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Noah was about to tell Sybil that he’d been joking, but he suddenly realized he’d been handed a golden opportunity to even the score with Kayla. “The so-called relationship with Eve was just a smoke screen, a way to throw the paparazzi off the scent. Eve got a little publicity out of the arrangement, and Kayla and I got a little privacy. It was perfect.”
“But only last week Eve was seen slapping you for cheating on her!” Sybil blurted before seeming to catch herself.
“Really?” Noah said, raising an eyebrow while privately relishing the thought of the headline in Sybil’s column tomorrow. “It was a great way to signal the end of our pretend relationship for the benefit of the press, wasn’t it?”
Sybil opened her mouth—in all likelihood to probe for more details—but he cut her off smoothly. “Excuse me.” He let his eyes focus on a spot across the room. “I just spotted someone I need to say hello to.”
“Of course,” Sybil said, stepping aside.
He chanced a glance at her out of the corner of his eye as he moved past: she looked like the cat that had swallowed the canary.
As he headed to the bar at the far side of the room, he pondered again about his problem with Ms. Rumor-Has-It. If newspapers were printed in color, he thought to himself disgustedly, Kayla’s column would be nothing but a series of hot-pink exclamation points. It had the same breathless quality as the gossip that sorority sisters shared over drying nail polish.
Of course, her column had nothing on the woman herself. Tonight she’d been wearing a clingy black cocktail dress that revealed a tantalizing bit of her full chest and a fair expanse of her shapely legs, her honey-blond hair hanging in a smooth curtain past her shoulders. Her eyes were large and wide set but balanced by lips that were lushly curved. Under other circumstances, she’d have been exactly his type—blond, busty and beautiful.
Still, even the attractive packaging couldn’t obscure the fact that the woman was a menace. And he’d had enough. More than enough.
His reputation as the playboy Whittaker brother made him a favorite of the press as well as the object of more than a little ribbing from his older brothers, Quentin and Matt, and his younger sister, Allison.
But the truth was that he worked damned hard in his position as vice president of product development for Whittaker Enterprises, the family business started by his father, James. His degree from the prestigious Massachusetts Institute of Technology was put to excellent use in his capacity as head of Whittaker’s computer business.
If he liked to consort with models and actresses when he was let out of his prison cell—uh, office—well, he wasn’t going to begrudge himself some fun. Besides, there was a worldwide shortage in decent-looking computer geeks like himself.
Frowning, he ordered a cocktail. Kayla had some gall taunting him with the car accident that had marked the end of his career racing Indy cars. God knew, if he could take back the accident that had killed another driver, he would. Didn’t everyone understand that? Couldn’t the press that had plagued him after the accident comprehend that?
His physical scars had healed but the emotional scars on his soul would never go away.
Turning away from the bar, he took a sip of his drink and thought again that it would be a shame to miss Kayla’s reaction to Sybil’s column in the morning.
But then again… A smile rose to his lips.
Reaching into the pocket of his pants, he pulled out his cell phone. The number he wanted was already programmed in, having been used both before and after countless dates: Bloomsville Florists.
The following morning, Kayla’s first sign that something was wrong was the large bouquet of red roses parked on her desk in her cubicle at the Boston Sentinel’s headquarters.
At first she thought there must have been some mistake. She glanced around the office, then put her purse down and reached for the note that was tucked among the flowers.
After pulling the card from the envelope, she scanned the contents: “Kayla, thanks for a wonderful evening.”
Confused, she turned the card over and then looked at the envelope, but there was no further clue as to who had sent the flowers and why—not even the name of a florist.
Hmm, interesting. Who could have sent the bouquet? She hadn’t had a date in a couple of months, ever since she’d gone out with a radio-show producer before quickly deciding they had no chemistry.
Frowning, she sat down and logged onto her computer. She’d e-mail the receptionist; every visitor had to sign in at the front desk.
Out of habit, however, she first surfed to the news sites to check out the day’s headlines and, more importantly, to scan the society pages. She made it a practice to read her rivals’ gossip columns just to keep up with what the competition was doing.
When she got to the Boston World’s gossip page, Sybil LaBreck’s years-old, black-and-white photo stared back at her along with the headline Dangerous Liaisons: Noah Whittaker’s Secret Relationship with Gossip Maven Kayla Jones, aka Ms. Rumor-Has-It.
She froze, blinked, and then stared.
No. But the headline was still there, staring at her, taunting her.
She scanned the rest of the article while a sickening feeling settled in the pit of her stomach.
Sybil alleged that Noah and Ms. Rumor-Has-It had been secretly involved for some time. The column went on to disclose a lovers’ row that they’d had at the book-launch party last night. It ended by toying with the delicious possibility that Kayla’s skewering of the millionaire playboy in her column had been a smoke screen for her own clandestine relationship with him.
Kayla’s mind raced. Had Sybil witnessed her argument with Noah last night and wrongly concluded she’d been privy to a lovers’ spat? Or—a more ominous thought intruded—had someone led Sybil to believe it was a lovers’ spat?
She looked up from her computer screen and caught one of the Sentinel’s health columnists giving her a curious look. Had Sybil’s headline already been making the rounds?
Kayla’s eyes went to the flower bouquet again. Now that she’d read Sybil’s headline, the flowers suddenly made sense.
Noah. The rat. Whether he’d started the flames or was just fanning them, she had a thing or two to tell him.
Using the Internet, she located the main number for Whittaker Enterprises. Once she dialed it, she was quickly transferred to Noah’s secretary.
“May I ask who is calling?” the secretary intoned once Kayla had asked to speak with Noah.
“It’s Kayla Jones.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Jones, but Mr. Whittaker isn’t in the office yet this morning. May I take a message?”
He wasn’t in the office yet? Probably due to his late-night carousing, she thought acidly. Her eyes strayed to the clock on the wall, which indicated it was just after nine.
As she looked down and started to tell Noah’s secretary that she’d call back later, her gaze landed on the man striding toward her.
Noah Whittaker, smiling sunnily.
“Never mind,” she said absently into the receiver. “I’ve found him.” She couldn’t believe he had the nerve to show up at her office! Planning to milk this baseless rumor for all it was worth, was he?
She hung up and straightened, rising from her chair just as Noah came to a stop in front of her.
He nodded to the impressive arrangement of red roses. “Glad to see I got my money’s worth.”
“You snake.” She kept her voice low, not caring that her tone sounded furtive. The last thing she needed was for someone at the Sentinel to overhear her conversation. Fortunately, it was still early enough that a lot of the staff hadn’t rolled in yet.
Noah chuckled. “Now is that any way to thank the guy who’s come to apologize for our lovers’ quarrel?”
“You know it was no such thing!” she exclaimed in a low tone, catching another curious look from the Sentinel’s health columnist.
“I suppose,” he returned placidly, “you’re about to express outrage and claim bloody retribution.”
She looked at him. He seemed so smug, and he was so infuriating. “You planned this,” she accused. “You let Sybil think we were…involved.” She could barely get that last word out. “You sent the flowers to make it seem as if Sybil’s story held water.”
“Not only did I let Sybil think we were involved,” he replied, “I told her we were.”
“What?” she squeaked. That was the best she could manage without drawing attention. Inside, however, she felt like screaming.
“Right after you left last night, I had an unexpected run-in with Sybil. Apparently she witnessed enough to know we’d been arguing.”
Kayla closed her eyes. It was a nightmare, a complete nightmare.
“I’ll say this for her,” Noah continued, “that woman has a nose for gossip like a bloodhound on a scent.” He regarded her blandly. “Anyway, I made some sarcastic remark about a lovers’ spat, and she took it seriously. I was going to correct her when I realized it would be much more fun to make the most of the situation.”
“So instead of letting her believe we were arguing, you told her that we were involved?” she asked incredulously.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Uncomfortable being the subject of rumors? Not too pleasant, is it?”
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
He shrugged. “I’ll admit to some grim satisfaction at being handed an opportunity to even the score.”
She grabbed her shoulder bag and her blazer. “Let’s discuss this somewhere else.”
He looked mildly surprised. “If you say so.”
They had to talk, she thought, but this wasn’t the place to do it. She wasn’t about to provide fodder for the office gossip mill. But somehow she had to convince him to call Sybil and get her to print a retraction. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about. She refused to be lumped together with Huffy, Fluffy and Buffy.
As he followed her down the hall and into an elevator, she was aware of his tread behind her—and of the glances that the two of them attracted.
When they got downstairs and outside into the still-warm September sun, she sighed with relief. At least they were away from prying eyes.
Turning to Noah, her brows snapping together, she began, “Now look—”
Her planned reprimand ended with a gasp as he swept her into his arms.
Her eyes widened. “What—”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man—a photographer—leap forward and snap a shot of them just before Noah’s mouth closed over hers.
Two
Kayla put her hands on Noah’s chest and pushed, but he held firm.
For the next few seconds, several thoughts tumbled through her mind. Who was that guy with the camera? Were any of her co-workers around? She’d be mortified! What the heck was wrong with Noah? However, those thoughts were quickly drowned out by one overwhelming sensation: the feel of Noah’s lips on hers.
He kissed expertly: his lips soft but sure and his focus concentrated on making her feel. His big, solid body pressed against her. He smelled of soap and shaving cream and just plain guy, and tasted of mint and warmth and subtle sweetness. He overloaded all her senses at once, and she was intoxicated.
It was like being kissed by the captain of the football team in front of the entire school—except she was a twenty-seven-year-old woman with a job and rent payments who happened to be standing in front of her office building at exactly the time that her boss or innumerable other people might be happening by.
That last thought brought her back to reality with a thunk!
She pulled her mouth from Noah’s and shoved him away.
Noah loosened his hold on her—the expression on his face a mixture of pleasant surprise and—help—male curiosity.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, then glanced around. The guy with the camera was still there, snapping away. “And, you! Who are you?”
When he lowered his camera, she recognized him as a photographer for the Boston World.
Suddenly she felt ill.
The photographer, who frequently worked with Sybil LaBreck, smiled and waved at her. “Hey, there, Kayla. You know, if I hadn’t just seen it with my own eyes, I’d never have believed the rumor about you and Noah.” He shook his head bemusedly.
She didn’t have a chance to respond because just then she noticed that, striding down the sidewalk toward them, on his way to the office, was Ed O’Neill, managing editor of the Sentinel.
Her boss.
She whirled back to Noah.
One look at his amused face, however, and she realized she hadn’t just been sunk, she’d been torpedoed—or, more precisely, set up.
The irony wasn’t lost on her either: she’d just been photographed apparently kissing him in the same way he’d been snapped apparently kissing Fluffy.
She jabbed a finger into his chest. “You! This was all part of the plan, wasn’t it?”
Noah caught her finger. “Sweetie—” he said, and she knew he was playing to the audience “—is it really so bad to announce our love to the world?”
She yanked her hand away from his.
“Hello, Kayla.”
The two of them turned, and she came face-to-face with Ed, whose expression said he was wondering what the hell was going on.
“Er—hello, Ed.” She smiled brightly.
Noah held out his hand. “Hi, Ed.”
Noah knew her boss?
Ed took it and said gruffly, “Noah. What brings you here first thing in the morning?”
Noah looked amused. “Well—”
“We were just saying goodbye,” Kayla interrupted, then took a step toward the Sentinel’s entrance. “I’ll take the elevator up with you, Ed.”
Ed looked from one to the other of them, then glanced at the photographer at the curb. “Anyone want to explain to me what’s going on?”
She was going to die, right there in front of the Sentinel’s headquarters. She could already see the headline: Ms. Rumor-Has-It Slain by Innuendo.
Noah smiled. “Sorry, Ed. Gotta run.” His eyes met hers. “I’m sure Kayla will explain everything. Won’t you, honey?”
She gritted her teeth while Ed raised his eyebrows at the endearment. “Of course,” she said. “Say hello to Huffy, Fluffy and Buffy for me, won’t you?”
His eyes laughed at her. “Sure.”
To Ed, she said in a low voice, “There’s a Boston World photographer standing at the curb. I’ll explain, but once we’re inside.”
