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Dammit.

“You know who I am?”

“I own media companies, Sweetheart. Knowing who reporters are is generally considered useful.”

Sweetheart? My eyebrow rises.

His grin widens. Then I recall the other information I’ve gathered on him.

Playboy. Right.

He stares at me longer, and I swear I forget what I’m even doing there for a moment.

Remember the assignment, Hawthorne. Do not get distracted because the billionaire has a pretty mouth.

But holy shit—does he ever.

“Well, Mr. Knight, I was hoping to ask you a few questions.”

“I know.”

That stops me.

“You know?”

“You’ve been hunting me for the last forty minutes.”

Heat crawls up my neck.

Damn him.

“I have not been hunting you.”

“No?” He takes a sip of his drink, those impossible icy blue eyes fixed on me. “Then I suppose you always cut your way across ballrooms like you’re tracking down leads on where to hide the body.”

“I was looking for an interview.”

“How boring.” His mouth curves. “I was hoping we could discuss something else.”

My stomach does something stupid.

A little dip.

A flutter.

A ridiculous burst of feminine awareness that has absolutely no place here.

Because Mitchell Knight sought me out.

Me.

Not one of the network anchors scattered around the ballroom. Not the former beauty queen turned sideline reporter holding court near the bar. Not any of the gorgeous women in dresses that probably cost more than my first car.

Me.

I don't get singled out. I'm the woman standing just outside the circle, watching. Listening. Waiting for the moment everyone else misses.

I'm the one who gets people to talk when they don’t want to. I am not the woman men like Mitchell Knight cross crowded ballrooms to find.