Ruthless Pride Page 9

  Too bad she hadn’t remembered not to cross that line that morning with Joshua Lowell.

  A convoluted mixture of embarrassment, self-directed anger and a relentless, aching need jumbled and twisted deep inside her. Just thinking of how he’d cupped her jaw, gently caressed her face and then claimed her mouth had her shouting obscenity-laced reprimands at herself...even as she pressed her thighs together to fruitlessly attempt to stifle the throbbing ache in her sex. And all that led to her embarrassment. The man had sexed her mouth, then walked away from her without a backward glance. As if that devastation of a kiss hadn’t affected him at all. If not for the insistent, commanding grind of his thick erection against her belly, she would’ve believed he hadn’t been.

  But no matter that he’d moaned into her mouth and had granted her a clear premonition of what it would be like to be controlled and branded by that big, wide-shouldered body, he had transformed from the approachable, almost vulnerable man who’d strolled down Main Street with her, licking ice cream in a way that had her sex ready to throw itself at his feet, to an iceberg who’d dismissed her as if their connection had been of no consequence. As if she were of no consequence. And hell, maybe to him, she wasn’t.

  Staring down into the glass, she didn’t see the pale gold champagne but his shuttered expression and flat stare as she’d ended her phone call. A shiver ran through her, as if the ice that had entered that measured inspection skated over her exposed skin now. She didn’t believe in deluding herself; she acknowledged that it’d been Althea’s call that had changed him. He’d no doubt suddenly been reminded of what they were to one another. She was the woman who had dragged the darkest, most scandalous parts of his history back out, dusted them off and planted them on the front page of the newspaper for public consumption. Again.

  Half of her was surprised he hadn’t asked her if that kiss was off the record. Despite her best efforts, her lips twisted into a slight sneer. As if she’d treat him to an ice-cream cone just to butter him up for a scoop—no pun intended. Screw it. That pun was totally intended.

  Smothering a sigh, she lifted her fluted glass to her lips and sipped. At least this gala provided one purpose. Distract her from thoughts of—

  Joshua.

  Her gaze locked with a beautiful and all too familiar pair of hazel eyes. Lust gut-punched her like a prizefighter with a penchant for ear biting. If not for her locked knees and sheer grit not to humiliate herself in the four-inch stilettos, the blow would’ve knocked her on her ass. Beneath the bandage-style bodice of her dress, her nipples drew into taut, pebbled points begging for just a whisper of a caress from those long, blunt-tipped fingers. Pinpricks of electricity rippled up and down her exposed spine, sizzling in the base of her spine. And her feminine flesh... She stifled a needy and shameful moan. Her flesh swelled, damp and sensitive from just a hooded glance from those green-and-gold and way too perceptive eyes.

  Good God, had she conjured him with her own wayward thoughts?

  “Ms. Armstrong?” a low, cultured voice called her name, and Sophie yanked her scrutiny away from Joshua. A tall, powerfully built and handsome man stood next to her. Black hair waved back from a high forehead, emphasizing a face with strong facial features, a full, sensual mouth and intense blue eyes. He smiled, flashing perfect white teeth. “You are Sophie Armstrong, correct?” he asked, extending a large hand toward her.

  “Yes,” she replied, accepting the hand. He squeezed it lightly before releasing it. “I’m sorry, do we know one another?”

  “No, we haven’t officially met. But I’ve followed your career these past few years from Chicago to the Falling Brook Chronicle. I’m a fan of your journalistic style. Most recently, I enjoyed the pieces you wrote on the Tender Shoots Arts Council as well as the one on the Black Crescent scandal. Considering the topic and the many times it’s been reported on, I thought you wrote an objective, well-researched article. Especially about Joshua Lowell and his former art career. I don’t think many people remember the accomplished artist he was and the potential career he once had.”

  Accomplished artist he is.

  The words burned on her tongue. No one with the kind of talent she’d seen in his work or whose voice contained the passion his had while describing what art had meant to him could turn off the God-given gift he’d been blessed with. Joshua might be the CEO of his father’s company, but now more than ever after this morning’s conversation with him, she was convinced the artist who’d created such awe-inspiring, magnificent pieces of art still existed beneath those expensive, perfectly tailored suits.

  “Thank you. I appreciate the compliment, Mr....” She trailed off. The man still hadn’t given her his name.

  A half smile quirked one corner of his mouth. “Christopher Harrison. I’m one of the organizers of the gala and on the board of trustees for the Tender Shoots Arts Council.”

  “Mr. Harrison.” She nodded. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Christopher, please. The pleasure is mine.” He crooked an arm and held it out to her. “Can I escort you into dinner? I believe we’re sitting at the same table.”

  A little bemused, she settled her hand in the bend of his elbow. “I’m sitting at your table?” she repeated, unable to keep out the edge of incredulity.

  He chuckled. “I confess to using my position with the organization to finagle a favor and moving your seat.” He shrugged, but nothing about him said repentant. “It’s one of the perks of the job.”

  “Do I need to be worried about why you want my company at your table?” she mused, part of her amused, but the other part wary. Years ago, another sophisticated, handsome man had approached her at a function. And his motives had been anything but pure. Too bad that by the time she’d figured that out, he’d nearly devastated her heart and her integrity. Old suspicions died hard.

  Speaking of suspicions...

  The charged tingle dancing across the nape of her neck informed her where Joshua stood. And she directed her glance in that direction. Immediately, his hazel gaze snared hers. Burning into hers. For a second, it released her to flicker to the man guiding her through the throng of people. Even across the distance, she caught the firming of his full lips, the darkening of his eyes. And when he returned his narrowed scrutiny to her, the fire in them seared over her exposed skin.

  She sucked in a breath, jerking her head forward. Because she needed to pay attention to where her feet and the man next to her were taking her.

  Not because she could no longer stand meeting that slightly ominous stare that had heat spiking in her body like she’d transformed into a thermometer.

  At least that was what she told herself. As she settled at one of the tables closest to the dais erected at the far end of the rotunda, she continued to remind herself of that. And even as the electrified crackle hummed under her skin, she refused to allow her attention to slip toward the table to her right. Joshua Lowell was just a man. Yes, a beautiful, imposing man who wore a tuxedo as if it’d been created with the sole purpose of adorning that tall, powerful body. A complicated man who was like a puzzle missing several pieces. Pieces she wanted to hunt down and fit into the empty spaces so she could determine who he really was. The arrogant, commanding CEO with the icy reserve? Or the passionate artist who revealed tantalizing glimpses of vulnerability and kissed like he could consume a woman whole and make her beg him to take more?

  He’s a man who wants revenge because of the story you wrote on him and his family. A man who denies the existence of his child and is using you to control if you reveal it or not.

  Or maybe one who just desperately sought to discover if he truly had a daughter that he’d known nothing about?

  Jesus, she was arguing with herself. It was official. Joshua—or this unwarranted and dangerous fascination with him—was driving her nuts.

  That same fascination had her casting a glance to the neighboring table. She w
as a masochist. There was no other explanation. And yet, she found herself once more helplessly ensnared by a copper-and-emerald stare as she’d been in the reception area.

  Flayed. That was what that intense, gorgeous and entirely too-perceptive scrutiny did to her. Leave her flayed, open and exposed. Did he see the dueling emotions he stirred in her—the desire for distance, to borrow some of that renowned aloofness, and the desire to feel the intimidating thick length of him again. Not against her stomach this time, but inside her. Stretching her. Marking her.

  The woman next to Joshua, a stunning redhead in a black sequined dress that screamed couture, leaned into him, whispering in his ear. He turned to her, releasing Sophie from their visual showdown.

  A shaft of...something hot and ugly pierced her chest. She couldn’t identify it. Wouldn’t identify it. Because it wasn’t jealousy. The woman, with the onyx jewels dripping from her ears and encircling her neck, belonged to his world. They were perfect for each other.

  “Do you know Joshua?” Christopher’s question yanked her from the rabbit hole that she’d been in the process of tumbling down. She met his curious gaze. Saw when it flickered toward the other table and Joshua and returned to her. “Are you two acquainted?”

  “God, no,” she denied with a small deprecating chuckle. Not a lie, exactly. She doubted anyone really knew Joshua Lowell. And something whispered that he preferred it that way. “I just wrote an article on one of the darkest periods in his and his family’s lives. I’m sure he’s not a fan of mine.”

  “Hmm.” Christopher studied her, and she refused to fidget beneath that assessing regard. “I can understand that, I guess. Although, like I mentioned earlier, all things considered, it was a fair piece.” He lifted a glass of wine and sipped from it, continuing to study her over the rim. “He’s one of our major contributors to the nonprofit. Not surprising, really, with his own background in art.”

  Yes, she could see that. He might not create pieces anymore but imagining him pouring financial support into the lives of underprivileged youth so they might have the advantages of following the path he’d walked away from wasn’t hard.

  Still... She glanced over at one of the walls where numerous canvases, pen-and-ink drawings and framed photographs hung. The oversize, mixed-media collages that used to be Joshua’s trademark would seamlessly fit in here. Did he ever wish they were? Did he ever dream of walking into this famed museum and seeing his pieces adorning these off-white walls?

  Did it cause him pain to attend a gala celebrating art knowing he couldn’t have this? Knowing others were doing what he’d been created to do?

  She forced herself not to look at Joshua this time. Afraid she would see what she wanted to instead of who he really was. Maya Angelou had said, “When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.” That day she’d barged into his office, he’d shown her the ruthless, dismissive and cold businessman. She needed to remember that, brand that image into her mind so when she started to visualize more—a sensitive, burdened man who grieved all that he’d lost—she’d shut that down.

  And if that didn’t work, remember Laurence Danvers. Remember how she’d spectacularly crashed and burned by almost choosing a man over her career, over her ethics. She’d paid for those errors in judgment, for her willing blindness.

  Never again, though.

  Returning her attention to Christopher, she finished dinner with a smile and surprisingly entertaining conversation. Charismatic and funny, he effortlessly charmed her, and when the dishes were cleared and the guests headed back toward the reception area for dancing and more cocktails, she accepted his invitation to join him out on the dance floor.

  Tilting her head back, she smiled up at him. “Not that I doubt you could enjoy my company, but, call it a reporter’s intuition, I just have the sense you didn’t seek me out because of my smile. Or this dress. As gorgeous as it may be.”

  He grinned, his fingers tightening around her fingers. “It is that, but not as beautiful as the woman wearing it.” When she arched an eyebrow, he tipped his head back, laughing. And drawing the attention of the couples swaying to the jazz music along with them. “Your reputation for a no-nonsense investigative journalist is well earned, Sophie Armstrong. I did have an ulterior motive when I approached you this evening.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  “Our nonprofit is always seeking out new ways to bring in donations and media coverage that will result in even more donations. Funding and philanthropic gifts are this organization’s lifeblood,” he said, the humor evaporating from his voice and the intensity that had radiated from him since their initial meeting intensified. “I read your article on the Lowell family and Black Crescent. But my particular interest in the piece was the attention placed on Joshua Lowell. The artist submerged, if I remember correctly. It started me thinking. What if the artist reemerged? Returned to the world where he once stood on the cusp of a promising career? Can you imagine the stir and the money that would bring to Tender Shoots?”

  Against her will, excitement kindled in her chest. Yes, she could imagine this. All too easily. Maybe not if she hadn’t walked along a sidewalk with him and caught the embers of a deliberately banked passion in his eyes, in his words. But Christopher was correct on all accounts. Joshua returning to the art world would be huge—for both the nonprofit and him.

  “I agree it would benefit all involved,” she replied vaguely. “But what does it have to do with me?”

  “I have an admission to make, Sophie,” he said, and unlike his playful confession earlier about the seating arrangements, this one caused an unsettling dip in her stomach. “After the article in the Falling Brook Chronicle, I researched you. I believe you, more than anyone, can appreciate the need to protect my sources, but despite telling me earlier that you didn’t know him, I discovered you were spotted in Joshua Lowell’s company several times.”

  She remained silent, not confirming or denying. But her heart thundered against her rib cage. Though there’d been nothing untoward or illicit about their meetings—don’t even think about the kiss!—just the perception of conflict of interest could be detrimental to her reputation and career. Her original instinct to be wary around Christopher deepened, and she schooled her features into a polite but distant mask.

  “I can guess what you’re assuming, Sophie, and you’re wrong,” he murmured, voice gentling. “I don’t intend to accuse you of anything or use my information against you or him.”

  “Then what are your intentions?” she demanded.

  “I need your help in convincing him to consider a showing next year. Just because of who he is—the CEO of Black Crescent Hedge Fund—but also because of how he walked away from what critics had predicted to be an important art career.”

  Before he finished speaking, Sophie was already shaking her head. “I don’t know why you’d think I possess the influence to convince Joshua Lowell to do anything, but—”

  “Because I’ve seen how he hasn’t been able to tear his gaze off you all evening. And how you’ve pretended not to notice—when you haven’t been staring back at him,” he interrupted. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

  Her pulse was a deafening beat in her ears, in her blood. “You’re wrong,” she rasped. And hated that her voice held the consistency of fresh-out-the-package sandpaper. “We barely know each other. And even if we were...more acquainted, Joshua Lowell has buried that side of himself. And it would take much more than a few words from me to resurrect it.” But what if there was a chance for him to discover his passion again? She waved the hand that’d been resting on Christopher’s shoulder. To dismiss his request or her own thoughts? Both applied. And anyway, it wasn’t her business. Joshua wasn’t her business. “I’m sorry, Christopher. I’ve enjoyed your company tonight, but your efforts on me were wasted. What you’re looking for is a miracle, and unfortunately, I’m not in that market.”

  A
sardonic smile curved a corner of his mouth, although his gaze on her remained sharp. Too sharp. “Okay, Sophie. But, if you please, just think about what I’m asking. And if one day you do find yourself in the position to carry influence with him, I and my organization would appreciate it if you would broach the possibility of a show with him. It would help so many students and could very well affect lives.”

  “Really?” she drawled. “The change-lives card? You’re pulling out the big guns.”

  He chuckled, squeezing her fingers. “I’m nothing if not persistent and shameless.”

  Thankfully, he dropped the subject. But after their dance ended and she strolled off the crowded floor, a weariness crept over her. She was ready to call it an evening and moved across the room, removing her cell from her purse to place a call to the car service that had picked her up and dropped her off here hours ago. Accepting her thin wrap from the coat check minutes later, she stepped out into the warm May evening. Sounds and scents of the City That Never Sleeps echoed around her—honks, voices carried in the night, exhaust from the passing traffic and the frenetic energy that popped and crackled in the air. There’d been a time when she’d believed her future lay in New York or a busy city like it. But Falling Brook, with its slower pace and smaller population, was home, and she wouldn’t want to live anywhere else.

  “Leaving so early?”

  She shivered as the deep, dark timbre of the voice that held a hint of gravel rolled over her. Vibrated within her. Tightening the wrap around her shoulders, she glanced at Joshua. Several inches separated them, but the distance meant nothing with that stare blazing down at her. Lighting her up. Pebbling her nipples. Wetting the insides of her thighs. Another tremble worked its way through her, and those narrowed eyes didn’t miss her reaction.