He blinked, continuing to stare at her. And his lack of response, of reaction, only stirred the anger kindling in her chest.
“Really?” she snapped. “You’re going to continue to pretend to not know what I’m talking about?” She chuckled, the sound brittle, jaded and lacking humor. “You only protect and care for the family you decide to acknowledge. But,” she chided, tapping a fingertip to the corner of her mouth, “I suppose that a four-year-old daughter would be extremely inconvenient for someone who lives on that high horse you’re so afraid to tumble off of.”
Joshua slowly leaned forward and, with a deliberate motion, flattened his palms on the table. “I don’t know why you seem to believe that I have a child, but I don’t. That’s crazy,” he said, narrowing his eyes on her.
She snorted. “Just because you might claim you don’t—and you definitely act like you don’t have a daughter—doesn’t make it so.”
He didn’t reply, but that piercing gaze didn’t leave her face. His tall, rangy body remained motionless, coiled as if pulled taut by an invisible string—a string that was seconds from snapping.
She frowned, stepping back from her indignation and, okay, yes, battered pride and feelings, to analyze him more closely. Confusion, and, oh God, whispers of uncertainty darkened his eyes.
Could it... Could he really not know?
“I—I...” She stopped. Inhaled. And started again. “I’m not making this claim casually or lightly. I have very good reason to believe that you do have a daughter.”
“I don’t know what your reasons are, and I don’t care,” he said with the barest hint of a rasp. “And if you knew anything about me beyond your so-called research, you would realize how ridiculous your accusation is. Because that’s what you telling me I have a child I’ve neglected is, Ms. Armstrong. An ugly, unfounded and untrue accusation.”
She should’ve flinched at his menacing growl, at the blistering curse. She should not be electrified by it. Should not be riveted and fascinated by the sign of heat and a loosening of his iron-clad control.
Should not be considering poking more at the bear, to see if he would roar instead of growl. To see if he would...pounce.
Ill-conceived and unwelcomed desire leaped and cavorted in her veins like a naughty, giggling child. One who didn’t care one bit for the rules. She steeled her body against the dark urge to draw nearer to him. Against the almost irresistible need to discover if his body warmth seeped through his suit and see if it would touch her. To find out what scent his skin held. Something earthy and raw, or would it be cool and refined? Fire or ice?
She cleared her throat and inched back, her hip bumping one of the chairs flanking the table. Jesus, woman. He’s not the pied piper, and you aren’t some glaze-eyed mouse. And besides, if she decided to follow any man somewhere—which hell would have to fall into a deep freeze and sell snow cones for extra income for that to happen—it wouldn’t be this icicle of a man who carried more baggage than a Boeing 747.
“Listen, I received this information from a source—one that I trust. And if you recall, I attempted to reach out numerous times to interview you for the article. If you had bothered replying to any of my calls, voice mails or emails, I would’ve addressed this with you. But the fact that you refused only lent credence to my suspicions that you had something to hide.” She ignored the scoff he uttered and spread her hands wide, palms up. “I know you doubt my credibility, but I thoroughly researched your family to prepare for my article. And the truth is the rumor about an illegitimate child surfaced several times.”
“This source you trust,” he countered, “would it be the same one who provided those pictures?”
She hesitated but, after a second, nodded. “Yes.”
Of the people she’d interviewed, Zane Patterson had proved to be the most helpful...and rich in information. Rich, hell. He’d been a gold strike. And none of what he’d had to share had been flattering. But considering his family had been one of those directly affected by the Black Crescent scandal, Sophie couldn’t blame him for his animosity and bitterness. He’d lost everything—his family’s financial security, his home and then his family. His parents had divorced a year later. And he blamed it all on the Lowells. The man still harbored a lot of anger toward that family.
Still, just because he hated them didn’t mean he hadn’t been able to give her plenty of material. Zane had been a year younger than Oliver Lowell, so they’d run in the same circles in high school. Therefore, he’d had the means to supply her with the kind of info that hadn’t been available with a Google search as fifteen years ago social media hadn’t been as prevalent as it was today. Not only had Zane given her the photos Joshua seemed so fixated on, but he’d also been the first person to mention Joshua having a love child that he refused to acknowledge. But, like she’d assured Joshua, Zane hadn’t been the only person to assert the same.
“Fine. Keep your secrets,” Joshua said. He turned away from her, studying the just-awakening main street of Falling Brook. The newspaper’s offices were located in one of the older brick buildings lining the street, tucked between a women’s clothing boutique and a bookstore. As he stared out the window, the sun’s rays caressing his sharply hewn profile, he was like a king surveying his realm.
And maybe he was. The insular bedroom community with its two-thousand-strong population of surgeons, CEOs, a few A-list actors and pro athletes had once looked at Vernon Lowell as a ruler, and Joshua’s father had gorged on the admiration and reverence. By all appearances, Joshua seemed to be a more benevolent king, but no one could mistake the power, the air of authority and command that clung to him, as tailor-made to
