Ruthless Pride Read online

  He digested that in silence. “Which is why you didn’t print the rumors about me having a daughter in the article,” he added.

  She nodded, not looking at him. “Yes. I know what you think of me, Joshua, but I wouldn’t deliberately smear someone’s name or hurt them. Not without all the facts that can be backed up and confirmed beyond doubt. Am I perfect? No. But I try to be.”

  He licked the melting ice cream in his hand, warring within himself about how much he could share with Sophie. Why he shouldn’t share. But after her baring some of her chaotic childhood, he owed her. Still...

  “Off the record?” he murmured.

  She jerked her gaze to him, and in the dove-gray depths he easily caught the surprise. And the flicker of irritation. As if annoyed that he’d ask. But as lovely as she was, as honest as she’d been with him, he couldn’t forget who she was. What she was.

  “Of course,” she said, none of the contrasting emotions in her eyes reflected in her voice.

  “Of course,” he repeated softly, staring down at her. What the hell are you doing? he silently questioned his sanity, but then said, “I deserve their censure because of my life before my father decided to screw us all six ways to Sunday. Mine was charmed. I won’t say perfect, because in hindsight, it wasn’t. Nothing is. But for me, it was close. My brothers and I—we didn’t have to want for anything. Not material, financial or emotional. Dad was always busy building Black Crescent into one of the foremost hedge funds, but Mom? She’d been there, attentive, supportive, loving. We weren’t raised by an army of servants, even though we did have them. But Mom—and even Dad to an extent—had been involved. We attended one of the most exclusive and premier prep schools in the country and, later, Ivy League universities. I knew who I was and what I wanted to be. I never had doubts back then. I held the world in my palm and harbored no insecurities or fears that I could have it all.”

  “I always wondered about that,” Sophie said, that intuitive and insightful gaze roaming his face. “If you faced any backlash or disapproval from your father for choosing art over the family business.”

  Why the hell am I talking about this? He never discussed his art or his career ambitions. A pit gaped in his chest, stretching and threatening to swallow him whole with the grief, disillusionment and sense of failure that poured out. Those dreams were dead and buried with a headstone to mark the grave.

  Forcing the memories and the words past his tightening throat, he barely paused next to a garbage can and pitched his cone into it. He couldn’t talk about this and even consider eating. Not with his gut forming a rebellion at just the unlocking of the past.

  “From my mother, no. Like I said, she supported me from the very first. When I was a child, she enrolled me in art classes, encouraged me to continue even when my father scoffed at it or dismissed my interest as a passing fancy. But art was...my passion. My true friend, in ways. Growing up in Falling Brook, we had to be careful about image, about never forgetting we were Vernon Lowell’s sons and Eve Evans-Janson’s sons. There was a trade-off for the life of privilege we led, and that was perfection. But with art? I never had to be perfect. Or careful. I just had to be me. I didn’t have to curtail my opinions to make sure I didn’t offend anyone or reflect on my father. I could be unfailingly and unapologetically honest. I could trust it more than anything or anyone else.”

  A vise squeezed his chest so hard, so tight, his ribs screamed for relief. Just talking about that part of him he’d willingly—but without choice—amputated brought ghostly echoes of the joy, the freedom he’d once experienced every time he took a picture, picked up a piece of metal, lifted a paintbrush...

  He shook them off, shoving them in the vault of his past and locking the door. If he were going to discuss that part of him, of his life, he had to separate himself from the emotion behind it. Besides, that was who he’d been. That man had ceased to exist the moment his father had gone on the lam, leaving his family and ten others broke and broken.

  “But to answer your question, there wasn’t any strife. More so because I believe Dad thought I would indulge in art, get it out of my system and then come work for Black Crescent. Even when I scored my first gallery show the summer after I graduated from college, Dad was pleased for me, but he also told me I had a choice to make and he hoped I chose wisely. ‘Wisely’ being coming into the business with him.”

  Had his father known even then that he would be going on the run? Had he already planned his escape plan? Because only two months after that conversation, he’d disappeared.

  “While researching the article, I always thought that was amazing. Do you know how many artists are capable of getting their own gallery shows so soon in their careers? But then again, I saw pictures of your work. God, you were phenomenal,” she breathed.

  The unadulterated awe in her voice snagged on something inside him, jerking and tugging as if trying to bring that ephemeral and elusive “thing” to the surface to be acknowledged and analyzed. He shrank from it. Not in the least bit ready to do that.

  He never would be.

  “Can I ask you something? And disclaimer—it’s going to be intrusive,” she said, dumping her cone into a nearby trash can before slipping a sidelong glance at him. When he dipped his chin in agreement, she murmured, “How could you step away from it? I’m just thinking of how I would feel if I suddenly lost my career. Or if I couldn’t do it anymore. And not just reporting, but my purpose. Empty. And lost. How could you give it up so easily?”

  “Easily?” His harsh burst of laughter scraped his throat raw. “There was nothing easy about it, Sophie. I had a choice to make. Family or a career in art.” Leave, move to New York to escape the judgment and condemnation and pursue his passion, or stay and save his family and the business. Try to repair what his father had torn apart. Even when Jake had done just that, Josh had stayed. And there’d been nothing simple or easy about that decision. “In the end my father had been right. I would have to choose, and I did. Not that it’d been much of one. I couldn’t abandon my family.”

  Not like him remained unspoken but deafening in the silence that followed his words.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  He slipped his tightly curled fists into the pockets of his slacks. “For what?” he rasped.

  “For assuming it’d been an easy decision. That you had to make it in the first place.”

  He drew to an abrupt halt, absently thankful they’d made it to the parking lot at the far end of Main where his car waited. Thankful no one loitered in the area, and that for once, they were away from prying eyes.

  No one—no fucking one—had ever said that to him. Had ever thought to consider the cost of his sacrifice, the effect of it on him. And no one had ever thanked him or sympathized that he’d given up the best part of him to take care of family. A family in which two of its members resented him for making that choice.

  Alone. Here, in this parking lot, partially insulated from the public that had judged him so harshly, the remnants of the past clinging to him like skeletal fingers, he could admit that for fifteen years, he’d been so damn alone.

  That choice had cost him the closeness he’d once shared with his brothers. It’d stolen the plugged-in mother from his youth. The so-called friends he’d believed he had. Most of all, it’d left him bereft of his dreams and—how had she described it?—empty.

  Yes. Empty.

  But in this space, in this fleeting moment, he didn’t. With this woman, with her silken skin, molten eyes and temptress mouth, he felt...seen. And it sent heat rushing through him like air caught in a wind tunnel—loud, powerful and threatening to rip him apart. He edged his feet apart, slightly widening his stance as if bracing himself against the overwhelming longing to touch, to hold, to connect.

  He lifted his hand to brush his fingertips over her delicate jaw, waiting, no, expecting, her to wrench away from him to avoid his car
ess.

  She didn’t. Sophie stood still, her headed tilted back, gaze centered on him. She didn’t flinch from him. Didn’t question what the hell he was doing. No, those sweet lips parted on a soft gasp that went straight to his dick, grazing it.

  Locking down a groan behind clenched teeth, he shifted closer, turning slightly to shield her from any curious spectators. A thick cocoon of desire might be enfolding them, but it didn’t erase the fact that they stood off Main Street. But where minutes ago that would’ve prevented him from lowering his head over hers, moving nearer still until his chest pressed against hers and his thighs cradled the slim length of hers, more than ever, he was aware of the disparity in their heights and frames. His body nearly covered her, and the top of her head just barely skimmed his chin. The surge of lust sweeping through his veins, lighting them like an SOS flare, competed with the urge to protect. The impulse to conquer warred with the need to shelter. But instead of being torn in two by the opposing instincts, they melded, mating. Assuring him he could do both. That, by God, he should do both.

  His fingers continued to explore her jaw, her cheek, the thinner skin over her temple, the slope of her nose in spite of the lust baying in his head like howling dogs. He followed the graceful arches of her eyebrows before traveling back down to trace the upper curve of her mouth, linger in the shallow dip in the middle. Then, he moved to that plumper bottom lip, savoring the soft give of it under his fingertips. He didn’t offer just his thumb the treat of it. All his fingertips got in on the pleasure of the caress.

  Her breath hitched, and again he fought back a moan at the gentle gust of air against his suddenly overly sensitive skin. Words crowded at the back of his throat.

  Tell me I can have this temptation of a mouth that has woken me up, hard and hurting, for days now.

  Will you let me fuck this mouth, Sophie? Will you let me defile it so you can taste the dirtiness of my kiss for days? Weeks?

  But he didn’t utter them. Instinct warned him that breaking this lust-drenched and pulsing silence with any sound would rip this opportunity away from him. Shatter the cords that held them here in this moment—cords that shimmered with heat but were as fragile as glass.

  He’d hungered for this chance for too long. Battled himself over it too hard to abdicate it.

  So, instead, he planted his thumb in the middle of the bottom curve, pressed until the tip of his finger grazed the edges of her teeth. When she didn’t draw away from him but tilted her head forward to lean into the pressure, he shuddered.

  And when she parted those beautiful lips and flicked her tongue over his flesh, he had his answer.

  Not bothering to trap his groan in this time, he dipped his head and took her. Releasing the greedy sound into her mouth, replacing his thumb with the slick glide of his tongue.

  God, the taste of her.

  Sweet like the butter-pecan ice cream she’d been eating. Sultry like air thick and perfumed after a spring rain. Heady like a shot of whiskey. Deliciously wicked. Like sex.

  With hands going rough with greed, he burrowed one into her hair, fisting the strands and tugging. Tugging until her mouth was right where he wanted it...needed it. Her swallowed her small whimper, giving her a growl in return as she opened wider for him. Granting him entrance to her. To heaven.

  He thrust between those beautiful lips, tangling his tongue with hers, dancing, dueling. Because Sophie wasn’t a passive participant. Just as she challenged him in his office, in a newspaper conference room or a gym, she gave as good as she got here, as well. She sucked and licked, stroking into his mouth to demand and take.

  His grip on her hair and hip tightened, dragging her closer, impossibly closer. His hips punched forward, grounding his erection against the softness of her belly. Fire ripped a scorching path up his spine, then back down to his dick. Jesus, she was about to set him off like a teenager copping his first feel behind the gym bleachers. Cocking his head, he delved deeper, a desperate hunger for more digging into him. One nip of her lips, one sample of her taste, and he was hooked, ravenous for more.

  “Josh,” she breathed against his damp lips. Hearing the abbreviated version of his name had his flesh hardening further, had him aching. And he couldn’t not reward her—hell, thank her—with another drugging kiss and roll of his hips.

  The ring of a phone shattered the thick haze of lust that enclosed them.

  He lifted his head, the air in his lungs ragged and harsh. She stared up at him, those storm-gray eyes clouded with the same desire coursing through him like electrified currents. Her swollen mouth, wet from his tongue, glistened, and he’d lowered his head, submitting to the sensual beckoning of them when the peal of the phone jangled again.

  Dammit.

  Disentangling his hands from her hair and releasing the sweet curve of her hip, he stepped back, reaching in his pocket for his silent cell phone. At the same time, Sophie retrieved hers from the front pocket of her bag. Tapping the screen, she held the cell to her ear.

  “Hi, Althea,” she said, her gaze meeting his for a second before she turned away. Althea Granger, the editor in chief of the Falling Brook Chronicle. Her boss. “Yes, that’s not a problem. Has anyone else picked up the story yet?”

  A frigid deluge of water crashed over him in a wave.

  For moments, he’d felt young again. Free again. He’d allowed himself to forget who Sophie was. Who he was. But reality had a way of slapping the hell out of a person and reminding him that life wasn’t hand-holding and ice-cream cones or kissing a beautiful woman. It was hard, sometimes grueling work, disappointment and constantly brushing off scraped knees and bruised hands to get up and face it again.

  He could still taste the unique and addictive flavor of her on his lips, his tongue. But he couldn’t let Sophie Armstrong in. And her being a reporter was just one reason. A very good reason to keep his distance from her, but not the only one.

  When Vernon had left, he’d broken his ability to trust. And his brothers had trampled on the pieces on their way out of Falling Brook. Even his mother had abandoned him. Not physically, but definitely emotionally. When he loved people, when he let them in, they left. They eventually abandoned him.

  They eventually devastated him.

  No, he couldn’t trust Sophie. Leaving himself vulnerable again came at too high a price. And he had nothing left to pay it with.

  “Okay, I’ll head to the office now. See you in a few.” Sophie ended the call and faced him again. “Sorry about that.” She cleared her throat, twin flags of pink staining the slants of her cheekbones. Left over from their kiss—if that was what that clash of mouths, tongues and teeth could be labeled—or from the phone call. “I need to go into work for a few hours.”

  “I heard,” he said, deliberately infusing a sheet of ice into his voice. As if just seconds ago it hadn’t been razed to hell by lust. He glanced down at his watch. “That’s fine. I have to leave, too.” While he’d been taking her mouth, time had raced by, and he was due to pick up his mother in five minutes. But the errand was just a handy excuse to put distance between him and Sophie. Because in spite of his resolve and the reminder of why he couldn’t become involved with her, he still had to threaten himself with self-harm to avoid staring at her mouth like a marauding beast. “Have a good weekend, Sophie.”

  Not waiting on her reply, he pivoted on his heel and strode back in the direction they’d come. And if that cloak of loneliness settled across his shoulders again, well, it was preferable to pain.

  Preferable to betrayal.

  And Sophie smacked of both.

  Six

  Sophie wove a path among the many businessmen, socialites, philanthropists and even a handful of celebrities crowded into the Ronald O. Perelman Rotunda of the Guggenheim Museum in Manhattan. The annual Tender Shoots Art Gala brought all the tristate area’s glitterati out in support of the New York–based arts program.


  Taking a sip of her cocktail, she dipped her head in a shallow nod at a woman whose diamond necklace and ruby-red strapless gown could probably pay off the entirety of Sophie’s student loans. She held her head up, meeting the assessing gaze of every person she had eye contact with. Or maybe it just felt assessing to her. As if they were attempting to peer beneath the expertly applied makeup and strapless, glittery, floor-length dress that she’d needed a crowbar and a prayer to squeeze into in order to determine if she belonged.

  Well, at an invite-only event that required fifteen thousand a plate fee plus a hefty donation for entrance, she didn’t belong. She’d grown up in Falling Brook, one of the most exclusive, wealthiest communities along the Eastern Seaboard, but her family had been among the few middle-class residents who either owned businesses in town or worked for Falling Brook Prep, the independent K–twelve school. The kind of excess and luxury represented in the grand, open space surrounded by the spiral-ramped architecture capped by a gorgeous skylight exceeded her imagination and bank account. Thank God, Althea’s partner was a stylist who had let Sophie borrow a designer gown for the night. And didn’t that just increase the surreal feeling of Cinderella attending the ball before her carriage turned back into a pumkin that had filled her since stepping onto the curb outside the famous museum?

  If not for Althea receiving an invitation because of the paper’s piece about the event, the organization and the underprivileged youth it benefited, Sophie would be home, catching up on season two of The Handmaid’s Tale. But since it’d been Sophie’s article that had garnered the invite, Althea had convinced her to accept and attend. She should be grateful and flattered. But while she had no problem reporting on the country’s wealthy elite, she drew a line at socializing with them. It reminded her too much of a time in her life when she’d been blinded by their world and the man she’d once loved who’d belonged to it.