Ruthless Pride Read online

  That hair.

  The thick golden-brown strands reminded him of a mare his father had doted on when Joshua had been a boy. Like raw umber with lighter strands of deep, burnished sunlight. His father had babied that horse, brushing her coat himself until it shined.

  A yearning for a return to those idyllic times yawned so wide and deep, Joshua barely managed to restrain his free hand at his side so he wouldn’t rub the knot that had formed just below his rib cage.

  He could hate her alone for dragging that memory out of the abyss even as he fought against the need to burrow his hands in the wavy mass up to his wrists, fist it, tug on it... Bury his face in it. He already had personal knowledge of how far he would have to bend to inhale her citrus-and-flowers scent. As small as she was, he could completely surround her. Until he met Sophie Armstrong, tall, statuesque women had been his type. But now...now he got the lure of a petite woman he could cover with his bigger body. She triggered a primal, almost animalistic desire in him to take down and conquer her even as he did everything in his power to drown her in pleasure. Not that Sophie would take anything easily. No, he imagined she gave as good as she got in bed as much as she did out...

  Molten heat swarmed through him at the thought of holding those slender, strong arms above her head, pressing his chest to her small, firm breasts, having those toned thighs clasping his waist as he drove inside her. She would be so tight, so perfect, damn near strangling his dick.

  As if sensing his scrutiny, Sophie glanced over her shoulder and met his gaze. Surprise flickered over her face, her gray eyes widening slightly. He wanted them to do that when he first pushed into her sex. Hungered to see them darken like they did now as she slid a long glance down his body, and he swore he could feel that perusal as if her fingertips brushed over his collarbone, chest, abs, thighs...cock. Blood rushed to his flesh, thickening it behind the zipper of his pants. Hell yes, he wanted that touch on his bare skin, light then hard. Gentle then bruising. Yeah, he wanted this fairy of a woman to mark him.

  A frigid blast of ice skated over his skin, digging farther to muscle and bone so he was chilled from the inside out.

  Of all the women he could get hard over, Sophie Armstrong, reporter for the Falling Brook Chronicle, was the absolute last. Just this morning hadn’t he witnessed the evidence of her recent rehashing of the scandal with his father in the creases on his mother’s face and in the slump of her stooped shoulders? Haley might have managed to nab the paper before it was delivered to his mother’s home, but Eve had overheard the maid and butler talking about it in hushed tones. And she’d demanded to see the paper. Reading that article had taken a toll on her.

  So even with Sophie’s offer to help him determine if the paternity accusation was true or not, he could never trust her. Could never believe that he wasn’t just the means to another juicy story. Who knew what her follow-up article would contain? Why the fuck did he agree to it?

  No. Sophie was a threat to his business, his family...to his sanity.

  But he’d never been led around by his dick, and he wouldn’t start a new trend now.

  Still, as her lush mouth curled into a smile, he had to remind his body of that.

  He tossed his still-full cup in the trash and crossed the room toward her, because no way in hell would he run from her. Or the need that strung his body so tight. It was a wonder he didn’t snap in two at the slightest movement.

  “Sophie,” he greeted, for the first time thankful for the avaricious media and eyes that forced him to perfect a mask of indifference. He swept a glance over the laptop bag that hung near her hip. “Working?”

  “Yes, but from home today. I’m a creature of habit, though. Every morning I stop in here for a coffee and their cinnamon-and-brown-sugar scones. Have you had them yet? They’re God’s way of saying He loves us.”

  She released a throaty hum that had his gut clenching. Hard. He wanted to hear it again even as he longed to trap the sound inside her...with his mouth.

  Goddammit, he needed to get control. And quick.

  “No, I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure,” he replied. “I’ll take your word for it.”

  She arched a brow. “Oh, really? That would be a first between us.”

  “Sheathe your sword, Sophie,” he said.

  “So you finally admit that you need every bit of help you can muster when going up against me?” she challenged, amusement lighting her eyes like glittering stars.

  “I never said I didn’t. Only a fool would encounter you and not be battle ready with everything in his arsenal available to him.”

  She heaved an exaggerated sigh and splayed her fingers wide over her chest. “I do believe that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  His wry chuckle caught him by surprise. The last thing he’d ever expected to do with Sophie was laugh. A warning for caution blared in his ears. He couldn’t afford to let down his guard, become too comfortable around her.

  “What are you doing on this side of town? The coffee here is great, but I’ve had what you keep at your office and it’s pretty good, too.”

  “I’m not headed to work this morning. I’m waiting for my mother. She has a doctor’s appointment right down the street.”

  She frowned and laid a hand on his lower arm. “I’m sorry. Is she okay?”

  For a moment the flare of heat emanating from her touch seared his voice, rendering it useless. She might as well have settled her palm over his dick the way he throbbed and ached.

  Gritting his teeth, he ignored the lust coursing through him like a swollen river and said, “Yes. It’s just a regular checkup.”

  “Oh, okay.” Her frown deepened for a moment, and it seemed as if she was going to probe further, but in the next instant she skated a quick survey up and down his frame. “So you’re not going to the office, but this is what you wear on a Saturday morning?”

  He didn’t bother glancing down to take in the white long-sleeved shirt and black slacks. “Problem?”

  She snorted, a smirk flirting with the corners of her lips. “Oh no. No problem at all. I’m just wondering what you wear to bed. An Armani suit? Or maybe a tuxedo.”

  The humor fled from him, chased away by the desire flaring inside him by the mention of “bed.” Hell, she’d reduced him to a fourteen-year-old boy who got hard with the switch of the wind. That didn’t stop him from cocking his head to the side and murmuring, “You’re wondering what I wear to bed, Sophie? All you have to do is ask.”

  Slashes of red tinted her cheekbones and her eyes turned to liquid silver. Neither of them spoke as the air hummed with tension, pulsed with an unacknowledged lust volleyed between them. God, he wanted her. Why her—a reporter who sought to paint him as a puppet for his deadbeat father? Would she screw him, then riffle through his drawers to find dirt she could use for the follow-up piece on him and his family?

  Something deep inside him objected to that, argued that she wasn’t that kind of woman, but this time logic ruled. He’d known too many people who would sooner use him than blink. As a Lowell, men and women looked at him and saw money, connections, information and sometimes a good fuck. But never the man. Never the son struggling to make good and be honorable where his father had failed.

  Sophie blinked, the desire clearing from her gaze, and at the same time he edged back a step.

  “Pass,” she rasped, then, clearing her throat, turned back to her table and gathered up her empty coffee cup, paper plate and plastic fork. “Seriously, though, Joshua,” she continued in a stronger voice, that hint of humor returning. “Jeans. Ever heard of them?”

  “Sounds familiar,” he drawled, following her toward the exit. She dropped her trash in the receptacle and pushed through the coffeehouse door. “What is this sudden fascination with my clothes?”

  She laughed as they moved out onto the sidewalk, stepping aside as more customers entere
d the café. He ignored the curious glances shot their way. After fifteen years, he should be immune to them. But he’d never managed it. They still got under his skin.

  “Not your clothes. I’m just curious if you ever relax. If you’re ever not Joshua Lowell of the Falling Brook Lowells, CEO of Black Crescent Hedge Fund and just Josh. Does anyone call you that?”

  “My brothers did. But it’s been a long time,” he murmured.

  Just Josh.

  There was no such person. Once upon a time there’d been. Josh had been an artist on the precipice of a promising career. He’d been the older brother to Jake and Oliver, who’d been friends as well as brothers. Back before they’d looked on him with scorn and resentment for following in their father’s tainted footsteps. Josh had been carefree, laughed often and pursued his passion.

  His family and the company wouldn’t survive if he reverted to Just Josh.

  If he tasted the joy, the life-giving fire of art again, he might not survive.

  So no, Joshua Lowell, savior and CEO of Black Crescent, was much safer.

  Sophie studied him with narrowed eyes, then, slipping the strap of her laptop bag over her head so it crossed her torso, she grabbed his hand in hers and tugged him forward. The shock of her skin touching his reverberated through his body and stunned him long enough that he didn’t resist her leading him down the sidewalk. He should pull away from her, cauterize the connection that bled fire into his veins...

  He flipped their hands so he enfolded hers, so soft and delicate, in his.

  Minutes later, she paused in front of Henrietta’s Creamery, the town’s only ice-cream shop. He stared at her, confused and more than a little taken aback.

  “Ice cream?” he asked, not bothering to eliminate the skepticism from his voice. “At nine thirty in the morning?”

  She shook her head and mockingly patted his arm with the hand he wasn’t clasping. “See? This right here is what I mean. When is there ever an inappropriate time for ice cream? Joshua, that stick in your ass. Was it surgically implanted, or did it just grow there naturally?”

  The bark of laughter abraded his throat, shocking him as much as her teasing. No one would ever dare to say that to him. Hell, no one would dare to tease him. But this slip of a woman knew no boundaries or fear. From the first, she hadn’t been cowed or intimidated by him. And God, it felt good.

  “Naturally. And it required effort and a lot of pruning and nurturing,” he deadpanned, causing a grin to spread wide over her face. Jesus, she was gorgeous.

  “Well, I volunteer as tribute to help you remove it. Starting with an ice-cream cone for breakfast. C’mon.” She didn’t brook any disagreement but jerked on the door to the shop and entered, pulling him behind her.

  After a brief but spirited debate over the best flavors, they walked out with two waffle cones topped with a double scoop of ice cream—salted caramel for him and butter pecan for her.

  Him.

  Joshua Lowell.

  Walking down the sidewalk lining Main Street. Eating an ice-cream cone.

  Jesus, how did he get here?

  But as Sophie tipped her head back and smiled at him, the light of it reflecting in her beautiful gray eyes, he embraced the moment. Embraced, hell. Hoarded it. In less than half an hour, he would be returning to pick up his mother, and the mantle of responsibility that he’d prematurely donned would fall back around his shoulders. Weighing them down with a pressure that was at times suffocating. Pressing them down with an anger-rimmed sadness that he’d never been able to completely banish no matter how many times he’d told himself that they didn’t need his father. That they were better off without him.

  Yeah, he was going to embrace this moment and grab on to it selfishly. Because as Joshua Lowell, Vernon’s son, he didn’t have many. The cost for that kind of greed was too high. As his father’s actions had taught him.

  “Now, I don’t want to say I told you so...” she said, an impish smile curving her lips. “Oh hell, who am I kidding? I so do want to say it. I told you so.”

  “I think you might have held that in for two minutes and twenty-eight seconds,” he drawled. “Congratulations.”

  She twirled her hand in front of her, dipping slightly at the waist. “Thank you. I’ll have you know my restraint was hard fought.”

  He snorted, swiping his tongue through the cold cream and barely managing to contain a moan. When was the last time he’d indulged like this? Years. It’d been years.

  “I don’t want to alarm you, but people are staring,” Sophie informed him in a stage whisper. As if he hadn’t already noticed. “One woman just almost rear-ended the car in front of her at the stoplight.” She gave a mocking gasp, splaying the fingers not holding the ice-cream cone wide across her chest. “Whatever do you think it could be that they find so interesting?”

  Joshua didn’t answer, but some of the peace and joy filtered from his chest, replaced by a slick, grimy stain that was a murky mixture of guilt, anger and helplessness. The sludge tracked its way across his chest, down to his gut, where it churned. He deliberately relaxed his grip on the cone but couldn’t prevent the clenching of his jaw. A hint of neon-red pain flared along the edge.

  “It must be so tiring,” Sophie murmured, all notes of teasing evaporated from her tone. He glanced down at her, and those gray eyes looked back at him, warm and velvet with a sympathy he never believed he’d glimpse. At least not for him.

  “What must be tiring?” he ground out.

  “Feeling like an animal in a zoo. Always being on display,” she replied softly.

  Her observation struck too deep...too on point. He hated it that she saw it. Hated more that he’d allowed her to.

  “Being fodder for any newspaper or online gossip column,” he lashed out with a biting coldness that was meant to burn.

  She bent her head over her treat and licked a melting trail of ice cream. In spite of the anger knotting his gut, lust slid through him in a thick glide, flowing straight for his already pulsing flesh. He wanted that delicate pink tongue on him. Trailing over him like he was the most delicious thing she’d ever tasted. He hungered to hear her moans of pleasure in his ears, have it vibrate over his skin.

  His control was soaked tissue paper when it came to this woman.

  “I left the door wide-open on that one,” she said long moments later, voice quiet. “I won’t apologize for my job—it’s an important one, and I love it. But I will say I’m sorry that it’s contributed to making you feel as if you were a fish in a bowl. I can’t imagine that kind of scrutiny is easy.”

  “But deserved, some would say.” They continued to walk down the sidewalk in a silence taut with tension. Or more specifically, the roil of emotions tumbling inside him. Shoving against his sternum, his throat, seeking an escape. A release. “There are days I believe I deserve it. Give people their due. They need to watch me and make sure I’m not exhibiting signs of becoming Vernon Lowell. They have the right to that transparency. Even years later. Even though—”

  Even though there were times he wanted to yell that he wasn’t his father. That it wasn’t him that had wronged them. It wasn’t his fault.

  But he couldn’t. Because in the end, the sins of the father were visited upon the sons.

  In their eyes, as the head of Black Crescent, as the only one available to direct their anger and mistrust at, it was his fault.

  And he couldn’t argue with them. Because deep inside, in that place that creaked open only in the darkest part of night when he had no energy left to keep it closed, he agreed with them.

  Beside him, Sophie sighed and tunneled her fingers through her hair, dragging the strands away from her face and offering him an even more unencumbered view of her clean, elegant profile. A small frown wrinkled the smooth skin between her eyebrows.

  “Deserve?” she mused almost to herself. She shook her head.
“I don’t agree with that. While I do believe in the truth and that people have the right to be aware of events that affect their welfare and lives, they aren’t owed pieces of a person’s security, peace or soul. Each of us should have the right to privacy, and we don’t need anyone’s permission to covet it or request it. And this is from a reporter.” She lightly snorted, again shaking her head. Pausing, she took another swipe of the ice cream, and her tone became more thoughtful than irritated. “My parents divorced when I was almost thirteen, and it was... Well, unpleasant would be an understatement. The nasty arguing and name-calling had been bad enough. But they saw me as an ally to be wooed, a prize to be won in a contest. And they attempted this by competing in who could tell me the foulest, most humiliating things about the other. How my father cheated or how my mother had sent them to the poorhouse with her spending. So many things a child shouldn’t be privy to, especially about her parents.

  “But they twisted the truth about each other in this acrimonious and desperate need to make the other appear as horrible as possible. Never realizing how they were slowly picking me apart ugly word by ugly word. Because all I heard was how it was my fault they were divorcing. My father cheated. That just meant he was so unhappy at home with me for not doing better in school or being a pest at home that he went somewhere else to find happiness. Or if my mother spent too much money, it was on me because I asked for too much.”

  She inhaled a breath, and he caught the slight tightening of her hold on the cone. After several seconds, she released a trembling but self-deprecating chuckle.

  “Sophie...”

  But she interrupted him with a wave of her hand. “No, I know none of that is true. Now, anyway. But back then...” Her voice trailed off, but seconds later, she lifted a slim shoulder in a half shrug. “They made my teenage years hell, but I should thank them. Because of all that, plus the shuffling back and forth to different homes, never feeling truly rooted or secure, I made sure that I would be able to stand on my own two feet as an adult. That no one would ever have the power or ability to ever rip the rug out from under me again. They also directed me on the path to my career. They fueled my desire to filter facts from half-truths or fiction. And, when it was called for, to shield the innocent from it.”