into her driveway. A quick glance out the window confirmed Trevor’s black Audi was rolling to a stop behind her rental car.
Oh no.
He couldn’t see her like this, all tear-stained cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. He knew too much already. The last thing she needed was for him to go prying into her emotions.
She grabbed a tissue and wiped her face, willing her eyes to clear. The doorbell rang and her heart thudded nervously against her chest. She made her way downstairs to the front door, taking a leisurely pace. The more time she had to regain her composure, the better.
When Sophie hesitated to open the door, her hand poised above the old-fashioned knob, Trevor rang the doorbell again. She could almost feel his impatience. He was not a man who liked to be kept waiting, that much she could sense.
With a deep, steadying breath, she opened the door and found herself ensnared in an enigmatic golden gaze. Standing there before him, she felt very much like a deer caught helplessly in the headlights of an oncoming car. She was blinded by him, hypnotized by him, too awed to scurry out of the way before she got trampled.
“Hello, Sophie,” he said with a genuine smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. His warm, deep voice settled over her, calming her.
She sucked in air, only just realizing she’d been holding her breath.
“Hello, Trevor.” God, he looked incredible. His black hair was mussed, as though he had run his fingers through it recently. He wore a crisp white shirt and black pants that were clearly tailored to show off his lean, long legs to perfection. She got the distinct impression the pants belonged to a suit. The collar of his shirt was unbuttoned as though he’d yanked free his tie and undid the first three buttons. She could see him driving in the car, shedding his coat and tie between traffic jams. He looked like a man who was untamable, a man who hated to be caged in by business suits and designer ties. He exuded an aura of the uncivilized that spoke to the deepest, most primal recesses of her.
“Well?” He cut off her inspection. “Do I meet with your approval?”
A flush rose to her cheeks. What had she been thinking, looking this man up and down, feeling attracted to him? How could she?
“I’m sorry.” Oh dear God. How embarrassing. “I was spacing off for a minute.” She stepped back so fast she almost tripped on the uneven planks of the old hardwood floor. A nervous laugh escaped her lips. “Come in.”
Once he was inside, Sophie closed the door, feeling awkward as she turned around to face him. He was incredibly tall and large and so potently male. He dominated the small entryway. Sophie swallowed, aware suddenly this was the first time she was alone with him, truly alone, without someone in the next room.
Trevor was studying her face intently. “Are you okay?”
The question caught her off guard. He was so perceptive. Or was it just that she was so easy to read? She didn’t know.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Really. So what’s the news that’s so important you had to drive here from New York City?”
But he ignored her question, stepping closer. “You don’t look fine to me.”
“It’s nothing.” She looked away from him. Half of her wanted to share all her burdens with him. Half of her wanted to push him back out the door and pretend she’d never met him.
“Some things get easier when you share them with someone, Sophie.”
He was so close, his eyes mesmerizing as she allowed her gaze to fall on him once again. She wanted to tell him, needed to tell him.
“Memories of my daughter. Of Elizabeth.” It felt good to say her daughter’s name aloud to someone other than Claire. She couldn’t shut off that part of her life and pretend it had never happened like everyone else expected her to do.
Trevor didn’t say anything, just waited patiently for her to continue. He seemed to understand she was finding the words difficult to command. Simple words, but words that meant so much, cost her so much.
She took a deep breath. “I used to play dress-up with her. She loved that. Sometimes it’s so lonely without her.”
Strong, warm arms wrapped around her, comforting her, giving her some of their strength. She was still for only a moment before wrapping her arms around Trevor’s lean waist, accepting his embrace. Her cheek pressed to his shirtfront, right above the steady drum of his heart. His intoxicating scent wafted to her nostrils and she breathed deeply of it.
He was the first man who had held her like this since Peter’s death, with the exception of Garrett and her father. She pulled away, swiping at her tears with the back of her hand. He continued to watch her, saying nothing. It was impossible to determine what he was thinking.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know where that came from.” She paused. “Well, yes I do. But I don’t normally throw myself at people I barely know.”
He frowned down at her, then ran a hand through his hair. “You don’t need to apologize for anything.”
Why the hell was he here in peaceful suburban America playing psychiatrist to a woman he barely knew? As she almost broke down before him, Trevor started giving himself a mental ass kicking.
His initial interest in her had been simple. He’d saved her life. He’d chalked his concern for her welfare up to simple human nature. After saving a life, he reasoned, a doctor wanted to see his patient for a checkup. Then, the businessman inside him had taken over and he had needed to see her work. Now his interest in Sophie was the same as that of any other of his artist protégés. Why makes things deeper, more complex?
Ah, there was the rub.
Sophie’s suffering was so transparent, so obvious to anyone who looked and yet her family and friends remained oblivious. Trevor knew it wasn’t his duty to help her out of her grief-induced fog. Still, there was something about her that made him feel oddly protective. He was, much to his dismay, entering the role of friend.
Trevor James wasn’t friends with women. He dated them, slept with them, yes. But just friends wasn’t a phrase in his lexicon. Which was why it was so damn odd that he should be practically throwing himself at Sophie.
Of course, she wasn’t hard on the eyes. True, she wasn’t at all the sort of woman he preferred. Trevor’s tastes ran exclusively to tall, leggy blondes. Hers was a more ancient beauty, like the statues of goddesses in ancient Rome, something few women possessed. She had the lush body of a Renaissance Venus, the kind that was shaped to sensual perfection as though a sculptor had lovingly created every inch of her form.
She caught him staring and he met her gaze boldly, reading the fear in her blue eyes. Trevor was well aware he frightened Sophie. He didn’t belong to her predictable world. But God help him, he was drawn to her.
“What is it?” she asked self-consciously, smoothing back her hair in a nervous motion.
He swallowed. He had no
right to be thinking he would like nothing better than to cross the space between them and give her a thorough kiss. He had no right to wonder what she would taste like, what her eyes would look like when they were glazed with passion. Their relationship was strictly business. So why the hell couldn’t he stop drooling over the woman?
“Trevor?”
Snap out of it, man. Business. Think business.
His reason for driving down from New York had, after all, been to gain access to the remainder of Sophie’s work, not to lust after her. With the handful of paintings he’d taken from Claire’s being such a resounding success, Trevor thought it would behoove him to look over the pieces she’d been hiding. With great difficulty, he turned his mind toward her artwork.
“Will you show me the rest of your work, Sophie?”
She hesitated and for a moment, Trevor was certain she was going to deny him. An emotion he couldn’t identify flickered in her vibrant eyes, then disappeared.
“Follow me,” she said, turning her back to him and sweeping up the stairs.
Trevor tried to keep his gaze from the subtle sway of her hips as he followed her but was unsuccessful. He was hard as a rock. Damn, but this was not good. He peeled his eyes away from the curve of her ass and forced himself to look instead at his feet.
She led him to a room that was spacious and airy with bright windows and green walls. It was calming and peaceful, with her art charmingly scattered about on the walls. The subject matters of these paintings, unlike the others he had seen, were impersonal, with the exception of a few charcoal sketches of a man and a little girl. Trevor didn’t ask who the subjects were. He already knew. He turned his attention instead to the other works. There were some cityscapes, some landscapes, all done in her unique blend of modernism and impressionism. They were breathtaking.
Reprieve (Love's Second Chance Book 1) Page 4