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And some small, embarrassingly vulnerable part of me wants to know why he did.

I crush that part ruthlessly. Because I am not here to be flattered. I'm here to do my job.

“Really?” I arch one eyebrow. “Is that the angle you’re going with?”

His smile falters.

“Angle?”

“Flirt with the desperate little reporter. Make her feel special because the great Mitchell Knight noticed her, and maybe she’ll forget all those pesky questions she came here to ask?”

Something changes in his expression.

Not much. But enough.

The teasing doesn’t disappear exactly. It retreats.

“That’s what you think I’m doing?”

I shrug like the answer doesn't matter.

Like his answer doesn't matter.

It does. And that pisses me off even more.

“You wouldn't be the first powerful man who thought charm was an effective form of media management.”

His gaze moves over my face with an intensity that makes me wish I'd chosen different words.

“That’s not what I was doing.”

“No?”

“No.” A beat passes. “But now I’m interested in the story behind why you assumed it was.”

Nope. Absolutely not.

I lift my chin.

“Nice try, Knight. I’m the reporter here.”

His grin comes back.

“Pity.”

My pulse skips. I ignore that, too.

“What I want to know is why.”

“Why what?”

I take one careful step closer. The murderous shoes pinch my toes. I refuse to wince.

“Why rugby?”

His eyebrows rise.

“That’s your big question?”