widened, and Noah realized she’d taken his flippant comment seriously.
Sybil was Kayla’s biggest rival among local gossip columnists. In her late fifties, Sybil looked like an updated version of Mrs. Santa Claus, but she could shovel the dirt with the best of them.
Sybil looked perplexed. “But you’ve been seen everywhere with that model—what’s her name?—Eve.”
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,
