He’s a man who wants revenge because of the story you wrote on him and his family. A man who denies the existence of his child and is using you to control if you reveal it or not.
Or maybe one who just desperately sought to discover if he truly had a daughter that he’d known nothing about?
Jesus, she was arguing with herself. It was official. Joshua—or this unwarranted and dangerous fascination with him—was driving her nuts.
That same fascination had her casting a glance to the neighboring table. She was a masochist. There was no other explanation. And yet, she found herself once more helplessly ensnared by a copper-and-emerald stare as she’d been in the reception area.
Flayed. That was what that intense, gorgeous and entirely too-perceptive scrutiny did to her. Leave her flayed, open and exposed. Did he see the dueling emotions he stirred in her—the desire for distance, to borrow some of that renowned aloofness, and the desire to feel the intimidating thick length of him again. Not against her stomach this time, but inside her. Stretching her. Marking her.
The woman next to Joshua, a stunning redhead in a black sequined dress that screamed couture, leaned into him, whispering in his ear. He turned to her, releasing Sophie from their visual showdown.
A shaft of...something hot and ugly pierced her chest. She couldn’t identify it. Wouldn’t identify it. Because it wasn’t jealousy. The woman, with the onyx jewels dripping from her ears and encircling her neck, belonged to his world. They were perfect for each other.
“Do you know Joshua?” Christopher’s question yanked her from the rabbit hole that she’d been in the process of tumbling down. She met his curious gaze. Saw when it flickered toward the other table and Joshua and returned to her. “Are you two acquainted?”
“God, no,” she denied with a small deprecating chuckle. Not a lie, exactly. She doubted anyone really knew Joshua Lowell. And something whispered that he preferred it that way. “I just wrote an article on one of the darkest periods in his and his family’s lives. I’m sure he’s not a fan of mine.”
“Hmm.” Christopher studied her, and she refused to fidget beneath that assessing regard. “I can understand that, I guess. Although, like I mentioned earlier, all things considered, it was a fair piece.” He lifted a glass of wine and sipped from it, continuing to study her over the rim. “He’s one of our major contributors to the nonprofit. Not surprising, really, with his own background in art.”
Yes, she could see that. He might not create pieces anymore but imagining him pouring financial support into the lives of underprivileged youth so they might have the advantages of following the path he’d walked away from wasn’t hard.
Still... She glanced over at one of the walls where numerous canvases, pen-and-ink drawings and framed photographs hung. The oversize, mixed-media collages that used to be Joshua’s trademark would seamlessly fit in here. Did he ever wish they were? Did he ever dream of walking into this famed museum and seeing his pieces adorning these off-white walls?
Did it cause him pain to attend a gala celebrating art knowing he couldn’t have this? Knowing others were doing what he’d been created to do?
She forced herself not to look at Joshua this time. Afraid she would see what she wanted to instead of who he really was. Maya Angelou had said, “When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.” That day she’d barged into his office, he’d shown her the ruthless, dismissive and cold businessman. She needed to remember that, brand that image into her mind so when she started to visualize more—a sensitive, burdened man who grieved all that he’d lost—she’d shut that down.
And if that didn’t work, remember Laurence Danvers. Remember how she’d spectacularly crashed and burned by almost choosing a man over her career, over her ethics. She’d paid for those errors in judgment, for her willing blindness.
Never again, though.
Returning her attention to Christopher, she finished dinner with a smile and surprisingly entertaining conversation. Charismatic and funny, he effortlessly charmed her, and when the dishes were cleared and the guests headed back toward the reception area for dancing and more cocktails, she accepted his invitation to join him out on the dance floor.
Tilting her head back, she smiled up at him. “Not that I doubt you could enjoy my company, but, call it a reporter’s intuition, I just have the sense you didn’t seek me out because of my smile. Or this dress. As gorgeous as it may be.”
He grinned, his fingers tightening around her fingers. “It is that, but not as beautiful as the woman wearing it.” When she arched an eyebrow, he tipped his head back, laughing. And drawing the attention of the couples swaying to the jazz music along with them. “Your reputation for a no-nonsense investigative journalist is well earned, Sophie Armstrong. I did have an ulterior motive when I approached you this evening.”
“I’m waiting.”
“Our nonprofit is always seeking out new ways to bring in donations and media coverage that will result in even more donations. Funding and philanthropic gifts are this organization’s lifeblood,” he said, the humor evaporating from his voice and the intensity that had radiated from him since their initial meeting intensified. “I read your article on the Lowell family and Black Crescent. But my particular interest in the piece was the attention placed on Joshua Lowell. The artist submerged, if I remember correctly. It started me thinking. What if the artist reemerged? Returned to the world where he once stood on the cusp of a promising career? Can you imagine the stir and the money that would bring to Tender Shoots?”
Against her will, excitement kindled in her chest. Yes, she could imagine this. All too easily. Maybe not if she hadn’t walked
