by Anna DePalo
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.
Five
Noah 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.”
“Maybe I just don’t like you,” Kayla retorted.
“Ouch.” He pretended to wince.
Samantha leaned forward confidingly. “It’s not personal. She just doesn’t like any rich—”
“Okay!” Kayla said, then stood up and shot her sister a dire look.
Samantha clamped her mouth shut.
Baffled, he looked from Kayla to Samantha. “She just doesn’t like any—?”
“Rich men who ask probing questions,” Kayla finished flatly.
He looked up at Kayla and knew, just knew, he needed to know more. He needed to know everything about her, to know her intimately. And he wasn’t giving up.
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On the following Wednesday morning, Kayla showed up early at Whittaker Enterprises’ headquarters. She’d arranged with Noah to tour the company’s offices, talk to people, follow him around and, basically, see how things operated.
She’d taken extra-special care with her clothes and makeup. She’d already discovered the hard way that, for a good chunk of the world, young single female meant not to be taken seriously.
So, today she’d paired navy flare-leg trousers with a striped blue-and-yellow open-collar shirt. Her jewelry was discreet and understated, just a watch and some small cubic-zirconia stud earrings.
The look was classy but professional, or at least she hoped so. As Ms. Rumor-Has-It, she had to dress the part, but this was something different altogether.
On the drive over to Noah’s office, she’d reflected again on the research she’d done and the articles she’d read on Whittaker Enterprises—and on Noah himself—in preparation for today’s visit.
Whittaker Enterprises had been started by Noah’s father back in the 1960s and had since metamorphosed into a conglomerate with interests primarily in real estate and high technology. Noah’s oldest brother, Quentin, had taken over the reins of the family company a few years back, when his father had moved into semi-retirement. At the same time, Noah had become the point person for Whittaker Enterprises’ computer business. That was, as soon as he’d quelled his maverick tendencies. After graduating from M.I.T. with a bachelor’s degree in computer science, instead of joining the family business, he’d headed off to pursue a race-car driving career.
She’d found news articles from the time that detailed the surprise with which Noah’s move had been greeted in Boston social circles. It was as if he’d announced he’d rather be the jockey than the horse owner. It just wasn’t done. Not in the rarified circles of Boston old-line families.
Still, he’d entered the Indy car-racing circuit. After three years of heady success had come the accident that had marked the end of his career. Precisely, it had happened on turn three at the Michigan Indy 400. Noah had been fighting for the lead with Jack Gillens, one of his racing buddies. Just as Noah was going by him, Jack had lost control of his car and hit the barrier wall on the racing oval head-on; car debris had gone flying everywhere.