by Naima Simone
“What is it?” he asked, voice low, intense.
“Look,” she instructed instead of answering. “Please.”
After another long second, he finally nodded and accepted the binder. Her heart slammed against her rib cage like a wild thing, reverberating in her head and deafening her to everything but the incessant pounding.
Slowly, he flipped the top open.
And froze.
Afraid to lift her gaze to his face—afraid of what she’d glimpse there—she, too, studied the image of one of his mixed-media collages. This one reflected the tragedies of war. With haunting photographs, pieces of metal that appeared to be machinery, newspaper and paint, he’d created a powerful work that, even though it was a black-and-white copy, thrust into her chest and seized every organ. She felt when she looked at his art. Anger, grief, fear but also hope and joy. Jesus, how could one man create such raw, wild beauty? How could he walk away from it? Had it been like cauterizing a part of himself? She couldn’t imagine...
Silent, Joshua flipped to the next page. A black-and-white copy of a piece commentating on homelessness. Another page. A work celebrating women, their struggle, their suffering, their strength, their beauty. Page after page of his art that both criticized and celebrated the human condition.
When he reached the last copy, he sat there, unmoving, peering down at it, unblinking.
“Why?” he rasped, the first word he’d spoken in the last ten minutes as he perused his past and what had once been his future.
She didn’t pretend to misunderstand his question. “When I was researching you and your family for the first article, I came across several stories about you as an artist. From your college and local newspapers as well as several art columns. They carried pictures of your art. And they were so... Good is such an inadequate choice. They were visceral. And to think you, Joshua Lowell, had created them...” She shrugged a shoulder. “I guess it became kind of an obsession. I hunted down any image of your work I could find. Finding out about this man who could drag this from his soul and share it with the world? I needed to talk to him, to discover how he’d become a CEO instead of an artist. And that’s why I wanted the article to include that side of you. Because I was struggling with reconciling the two.”
“That man doesn’t exist anymore,” Joshua stated flatly. “You’re searching for a ghost. He was buried fifteen years ago.”
“I don’t believe that,” she countered. He glanced sharply at her, but she didn’t tone down her vehemence. “You might have tried, but he trickles through when you help others follow their own dreams about art. When you support them and give your time and money toward them. If you’d truly put that man aside, he wouldn’t help others who need him. That passion to educate people about this world may not have been exhibited in artwork these past years, but you still reveal it in your actions.”
He shook his head, and despite the grim line of his full mouth, a tenderness entered his gaze. “You see what and who you want to, Sophie.”
“No, I see you. This.” She smoothed a hand over the image of his artwork. “This is you. A visionary. An activist and change agent in your own way. An artist.” She tilted her head, studied his face. “What if your life doesn’t end with Black Crescent? What if, after all these years, it’s your time to live your own life, the one you left behind for family? A family that you owe nothing to but love and loyalty. You once said you couldn’t abandon your family. But then you abandoned yourself. What’s the worst that could happen if you followed your own delayed dreams, your own passions? Your mother will be okay and taken care of. And your brothers? If they choose to cut you out of their lives, then that’s their problem and issues, not yours. Now’s your time. And you never know. Maybe if given no other chance but to step up and assume the mantle of responsibility that you’ve worn for so long, your brothers might surprise you and do it.”
She hesitated. Did she tell him all of it? In for a penny and all that... Inhaling a deep breath, she held it, then exhaled. And leaped.
“I didn’t tell you before now, but Christopher Harrison with the Tender Shoots nonprofit approached me about you at the gala. He read my article, saw the pictures of your art included in it. He wants to offer you your own show in Manhattan, at the Guggenheim. Not only to bring in money for the organization, but he would be excited about seeing you reemerge as the artist you were. Are.”
For a moment—a quick, heart-stopping moment—a light glittered in his eyes. A light that could’ve been hope or joy. But then, in the very next, his hazel eyes dimmed. And disappointment squeezed her chest, her heart. He glanced away from her, staring at the far wall as if it revealed precious answers.
“That’s not possible, and I’m not interested. You have no clue how it is to live under the weight of society’s expectations,” he murmured. His fingers curled into a fist atop the binder. But deliberately, he stretched them out, splaying them across the page—covering the image of his art. “You don’t understand the burden of always knowing someone’s waiting for you to misstep to prove that bad blood will out. It doesn’t matter whether I continue to run Black Crescent or pick up a camera or paintbrush again. I can’t escape, because I can’t evade who I am. Joshua Lowell, Vernon Lowell’s son.”
She swallowed the silent sob of frustration, anger and grief. Grief for the man who believed he was forever tainted by the actions of his father. Who believed the only road available to him was the one he trod—even if it led to a future that wasn’t his.
“Maybe not,” she murmured, cupping his cheek and turning his face toward her. “But maybe I can help you bear the burden. Just a little.”
Leaning forward, she brushed her lips across his, then covered his mouth with hers. His groan vibrated between them, before he turned, letting the binder fall to the floor, and hauled her up the bed. He took control of the kiss, crawling over her, finding his place between her thighs.
And as he consumed them both with his burning passion, she wept inside for him.
For the both of them.
Ten
“Josh, I’m heading home now,” Haley announced from the doorway of his office. “Do you need anything before I leave?”
Joshua looked up from his computer. “No, I’m good.”
Nodding, she stepped back, then paused, tilting her head to the side. “Everything okay with you?”
He leaned back in his chair, frowning. Other than a busy schedule and meetings all day, he was fine. He also had plans to meet Sophie at her apartment, so he was actually more than fine. But that, he kept to himself. “Yes, why do you ask?”
“You seem, I don’t know—” her hazel eyes narrowed on him “—relaxed this past week. Something up I should know about?”
He snorted. “No, Haley. I’m good, like I said.”
“Okay, if you say so.”
“I say so.”
“Well, not saying I don’t believe you, but whatever—or whoever—has turned you into the Zen version of Joshua Lowell, give them—or her—my thanks.” With an impish smile and arched eyebrow, she stepped back and shut the door behind her before he could reply.
“Brat,” he muttered, but after a moment, chuckled. Yes, she was definitely the annoying younger sister he never asked for. But he didn’t know what he’d do without her, either.
Glancing at the clock at the bottom of his monitor, he nodded. Six ten. Finishing a review of the report his CFO had sent him would take only about fifteen more minutes, twenty tops. Then he could head out.
When was the last time he’d looked forward to leaving his office that had become his second—hell, first—home? Not until Sophie. A lot of things in his life could be separated into two eras. Before the Scandal and, now, After Sophie.
God, when had she become that significant in his life?
The answer blazed bright and sure. From the moment she barged into his office, demanding and so beautiful.
From the release of the article, to her revelation about his supposed child, to her ice-thawing passion and kindness... She’d changed his world.
She’d changed him.
A kernel of fear rooted inside him, and try as he might, he couldn’t dislodge it. It’d been there since Monday night after she’d shocked him with the binder full of his previous artwork, and damn near taken him out with her body and the abandoned pleasure she’d offered him.
No one had ever taken the time to look further than the persona he presented. No one had bothered. Except for Sophie. She’d challenged him, as she’d been doing since their first meeting. Daring him to grab ahold of the dreams, the future he’d aborted when his father had disappeared. For a moment, he’d glimpsed what he could have, who he could be through her eyes. And the joy that had spread through him like the brightest and warmest of lights had been stunning. And terrifying.
Stunning because he hadn’t felt such happiness in years—fifteen to be exact.
And terrified because he wanted it so badly. His old life back. The opportunity to work in his passion again. The possibility of his own show.
Sophie.
But he couldn’t have any of them.
None of them were meant for him.
All he could do was be satisfied with the here and now, because it, too, would eventually end. Sophie would eventually leave him when she became discontented with what he could offer her. What he couldn’t give her.
But he knew that going in. Everything ended. Everyone left.
Shaking his head, he frowned, refocusing on the work he had left to finish. But then a notification for an email popped up on the bottom of his screen.
The frown deepened, as did an unnerving sense of dread.
He hesitated, his cursor hovering over the notice. Dammit, what was he doing? It could be anyone. His clients and some of his employees worked longer hours than him. The message could be from any one of them.
Clenching his jaw, he resolutely clicked on the notification.
Anonymous.
Just like the name on the message that had arrived in his inbox yesterday.
Congratulations, Papa! Your daughter can’t wait to meet you!
He’d passed it off as some kind of joke. Since no one had contacted him about a possible child, and Sophie hadn’t found anything more concrete yet, he’d assumed the DNA test had been a mistake. Or a way to just mess with him by inserting his name at the top. Wouldn’t he know, somehow feel, if he had a child out there? Though it’d thrown him, he’d ignored the email yesterday...and hadn’t told Sophie about it.
But now, he stared at another email from the same person. Disquiet settled over him like a suffocating weight. Trepidation churned in his gut, and his grip on his mouse tightened until the casing squeaked a threatening crack.
He didn’t want to open it.
So he did.
Don’t know why you’re denying it. I paid good money to make sure you’d get the proof.
The words blurred, jumbled together, then leaped into startling clarity. They glared up at him, almost blinding him. Tearing his gaze from the message, he pushed from his chair and stalked across the room, thrusting his fingers through his hair. But he couldn’t escape the image branded into his head.
I paid good money to make sure you’d get the proof.
There was only one person who’d brought an illegitimate child to his attention.
One person who’d provided him with the so-called proof.
Sophie.
Anger rolled through him like an ominous storm cloud spiked with bolts of lightning. Hot, heavy, sizzling.
He’d been so stupid. So goddamn blind.
What had been her endgame? Send him on this wild-goose chase, pretend to help him just to get close and what? Write a story on the whole journey? Paint him as some deadbeat? Or a pathetic father on the search for a child who wasn’t his? That maybe didn’t even exist?
Pain tried to course through him, but he blocked it. Allowed the fury to capsize it.
Fury was better. It razed everything to the ground. Including the fact that he’d started to trust this woman, and he’d been betrayed.
Again.
* * *
Sophie stepped off the elevator onto the second floor of the Black Crescent building. Anticipation danced a quick step inside her, and she smiled. Joshua would be surprised to see her there, since they’d planned to meet at her apartment later. But she couldn’t wait. She’d finished the follow-up article and wanted to give him the first look at it before Althea saw it Friday morning.
God, this trod so close to her experience with Laurence. She’d made the mistake of granting him the opportunity to read her articles first. But unlike her ex, Joshua wouldn’t use this as a chance to sabotage the story or have her change it to fit his needs or agenda. One, Joshua didn’t have an agenda. But two, and most important, he wasn’t Laurence.
Nerves trotted in her belly, but they didn’t trump the happiness spilling through her veins. This week had revealed even more of the man she’d fallen so hard for.
Yes, she could admit it to herself.
She loved Joshua Lowell.
And no, he hadn’t rescinded his “no relationships” condition, but he felt more for her than someone to warm his—or her—bed. She sensed it in his every small but genuine smile, the casual affection, the endearments, in the time he asked to spend with her.
God, did it make her pathetic that she was another woman believing she could change a man?
Probably.
But the knowledge didn’t dim her smile as she knocked on his door, then pushed it open.
“Josh,” she greeted, entering his inner sanctum. “I know we were supposed to meet at...” She trailed off, taking in the guarded, aloof expression she hadn’t seen in a week. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
She rushed forward to his desk, but drew to an abrupt halt when he rose, that glacial stare not melting or wavering from her face. No, it hardened, and dread curdled in her stomach. What the hell was going on here?
“Josh?” she whispered.
“Joshua,” he corrected in an arctic voice that matched his gaze.
Only her hands flattened on his desk kept her from crumbling to the floor. But it couldn’t prevent her heart from cracking down the middle and screams wailing from every jagged break.
“What’s going on?” she rasped. “Why—”
Without shifting his contemptuous regard from her face, he slowly spun the monitor on his desk around to face her. She dragged her eyes from the stark lines and sharp angles that she’d just traced with her lips the night before and shifted them to the computer screen.
A thread of emails. From an address named Anonymous.
She skimmed them, her horror growing, the slick, grimy strands twisting around the happiness that had filled her only moments earlier, strangling it until only sickness remained. Bile surged up from her stomach, past her chest and raced for her throat. Convulsively, she swallowed it down.
Not because of what the emails stated; she had no idea who had sent them or what they were implying by paying to make sure Joshua had received the DNA test. Because she hadn’t received any money. But obviously, just one glance at the anger and disdain in his green-and-gold eyes, and she knew—she knew—he believed she had.
The nausea swelled again with a vengeance.
“I don’t know what this is supposed to mean,” she said, reaching for a calm that had abandoned her the moment she’d stepped into this office. “No one gave me money to give you the DNA results. But you don’t believe me,” she added, voice curiously flat.
“What, Sophie? I’m supposed to believe you over my lying eyes?” he drawled, eyes snapping fire. “I wondered why you would show me the test when you were so adamant about protecting your res
earch and sources.” He loosed a harsh, serrated bark of ugly laughter. “Now I have my answer.”
“You really think I would do this? Accept a bribe to trick you into believing you had a daughter?” she demanded, her own rage kindling, burning away the pain. For now. “For what? Why would I do that?”
“You’re a reporter, Sophie. I don’t know. An editorial piece that could grace the front of your paper might be a very good reason.” A terrible half smile curved the corner of his mouth. “How would your editor in chief feel if she knew her star reporter resorted to underhanded tactics just to get a story?”
So much for the anger. Pain, red-hot and consuming, blazed a path through her. She could barely draw in a breath that didn’t hurt. But she wouldn’t allow him to see it. She’d given him everything—her trust, her faith...her love. And he’d shit over all of it.
No, he’d get nothing else. Most definitely not her tears or her pride. Fuck him.
“I don’t know why I’m so surprised,” she said, jerking her chin higher. “This is what you wanted. What you were waiting on. And that email is just the convenient excuse.”
“Should I know what you’re referring to?” he asked, the man who’d made her laugh, made her cry out in the most unimaginable pleasure, gone. And in his place stood the man of ice she’d originally met those weeks ago.
“You’re so transparent, Joshua,” she murmured, shaking her head. “You’ve just been waiting for me to screw up. To disappoint you. To leave you. Just like everyone else. But the sad part of it is I wouldn’t have. I would’ve stayed by your side for as long as you asked. Longer. But you can’t trust that. You can’t possibly believe someone would put you first, would love you enough to never abandon or hurt you.”
“Sophie,” he growled, but she cut him off with a slash of her hand.
“No. You would rather self-sabotage and destroy what we had, what we could’ve had if you’d just let me love you and let yourself love. Instead, you would accuse me of something so horrible, so cruel that it’s beneath me and definitely beneath you. You’re nothing but a coward, Joshua Lowell.” She shoved off the desk, silently promising her legs they could crumble later once she was in her car and away from this place, this man. But not now. “You’ve been running scared for so long that you can’t even recognize when someone is running toward you and with you, not from you.”
