Tycoon Takes Revenge (5 page)

“What—?” As comprehension dawned, she shook her head. “Oh, no.”

“Don't worry,” he said, then pretended to grin lecherously. “If there are any walls to scale, I'll give you a boost—unless you have a better idea?”

She sighed.

“Great.” He shook hands with Tim and Ben. “Gentlemen, I believe this is where we part company. Kayla and I are going to use the back exit to make our getaway. I doubt our cameraman is after either of you, but your leaving will provide a distraction in case Kayla and I need one.”

Tim and Ben nodded, and Tim joked to Ben, “Have you noticed he always gets the girl at the end, too?”

Noah chuckled and said, “Not always.”

Kayla rolled her eyes. “Infamous on the West Coast as well, hmm?”

He winked at her because he knew it would irritate her, and he wasn't disappointed.

They left Tim and Ben then and, with the help of the bar manager, made their way to the back of the bar and out the fire exit.

As it turned out, they didn't have to worry about scaling walls. There was an alley that ended at a side street. From there, they walked to where Noah's car was parked.

Once they'd hit the road, Noah said wryly, “Tonight was the sort of thing that passes as business entertainment among the wonder boys of high-tech. Just be glad there wasn't a
Star Trek
convention in town.”

“Tim and Ben are nice guys.”

Her comment amused him. “And I'm not?”

“You're grist for the rumor mill.”

He laughed, then sobered. “When your life is fodder for the tabloids, you become familiar with back exits.”

When she made no response, he changed the subject. “Seems like you have an interesting job. Makes me wonder why you want to trade it for a hard news beat.”

The look she gave him said she hadn't expected him to admit her job had any redeeming qualities. “My job has its moments, but my column is mostly news about local figures because the
Sentinel
doesn't have a hope of competing with national tabloids and magazines.”

He flashed her a look. “I figured ambition had to have a place here somewhere. So why don't you apply for a job at one of the national tabloids?”

She didn't answer for a minute, as if weighing what she wanted to reveal. “I'm ready for something besides gossip,” she said finally. “Believe it or not, it's tiring to report on Buffy the Man Slayer's latest conquest. And, reporting on celebrities' bad behavior also requires a thick skin.”

“How so?”

She slanted him a sideways look. “When you print things that upset people, there's sometimes fallout. And, besides, I don't take pleasure in printing stuff that winds up hurting someone.”

Her admission surprised him. In fact, the entire discussion this evening about her job had surprised him. While he was still angry about his own appearances in her column, he was willing to concede he might have been too judgmental in characterizing what she did for a living as telling lies.

While he still wasn't sure whether her column could be thought of as social satire, he could concede there were some areas of his social life—and, God knew, of those of the women he dated—that could easily be mocked.

Yet, he was glad she'd gotten an unexpected taste tonight of dodging paparazzi. He'd seen the worry in her eyes and had felt a modicum of satisfaction in knowing she was stressed over the possibility of being caught with him and of having to stomp out the inevitable flames in the media.

When they got to her apartment complex, he parked and helped her out, then walked with her to the front door of her building, which had a security camera but no doorman.

She took out her keys, then looked up at him. “I'm not sure what to say under the circumstances, but thanks, I had a good time. It was a good intro to how the computer industry works.”

“You're welcome.”

Her air of vulnerability both attracted and amused him. He wondered whether her regular dates ended with awkward moments like this.

Abruptly, he pulled his mind back from the irritating thought of her out with other men. To hell with other guys and what they'd done or hadn't.
He
wanted to kiss her.

He leaned in, but she dodged with a nervous laugh. He looked at her quizzically.

“You haven't been keeping to your part of the bargain,” she said.

“Huh?” He blinked.

“Even though I learned a lot tonight about the computer-software industry in general, I didn't get a smidgen of information about Whittaker Enterprises in particular.” Her chin came up. “What's your interest in Tim and Ben's company?”

And what an attractive chin it was, he thought. Attached to a long and graceful neck that led down to breasts straight out of an erotic fantasy.
His
erotic fantasy.

“Are you paying attention?”

“Mmm-hmm. Yeah.” He focused his gaze on her face again. “I agreed to give you broad access, but
not
to give away confidential information about Whittaker's possible future plans. For one thing, you're the press. For another, that information could be very valuable on the stock market.”

“Are you suggesting I'd do something illegal like purchasing company stock on an inside tip?” she asked crossly.

He tapped her nose. “Not you personally, no, but the policy still stands. The last thing I need is for inside information to inadvertently leak, so the fewer people who know anything, the better.” She was too cute standing there, looking all mad at him. “But here's a hint I'm willing to give—nanotechnology.”

“That's it?” she said disbelievingly. “One word?”

He couldn't help smiling as he leaned down again.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “But don't worry. There's more where that came from.”

The kiss he gave her was brief, yet still powerful and disturbing, and he wondered again what he was doing getting mixed up with a journalist who just saw him as a convenient ticket to a promotion.

 

“I can't believe it!” her sister said. “Two guys who have great odds of seeing their bank accounts shoot into the multimillions and you didn't even mention you had a single and unattached younger sister? Did it even cross your mind that I have student loans to pay off? No, of course not,” Samantha answered herself, before slumping into a chair. “You were too focused on Mr. Naughty-and-Nice.”

“I was not focused on Noah,” Kayla said absently.

Samantha snorted. “Yeah, right. I suppose that's why you've mentioned him about fifty times in the past hour?”

Kayla closed out of the website that she was viewing and looked away from the screen. It was a sunny Sunday afternoon and, as happened from time to time, Samantha had crashed at her place the night before, not
wanting to take a late train back to school after an evening out on the town. “You're a real smarty-pants, you know?”

“Smart and
poor,
” Samantha replied, then nodded at the computer. “What have you been doing?”

“Looking up everything I can find on the Internet about nanotechnology. As I said, it's the only hint he gave me.”

If Noah had held better to his part of the bargain on Friday night, she wouldn't have to be looking up stuff. She couldn't believe he'd left her with a one-word hint!

They had just over three more weeks ahead of them, and he'd pony up or there'd be consequences. And, there wouldn't be any more kissing. If he hadn't caught her off guard, the kiss on Friday night would never have happened. She was a reporter doing a story, and he was her subject, for Pete's sake.

Still, truth be told, wasn't she partly to blame? She'd let herself get swept up in the mood of the evening.

She'd become attuned to every brush of his leg against hers, every smile that lit up his face, every nuance of conversation. So much so that she'd lost track of her mission, which was to get information on Whittaker Enterprises.

Of course, then there'd been that near brush with a photographer to distract her. She'd been hoping she could shadow him for a story without attracting the attention of the press. She definitely hadn't anticipated drawing media attention on their first outing together.

And then, to top it off, he'd kissed her—and she'd enjoyed it.
She'd wanted more.

Good grief. She had to get a grip. She reminded herself that Noah Whittaker was a smooth-talking and accomplished seducer.

“So what's wrong with Noah?” Samantha asked.

“Nothing!” Then, because she realized she'd practically shouted, she took a deep breath. “Nothing.”

“He's only wealthy, good-looking, smart—”

“Stop! He's also irritating, smug, arrogant, born with a silver spoon in his mouth and way too used to having women fall at his feet. I'm only trying to get a story here, okay? I am
not
interested in Noah.”

“If you say so. You know, denial of physical chemistry is often the first step in a romantic relationship.”

“Argh!” Kayla exclaimed in exasperation. Ever since Samantha had started majoring in psychology—supplemented by a steady diet of popular self-help books with titles such as
From Toxic Dates to Toxic Hate
—it had been “get in touch with your emotions”
this
and “express your feelings”
that
.

Her sister regarded her thoughtfully from her position in an overstuffed armchair. “You know, not every rich guy is a cad. Just because Mom made a mistake—”

“It wasn't a simple mistake. It was a catastrophe that sent her life reeling off course.”

“Yes, but she got you in the process, and I don't think she's ever regretted that.”

Kayla tamped down the wellspring of feeling that her sister's comment aroused. True, she'd always had a great relationship with her mother, but she couldn't forget the hard years they'd endured, years during which
her mother had completed her college degree at night
and
raised a child as a single parent. Even with the help of her family, it had been hard.

“Have you heard anything about him recently?” Samantha asked.

“Who?” she responded, though she knew perfectly well what her sister meant. “Bentley Mathison IV?” She hadn't thought about her biological father in a while.

Her sister nodded.

“No.” She busied herself straightening the papers on her computer desk. “He and his wife retreated to a luxury cottage on Martha's Vineyard after he was released from prison. He's been keeping a low profile ever since.”

Which was fortunate for her. The chances she'd run into him at some gala or other that she had to cover for the
Sentinel
were slim—though, of course, he wouldn't recognize her since he'd never been involved in her life and she now used the common surname Jones.

When the apartment's buzzer sounded, Samantha said, “I'll get it,” and popped out of her chair.

“Who is it?” she said into the intercom mounted on the entryway wall.

“Noah Whittaker,” came the reply, unmistakable even though garbled by static.

Samantha turned, eyes wide with excitement. “It's—”

“I heard,” Kayla said dryly. Her stomach did a somersault. Why was he here?

Samantha spoke into the intercom again. “Come on up.” She pressed a button to let Noah in.

Kayla looked down at her sweatshirt and tights. She
was a mess and Mr. Lady-killer was coming up in the elevator.

“Quick!” Samantha said, jumping into action and pulling Kayla out of her chair. “Into the bedroom,” she said, shoving her along. “Jeans tight, blouse low-cut, and put on some lipstick! Think
Cosmo
ad—casual but ready to frolic.”

Thrust into her bedroom, Kayla turned around and started to protest.

“I'll stall him as long as I can,” Samantha said and shut the door in her face.

N
oah knocked and, a full minute later, the door to the apartment opened and a knockoff of Kayla stood in front of him. She was wearing a T-shirt that had Tufts Field Hockey in big letters on the front, and her hair was caught up in a ponytail.

“Wow, look who has a license to thrill,” she said, leaning against the door jamb. She stuck out her hand.

“Hi, I'm Samantha, Kayla's sister.”

Noah broke into a grin as he grasped the proffered hand. “I'm—”

“Mr. Naughty-and-Nice,” she finished for him. “I know.”

“What?” he spluttered on a laugh.

“Never mind,” she said, pulling him in. “Can I get you something to drink? Beer? Wine? Sangria?”

“A beer is fine. Thanks.”

“Kayla's in the bedroom changing into something comfortable,” Samantha said as she walked into the small kitchen next to the entry. “She's been working all morning.”

Noah noticed she didn't say Kayla had been
at
work all morning, but he limited himself to saying, “She's too intense.”

“Well, she's going through her blond-ambition stage,” Samantha said, opening the fridge.

Noah leaned a shoulder against the archway to the kitchen. “Don't you mean blind ambition?”

“That too.” Samantha took a beer out of the fridge.

“She's a real blonde by the way, in case anyone's interested.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a bottle opener. “Ask me anything. I'll tell you everything you want to know. Well, almost everything.”

“Samantha!” Kayla exclaimed aghast.

Noah glanced through the pass-through between the kitchen and the dining/living room. Kayla had emerged dressed in blue jeans and a short-sleeved, deep-red top. The scoop neck, he noticed, did amazing things for her cleavage.

“What?” Samantha asked, directing her question at her sister.

Noah felt his lips curve at Kayla's answering frown. “I like your sister,” he said. “She's a firecracker.”

“Really?” Samantha said.

At the same time, Kayla muttered, “That's not all she is.”

Samantha leaned against the kitchen counter. “I hear you know a lot of up-and-coming types in the computer industry.” Without missing a beat, she added, “I'm five-seven and a college junior, and I
love
meeting new people.”

The hint was as subtle as a sledgehammer. “Yeah, I meet with some Silicon Valley types,” he responded, enjoying himself, not the least because Kayla continued to look discomfited, “but most of them are, uh, wardrobe challenged.” And that was the tip of the iceberg.

“I'm great with clothes,” Samantha countered. “In fact, I sometimes advise Kayla.”

“Do I have you to thank for the baby-doll top?”

“That's right. You owe me one.” She handed him an open beer.

“All right, that's enough,” Kayla said.

“Is she always like this?” Noah asked Samantha.

“Not always, no.”

“She's too serious,” Noah said, and they both looked at Kayla.

“And you're never serious,” Kayla retorted.

“I'm studiedly unserious. It takes a lot of work,” he replied lazily, pushing away from his spot in the entryway to the kitchen and moving into the living room.

“Right. Well, I prefer the terms
sensible
and
level-headed
.” With a pointed look at him and her sister, she added, “Some of us need to be.”

The first thing that caught his eye in her living room was the bouquet of roses on an end table.
His
roses.

She followed his gaze and stiffened. “They were too beautiful to throw out, but I didn't want them sitting around the office drawing attention.” She shrugged. “Why look a gift horse in the mouth?”

He pulled his gaze away from the flowers. For some reason, he felt ridiculously pleased she hadn't chucked them in the trash bin. And the fact that he felt that way was, well, ridiculous.

“Here,” he said, holding out a shawl. “You left this on the back seat of my car on Friday night.”

“Thanks.” She took the flimsy, sparkly material from him.

He shrugged. “I was driving through your neighborhood and figured I'd drop it off.” He also hadn't been able to stop thinking about her. “I'd have called first, but I couldn't locate a number for you other than work.”

From the corner of his eye, he noticed Samantha was following the conversation while pouring herself a glass of orange juice.

“Also, it gives me an opportunity to mention an event I have coming up.”

“Oh?”

“Juice, Kayla?”

“Thanks, just water.” To him, she said, “Have a seat.”

He took the couch while she sat in an armchair.

He glanced around the apartment. It was small but thoughtfully furnished. On the walls hung framed black-and-white photo reprints of cityscapes: New York, Paris,
Boston, Miami, Sydney. Near the pass-through to the kitchen sat a black lacquer-and-glass table. The rest of the room consisted of an armchair, a cream-colored couch, a small television and a computer desk. The computer was a late-model Apple with a flat screen, salsa music emanating at a low volume from its two small speakers.

He nodded at the computer. “You've got some eclectic musical tastes. From Norah Jones to salsa?”

“We were raised on salsa,” Samantha piped up as she walked over to Kayla with a glass of water. “Our grandmother is a big fan.” Samantha looked at him. “She was born in Cuba.”

“Was she?” Noah took a sip of his beer, amused that the expression on Kayla's face said she wondered whether her sister was planning to give him details about their
entire
family.

“Yup,” Samantha said, ignoring her sister's pointed look and sitting down on the couch next to her. “Bolero, salsa, merengue—
Abuela
likes it all. Kayla and I could barely get anything else played around the house since our grandmother was often there. Fortunately, Ricky Martin hit it big, and we finally found a middle ground.”

“Interesting,” he murmured, looking at Kayla.

“
Abuela
sang around the house, too,” Samantha continued, then laughed before turning to her sister, “but Kayla only sings in the shower.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“So, you mentioned an event a minute ago,” Kayla said, clearly looking to change the subject. “What event?”

“There's a black-tie benefit for the Boston Esplanade being thrown on the banks of the Charles River next Saturday night by the Charlesbank Association. I'd like you to come with me. You'll get to listen in on some interesting conversations.”

“Unless it's a costume ball with Venetian masks, the answer is no. We had one near brush with paparazzi on Friday night. I'll follow you around but in a more low-key way from now on.”

He sat back and tilted his head. “Somehow I thought that would be your initial reaction.”

“Good, then you weren't disappointed,” she countered.

Samantha was looking like she longed for a big tub of popcorn so she could watch the gathering storm with the same intensity she'd view an absorbing TV drama.

“Instead of inviting me to charity benefits,” Kayla continued, “if you really wanted to help me, you'd be inviting me to tour Whittaker Enterprises' offices and giving me a list of employees to speak with.”

“Fine. I've been too busy this week to get to that,” he responded. “Call my office on Monday. We'll set up a time for you to come by and I'll have some names for you. But I still want you to go to the Charlesbank Association event with me.”

“Going to a charity benefit with you would be like waving a red flag in front of the gossip columnists in this town—they're sure to charge, and odds are we'd be gored.”

“I'll introduce you as the reporter who's researching an in-depth piece on Whittaker Enterprises,” he said
with patience. “Everyone will buy it because the alternative—that we're flaunting a relationship that I just publicly denied existed—will seem too outrageous.”

Kayla rolled her eyes. “Wow, you sure know nothing about gossip columnists. Stories about three-headed aliens landing on top of city hall aren't too outrageous.” She leaned forward. “And if the mayor refutes it, of course, the headline is Mayor Denies Aliens Landed on his Roof.”

Samantha laughed.

Noah stared at Kayla, and she stared right back.

Sighing, he turned to Samantha. “Feel free to chime in any time, kid. I could use all the help I can get.”

“No way.” Samantha shook her head. “Kayla's wearing her ‘look.' She can be very stubborn when she wants to be.”

“You don't say?” he said, not taking his eyes off Kayla.

“Yup. She's been known to camp out overnight for concert tickets.”

“Everyone has his price,” he said.

“You couldn't afford me,” Kayla retorted.

“How do you know what I can afford?” he responded coolly. “Done a lot of research on me?”

She looked away.

He wasn't sure why he was pressing her to accept his invitation, except somewhere along the way getting close to Kayla had taken on an importance equal to rehabilitating his image. “You need to be there. It'll be full of glitterati and beautiful people.”

“I can get a press pass.”

“I'll introduce you to people who are worth knowing. I'll even put in a good word. Some of them have a natural aversion to goss—uh, journalists.”

“Who?” she asked doubtfully.

Ah, finally, Noah thought, a chink in the armor: getting the upper hand in her ongoing rivalry with Sybil LaBreck was enticing. “Susan Bennington-Walsh,” he said, naming one of Boston's leading hostesses.

She shook her head. “Already know her.”

“You don't say.” Surprising. “Susan disdains the press, and gossip columnists in particular.”

“That's what they all say, at least publicly,” she replied dryly.

“Are you saying she secretly feeds information to you?”

“No comment.”

Well, well. He filed away that bit of information and reminded himself not to say anything too revealing at one of Susan's future parties. “The mayor then,” he offered, switching tactics.

“You know the mayor?” Samantha said, looking impressed.

“Of course he knows the mayor,” Kayla responded.

“I contributed to his last election campaign.”

“Handsomely, I'm sure,” Kayla jibed.

“Naturally.” He could tell Kayla was mulling over how a personal introduction to the mayor would benefit a would-be business reporter.

Finally, she said doubtfully, “Black tie or business attire?”

He masked a grin. “Black tie.”

“Great!” Samantha clapped her hands together, not giving her sister a chance to shy away again. “Now that that's settled, tell me about your racing career, Noah. I'd love to know what it's like to race at two-hundred miles an hour.”

Noah gave her a quick grin. No doubt about it, he thought, the kid had charm in spades. Too bad he had a major case of the hots for her sister, who seemed determined to keep him at arm's length.

“I'm sure Noah has better things to do,” Kayla interjected.

“Trying to get rid of me?” he asked.

Their eyes met and clashed.

“Don't be silly,” she retorted. “I'm only thinking of you and your busy schedule.”

“Come on, Noah,” Samantha pleaded, ignoring her sister. “It all sounds so thrilling.”

“Thrilling and dangerous,” he corrected. Certainly no one knew that better than he did. Danger—of the fatal variety—was what had convinced him that it was time to put away his racing suit.

Samantha curled up on the couch. “How did you get started?”

He shrugged, having fielded similar questions countless times before from fans, acquaintances and the merely curious. “At a racing school, like a lot of other professional drivers. I got the appropriate racing licenses and started driving in some of the lower-level series and then worked my way up to an Indy car.”

“Did you race in the Indianapolis 500?”

“Yeah, I had a couple of starts there.” More than that, he'd had a top-five finish in his rookie season. He'd been red hot until the crash that had changed his life and put an end to his professional racing career at the relatively young age of twenty-six.

Samantha continued to look impressed. “How do you get into the big leagues?”

“It's tough,” he admitted. “You need high speeds even to qualify for the big events. Then you throw in finding a racing team that will give you a car, lining up sponsors, putting together a pit crew, and everything else.”

“So why bother?” Kayla asked.

He glanced over at her. “The thrill.”

There wasn't anything like taking a turn at two-hundred miles an hour, fighting to stay in control of the car, and making split-second decisions that meant the difference between winning and losing.

He didn't expect her to understand. His family hadn't, though they'd come to accept his dream of racing cars.

The love of speed, he'd found, was something you were either born with or weren't. In his case, there must have been a genetic mutation because no one else in his upper-crust Boston Brahmin family thought that hurtling yourself through space at two-hundred-plus miles an hour was a pleasant way to spend a sunny afternoon.

He caught Kayla observing him with a thoughtful expression on her face.

“For me, a thrill means finding a Stella McCartney designer top in my size at a thrift shop,” Samantha said.

Noah laughed. “Can't say I can relate, but I'm often appreciative of the results.”

Samantha grinned back; Kayla scowled.

Holding Samantha's gaze, he nodded his head at Kayla. “She doesn't like my playboy ways.”