Another of those serrated barks of laughter echoed in the room, and Joshua raked a hand through his hair, disheveling the thick blond strands.
“God, why in the hell am I telling you this?” he snarled, turning away from her and stalking across the floor to the window.
The “of all people” didn’t need to be said. It bounced off the glass walls, deafening in its silence.
She tried not to flinch. Tried not to allow the hurt to filter through. Tried...and failed.
“I’m not your enemy,” she said to his wide back.
His shoulders tensed, but he didn’t face her. “And I’m sorry if I implied that you were like your father. I didn’t intend to.” How to explain it’d just shocked her that such a virile, intense man who oozed power and sexuality had been intimate with only six women in four years? Hell, that didn’t even average out to two a year. But given his history, the depths of which she hadn’t known until this moment, she understood.
Sighing, she traced his steps and paused beside him, staring out over the beautiful view of Falling Brook at night. Houses, large and small, sprinkled among the trees and interconnecting map of streets, glittering like fairy lights. From this height, the town appeared almost magical. Serene. Made it seem as if they were hundreds of miles away instead of just several floors up.
“What do you see when you look out there?” she asked softly.
Tension and a cauldron of emotion continued to emanate from him, but when he replied, it was just as quietly. “A reminder.”
“Of what?” It required everything in her not to glance at him, but to keep her gaze trained on the vista stretched out before them.
“Of why I do this.” Do what? What’s this? The questions bombarded her mind, but she forcibly held her tongue. And her patience was rewarded. “Why I continue to run a company I didn’t ask for in the first place. Live this life that was my father’s and not my own. For the last fifteen years, I’ve given it and Black Crescent everything—my dedication, my time, my loyalty, my goddamn soul. And in return? In return, I have a shade of a mother who I am powerless to help. My brothers don’t speak to me because they hate who I’ve become a reflection of. My father is still MIA, and I have no idea whether he is dead or alive. And no matter how hard I work, how many hours I put in, how much money I bring in to repay those robbed and devastated by my father, it’s never enough. I’ll always be looked at with suspicion, judged for having the same blood in my veins as a criminal.”
Her palms itched to touch him. To slide between him and the glass, smooth her hands up his hard chest and strong neck to cup his jaw between them. To, in some way, assume the pain that he wouldn’t allow himself to show. But she caught herself, nonetheless. The sheer magnetism of this man dominated any room he stood in. Yet... How could anyone, after spending time with him, not see the emotions that roiled beneath that austere surface like water just under a boil?
“There’s this gaping hole in my life,” he continued in that gravel-and-midnight-silk voice. “And it doesn’t matter what I do, I can’t fill it. I don’t know how to fill it.” He shook his head, and he scoffed. “And the funniest, most pathetic part? When you first told me I might have a daughter, a part of me was thrilled. Because it meant that my life hadn’t been a waste. That I had a purpose other than rebuilding the legacy my father nearly destroyed. That I would be more than Vernon Lowell’s son. I would be someone’s father.”
“You’re not your father,” she contradicted him, taken aback at her own vehemence. Even more so at the knell of truth that bloomed in her chest...deeper. Somewhere between the meeting where he agreed to take her help and finding that list of names, she came to believe him about not knowing he had a child out there. Or even if the child from the DNA report was his. She released a trembling breath, spreading her hand over her suddenly tumbling stomach. “You’re not Vernon,” she repeated, stronger, firmer.
And maybe he heard the belief in her voice. Because he finally looked at her, his green-and-gold eyes burning down into her. Straight through her.
“You’re sure about that?” he ground out. But before she could answer, he turned fully toward her, his palm flattening on the glass above her head. “You were the one who accused me of denying my illegitimate child’s existence. Of carrying on and not caring that I had fathered a baby and left it out there somewhere for her and her mother to cope on their own.”
Yes, she had. Regret eddied inside her, and she briefly closed her eyes against the oily, slick slide of it. Her article had dragged the scandal out of the past, buffed it up and placed it out all shiny and new for people to feast on again. She had a direct hand in him standing here, surrounded by a darkness that seemed ravenous and ready to swallow him whole.
Her fault. So at least, she owed him the truth. Her truth. Even if he could give two shits about it.
“It’s true,” she murmured, tipping her head back and meeting his piercing gaze. “I did believe that. But that was before I knew you—”
“You don’t know me,” he growled.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” she objected, shifting into his space. Surprise flared in his eyes, flecks of gold brightening. But then his lids lowered, gaze becoming hooded and hiding his thoughts. His reaction. But it didn’t stop her from claiming another inch. If she took a deep breath, her breasts would brush the wide, solid wall of his chest. The tips of her shoes
