by Anna DePalo
She considered him a moment. “What would be the terms?” she asked, hoping she wouldn’t regret this, yet unable to pass up the opportunity he presented.
She saw the flare of gratification in his eyes, but he quickly banked it. “Terms?”
“Yes. I need to know you’ll give me access to information soon and won’t renege on me.” Now that she’d let herself entertain his offer, she wasn’t going to be shy about the particulars.
He arched a brow. “Suspicious, aren’t you?”
“There has to be a time limit,” she said firmly.
“Make your best offer,” he countered.
She assessed him, then took a moment to ponder. No doubt he was a shrewd bargainer—after all, he’d just engineered the takeover of one of Boston’s leading tech firms by Whittaker Enterprises. “Two weeks.”
He shook his head. “Six.”
“Three.” Nearly a month was fair.
“Five,” he said. “These things take time.”
“Let’s split the difference,” she countered. “Four. It shouldn’t take long to repair the damage.”
“A pleasure doing business with you.” He closed the space between them and held out his hand.
Relief, followed by panic, washed through her. What have I just done? She took his hand, felt her own engulfed in his, and experienced a surge of sensation.
Judging by the look in his eye, he felt it, too.
She started to draw away, but he pulled her closer.
He lifted her chin with his free hand and she had just a moment to lower her eyelids before he brushed her lips with his.
The kiss was over in the space of a few heartbeats, but its impression—powerful and disturbing—lingered for her.
He drew back and gazed down at her, his expression inscrutable. “Just checking,” he murmured.
“What?” She looked at him, eyes wide, as she strove to clear her brain.
He smiled wryly. “You didn’t need to worry about whether your acting abilities were up to the challenge.” At her displeased expression, he laughed. “I know, I know. I’m diabolical.”
Kayla was grateful he couldn’t read her mind—for while diabolical should have been the first word that popped into her head, disturbingly, instead, it had been delicious.
How does one dress for dinner with a couple of computer geeks from Silicon Valley? Kayla wondered.
The day after the press conference, Noah had phoned her to announce that, if she was going to be shadowing him for purposes of her article, she should attend a business dinner that he had scheduled on Friday night with a couple of young hotshots from the West Coast.
He’d also let her know that, in the meantime, he’d done as promised and called Sybil to say his supposed relationship with Ms. Rumor-Has-It had been a hoax that he’d perpetuated to get even. Ironically, Sybil had been reluctant to believe there wasn’t a relationship. Perhaps hedging her bets, however, her headline in the next morning’s paper had read: Noah Denies Relationship with Ms. Rumor-Has-It.
Kayla figured she’d take what she could get and Sybil’s headline was better than nothing. Eventually, the story about her and Noah would fade away.
And the good news was she’d been able to convince Ed to do what Noah had suggested. Ed had been pleased Noah had agreed to cooperate on an in-depth profile of Whittaker Enterprises. More importantly, he’d also grudgingly agreed to give her sometime assistant, Jody Donaldson, who was just a year out of college, a greater role in the writing of the Ms. Rumor-Has-It column, including writing anything newsworthy about Noah Whittaker.
So far, Kayla admitted to herself, everything was going according to plan—if she could figure out what to wear to this dinner tonight.
She began looking through her closet again from one end to the other. She tossed aside the leather miniskirt that she’d recently worn to the Avalon, one of Boston’s well-known nightclubs.
Dress down, Noah had said. Though tonight technically counted as business, Noah had advised her that the term business had a whole different meaning among the under-thirty-five, newly rich and geeky set created by the information-technology boom, particularly in Silicon Valley.
She didn’t doubt what he had told her. Sure, she herself had been part of the business-casual-attire revolution that had swept corporate offices across the United States in the past ten years. But, as a society columnist, she knew the requirements for her were different from those for some of her contemporaries: she was more high fashion and less grunge fashion. She was expected to blend with the social set she covered and, since she didn’t have a trust fund or even a salary that was anything to brag about, she spent a good deal of time haunting outlet stores and consignment shops.
This all, of course, left her lost as far as what tonight required. Exasperated, she kept moving through the hangers in her closet, fretfully passing on her Levi’s 501 blue jeans. I have nothing to wear! she silently wailed in frustration.
The phone rang and she felt a stab of relief at the unexpected distraction, despite the fact that she had only about an hour left before Noah would pick her up.
“Hello,” she said absently, her eyes skimming the disarrayed pile of clothes on her bed.
“You sound as perky as usual,” a voice said dryly.
“Samantha?”
Despite being seven years apart, Kayla and her sister shared a close bond, perhaps because they had no other siblings. Technically, they were half siblings, though she never thought of the two of them that way. When Kayla was five, her mother had remarried, and Greg Jones had adopted Kayla. She had been happy to have a father in her life and even happier when, two years later, a baby sister had arrived. From the beginning, Samantha had followed in Kayla’s footsteps, right up to enrolling at Tufts University, Kayla’s alma mater.
The pile of clothes forgotten, she asked, “Is something wrong? Did something happen?”
Samantha laughed. “Relax. You sound as bad as Mom. Maybe I just called to say hello.”
“Not if you’re twenty and a college junior and it’s a Friday night,” she countered.
“Welcome to my lackluster social life. I’m hoping things will turn around soon,” her sister responded.
“Why am I not surprised you’re at home tonight?”
“Actually, I need to leave in an hour.”
“Oh?” Her sister’s tone brightened. “Hot date?”
“Not really.”
“Come on, spill the goods. Who’s the guy?”
Kayla hesitated for a second, then resigned herself to the inevitable. “Noah Whittaker.”
Silence reigned on the other end of the phone line.
“Samantha?”
“I’m speechless.”
“That would be a first.”
“Noah Whittaker is hot, hot, hot.” Her sister sighed dreamily. “You’ve come to your senses. Though, if you’ve finally decided to date guys who are hunk-a-licious, I’m surprised it’s Noah. You’ve been lacerating him in your column.”
“Right, and speaking of which…” With one eye on the clock, she brought her sister up to speed on her agreement with Noah, ending with, “So, what should I wear?”
“What should you wear?” Samantha said laughingly.
“Is that all you can say?”
Frowning, she said, “Well, what should I say?”
“How about, this is an opportunity most women would die for! How about, it’s not every day a sinfully delicious millionaire asks me to dinner? How about, how can I get Noah Whittaker to carry me off to his lovely penthouse in the sky?”
“How about, get your head out of the clouds?” Kayla countered. “Besides, this is strictly business.”
“Oh, Kayla, live a little! Besides, there’s no telling where things could go after you get your story.” Samantha dropped her voice. “Laugh with the sinners for once.”
“Coming from my little sister, I find that comment somewhat distressing,” Kayla said with mock severity.
�
�But for the record, Noah Whittaker doesn’t just prefer to laugh with the sinners. He likes to party with the devil.”
“Okay, whatever. Have it your way,” Samantha said in exasperation. “Now, let’s see…. I know! What about the camisole top that you got at a Filene’s sale? Very sexy.”
“Too sexy,” Kayla said emphatically, thinking of the silky top’s spaghetti straps and lace-edged cups. “It’s practically lingerie.”
“Exactly.”
Kayla glanced at the clock again. She was running out of time and getting desperate. If she paired the camisole with some black pants, heels and a wrap, she would have an evening look that was dressy but casual, not to mention sexy and cool. She bit her lip.
“Go for it, Kayla,” Samantha said, evidently sensing her hesitancy.
She sighed. “You know, you still haven’t told me why you called.”
Her sister laughed. “I’m not pregnant, homeless or desperate for cash. That’s all you need to know. And, really, sometimes I am just calling to talk. I’ll call you tomorrow to find out how your date went, and you can hear me gush about my exciting evening watching old flicks in the dorm’s recreation room. Now, go!”
Half an hour later, Kayla found herself opening her front door dressed in black pants and a silky blue camisole top edged with brown lace, her toes peeking out from high-heeled slingbacks. She’d applied some light makeup and left her straight blond hair loose about her shoulders. Her watch and chandelier earrings were her only adornments.
Noah’s eyes widened when he saw her, his gaze raking her from head to toe. He looked ready to devour her on the spot.
A shiver ran through her that had nothing to do with being cold. He looked devastatingly attractive in a blazer and a dark gray T-shirt paired with hip-hugging jeans, a five-o’clock shadow darkening his jaw.
“You look great.”
She glanced down at her clothes, pleased he approved. “I wasn’t sure what you meant when you said tonight was casual.”
He tapped a finger on his chest. “This is what I meant.”
As his blazer gaped open, she noticed the writing printed in black across the top of his T-shirt: Plays Well with Others.
“Geekdom values nonconformity over social acceptance. It’s the pursuit of neophilia in its purest form.”
At her confused look, he explained, “Neophilia means being excited by novelty. Geeks are big on novelty.”
“Oh.” Her brow furrowed. “In that case, I’m not dressed right.”
A smile hovered at the corners of his lips. “No, you’re dressed just right. At the risk of sounding sexist, the dress code doesn’t apply to women because even computer geeks want to be seen with a babe on their arm. It all goes back to the high-school fantasy of dating the most popular girl in the class.”
“That is sexist.” But he thought she was a babe? She quelled the flutter that gave her.
He nodded, still standing in the doorway.
Inviting him in was too dangerous, and they were running just on time as it was. She held up her hands, one of which clutched a small handbag and a light shawl. “I’m ready when you are.”
As she brushed past him, she ignored the grin that spread across his face, one that was all blatant male appreciation and said ready for what? Fortunately, he resisted the urge to give voice to what she could read on his face.
When they got downstairs, her attention was drawn to the sleek black Jaguar parked at the curb.
“Welcome to the Batmobile,” Noah said with a grin, opening the passenger door for her.
When he’d gone around the car and gotten behind the wheel, she glanced around the luxurious interior and asked, “Why do I suspect that the doors lock, the windows fog up and the passenger-side seat drops back at the driver’s command?”
As he turned the ignition, he tossed her a wicked grin. “I refuse to incriminate myself.”
Four
When they arrived at Ginza, a trendy Japanese restaurant, Noah introduced her to the two “executives” from Silicon Valley as a news reporter who was shadowing him for a profile on Whittaker Enterprises.
Tim and Ben, who looked no older than twenty-five, had attended the prestigious California Institute of Technology together. Neither was geeky in the obvious glasses-and-pocket-protector way, but Tim was wearing an orange T-shirt paired with a dark-red blazer, and Ben had used a safety pin to replace a missing button on his shirt.
Kayla discovered they had spent three years toiling away in the bowels of established high-tech companies, working eighty-hour weeks, before they’d decided to strike out on their own—so they could still work eighty-hour weeks but be their own bosses.
Over dinner, the conversation moved across a variety of topics, from which tech company had recently lured a top employee from a rival to which new computer software products would soon be launched onto the market. To her disappointment, however, there were no hints as to what sort of business relationship, if any, Noah was contemplating with Tim and Ben’s company.
However, if tonight was any indication, it didn’t seem as if Noah would have any reason to be interested in nefarious offshore investments in the Cayman Islands or elsewhere. He had enough people with legitimate businesses knocking on his door.
Soon, the conversation at dinner veered to her job at the Sentinel. Both Ben and Tim were fascinated by her position as Ms. Rumor-Has-It, which they viewed as glamorous.
It made her want to laugh. She earned a fraction of what they made—and what they could make in the future. She wondered how glamorous they’d think her life was if they saw the small apartment she lived in and the car she’d been driving since her high-school days.
Noah, she noticed, didn’t say anything. Not even a peep about being a favorite target for her column. That was, until Tim asked how she chose her stories. “Yes, Kayla,” Noah interjected in a bland voice, “how do you choose your stories?”
She ignored him, keeping her attention instead on Tim and Ben, who seemed unaware that Noah was one of her favorite targets. “I try to write stories that people want to read.” She shrugged. “But I suppose personal taste comes into play in deciding whether the focus is going to be on politicians, celebrities or other figures.”
“So what do you focus on?” Ben asked.
“I look for stories that are humorous—it’s always amusing to poke fun at egos and pretensions.”
Next to her, Noah guffawed and shifted in his chair, his leg brushing hers.
She tensed but forced herself to keep looking at Tim and Ben. “Of course, sometimes I don’t have to look. The stories come to me.”
“People want to appear in your column?” Tim asked curiously.
“You’d be surprised. There’s a love-hate relationship between journalists and celebrities’ publicists or press agents. Sometimes handlers want publicity in order to keep their celebrity in the public eye. But if a celebrity gets caught in a scandal-worthy situation, his publicist will be on the phone faster than you can say ‘libel suit’ to try to get you not to print the story. That is, if they don’t have a hope of convincingly denying the truth of the story outright.”
Tim laughed, and Ben said, “Marvelous!”
“How do you get the dirt on your victims to begin with?” Noah asked.
She turned to look at him fully. Mild annoyance was stamped on his face. “Now that would be telling, wouldn’t it?”
“I thought telling was what you did for a living,” he retorted.
She could come up with an appropriate rejoinder to that, but, she reminded herself, she had to do a passable job of getting along with Noah. At least until she got this story. Then all bets were off.
She smiled brightly at the younger guys facing her. “Just about anyone can be a source. Doormen, bouncers, waiters. Sometimes rivals or so-called friends call in tips, and then, of course, there are the anonymous tipsters.”
“Have you gotten any good tips from anonymous sources?” Ben asked.
“Yup
.” She took a sip from her glass of sake. “I’ve broken a few stories because of them, too.”
Ben raised his eyebrows, and Tim said, “Wow.”
“The last story I broke was about the CEO of a troubled department-store chain—”
“I remember when he hit the papers,” Noah interjected.
She nodded. “It turned out he was buying five-thousand-dollar shower mats for his penthouse while his shareholders were bleeding money.”
“Ouch,” Tim said.
“What happened?” Ben asked.
“He’s no longer CEO,” Noah said, answering for her.
“Just like, if Kayla has her way, I’ll no longer be the playboy of the northern hemisphere.”
Tim stifled a smile, while Ben looked from her to Noah and back.
Kayla groaned inwardly. Great. Tim and Ben obviously thought something was going on between her and Noah.
After dinner, they headed to a karaoke bar. Though going to a bar where the patrons were encouraged to stand up and sing popular tunes wasn’t her thing, she was soon laughing and clapping along with everyone else as one guest after another tried to carry a tune, assisted by a microphone, a DJ who loaded the right soundtrack and a TV monitor that displayed the song’s lyrics.
The dim lighting in the bar, as well as the intimacy of their seating arrangement at a small table, kept Kayla acutely aware of Noah, who was seated next to her.
So intent was she on the accidental brush of his leg against hers that she was startled when Noah spoke. “So what’s it going to be?”
“What?” she asked uncomprehendingly.
He indicated the small stage with a quirk of an eyebrow. “What are you going to sing?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head.
“Chicken,” he teased.
She straightened her spine. “I haven’t sung since I was in the junior-high-school chorus.”
“Not even in the shower?”
“That’s not in public.”
