Flame Of Desire

Flame of Desire

Carole Mortimer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

SOPHIE’s father put down his newspaper long enough to look at her. ‘If you go out this evening I do not want a repeat of yesterday,’ he said sternly. ‘We have guests arriving this afternoon and I wouldn’t like them to witness a scene like last night’s.’

Sophie pouted sulkily. ‘That wasn’t my fault.’

He looked sceptical. ‘And just whose fault would you say it was? Mine? Your stepmother’s? We weren’t the ones trying to creep into the house at two o’clock in the morning.’

Sophie gave up all pretence of trying to look as if she were eating her breakfast. ‘I’d been to a party, you knew I was going to it.’

Her stepmother pursed her lips. ‘But not the time of morning you’d be arriving home. Really, Simon, this roaming about the countryside at all hours of the day and night will have to stop. After all, Sophie is only nineteen.’

Simon Bedford sighed, beginning to wish now that he hadn’t brought the subject up. ‘I know, Rosemary, I know, and I’ve already made my opinion concerning Sophie’s actions last night very clear. And I trust her to see that it doesn’t happen again.’

‘I should hope so,’ sniffed her stepmother. ‘Why on earth she has to mix with those—those ruffians, I have no idea. Goodness knows we’ve tried to introduce her to the right sort of people.’

‘Oh yes,’ Sophie’s mouth turned back in a sneer. ‘People like Nicholas Sedgwick-Jones. He’s about as exciting as a cold rice pudding!’

Her mother’s eyes snapped angrily, china blue eyes set in a beautiful doll-like face. Rosemary Bedford was small and delicately made, her appearance belied by the streak of ruthlessness predominant in her personality. At thirty-six she looked much younger than her years, often being mistaken for Sophie’s older sister instead of her stepmother. She had married Simon Bedford when only eighteen to his already thirty-seven, and she had exploited his love for her to the full, until now, eighteen years later, that love had turned to amused tolerance. Simon had soon come to realise that his main attraction to his young wife had been the money he possessed in abundance. And he had also realised that he couldn’t hope to compete with the younger men his wife amused herself with from time to time, and had soon even given up trying to do so.

Their marriage might not be the idealistic thing he had expected it to be when they first married, but at least he had Sophie from his first marriage. Of course he and Rosemary had expected to have children of their own, he desperately wanted a son to carry on the family name and fortune, but year after year had passed with no sign of the desired child, and now they had given up hope of there ever being one.

‘Nicholas is a very nice young man,’ Rosemary insisted. ‘And he likes you.’

‘The feeling isn’t reciprocated,’ Sophie said scathingly. ‘He’s boring, pompous and egotistical. He only asks me out because he’s after Daddy’s money. Everyone knows the Sedgwick-Jones are broke.’

‘Sophie!’ her stepmother’s voice rose shrilly. ‘Your father didn’t pay for you to go to a private school so that you could come out with things like “as exciting as a cold rice pudding”, and “broke”. You’ve been taught how to talk properly, please do so.’

‘Oh, Mummy, you know I’m right about Nicholas. All he can talk about is his boring old farm.’

Rosemary gave her stepdaughter a cool look. ‘I’m sure his conversation is preferable to anything those hooligans you call friends have to say. Their main topics of conversation seem to be fashion and sex—and not always in that order,’ her nose wrinkled her distaste. ‘And look at you—you even look like them!’

Sophie was aware that her stepmother didn’t approve of her long blonde hair being worn loose, or her choice of denims and tight sweaters as suitable clothing. And she didn’t approve of the friends Sophie had made at the local college either, but she refused to give them up, no matter what the pressures might be.

She shrugged. ‘Everyone looks like this at college.’

‘Exactly! You should make an effort to remember who you are. Just think of your father’s humiliation when he sees the people you go about with.’ Rosemary sighed. ‘Well, at least make sure you behave yourself in front of our weekend guests. A lot of them won’t understand your need to rebel in this way.’

‘Who’s coming?’ asked Sophie.

‘Just a few friends, about a dozen or so.’ Rosemary studied her painted nails. ‘Luke Vittorio has agreed to come down.’

Simon gave her a sharp look. ‘I didn’t know that.’

His wife smiled at him brightly. ‘I thought I’d told you, darling. He’s bringing that girl he’s going about with at the moment.’

‘Eve Jeffers,’ Sophie supplied. ‘She’s one of the leading models in the world at the moment.’ And Luke Vittorio had been the fashionable portrait painter for the last ten years. He was an outrageous extrovert, his exploits almost as well known as his portraits—and his scandals. He was ruggedly attractive, emitting a sensual aura that seemed to act like a magnet on all women. And the women he attracted weren’t always single.

‘I know who she is, Sophie,’ her stepmother snapped. ‘They’ve been seen everywhere together the last few months.’

‘I didn’t know if Daddy knew her,’ Sophie said defensively.

Rosemary’s mouth turned back. ‘I would doubt it, fashion isn’t your father’s strongest point—or yours either, for that matter. Look at your clothes—if those denims were any tighter they’d be indecent!’

‘She’s slender enough to carry them off,’ Simon remarked from the depths of his newspaper. ‘I couldn’t give a damn what she wears as long as she’s well covered. When did you invite Luke Vittorio down here?’ he demanded of his wife.

‘I can’t remember now,’ she answered vaguely. ‘At Pamela’s party last week, I think. What difference does it make when I invited him? He’s coming, that’s all we need to know.’

Simon scowled. ‘I can’t understand why a man like him would want to come here,’ he muttered. ‘He’ll probably be bored within a few hours. He’s used to much more exciting entertainment than we can offer.’

‘Exactly,’ Rosemary’s mouth tightened. ‘He enjoys peace and quiet like the rest of us.’

‘I haven’t noticed you’ve been enjoying it much lately. You’re spending more and more time in town. I suppose the only reason we’re honoured with your company this weekend is because you have all your friends coming down.’

‘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.

Not that she didn’t care for Rosemary—after all, she was the only mother she had ever known—but to Rosemary she was just a constant reminder of the passing of the years, a reminder Rosemary neither wanted or welcomed. What on earth her stepmother would do if she ever presented her with a grandchild she daren’t think. Not that that was a possibility for years yet; she didn’t even have a boy-friend.

Helen was out in the back garden sunbathing when Sophie arrived. ‘You look hot.’ She poured her out a long cool drink of lime from the jug on the table.

‘I am.’ Sophie collapsed on to the adjoining lounger.

‘You didn’t cycle over in this heat?’

Sophie sipped gratefully at the lime. ‘It’s quicker than walking.’

‘But more exhausting. It’s a pity you don’t like driving.’

‘I don’t have the concentration. Did you get into trouble for being late last night?’ she changed the subject.

Helen giggled, a petite girl with bubbly red hair and mischievous green eyes. ‘This morning, you mean. Dad was furious! How about you?’

‘About the same. Mummy turned up last night when I was out,’ Sophie added pointedly.

Helen grimaced. ‘The outcome of my late night was that Dad’s forbidden me to go out for a week. He’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow, but it means I won’t be able to go anywhere tonight.’

‘Neither will I. Mummy’s invited some people down for the weekend, which means I have to stay in to dinner tonight.’ Sophie sighed. ‘I wouldn’t mind, but she will insist on inviting Nicholas as my dinner partner.’

‘Poor you,’ Helen sympathised. ‘Who’s been invited for the weekend? Your mother usually knows the interesting people.’

‘I only know two of the guests, Eve Jeffers and—and Luke Vittorio.’

Helen choked over her lime juice. ‘Luke Vittorio?’

‘The one and only.’

Helen looked impressed. ‘I saw him on television the other night. God, he’s handsome. He has mesmerising come-to-bed eyes.’

‘Yes.’

‘And he’s so dark. That must be his Italian blood, I suppose.’

‘Possibly.’

Helen noticed her lack of enthusiasm for the first time. ‘You aren’t looking forward to him being there?’

That must be the understatement of the year! ’Most of Mummy’s friends I can take, but him … Well, it’s like Daddy said, what can we possibly do to entertain him? We aren’t exactly surrounded by night spots.’

‘I should think there must be lots of ways he could be entertained,’ Helen said teasingly. ‘I can think of a few ways myself.’

‘He’s bringing his own girl-friend down for that,’ Sophie informed her with disgust. ‘I don’t suppose he can go for very long without a woman.’

Helen raised her eyebrows. ‘What’s he done to upset you? You don’t usually take dislikes to people like this.’

‘I’m not usually forced into their company,’ she said with ill-humour. ‘Mummy has asked the great man to paint me.’

That really startled Helen. ‘A Luke Vittorio portrait …’

‘That’s what I said. Oh, he’ll say no, of course, but I don’t like the idea of him dissecting each little part of me before he rejects me. He’s so damned arrogant!’

‘I suppose so.’

‘You don’t sound very sure. I’ll tell you what, come over tomorrow afternoon and you can meet him.’

Helen sat up, smiling eagerly. ‘Really?’ she asked excitedly.

‘Yes, and welcome to him.’

Her friend laughed. ‘Let’s go and have a game of tennis, you can run off some of this steam. Stay for lunch and then go home when Mr Vittorio is safely installed in your house. Mum and Dad have gone out for the day shopping, so we have the house to ourselves.’

They played tennis for a couple of hours before going back to Helen’s and making themselves a hamburger each. It was almost three o’clock in the afternoon by the time Sophie set off for home. She really couldn’t delay any longer, she would have to change before meeting Luke Vittorio.

Her stepmother would be furious if she presented herself in tee-shirt and tight denims, and her hair was completely wild from her exertions on the tennis court. Her face was completely bare of make-up, her skin smooth and creamy, her lips a healthy pink, her violet eyes glowing as she enjoyed her ride back to her home.

She enjoyed the ride back much more than the ride to Helen’s, freewheeling down the long hill that had taken such effort to get up before lunch. What breeze there was whipped through her long silver-blonde hair, her eyes glowing with pleasure.

She was almost on top of the car turning out of the side road before she saw it, and she felt sure the driver of the Mercedes hadn’t seen her at all. The car was turning in from the right and she swerved precariously to avoid it, crashing up the grass verge to land in an undignified heap in a newly ploughed field.

The ground was soft to land on, but nevertheless Sophie felt shaken by the fall, peering over the tiny hedgerow at her bicycle, the wheels still spinning noisily. She sat up, rubbing her elbows which seemed to have taken the main pressure of her fall.

She looked up as a shadow fell across her, unaware of the dusty marks on her now pale cheeks, and her eyes widened with shock as she recognised the driver of the car she had swerved to avoid. Luke Vittorio!

There could be no mistaking that muscular physique clothed in fitted black silk shirt and thigh-hugging black trousers, the forbidding mouth with the full sensuous bottom lip, the hawk-like nose, the magnetic brown eyes, and the dark overlong-styled hair. He was much taller than she had imagined, well over six feet, and his skin was naturally dark instead of tanned, but there could be no doubt that this was indeed Luke Vittorio.

Sophie scrambled to her feet, hurriedly brushing down her denims so that she didn’t have to look into that dark, compelling face.

‘You are unhurt?’ His voice was deep and husky, deeply accented despite his having lived in England and America for the last twenty years.

‘Only a little bruised,’ she muttered, her head bent as she studiously brushed off every bit of dust on her denims.

Nothing had prepared her for the flesh-and-blood sensuality of this man, the blatant sexuality that must surely affect every woman he came into contact with, the deep husky voice that had sexy intonations. There was something wholly primitive about the man, something untamed and untameable, and he had shaken her more than falling off her bicycle had done.

One long sensitive hand came out to grasp her forearm, his shirt sleeves turned back to just below his elbows to reveal the dark hairs against his swarthy skin, made to look even darker by the broad gold wrist-watch on his arm. Sophie couldn’t take her eyes off his hand, a long tapered hand with thin sensitive fingers, an artist’s hand.

‘You are sure you are unharmed?’ he persisted.

Sophie looked up to meet the blaze of his mesmerising brown eyes head on, deep brown eyes with a lighter brown circle around the iris. ‘I’m fine,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I just didn’t see you until it was too late.’

The hand dropped away from her arm. ‘I am well aware of that.’ His voice was curt, losing its silky quality. ‘You were completely out of control as you came down that hill. I am only surprised there was not more damage done than there was.’

His censure angered Sophie, all the more so because she knew he was right. ‘To me or to your car?’ she asked sarcastically, her head thrown back, her hair streaming down her back.

‘Both,’ he answered abruptly. ‘Is your bicycle still workable?’

She picked it up, noticing the slightly bent handlebars but determined not to tell this arrogant man. ‘It seems all right to me,’ she told him moodily.

He nodded impatiently. ‘Would you like me to drive you anywhere?’

Sophie frowned. ‘What for?’

Luke Vittorio sighed. ‘I did not know if you felt too shaken to cycle the rest of the way to your home. You live on one of the hillside farms, perhaps?’

She almost laughed at his wrong assessment of her. He obviously considered her to be a simple farm girl, the thought of her being the daughter of Simon and Rosemary Bedford not even crossing his mind. It wasn’t surprising considering her clothes and the fact that she was riding a dilapidated bicycle, nevertheless she found his condescension annoying, determined not to tell him of her identity and surprise him at dinner this evening. She would love to see this man squirm, and perhaps this incident had given her the ammunition to do just that.

‘I live not far from here,’ she evaded. ‘I can make it there all right.’

‘Perhaps you had better give me your address anyway.’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘Why?’

‘You may suffer some delayed injury. I will of course check up on your health.’

Sophie smiled, a taunting smile that held little humour. ‘If I suffer any delayed injury you can be sure I’ll let you know, Mr Vittorio.’