by Naima Simone
Sophie stood and ventured a couple of steps in his direction. But didn’t travel farther than those steps. Those pinpricks of caution that she’d felt in his presence before now stabbed at her. Warning her to. Back. Off. To retreat and regroup. Because at some point, she’d become too vulnerable to him. Too open.
And that should have her snatching up her belongings and running for the door like he’d just sprouted fur and fangs. Because in her position, vulnerability was a liability. For her and her job. God, she’d already revealed some of her research to him. What next? Ignore a lead? Refuse a story?
End her career?
She’d seen it with her mother.
She’d been her mother.
Shame, glittering bright and filthy at the same time, slicked through her like an oil stain. One would think she’d learned her lesson. Because it’d been brutal, but a good one. But those were the best. Or at least, they should be.
Bumping into Laurence Danvers at a local campaign rally four years ago had been an accident, so she’d believed for a long time. She hadn’t known then that he’d planned the meeting that had seemed serendipitous. Fated. And she’d fallen so hard for his handsome features, his wide smile, his charm...his lies. She’d allowed her heart to blind her to his true nature. So when he’d first suggested a different perspective on an article she was writing about the city council election candidates, she saw it as his helping her see a different angle. When he’d convinced her that reporting an indiscretion from a candidate’s past would be inflammatory and unfair—even though that candidate was running on a family platform—she’d conceded because he was only looking out for her career and reputation as a reputable reporter.
And when he’d demanded that she resign rather than reveal this same candidate had been accused of sexual misconduct by several women, she almost conceded. Almost. Too many times during her relationship with Laurence, she’d ignored her intuition. But that time, she’d listened, done some digging and uncovered that he was a longtime family friend to the candidate whose rally they’d met at. Meeting her, seducing her, making her fall in love... It’d all been so calculated in an effort to use her.
In mere months, she’d almost thrown aside her career, her dreams, her integrity for a man. As Laurence had walked out her apartment door for the final time, she vowed never to be that vulnerable, that foolish again.
And as she stared at Joshua, she could feel herself already climbing that slippery slope. One misstep, and it would be a long, painful slide down. Hell, she’d already shown him part of her research. She shuffled back and away from him, both physically and mentally. She had to approach Joshua and this element of her story as a journalist, not a woman who wanted to cradle that strong jaw and massage away the deep crease between his eyebrows. Or soothe the confusion, anger and pain in his eyes.
“Someone is setting me up,” Joshua continued, dropping his gaze to his clenched fist. As if disturbed by the outward display of emotion, he stretched his fingers out, splaying them wide and lowering them to the side of his thigh. “Nothing else makes sense. No one has contacted me about possible paternity or approached me for money. Not even threatened blackmail. Logic says that if there was a woman out there with a child I fathered, she would reach out to me for child support.”
Sophie couldn’t argue with his assumption. Joshua Lowell wasn’t only a beautiful man; he was obscenely wealthy and very well connected, even in spite of the scandal. He could more than afford to provide for a child. And a particular kind of woman would use the situation to her advantage and try for more than money. Like forcing a relationship, marriage. Through her research for her article, she’d discovered that from the moment his father disappeared, Joshua had become a choirboy—well, if choirboys had the bodies and faces of Greek gods and exuded sex like a pheromone. But no hint of impropriety had ever been connected to his name in the media. A person didn’t need to have a psychology degree to determine the reason behind that. And a woman looking to permanently bind herself to a powerful and rich family would realize that bit of information, as well.
She tapped a finger against her bottom lip. “That is...curious. Especially since the child is four years old now.” This was her cue to walk away. To pack up her things, thank him for the opportunity to see the inside of Black Crescent and leave. “I can’t give up my sources. But...if you need or want the help, I’ll assist in finding out what’s going on. Or try to.”
Damn.
So much for walking away.
Joshua stared at her for so long, his eyes shuttered, his stony expression indecipherable, that the rescission of her offer hopped on the tip of her tongue. But as she parted her lips, he asked, “Will what you find out end up in the Chronicle?”
She extinguished the bright flash of irritation and offense that flared in her chest. Part of her understood his caution and suspicion. But the other half... “I’m not offering my help as part of some tell-all article,” she ground out.
God, he really didn’t think too much of her.
Which was fair because she didn’t trust him, either. From her experience, most men—especially those with something to lose—did everything in their power to protect themselves.
Several more taut seconds passed, but Joshua finally dipped his head in a short, abrupt nod. “I appreciate your offer, then. If there’s even the slightest chance that I could be a father, then I owe it to myself—and that little girl—to find out.”
A rush of warmth flooded her.
Those aren’t the words of a deadbeat father.
Her subconscious taunted like the know-it-all it was.
But her experience with Laurence had hammered home the truth that nothing—or no one—was as it appeared on the surface. Especially someone who had so much to lose like Joshua did—reputation, money and the added burden of a child. Though he managed to keep his private life more contained than others in his position, she’d still gathered images of him and gossip about him with socialites, some A-list actresses and businesswomen.
No middle-class, student-debt-ridden peasants. In other words, no one like you.
Oh, shut it.
Awesome. Now she was arguing with herself. She really needed to get the hell out of this office. This building. This side of town. The more space between her and Joshua right now, the better. If not, she might do something really inane and unforgivable. Like hug him.
Suddenly wary of herself, she turned, retracing the few steps back to the coffee table and couch. Clearing her throat, she sank to the cushion and, tucking a rebellious strand of hair behind her ear, closed her laptop. “I’ll start looking into it on my end tonight.” With hurried movements, she slid the computer into her bag and stood. Fixing a smile on her lips, she lifted her head and met his impenetrable gaze again. God, the man could give the Sphinx lessons in stoicism. “Thank you for the tour today. I really appreciate it, and I learned more about Black Crescent that I didn’t know. That I’m sure many people aren’t aware of. If I have your permission, I’d like to share the information in a follow-up article.”
“Why?”
She frowned, stilling midprocess of slipping the strap of her bag over her shoulder. “Because the public deserves to know about your philanthropic programs and generosity to the community. I get your reason for staying mum on the subject, but—”
“No.” He cut her off with a hard shake of his head. “When I invited you here I knew it was for a follow-up article. I meant why are you volunteering to help me?”
Because you looked so lost, and I want to bring home what will make you whole.
The explanation lodged in her throat, stuck. And she didn’t try to free it. One, he wouldn’t appreciate her reason. Wouldn’t believe her. Two, she was disgusted with herself for thinking it. For thinking she could give him anything, much less peace and comfort.
Yes, Joshua Lowell had the whole brooding, tortured millio
naire thing down pat. His cold mask of reserve had slipped enough times that she glimpsed the dark mass of emotions he concealed. She shivered, unable to restrain the telltale reaction. What would it be like to be on the receiving end of all that unleashed passion? Because she sensed that when or if he finally let it all loose... It would be a thing of wild, raw beauty to witness. Like a roiling, ominous thunderstorm threaded with lightning. And when those bolts struck the earth? Electricity, heat, smoke.
Her pulse thundered in her ears, and she couldn’t tear her gaze away from him. She couldn’t deny it; she hungered to be that rich, open earth electrified by him. But he would assuredly leave her scorched beyond recognition afterward. And while her body might crave that burning, her scarred heart feared it.
Inhaling a trembling breath past the constriction blocking her throat, she shrugged a shoulder, grabbing for nonchalance and praying she accomplished it. “Because I’m an investigative reporter, and that’s what I do. Investigate.” Hiking her purse strap up, she again curved her lips into a polite smile that she—please, God—hoped didn’t look as fake as it felt. “I need to head out so I can get back in the office to take care of a few things.” Dear Lord, she was babbling and couldn’t stop. “Thanks again, and I’ll be in touch.”
Crossing the room, she extended her hand toward him even though her mind screamed, What the hell are you doing? Don’t touch him!
But her body had a mind of its own. And as his strong, elegant fingers—an artist’s fingers—closed around hers, she cursed the voltage that sizzled from their clasped palms up her arm, down her chest and belly to crackle between her legs. If he dipped his eyes, he would catch the hardened tips of her breasts that were probably saluting him from beneath her dress. No more lace bras around this man. Definitely not enough coverage.
Every primal, self-protective instinct within her had her muscles locking in preparation to jerk her hand free. But pride overrode the need, and she met his hazel stare with a steady one of her own. To prove how she refused to let her body’s obviously questionable taste rule her, she even squeezed his hand.
But when his nostrils slightly flared and his eyes darkened to an emerald-flecked amber... Oh no, she’d miscalculated. Flames licked at her flesh, and in that instant, she had a vivid premonition of how he would look in the throes of passion. Hooded, but glittering eyes, skin pulled taut over razor-sharp cheekbones, mouth pressed to a flat, almost severe line, and that big, wide-shouldered, powerful frame held rigidly still as he let her adjust to the blazing, overwhelming invasion of him planted deep and firmly inside her.
Pride be damned.
She yanked her hand out of his grip and refused to rub her still-tingling palm against her thigh.
“Why do I think you’re lying to me?” he murmured, and after a few seconds of bewilderment, she realized he referred to her weak explanation about her offer of assistance. “What are you hiding, Sophie?”
“I think you’re trying to uncover conspiracy theories where there are none,” she replied, flippant. “I’m the reporter. That’s my job, to be suspicious.”
“Where you’re concerned, my fail-safe is suspicion.” He cocked his head to the side, studying her so closely she sympathized with those butterflies pinned to a corkboard. He wouldn’t make her fidget, though. Or make her reveal any of her closely held thoughts regarding him. They were hers, and not his to use to his advantage.
“Then why are you willing to accept my help?” she asked, bristling.
“Maybe for once I’d like to know how it feels to have the press working with me instead of against me. And—” his voice dropped, and an unmistakable growl roughened the tone, causing her flesh to pebble “—I believe in keeping my friends close and my enemies closer. And you, Sophie Armstrong, I plan to be stuck to.”
Another threat he would probably call a promise.
A promise that shouldn’t have sent waves of molten heat echoing through her.
But it did. They swamped her, and dammit, she wanted to be taken under.
“Like stink on shit, you mean?” she shot back, pouring a bravado she was far from feeling into her tone.
He shifted forward until only scant inches separated them. Like in the gym, his body filled her vision and his warmth reached out for her, surrounding her along with his sandalwood and rain-dampened earth scent. She held her ground, not in the least intimidated as he invaded her personal space. No, not intimidated. She was throbbing. Hungry.
“Closer,” he whispered, his breath feathering over her lips in a heavy but light-as-air caress.
Just in time, she caught herself before she tilted her head back, chasing that ephemeral touch.
Okay, screw pride and standing her ground.
Any wise general recognized the wisdom of retreating to fight another day.
And as she pivoted and escaped Joshua’s office, she convinced herself she was being wise not running scared.
She almost accomplished the task.
Almost, but not quite.
Five
Joshua pulled open the door to The Java Hut, Falling Brook’s upscale coffeehouse on Main Street. The air from the air conditioner greeted him like a lover, wrapping around him with chilled arms of welcome. It might be only May, but the temperature already crept toward the midseventies. And he silently bemoaned the loss of the cooler spring weather. While many people worshipped summer because of days spent on the beaches, lounging by the pool and less clothing, he loved the dynamic and vivid colors and crisp breezes of fall and the rain-scented air and reawakening of life that spring brought.
But no matter which season reigned, coffee remained a constant. And a must.
The fresh, dark aroma of brewing coffee filled the shop, and he inhaled it with unadulterated pleasure. At nine o’clock on a Saturday morning, he needed caffeine like an addict itching for his next hit. It was his one vice. And yes, he got how pathetic and boring that made him. But considering his father’s roaming eye, Jake’s wanderlust and Oliver’s taste for drugs, he couldn’t afford to indulge any. The Lowell men had a proclivity toward addiction, and compared with his father’s and brothers’, coffee was the least harmful and the only one Joshua could afford.
He glanced down at his watch: 9:11 a.m. Another forty-nine minutes before his mother’s doctor’s appointment ended, and he had to return to the office and pick her up. Tension tightened his shoulders, and an ache bloomed between them. Deliberately, he inhaled, held the breath and, after ten seconds, released it. The monthly...dammit, not chore. Eve Evans-Janson could never be a chore. Responsibility. As the oldest son, she was his responsibility. But the monthly task of escorting his mother to her doctor always weighed him down like an albatross slung around his neck. Not because he didn’t want to be bothered. Never that. He loved Eve, and she’d suffered just as much—if not more—than him and his brothers.
But each visit reminded him of how far she’d deteriorated from the vibrant socialite who’d raised him, loved him and had been his biggest supporter and fan when it’d come to his art. While Vernon hadn’t understood and viewed his passion as a passing fancy, his mother had been so proud and celebrated along with him when he’d scored his own gallery show. She’d been his loudest cheerleader.
That woman had disappeared, fifteen years ago, replaced by a quiet, withdrawn recluse who only rarely ventured past the gates of the family’s Georgian-style mansion. Her numerous friends had been abandoned and now the butler, maid and chef were her friends. She left the house only for doctor’s appointments, the rare appearance at a charity function or the occasions he practically forced her out of the house to go to lunch or dinner with him. Vernon’s betrayal had humiliated her. Especially since she’d initially defended him with unshakable faith. When he’d disappeared, she’d believed he might’ve been kidnapped—or worse. The victim of foul play. But never would he have cheated his clients and friends or stolen from his famil
y and abandoned them to be the recipients of controversy, scorn and pain. Yet, as the days turned into weeks and then months, and the FBI’s evidence piled up, Eve had to face the truth—her husband and their father was a criminal who’d bilked millions from those who’d placed their trust in him, then thrown those who’d loved and depended on him the most to the wolves. She’d never recovered.
And now...now he did what he could to ensure she didn’t fade away behind the walls that were less her sanctuary and more her prison.
He clenched his fingers into a fist, then purposely relaxed them, exhaling as he did. Dammit, if he had his father here right now, each finger would be wrapped around his neck. Disgust twisted in his chest. If only what he felt toward his father was as simple as anger.
Stepping to the counter, he shoved everything from his mind and focused on ordering. Moments later, with his Americano in hand, he turned toward the entrance, but slammed to a halt.
A petite woman stood next to a table near the huge window, her back toward him, the ends of her unbound hair grazing the tank top–bared skin below her shoulders. The black top molded to the slim line of her back. Dark blue jeans clung to the gentle flare of her hips, the gorgeous tight ass that could be an eighth wonder of the world and legs that could grace a runway and climb the rocky, tough face of a mountain.
An achingly familiar itch tingled in his palms and hands. Familiar and painful. The need to hold a paintbrush. To capture the beauty and strength before him. To immortalize it. His medium had been mixed-media collages, but he’d also loved to paint. And right now he would use bold, rich colors to portray the golden tones of her skin, the power in that tiny body, the larger-than-life vibrancy of her personality, the thick softness of her hair.