Tycoon Takes Revenge (3 page)

Fortunately, Huffy—er, Eve, he corrected himself, annoyed that now he was unintentionally adopting Kayla's ridiculous names—was in Europe on a modeling shoot and thus probably unaware of the headlines linking her most recent ex to a secret affair with Ms. Rumor-Has-It. Otherwise, he might have had another irate female to contend with.

In any case, he took grim satisfaction in knowing Sybil's column that day had probably riled Kayla. After all,
he
had to suffer through grief from his family.

“Well,” Allison continued, “I, for one, would love to congratulate Kayla Jones.” She looked at Quentin and Matt for affirmation. “Unlike those vapid, vampish vixens you sometimes date, she's smart enough not to be bowled over by your charm, Noah.”

Noah mouthed
vapid, vampish vixens
incredulously while his brothers stifled their mirth. Then he frowned. “Great. I'll let Connor know that, if you ever get tired of the D.A.'s office, you can have a second career as a gossip columnist.” He added, “Does family loyalty mean nothing to you?”

“Not since you tried to get me married off to Connor,” Allison returned sweetly. “How did you put it to him?” She pretended to try to remember for a second, then snapped her fingers. “Oh, right. I believe your words were ‘Why don't you help take her off our hands?'”

Noah grumbled. “Maybe I shouldn't have put it like that, but you and Connor belonged together.
This
situation's different.”

Matt's lips twitched. “Ms. Rumor-Has-It does seem to have your number, unlike—uh, how did she put it?—
Huffy, Fluffy and Buffy.
And, on top of it all, your little columnist is undeniably
hot.
”

Noah quelled the sudden, inexplicable urge to slug the amused look off of his brother's face. So, Kayla was hot; she was also a menace, and she was
not
“his” little columnist. “Yeah, and she's also a consummate teller of tall tales in that fiction column of hers.”

At the head of the table, his father cleared his throat and gave him a level look. “The bottom line is there's a problem here that you need to fix. Even if there's not a modicum of truth in the recent headlines, they're bad for public relations—both yours and Whittaker Enterprises'.”

Quentin nodded. “Dad's right, as much as I'd like to think otherwise. Some people will believe the press, and even those who don't will wonder if you're playing and partying harder than you're working.”

Noah watched his mother cast him a sympathetic look that nonetheless managed to carry a hint of reproach. “I know I raised you to be respectful toward women, Noah, so I have no doubt that the recent press about you is just an aberration. Nevertheless, darling, I have to agree with your father and brother. You must fix this. No more headlines, and you should try to do something to repair your public image.”

Noah knew his family was right. His philosophy of
working hard and playing harder had long worked for him, but then Ms. Rumor-Has-It had come along.

He had to deal with her and the trouble she'd stirred up in his life.

 

What was she doing here?

Noah stared in disbelief at the figure slinking into a seat at the back of the roomful of assembled reporters, cameramen and photographers awaiting the beginning of the press conference.

As if she could go unnoticed.

Even if she hadn't been a head-turner with her blond hair falling like a curtain past her shoulders and a figure that was a siren call to every straight guy in the room, she had on a ridiculous outfit consisting of a pale pink sweater made of some clingy material that hugged her breasts, a pencil-thin pinstriped skirt showing off legs that went on and on, and some
come-hither
heels.

Watching as she got a once-over from the guy next to her while, oblivious to any attention, she pulled out a notepad, Noah smiled grimly:
I rest my case.

Much to his annoyance, the memory of their kiss lingered with him. Her lips had been soft, silky and full beneath his, and their effect had gone through him like a shot of brandy. But so what if the woman had proved she could kiss with real feeling?

He frowned. The last thing he needed to be thinking about right now was their kiss. The press conference would start any minute. He'd resolved this morning to deal with her, but he hadn't expected to be confronted
with an opportunity here, now, surrounded by half the press of Greater Boston. Hell.

Anyway, the real question was, what was she doing here? Last time he'd checked, gossip columnists didn't cover breaking business news.

As the clock on the back wall hit eleven, he strode to the podium at the front of the room. He was going to announce the acquisition by Whittaker Enterprises of Avanti Technologies, a small company located along Route 128, Boston's high-tech corridor, and because the acquisition of Avanti impacted Whittaker's computer business—his area of expertise—he'd be doing the initial presentation. Afterward, he and Quentin, as well as the president of Avanti, would field questions.

When Noah got to the microphone, he made a couple of jokes to break the ice, then consulted his notes: “Pleased to announce…welcome the opportunity to work with…corporate synergies involved…”

Throughout his speech, he noticed Kayla kept her gaze fixed somewhere over his left shoulder.
Uncomfortable, eh?
He wondered again what had brought her here and knew that, as soon as the press conference was over, he was going find out.

Focusing again on the assembled reporters, he concluded by saying that additional copies of Whittaker's press release were on a table at the back of the room.

Then, when Quentin and the president of Avanti stepped forward to flank him at the mike, he fielded questions from reporters, eventually calling on a guy in jeans.

The reporter stood up, a smirk hovering at the corners of his lips. “The stock for Whittaker Computing has been down recently. Can you comment on the markets' reaction to the recent bad press about you?”

Noah tensed. Whittaker Computing—one of a handful of companies that made up Whittaker Enterprises—was partly publicly owned. There were any number of reasons why Whittaker Computing's stock had taken a hit recently, as any half-wit could tell you, but the weasel in front of him was obviously trying to bait him.

Noah gave him a semblance of a smile and then, keeping his tone even, said, “The markets have better things to do than follow any spurious rumors written about me.”

Noah watched as Kayla slunk farther down in her chair at the back of the room. Feeling a tad self-conscious, was she?
Well, welcome to the club, babe.

He started to call on another questioner, but the smirking jerk in jeans—probably some overeager new recruit looking to make his mark—persisted. “What about the impression you've given that you can't get along with women? There's been speculation that this could affect Whittaker's ability to recruit female executives.”

Noah gripped the sides of the lectern. He'd like to deck the questioning little dweeb. “Maybe it's a question of the ability of a few particular women to get along with me.”

This earned him a chuckle or two from the audience.

He held the reporter's gaze until the guy shifted. “Whittaker Enterprises is an equal opportunity em
ployer. We value and welcome female employees. In fact, we're proud we've been rated one of the best places for women to work by a leading Boston magazine. Our on-site day care and flextime schedules are models for the industry. The women at Whittaker who work with me wouldn't tell you differently.”

Then, determined this time to cut off the smart-ass, Noah turned to look at another part of the room. “Next question.”

Fifteen minutes later, the press conference was over. Immediately, he spotted Kayla scurrying into the hall.

“Excuse me,” he said curtly, shoving his way past the milling press and striding out of the room.

He caught up with her halfway down the hall and captured her elbow. “We need to talk.”

She started and looked up at him guiltily.

“What?” he asked blandly. “Attempting to make your escape?”

“I'm sure we've said all there is to say to one another,” she said, her tone cool enough to freeze penguins in their tracks.

“On the contrary, Barbie,” he countered dryly, looking pointedly at her blond hair and pink sweater.

She pulled her elbow away from him. “I'm not going anywhere with you. I may be Barbie, but you're no Ken, Mr. I-Change-Women-with-the-Seasons Whittaker. Barbie and Ken had a committed, monogamous relationship for over forty years.”

God, she was maddening. She'd just compared him
unfavorably
to a plastic doll's main squeeze.

He wondered again why he still found her pulse-poundingly attractive. Sick. He was sick.

“As unpleasant as it is for the both of us, we need to talk and I suggest we do it in private—unless you want our public bloodletting to continue?” He took her elbow again.

She looked around. “I'll scream.”

Aside from the two of them, no one was in the hallway yet. They were some distance from the room where the press conference had been held, and probably most of the journalists were still gathering their equipment. Still, Noah knew that Kayla could make herself heard.

“I wouldn't advise it,” he said dryly. “Not unless you want another newspaper headline about us, and I doubt that.”

She opened her mouth.

“Think about it,” he said forcefully. “Our names conjoined in ink. Again.
Forever.
”

U
pstairs in Noah's office, Kayla still couldn't shake the feeling that this was a bad idea. A very bad idea.

They didn't do well talking to each other. Or even being in the same room together.

Noah gestured her to a seat.

“No thanks,” she said.

“Suit yourself,” he responded, then sat at the edge of his desk, folding his arms across his chest and crossing one foot over the other at the ankle.

She glanced around his office. It was all chrome and black and glass with two walls displaying great views of nearby hills. Her cubicle at work would have fit into the space behind his desk.

Grudgingly, she admitted that, whatever else Noah was, he did appear to be spectacularly successful.

“What the heck are you doing here?” he asked abruptly, drawing her attention back to him.

“I was filling in for another reporter,” she said, self-conscious under his scrutiny. All at once, her skirt felt too short, her top too tight and her heels too high. Damn him.

He raised a brow. “Since when are gossip columnists asked to fill in for business reporters?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that it was none of his business, when it occurred to her that she'd just been handed a great chance to ask as many questions as she wanted about the acquisition of Avanti—
if,
that was, she acted at least passably civil toward him.

“I've been trying for a lateral move to the business desk at the
Sentinel,
” she responded stiffly.

She could see she'd surprised him. “You want to write something other than salacious rumors?”

She checked her temper. “Let's not cross that ground again, shall we? As I think I made clear before, I work hard at my job. It's just that I want to be doing the type of reporting that I got into journalism for.”

“And that would be—?”

“Business reporting,” she said, her tone clipped. “Are you going to tell me what you wanted to talk to me about, or not?”

He looked at her for several seconds, his green gaze inscrutable. Finally, he said, “I'm calling for a cease-fire.”

“What?” It was her turn to be taken by surprise.

“You heard me.”

“Oh, right. I suppose now that the empire has struck back, it's okay for
you
to want to call a truce. After all, Sybil LaBreck has just announced
to the whole world
that we're back together!”

“Yeah, well,” he said, too placidly to suit her, “you did play straight into my hands on that one.”

She stared at him, annoyed. How dare he stand there looking so sexy and so gorgeous—causing an unwanted but very feminine reaction in her—when he was such a calculating sneak. She folded her arms across her chest. “I know I will regret asking, but how did I play into your plans?”

“Yesterday I tipped off that photographer from the
Boston World
so he could snap me leaving the
Sentinel
's offices looking, uh, contrite after trying to mend fences with you.”

“I should have guessed that photographer wasn't just hanging around hoping for a good photo op.”

“Little did I know you'd insist on walking out with me—”

“Giving you and him an even better photo opportunity than you were expecting,” she finished for him.

The lout.

“So, again, are you willing to declare a truce?”

“What kind of truce?” she asked, suspicious.

He shrugged nonchalantly, rising from his desk.

She forced herself not to take an involuntary step back just to keep some space between them. Over six feet, he had a comfortable height advantage over her—
even when she was wearing heels. But, more than that, he radiated a charisma that was nearly palpable.

“We can help each other.”

“Really?” she asked in disbelief, forcing herself to keep up with their war of words because it was easier than thinking about being alone in his office with him.

“I can't imagine what help I need from you other than for you to stop sabotaging me.”

He arched a brow. “
Sabotage
is a strong word, don't you think?”

“Not if it's accurate.” When he was smooth and charming, he was even more dangerous than when he was angry and annoyed. She brushed aside the disgruntling realization.

“You just said you're looking to move to the business desk at the
Sentinel.
”

“Yes…?” She wondered where he was going with this.

“I can give you a news story that will help you get there.”

“What news story?”

“An exclusive inside look at Whittaker Enterprises. I'll grant you broad access.”

“In return for…?”

He gazed at her speculatively. “In return for your help in rehabilitating my public image.”

“Impossible,” she responded.

He laughed. “I'm flattered, in a backhanded-compliment sort of way.”

“Anyway, you're overestimating my influence on public opinion.”

“I don't think so. You damaged my reputation, you can repair it.”

“How?”

“By being seen getting along with me.”

“I'm not that good of an actress,” she retorted.

“Do your best. I'm not looking for an Oscar-winning performance.”

His plan was ridiculous, outrageous. So why was she tempted?

Because, she answered herself, he was dangling an irresistible lure, damn him. She'd walk on hot coals to get that business reporter's beat.

“Well?” he prompted.

“Can't. Journalistic ethics. You may have heard of them.”

“A little late in the day to be worrying about those, don't you think?” he scoffed.

“Tell that to my boss when he fires me,” she snapped.

He shrugged and folded his arms again. “What would it take not to offend your journalistic sensibilities?”

“I won't agree to anything that smacks of you trying to buy me off or of an exchange of favors.”

He sighed. “I told you that you'll have broad access to Whittaker Enterprises. You can talk to our employees. Heck,
I'll
talk to you. You can follow me around and see what my routine is. I won't stop you from writing something unflattering. All I'm asking for is that you write a balanced piece.”

She continued to eye him, unconvinced.

He sighed again. “Fine, you don't have to pretend to
get along with me anymore than comes naturally, if that's going to trouble your reporter's conscience.”

“Thanks.”

“And as far as Ms. Rumor-Has-It's column goes, I think you can use the story about Whittaker Enterprises to your advantage. Just tell Ed that you can't write about me in your regular column while you're pursuing an in-depth piece about Whittaker Enterprises because you want to avoid any conflicts. If he's worried, he can assign you an intern. That way, when you do get moved over to the business desk, you'll already have someone in place to take over as Ms. Rumor-Has-It.”

He made his plan sound so reasonable—and appealing. Oh-so-appealing. Nevertheless, she had to ask, “What about Sybil?”

He looked untroubled. “What about her? I'll call her up and explain our affair was a hoax. Besides, as long as we spread the word that you're shadowing me in order to write a piece about Whittaker Enterprises, we'll be dispelling the rumor that we're involved.”

The thought of Sybil having the rug pulled out from under her
did
make his plan more tempting. Kayla bit her lip, then said, “What's in this for you?”

“For my part, I'm banking your intern won't be as interested in my social life as you are.” He gave her a sardonic look. “Besides, since—thanks to you—I'm currently free of models and actresses, there won't be anything exciting to write about.”

“Maybe.” She refused to concede he likely was right.

“On top of that,” he said, warming to his subject,
“once you get your assignment to the business desk at the
Sentinel,
I'm rid of you—at least as a wrecking ball in my social life. And, as an added bonus, I get a balanced news piece about Whittaker Enterprises.” He finished triumphantly, “The plan is perfect.”

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.