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 family 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
