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“I became a reporter because it’s what I wanted to be.”
“Touché. And because you’re a good reporter, you know I am nothing like my father.”
She tilts her head as she regards me, a Mona Lisa smile touching her lips. “I know there’s no evidence of bribery, coercion or extortion.”
Some of my good humor evaporates, replaced by quiet anger.
“But?”
“But you’re still relentless. Borderline ruthless.”
“The same could be said of you.”
Darkness flares in her eyes, a sorrow that speaks to something deep inside me buried beneath years of pain. Then it’s gone and she raises her chin up in the air.
“Perhaps. But pair those qualities with astronomical wealth, good looks, and a silver tongue, and you have the conditions for a man who could be very dangerous.”
I smile. “You think I’m good-looking.”
That brow shoots up again. “You know you are.”
The wind kicks up over the edge of the cliff, gentler this time as the storm continues on its path just north of us. A stray lock of hair drifts across her cheek. I mentally curl my fingers back into my palm to stop my first inclination of reaching up to smooth the strand away.
“So you’re prejudiced against handsome, wealthy men.”
“Wary. Given my history, as you’ve discovered,” she says with a nod to the house behind me, “you can understand why.”
“I can understand why you had an aversion to my father.”
“Him. Damian Ruthford. Alfonso Adams. Peter Walter.”
She steps forward until she’s pressed against the gate. Damn it, I don’t want to like her. But my esteem for her climbs up as she says the names of the men she’s brought to their knees with the power of her pen.
“Yes, Mr. Drakos. I have an aversion. An aversion to men who abuse their wealth and power and leave nothing but suffering in their wake.”
I hear it, the slight catch in her voice.
“How did you suffer, Grey?”
Her throat moves as she swallows. Her eyes flick once more to the house, then back to me. All trace of yearning disappears as she meets my gaze.
“I didn’t suffer. I grew stronger.”
It’s not just respect that fills my chest. Not just lust that lurks in my veins. No, it’s recognition. Like me, Juliette faced down the impossible at a young age. We could have surrendered to our losses, our grief. But instead of letting it beat her, she fought back. We combatted instability, uncertainty, and rose to achieve our own forms of success. To carve out our places in the world and take pride in the roles we created.
I look back at the house. A few beams of watery sunlight break through the clouds to touch the fresh paint, making the railing of one of the second-floor balconies gleam white.
“You grew up here.”
“The house was in my mother’s family for five generations.”
“Grey House.” I glance around. “Aptly named.”
“Not everything has to be glittering gold.”
I turn back to see her look across the sea. Her face softens into a smile that makes my body tighten. These glimpses of the woman behind the reporter are unnerving. I can handle her determination, her confidence, even the attraction that sizzles between us, no matter how strong it may be.
But the softness...that’s a different beast. One that beckons, invites me to give in to that temptation to unravel the mystery of who this woman is, to get to know her better.