Carole Mortimer - Flame Of Desire

‘Don’t make a scene, Simon,’ his wife said impatiently. ’We’ve been through this so many times. I like the London society, you don’t.’

‘That’s right, I don’t. I do like to see my wife occasionally, though.’

Sophie stood up, excusing herself before this developed into a full-scale argument. There had been a lot of these arguments of late and she had found it was better to make herself scarce when one was brewing.

‘Where are you going?’ her stepmother demanded.

‘Down to the village.’

‘To see those friends of yours, I suppose?’

‘To see Helen, yes.’ She wouldn’t be drawn into her stepmother’s spiteful mood.

‘I don’t want you to be late back. Luke will want to have a look at you.’

‘At me?’ Sophie looked at her curiously. ‘Whatever for?’

‘Your father has commissioned him to paint you.’

She looked at her father, her eyes wide. ‘Daddy?’

He was still intent on his wife. ‘You asked him, Rosemary?’

‘One doesn’t ask Luke. He decides who he’ll paint and who he won’t. I merely asked him if he would look at Sophie. He’ll make the final decision.’

‘Daddy?’ Sophie cut in, frowning her puzzlement. ‘Luke Vittorio is going to paint me ?’

‘Well, he is the best, chicken. And we would like a portrait of you for the family record. It’s to be your mother’s birthday present to me.’

‘A Luke Vittorio portrait? He’ll never paint me, Daddy,’ she denied. ‘He only paints beautiful women. He’s very exclusive. He’s turned down some really important people merely because he didn’t think them beautiful.’

‘You’re attractive enough when you take the trouble to dress properly,’ her stepmother admitted grudgingly. ‘And he hasn’t agreed to do it yet, only to look at you.’

Sophie squirmed. ‘I’m not sure I care to be “looked over” by him!’

She had seen him on a chat show on television once, a tall arrogant man who hadn’t lived his thirty-eight years without being aware of his blatant good looks and cashing in on them. And he had the most piercing brown eyes she had ever seen, eyes that appeared to miss nothing, and she felt sure they didn’t. He was an artist, trained to observe and take note.

He had made Sophie feel nervous just looking at him, his self-confidence awe-inspiring. And he was very mocking, making her feel quite sorry for the interviewer by the end of the programme. For someone who was so much in the public eye he was curiously clam-like about his real private life, refusing point blank to discuss any of the women in his life, except to acknowledge that there had been quite a few.

But she hadn’t needed him to tell her that, she had only to open a daily newspaper to see that taunting arrogant face peering back at her, and always with a beautiful companion, and hardly ever the same one twice. He always seemed to be either entering or leaving the country, never in one place for long at a time.

‘You’ll do as your father and I want,’ Rosemary said irritably. ‘If Luke decides to paint you you’ll sit for him. You can’t refuse when it’s to be a present to your father.’

‘But his birthday isn’t for months yet!’

‘Three months away. And Luke can’t paint you overnight. He may not even be able to start right away, in fact I’m sure he won’t be able to. You have to understand that Luke isn’t just any artist, he’s the best of his time, able to dictate his own terms. And you’ll treat him with the respect he deserves when you meet him at dinner,’ she warned.

Sophie couldn’t see anyone treating him any other way, he would soon put them in their place if they did. She could imagine him being quite cruel on occasion; that quirk to his mouth indicated a hardness that was a natural part of the man himself and not something he had acquired.

‘What time is he arriving?’ She intended making sure she wasn’t here, despite her stepmother’s warning. Her father was a rich and important man himself, and she didn’t care to be looked over by anyone.

Her stepmother shrugged. ‘When he feels like it, I would imagine. Luke lives by his own rules.’

Sophie opened the dining-room door. ‘Arrogant devil!’ she muttered.

‘We’ll have none of that when he gets here,’ Rosemary said sharply.

‘I’ll be on my best behaviour,’ Sophie promised with a certain amount of sarcasm.

‘That isn’t always good enough. The times you’ve embarrassed your father and me—–’

‘Let the girl go,’ Simon interrupted. ‘You’ll only make her more determined to do the opposite of what you say.’

Sophie grinned at her father. How well he knew her! ’Thank you, Daddy.’

Her stepmother’s mouth was a thin angry line. ‘Why do you always side with her, Simon?’ she asked petulantly, the easy tears appearing in her china-blue eyes. ‘The two of you always gang up on me. It’s no wonder I spend more and more time in London. I might just as well not bother to come home at all!’

Simon put his newspaper down with a sigh, realising he was in for one of the scenes that always left him feeling drained. Rosemary should never have had to cope with a child, her jealousy and spitefulness towards his only child always making it difficult for him to show any love and understanding for Sophie without a near-hysterical outburst from his wife.

‘Leave us, Sophie,’ he advised, standing up to put his arm about his wife. ‘Now calm down, Rosemary,’ he said gently. ‘You’re ruining your make-up.’

Sophie quietly left the room. Poor Daddy, he was in for a difficult time of it. She wondered what her stepmother would wheedle out of him this time. One of these scenes usually resulted in Rosemary acquiring something blatantly extravagant. The last time it had been a diamond brooch, the diamond being one of the biggest in the world.

She met Mrs Joyce, the housekeeper, in the hallway, a fresh pot of coffee in her hand. ‘I shouldn’t go in there right now,’ Sophie stopped her. ‘Mummy—Mummy’s a little upset.’

Mrs Joyce tutted. A member of the household since Sophie had been a baby, she was as familiar with these scenes as Sophie. ‘What happened this time?’

‘I’m afraid it was my fault, Joycy,’ Sophie used the family name for the housekeeper. ‘Mummy gets upset by my behaviour. I don’t mean to upset her, but I—–’ she broke off as her stepmother left the dining-room, no evidence of tears on her face now as she smiled at them.

‘Mr Bedford’s coffee, Joycy,’ she smiled. ‘He’s never human until he’s drunk several cups of your delicious brew.’ She hummed to herself as she left them.

Joycy watched her mistress leave. ‘I wonder what your poor father has promised her this time,’ she remarked with amused tolerance.

‘Something else she doesn’t need,’ Sophie said dully, aware that once again she had caused her father to be put in an awkward position. It was a terrible way to think, but things were a lot quieter around here when her stepmother stayed in London.

She and her father lived a peaceful existence here, her father travelling rarely to his firm situated twenty miles out of London, and she going to the local college. The two of them spent a lot of time together, a lot of their tastes being similar despite their age difference.

Joycy smiled. ‘I’d better take this coffee in, it should help soothe your father.’

Sophie grimaced. ‘I think he’s going to need it,’ was her parting comment.

Poor Daddy, she thought as she cycled the mile to Helen’s house. He didn’t ask much from life, just a loving wife and daughter and the continuous success of his prosperous firm. But she and her stepmother had never got on. Sophie had spent most of her childhood brought up by servants, and so every time she had met her stepmother the sparks started to fly.