Part of her acknowledged she should be intimidated by that level of influence. In this community where money not just spoke, but screamed at the tops of its lungs, power of the press was a buzz phrase. If he wanted, he could have her fired. Blackballed, even.
So yes, she should be at least a little leery. But fear didn’t skip and dance over her skin, leaving pebbled flesh in its wake. Exhilaration did. Being in this man’s presence agitated and animated her in a way only burgeoning new stories did. And the why of it—she lurched away from digging deeper, scrabbling away from that particular crumbling, dangerous edge.
When he turned back and pinned her with that magnetic, intense gaze, she barely managed to trap her gasp. The force of it was nearly physical. The inane image of her holding her hands up, shielding herself from it, popped in her head.
“You’re right,” he announced.
She blinked, taken aback. Replaying their conversation through her mind, she shook her head, still confused. “About?”
“You offered me the opportunity to give my insight into the story, and I didn’t take it. But now I’m offering you a chance no other reporter has been extended. Come spend a day with me at the Black Crescent offices. I’ll grant you access to my world, and you can see and decide for yourself whether or not the rumors stated in your article are true. Or you might just discover that I’m just a businessman trying to repair the past while making a way for the future.” He arched an eyebrow. “Either way, it will be an exclusive.”
It’s a trap. The warning blared through her head. And if she had the intelligence God gave a gnat, she would decline. But she was aware enough to recognize that the woman whispered that caution. The reporter’s blood hummed with anticipation at this unprecedented opportunity. She could pen a part two to her piece, and maybe it and the first one could possibly be picked up by the Associated Press.
Plus you get to spend more time with Joshua Lowell. The sly whisper ghosted across her mind. Spend more time with the enigmatic, sexy man who kindled a need inside her that she resented. A need that, if she wasn’t careful, could compromise her objectivity and her job.
And that she absolutely couldn’t allow. Nothing could get in the way of her goals, of her independence. Her mother had shelved her dream of becoming an architect to marry her father. And years later, when her marriage ended, she’d had to start from scratch, dependent on the scant alimony her father had grudgingly provided, having to work low-paying jobs to make ends meet while attending college part-time. It’d taken years of dedication and exhausting, backbreaking work, but she’d finally attained her dream job. But Sophie had learned a valuable lesson while witnessing her mother’s struggle. She would never become a casualty of a relationship. And never would she prioritize a man above her own needs, giving him everything while he left her with just scraps to remind her of what she could’ve had but had thrown away.
She had to take only one look at Joshua Lowell, spend one minute in his company, take one glance in those lovely but shuttered eyes to know he could strip her of everything. And not look back.
If she allowed him to. Which she wouldn’t.
“I accept your offer,” she said, resolve strengthening her voice.
He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “I’ll have my assistant contact you to set up an appointment.”
With one last, long stare, he strode toward her, heading toward the conference room door. As he brushed past her, she ordered herself not to inhale. Not to find out—
Sandalwood and dark earth after a fresh spring rain. Earthy and raw, it is.
Dammit.
“Ms. Armstrong.” She jerked her head in his direction and met the gaze of the ruthless businessman who had dragged a failing company back from the edge of the financial abyss. “Don’t mistake this for an olive branch or a truce. When you wrote and published that article, you threatened the peace and well-being of my family, and I don’t take that lightly or forget. Use this as a chance for another smear campaign, and I’ll ensure you regret it.”
Long after he left, his warning—and his scent—remained.
No matter how hard she tried to eradicate both.
Three
Joshua pulled his car into the parking lot of his gym and stabbed the ignition button a little harder than necessary, shutting the engine off. Restless energy raced through him, and it jangled under his skin. He’d been this way since yesterday and his visit to the Falling Brook Chronicle’s offices. Since his confrontation with Sophie.
Tunneling his fingers through his hair, he gripped the short strands and ground his teeth together. Trapping the searing flood of curses that blistered his tongue. He’d gone there to question her about the photographs and her source for them. And he’d been slapped with a paternity accusation.
The fuck.
Even now icy fingers of shock continued to tickle his spine, chilling him. Trailing right behind it came the hot slam of helpless fury. He hated that sense of powerlessness, of—goddammit—self-doubt.
And he resented the hell out of Sophie for planting it there. For hauling him back to a time when he’d been drowning in fear, desperately swimming toward the surface to drag in a life-giving lungful of air. Despairing that he never would again.
Through the years, there’d been plenty of gossip about his family on top of the ugly truth about his father and his actions. It would be a lie to claim the whispers hadn’t hurt him. That he didn’t have scars from that tumultuous period. But he’d survived. He’d always had pride in the knowledge that he wasn’t his father, that he didn’t harm people out of selfishness and greed. He’d clung to that knowledge.
And in one conversation, Sophie had delivered a solid blow to that source of honor, causing zigzags to splinter through it like a cracked
