Then what could it...possibly...be... Oh God.
She almost jolted to a halt in the doorway of the room where most of their editorial meetings were held. Somehow, she managed not to grab on to the jamb to steady her suddenly precarious balance.
Joshua Lowell.
He stood at the head of the long, rectangular table, hands in the pockets of his perfectly tailored, probably ridiculously expensive navy blue suit, those unnervingly sharp and beautiful hazel eyes fixed on her.
How wrong that eyes so lovely—light brown with vivid brushes of emerald green—were wasted on such a hard, cold...gorgeous...face.
Okay. So, she hadn’t fabricated how unjustly stunning the man was. It seemed unfair, really. Joshua Lowell, a millionaire, CEO, son of a powerful if notorious family, educated and sophisticated, and then God had deemed fit to top that sundae of privilege with a face and body that belonged pressed on an ancient coin or forever immortalized in marble for some art collector’s pleasure.
She tried and failed not to stare at the angular face with its jut of cheekbones and stone-hewn jaw—the stark lines should’ve been severe, made him appear harsh. But the beauty of those eyes and the lushness of his too-sensual-for-her-comfort mouth with its fuller bottom lip softened the severity, making him a fascinating study of contrasts. Cruelty and tenderness. Coldness and warmth. Carnality and virtue.
Her gaze reluctantly drifted from his face to his broad shoulders, the wide chest that tapered to a narrow waist and hips. She couldn’t see his thighs from her still-frozen position in the doorway, but her brain helpfully supplied how the muscular length of them had pressed against his slacks days ago. With his lean but powerful body, the man obviously worked out. Probably unleashed a lot of aggression there.
How else did he release emotion?
Stop it, she snapped at her wayward mind. We don’t care.
Mentally rolling her eyes at herself, she forced her feet to move forward, carrying her farther into the room. Joshua Lowell might look like he flew down on winged feet from Mount Olympus, but he was still an arrogant ass. One who, most likely, was here either to try to get her fired or threaten a lawsuit. That ought to knock down his hot factor several notches.
Should.
“Sophie, please close the door behind you,” Althea instructed. Once Sophie shut the door with a quiet click, the editor in chief nodded toward Joshua. “Mr. Lowell, I’d like to introduce you to Sophie Armstrong, the journalist of the article in today’s edition.”
Her pulse echoed in her ears as she waited, breath snagged in her throat, for Joshua to out her to her employer. But after a long moment, he only arched a dark blond eyebrow. His gaze didn’t waver from her as he smoothly said, “Ms. Armstrong.”
Relief flooded her, almost weakening her knees. Above all things, Althea was a professional, and she wouldn’t have appreciated finding out Sophie had met him before. No, correction. How she’d met him.
But suspicion immediately nipped at relief’s heels. Why hadn’t he told Althea the truth? What did he want? She didn’t know him, but she doubted he did anything magnanimously without it benefiting him. And he owed nothing to her, the reporter who had just aired his family’s dark past all over the front page.
“Ms. Granger, I would appreciate it if you gave Ms. Armstrong and me a moment alone, please.” He’d added please, but it wasn’t a request.
And Althea didn’t take it as one, though she did turn to her and ask, “Sophie?”
No. The answer branded her tongue, but the last time she’d checked, she wasn’t a coward. And since she’d crashed Black Crescent’s proverbial gates, it would be the height of hypocrisy to claim fear of being alone with him now. Even if her heart thudded against her chest like a bass drum.
“It’s fine,” she said.
“Okay.” She continued to peer at Sophie for several more seconds, and, apparently satisfied with Sophie’s poker face, she nodded. “Fine, but, Mr. Lowell,” she added, swinging her attention back to Joshua, “I’m going to trust the words lawsuit and libel won’t be thrown around in my absence. If so, I fully advise and expect Sophie to end the conversation so I can introduce you to our legal department.”
With a smile that belied she’d just threatened to sic lawyers on him, Althea exited the room, leaving her alone with Joshua. And a table that had provided adequate enough distance before seemed to shrink, leaving her no protection.
“I assume your editor doesn’t know about your little excursion to my office,” he stated, with that flat note she’d come to associate with him.
“No,” she said. “But of course you already figured that out. Why didn’t you tell her?”
“Because it doesn’t serve me well to do so right now. And—” his voice deepened to a slightly ominous timbre that had trepidation and—God—whispers of excitement tripping down her spine “—if anyone is going to deliver trouble to your doorstep, Sophie Armstrong, it’s going to be me.”
That statement might not have contained lawsuit or libel, but it was still most definitely a threat.
“I assume you’re here about the piece in the Chronicle.” She switched the subject, not wanting to dwell on what kind of “trouble” he wanted to visit on her. “Why don’t you just get to it?”
He studied her, his silence heavy but fairly vibrating with the tension that seemed to crackle beneath his stoic facade. And something—call it a reporter’s instinct or a woman’s sixth sense—assured her that it was indeed a facade. Which meant more lurked beneath the surface that he didn’t want anyone to see, to know. Secrets. The journalist in her, definitely not the woman, wanted to ferret out those secrets. Hungered to expose them to the light.
“Yes, why don’t we just ‘get to it,’” he repeated, making her suggestion sound like something more wicked. “I want to
