Ruthless Pride (Dynasties: Seven Sins Book 1)

by Naima Simone

  Why Joshua hadn’t had her escorted out still nagged at her. Just as memories of the CEO did.

  She shook her head, as if she could dislodge the question and the man from her mind with the gesture. As if it were that simple.

  “Sophie.” Althea Granger appeared next to her cubicle, as if her thoughts had conjured the older woman. With thick dark hair, smooth, unlined brown skin and beautiful features, she could’ve easily been mistaken for a retired model rather than the editor in chief of the exclusive bedroom community of Falling Brook’s newspaper. But after stints in major papers across the country, she’d run the Chronicle with a steel hand, judicious eye and the political acumen of a seasoned senator for years. And she was Sophie’s mentor and idol. “Could you join me in the conference room, please?”

  “Absolutely.” Sophie rose from her desk chair, ignoring Marie’s concerned glance. Too bad she couldn’t do the same for the kernel of trepidation that lodged between her ribs. Usually, if Althea wanted to speak with her, it was in her office. Not the more formal conference room.

  Could this be about her article? No, it couldn’t be. She instantly rejected the thought. Althea had personally read and approved the story before it’d run in this morning’s paper. If she’d thought Sophie had gone too far, hadn’t been professional or objective in her reporting, the other woman would’ve had no problem in calling her on it.

  Then what could it...possibly...be... Oh God.

  She almost jolted to a halt in the doorway of the room where most of their editorial meetings were held. Somehow, she managed not to grab on to the jamb to steady her suddenly precarious balance.

  Joshua Lowell.

  He stood at the head of the long, rectangular table, hands in the pockets of his perfectly tailored, probably ridiculously expensive navy blue suit, those unnervingly sharp and beautiful hazel eyes fixed on her.

  How wrong that eyes so lovely—light brown with vivid brushes of emerald green—were wasted on such a hard, cold...gorgeous...face.

  Okay. So, she hadn’t fabricated how unjustly stunning the man was. It seemed unfair, really. Joshua Lowell, a millionaire, CEO, son of a powerful if notorious family, educated and sophisticated, and then God had deemed fit to top that sundae of privilege with a face and body that belonged pressed on an ancient coin or forever immortalized in marble for some art collector’s pleasure.

  She tried and failed not to stare at the angular face with its jut of cheekbones and stone-hewn jaw—the stark lines should’ve been severe, made him appear harsh. But the beauty of those eyes and the lushness of his too-sensual-for-her-comfort mouth with its fuller bottom lip softened the severity, making him a fascinating study of contrasts. Cruelty and tenderness. Coldness and warmth. Carnality and virtue.

  Her gaze reluctantly drifted from his face to his broad shoulders, the wide chest that tapered to a narrow waist and hips. She couldn’t see his thighs from her still-frozen position in the doorway, but her brain helpfully supplied how the muscular length of them had pressed against his slacks days ago. With his lean but powerful body, the man obviously worked out. Probably unleashed a lot of aggression there.

  How else did he release emotion?

  Stop it, she snapped at her wayward mind. We don’t care.

  Mentally rolling her eyes at herself, she forced her feet to move forward, carrying her farther into the room. Joshua Lowell might look like he flew down on winged feet from Mount Olympus, but he was still an arrogant ass. One who, most likely, was here either to try to get her fired or threaten a lawsuit. That ought to knock down his hot factor several notches.

  Should.

  “Sophie, please close the door behind you,” Althea instructed. Once Sophie shut the door with a quiet click, the editor in chief nodded toward Joshua. “Mr. Lowell, I’d like to introduce you to Sophie Armstrong, the journalist of the article in today’s edition.”

  Her pulse echoed in her ears as she waited, breath snagged in her throat, for Joshua to out her to her employer. But after a long moment, he only arched a dark blond eyebrow. His gaze didn’t waver from her as he smoothly said, “Ms. Armstrong.”

  Relief flooded her, almost weakening her knees. Above all things, Althea was a professional, and she wouldn’t have appreciated finding out Sophie had met him before. No, correction. How she’d met him.

  But suspicion immediately nipped at relief’s heels. Why hadn’t he told Althea the truth? What did he want? She didn’t know him, but she doubted he did anything magnanimously without it benefiting him. And he owed nothing to her, the reporter who had just aired his family’s dark past all over the front page.

  “Ms. Granger, I would appreciate it if you gave Ms. Armstrong and me a moment alone, please.” He’d added please, but it wasn’t a request.

  And Althea didn’t take it as one, though she did turn to her and ask, “Sophie?”

  No. The answer branded her tongue, but the last time she’d checked, she wasn’t a coward. And since she’d crashed Black Crescent’s proverbial gates, it would be the height of hypocrisy to claim fear of being alone with him now. Even if her heart thudded against her chest like a bass drum.

  “It’s fine,” she said.

  “Okay.” She continued to peer at Sophie for several more seconds, and, apparently satisfied with Sophie’s poker face, she nodded. “Fine, but, Mr. Lowell,” she added, swinging her attention back to Joshua, “I’m going to trust the words lawsuit and libel won’t be thrown around in my absence. If so, I fully advise and expect Sophie to end the conversation so I can introduce you to our legal department.”

  With a smile that belied she’d just threatened to sic lawyers on him, Althea exited the room, leaving her alone with Joshua. And a table that had provided adequate enough distance before seemed to shrink, leaving her no protection.

  “I assume your editor doesn’t know about your little excursion to my office,” he stated, with that flat note she’d come to associate with him.

  “No,” she said. “But of course you already figured that out. Why didn’t you tell her?”

  “Because it doesn’t serve me well to do so right now. And—” his voice deepened to a slightly ominous timbre that had trepidation and—God—whispers of excitement tripping down her spine “—if anyone is going to deliver trouble to your doorstep, Sophie Armstrong, it’s going to be me.”

  That statement might not have contained lawsuit or libel, but it was still most definitely a threat.

  “I assume you’re here about the piece in the Chronicle.” She switched the subject, not wanting to dwell on what kind of “trouble” he wanted to visit on her. “Why don’t you just get to it?”

  He studied her, his silence heavy but fairly vibrating with the tension that seemed to crackle beneath his stoic facade. And something—call it a reporter’s instinct or a woman’s sixth sense—assured her that it was indeed a facade. Which meant more lurked beneath the surface that he didn’t want anyone to see, to know. Secrets. The journalist in her, definitely not the woman, wanted to ferret out those secrets. Hungered to expose them to the light.

  “Yes, why don’t we just ‘get to it,’” he repeated, making her suggestion sound like something more wicked. “I want to know how you acquired the photographs in the article.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest and shook her head. “From my sources, and before you issue a demand wrapped up in a request, I can’t reveal them.”

  “Can’t,” he pressed, “or won’t?”

  She shrugged a shoulder. “In this case, it’s the same difference.”

  Another long beat where his unwavering, intense gaze scrutinized her. “Do you know what you are, Ms. Armstrong?” he finally murmured.

  “Let me guess. A bitch,” she supplied, slipping a bored note into her voice. Wouldn’t be the first time a man in his position had called her that name when she’d pressed too hard, questioned too much or
just didn’t go sit behind a desk or on a set and look pretty. Journalism, especially investigative journalism, wasn’t for the weak of heart or the thin of skin. And that word seemed to be the go-to to describe a strong woman with an opinion, a spine and unwillingness to be silenced.

  “No.” A flash of disgust flickered across his face as if just hearing that word sickened him. Or maybe the thought of calling a woman that particular insult did... “Maybe you would prefer if I called you that. Because then you could justify my being here as sour grapes and damaged pride over a story. But I refuse to make it that easy for you. No, Ms. Armstrong, you are not a bitch,” he continued, and the disdain that had appeared in his expression saturated his voice. “You are a vulture. A scavenger who picks at carrion until there’s nothing left but the bleached, dry bones.”

  That shouldn’t have hurt her. But, God, it did. It slashed across her chest to burrow deep beneath bone and marrow to the core of her that believed in fairness and truth. Never in her reporting had she gone out of the way to hurt someone. Which had been one reason why she’d gone to see Joshua in the first place. She’d wanted his side, to ensure the article hadn’t been skewed.

  Maybe it was a remnant from being the child of divorced parents. From that hyperawareness that ensured neither her mother nor her father feel like she loved one more than the other. That she didn’t confide in, call or lavish attention on one without making sure she gave the other equal affection. That balance had been stressful as a child who’d felt torn between two warring parents. And now, as an adult, that careful balancing act had carried over into her job. She ensured she presented both sides of an issue. And for Joshua to attack that vulnerable center of her... It shook her. It hurt her.

  “In your thirst for a juicy story and a byline, did you even once stop to consider the consequences? Did you pause to ask yourself how it would affect my family? My mother? She’s had to deal with the fallout of someone else’s actions for years. Years,” he bit out, true anger melting the ice of his tone. Sunlight streamed through the windows behind him, hitting his dirty-blond hair and setting the gold strands aglow. Like an avenging angel. “She’s suffered, and dredging up ancient history for the sake of salacious gossip will only inflict more harm. But, of course, you couldn’t be bothered to take into account anyone or anything else but your own ambition.”

  “My own ambition?” she repeated, grinding the words out between clenched teeth. She lowered her arms and her fingers curled into fists at her thighs, as she almost trembled with the need to defend herself. To tell him that wasn’t her at all. But screw that. She hadn’t done a hatchet job; she’d simply done her job. Period. And she’d been fair. Damn fair. “You don’t know the first thing about me, so don’t shove your own biases on me. I understand that you might not be able to view the article objectively, but believe me, I showed admirable restraint. I could have included the complete, unvarnished truth about who and what you are. A truth I’m sure the ‘hero’—” she sneered the word “—of Black Crescent wouldn’t want to get out.”

  He didn’t reply. Didn’t react at all. His hazel gaze bored into her, and she refused to flinch under that poker face that reduced hers to an amateurish attempt.

  “I have no idea what you’re alluding to. I haven’t done anything wrong or that I need to be ashamed of. As much to the contrary as your story hinted at, I haven’t been my father’s puppet. I’ve done nothing but try to repair the damage he caused. That’s all I’ve ever done.”

  Joshua probably wasn’t aware of the strained note in his voice, the almost silent fervency that stretched from his words. Yes, she couldn’t deny the truth of his statement. Even if the possibility existed that Vernon was pulling the strings all these years, it didn’t negate the fact that Joshua had abandoned what had appeared to be a very promising art career to take over the family company. To head it and bear all the heat, enmity and distrust as well as the responsibility on his still-young shoulders. His twin, Jake, hadn’t been seen in Falling Brook for fifteen years, and the younger brother, Oliver, had fallen into a destructive partying lifestyle. So everything had fallen to him, and Joshua had put aside his own dreams to take up the burden.

  No matter how she felt about the man and his actions, she had to respect that sacrifice.

  “Anything I’ve done, it was and is to protect and take care of my family. I have no shame in that,” he said, and that air of arrogance, of utter lack of remorse just... Dammit, it just pissed her off.

  “Now, that is rich coming from you,” she drawled, propping a hip against the conference table.

  His aloof expression remained, but he cocked his head to the side. “And what the hell do you mean by that?” he demanded, almost...pleasantly. But the glitter in his eyes belied the tone.

  “Oh, I think you know... Daddy.”

  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.