by Anna DePalo
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—�
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“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.”
At Ed’s nod, she turned and stalked toward the revolving doors. Later, she promised herself, she’d take some time to throw darts at Noah Whittaker’s picture or burn him in effigy.
The only silver lining to this morning’s catastrophe was that, since he’d now exacted his revenge, with any luck she’d never have anything to do with him again.
Unfortunately, luck happened to be vacationing in Tahiti the next day.
“Ed, you can’t be serious!”
Why were they discussing having her drive over to Whittaker Enterprises to cover a press conference? A press conference at which Noah Whittaker would be presiding!
Hadn’t she explained everything to Ed yesterday? Hadn’t she explained that she and Noah really loathed each other? Did she not detail how the “affair” had just been a rumor generated by Noah as payback for the stories she’d printed about his bad behavior?
The fact that panic roiled through her at the thought of facing Noah Whittaker again had nothing to do with yesterday’s kiss and everything to do with the fact that she couldn’t stand the man. He was altogether too high-and-mighty for her taste.
She regarded Ed levelly. He was her boss but also her mentor—surely he could see that sending her to cover this press conference wasn’t the best allocation of personnel.
Ed scratched his balding pate. It was the second time he’d done so since showing up at her cubicle. “Look, I thought you were gunning for a position covering hard news.”
“I was! I am!” she exclaimed in dismay. She’d gotten into journalism so she could be a business reporter, not so she could write about the latest fashions at debutante balls.
“Well, here’s your chance to prove yourself,” Ed said.
“Rob was supposed to cover this press conference at eleven o’clock, but he’s off on a breaking story and everyone else has a full plate.”
“I know, but Noah Whittaker hates me. He’ll never field a question from me.” Her opportunity to cover hard news wasn’t supposed to arrive like this.
“So?” Ed countered. “When you get there make nice with Noah, smooth over any ruffled feathers, and everything will be fine.”
Kayla wished she could be as confident as Ed that she could make nice. It was more likely she’d wind up conking Noah on the head with her purse: Sybil LaBreck’s column that morning featured a picture of her and Noah kissing in front of the Sentinel’s offices.
“If you do nothing else, just make sure you pick up a copy of the press release that they give out,” Ed said, seeming to take some pity on her. “That’ll give you enough to write a where, what, how, and when article about whatever it is that Whittaker is announcing today.”
She felt her shoulders slump. “Right.”
“Jones,” Ed said gruffly, “I’ve been trying to look out for you since the day you got here. You’ve got enough ambition to fill a football stadium. Now go and put it to good use.”
She should have been grateful for Ed’s little pep talk. Instead, all she could do was manage some weak waves of the cheerleading pom-poms. She smiled wanly. “Thanks, Ed.”
“And,” Ed continued, “if you’re interested in getting a position on the business beat, Noah Whittaker is as good a person as any to start with.”
“What do you mean?”
Ed shrugged. “I mean there have been rumors circulating for a while about some suspicious offshore company in the Cayman Islands linked to Noah Whittaker. It could be nothing, but you never know. If there’s a story there, it would be big because Whittaker has a pristine business reputation.” He added significantly, “A story like that could practically guarantee you the job you want.”
Kayla didn’t have to ask what kind of story Ed meant. She knew that some offshore companies were just tax havens for the wealthy. Others, however, provided excellent cover for money laundering and other shady dealings simply because some localities required very little information to be made public about the companies created there.
Her mind skittered across the idea of Noah connected to something less than completely legal. What could his motivation be? He had all the money he needed. Yet, wasn’t her own biological father proof that greed knew no bounds?
Aloud, she said, “Thanks for the tip.”
Ed nodded curtly. “I’m willing to give you a chance.” Then he nodded at the clock on the wall. “You better get going.”
“Right!” she said with as much enthusiasm as she could muster.
As Ed walked away, she picked up her handbag and grabbed her jacket. Well, what choice did she have? The things she had to do to pay the bills!
Unlike the women Noah dated, and, for that matter, her classmates at the fancy prep school she’d attended, she didn’t have a trust fund to fall back on or family connections to milk to get ahead.
Instead, she’d gotten her foot in the door of the journalism world by getting an entry-level job straight out of college with the Sentinel. It hadn’t mattered too much that the position was with the “Styles” section of the paper; it had been one of the few job offers she’d gotten and the one that paid the best of a rather pathetic lot.
Initially, she’d done a lot of research and fact-checking, with an occasional byline as time went on. She’d written about everything from the latest fashions to museum openings—when she hadn’t been acting as a gofer for Leslie, who’d been the Sentinel’s resident Ms. Rumor-Has-It.
But then Leslie had run off with her paramour—a fiftyish, thrice-divorced millionaire who’d parted with wife number three to elope with Leslie to Paris—and Kayla had been left holding the bag, albeit a snazzy Versace number in black satin.
Kayla had been summoned to the managing editor’s office, which smelled of the Macanudo cigars that Ed O’Neill liked to sneak behind closed doors.
“Jones,” Ed had said, “you’re up at bat. We need someone fast, and you’re perfect—a classy Grace Kelly type with the right prep-school credentials. You’ll fit right in covering your old school pals for the gossip pages.”
And she had. She’d jumped at the chance to replace Leslie, not the least because Ed had dangled a significant salary raise as inducement. For her that had been enough.
So what if becoming Ms. Rumor-Has-It hadn’t been part of her career aspirations? She’d gotten her own column before she’d turned twenty-five and she’d stopped worrying about the rent. There’d be time enough, she’d reasoned, for her to segue to the business-news desk.
But that had been three years ago. She’d done her job, and well. Too well, in some respects. No one was eager to see her move away from the society page.
But, despite the seeming glamour of her job, she’d begun to feel restless. There were only so many canapés that a girl could eat before she felt like regurgitating on Buffy the Man Slayer’s Manolo Blahnik heels.
That’s why she’d recently started to lobby for an opportunity to cover some real news. Because Ed was right about one thing: she was ambitious and refused to be typecast for the rest of her career as perfect for covering fluff. She was determined to go places.
Unfortunately, today the place that she was heading was Noah Whittaker’s front door.
“Well, it’s interesting to see how the tide has turned.”
Across the boardroom table, Noah gave Allison a disgruntled look. He’d just finished explaining how his recent bad press was baseless. “I know you find this hopelessly amusing, but try to contain your glee.”
Allison laughed. “Oh, come on, big brother, don’t tell me you don’t see the hilarity in it all! Women used to chase you the way they’d run to a shoe sale. These days, though, you’re more like last year’s shoes—still wearable, but you’re wondering why you ever bought them.”
Quentin and Matt chuckled.
Noah sighed in exasperation.
It wasn’t often these days that Noah’s whole family was together, but early morning meetings of Whittaker Enterprises’ board of directors afforded them the opportunity from time to time, despite their busy lives.
He looked around the room. They were an impressive bunch, and, though he and his siblings could needle each other mercilessly, they had an unshakable bond.
At the head of the table sat his father, James, who, in his retirement, still chaired the board of directors. His mother, Ava—who’d passed along her coloring of dark brown hair and vivid blue eyes to his brother Matt and his sister Allison—was a respected family court judge. Matt, who was older than Noah by two years, was also a vice president at Whittaker, though he’d increasingly been developing his own business interests. Allison had followed their mother’s footsteps into the legal profession and become an assistant district attorney in Boston. Quentin, the oldest sibling, was CEO of Whittaker Enterprises.
Missing were Quentin’s wife, Liz, who was at home with their baby, Nicholas, and Allison’s husband of one month, Connor Rafferty, who ran his own security business.
