Tycoon Takes Revenge (4 page)

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.”

W
hen 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 obvi
ously 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.”

“So you do sing in the shower?” he asked. “Funny, I didn't think you were the singing-in-the-shower type.”

“And you are?” she parried.

“I've done many things in the shower,” he said, his look wicked. “Singing is just one of them.”

“The question is, are you good at any of them?”

Noah threw back his head and laughed, drawing the momentary attention of Ben and Tim, who were seated in front of them, closer to the stage, watching someone do a torturous rendition of “Midnight Train to Georgia.”

Kayla felt Noah's laugh to the tips of her toes. It was low, rich and seductive.

“Come on,” he said. “I'll get up there if you will. It's practically required. Even Ben and Tim are taking a turn.”

As it turned out, Ben and Tim did a passable rap duet.

She was sort of stunned actually, but all Noah said was “Like I said, the name of the game is novelty.”

“Where do they find the time with their work schedules?”

Noah shrugged. “Rapping helps them attract women.”

Her turn came a few minutes later. She walked to the stage and, in a snap decision, told the DJ to change her song selection.

If the name of the game was doing something out of character, she knew how to oblige.

As the first notes of the song vibrated through the room, she closed her eyes for a few seconds and let herself get caught up in the mood.

Finally, she opened her eyes and began singing “Come Away with Me.” Norah Jones's hit song was slow, romantic and suited to her own husky singing voice.

For the first minute or so, she avoided looking at Noah. When she did chance a glance at him, her eyes locked with his and she almost stumbled over a note.

At that moment, the strangest set of feelings passed over her. She felt the exhilaration of racing with the wind in her hair alternating with the languor of lying in a hammock on a hot, sunny afternoon. The sensations thrilled and warmed her at the same time.

She sang on about walking together on a cloudy day and a love that would never stop.

Noah's gaze flickered, though the rest of his face appeared etched in cement, and sexual awareness wrapped itself around her like a blanket.

When she was done, her eyes lingered on his. He gazed at her intensely, as if he was stopping himself from bounding onto the stage, sweeping her up and making a beeline for the door.

The thought gave her goose bumps and she told herself to stop being ridiculous. She replaced the microphone on its holder and headed back to their table.

Noah met her in the middle of the room as he made his way to the stage. “Impressive,” he murmured. “You should do more than sing in the shower.”

“Th-thanks.”

When she'd taken her seat again, the DJ began Noah's selection. She recognized the song within a few notes and tensed.

He wouldn't.

But he did.

She felt hot all over as Noah began singing Billy Paul's “Me and Mrs. Jones.” Tim and Ben turned around to toss her amused looks, but her gaze was caught and held by Noah's.

As Noah sang about how he and Ms. Jones had a thing going on even though they knew it was wrong, she resisted the urge to fan herself. He had changed the lyrics to “Ms.” instead of “Mrs.” and she was in danger of dissolving into a puddle under the table.

She lowered her lashes and tried to look around the room. She hoped no one here knew either of them, because he was practically inviting headlines in tomorrow's paper!

Her gaze moved back to his. The look on his face matched his voice: smoky and full of sensual promise.

Oh, God.

Kayla wasn't sure how she lasted through Noah's song, but, helped by a few fortifying sips of a martini, she did.

When the song ended, Noah grinned, breaking the spell, and then thanked the DJ. As he made his way back to their table, several of the women in the room cast him inviting looks.

Well, she concluded glumly, Noah had proven he
was
good at one thing in the shower. She couldn't prevent herself from thinking about what else he was good at.

 

Bed.
That was Noah's first thought. The second was: he had to ditch his Silicon Valley sidekicks.

As he approached their table, he noticed Kayla appeared flushed and flustered. She seemed to look everywhere but at him.

The air was so sexually charged between them that he was almost afraid to touch her. As it was, he gave
them two-to-one odds of winding up in an empty cloakroom, tearing each other's clothes off.

He'd chosen “Me and Mrs. Jones” on a whim, thinking he'd have some fun with her. But along the way, while he'd been singing about hopes being built up too high, the mood had turned from playful to hot and intense.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a connection that strong and fast with a woman. The realization left him bemused.

As he neared, Ben turned to Tim and cracked, “And he can sing, too.”

Tim looked up and shrugged, a wry look on his face. “Okay, dude, the T-shirt, the Billy Paul imitation…I guess I've gotta concede.”

Noah noticed Kayla continued to remain silent, sipping her drink. To Tim and Ben, he said easily, “If I couldn't top you guys on my home turf, I'd have to toss in the towel.” He withdrew some bills from his wallet and threw them down on the table. “Since we've got a victor, let's call it a night.”

While Ben and Tim thanked him for picking up the tab, Noah cast a covert look at Kayla. She seemed to be getting her bearings.

“You okay?” he asked.

For the first time, she looked directly at him. A range of emotions flickered across her face before she seemed to school it into a polite smile. “Yes, of course.”

He moved back so she could precede him to the door. A part of him couldn't wait to get rid of Ben and Tim. The other part warned him that being alone with Kayla
right now was not a good idea. He was supposed to be giving her a story. Instead, he was thinking about the shortest route to the bedroom.

He didn't have time to dwell on his thoughts, however, because when they got to the front of the bar, Tim suddenly turned and motioned Noah over. “Bad news,” Tim said. “The valet mentioned that a paparazzo with a camera has been spotted outside. The staff here have been telling everyone who's leaving in case they're the reason the guy is here.”

Noah muttered a curse under his breath.

Next to him, Kayla tensed.

“Friend of yours?” he asked.

“Don't be ridiculous,” she retorted. “Besides, if there's anyone who has a history of siccing journalists on the two of us, it's you.”

“Just checking.”

“Anyway,” she added, “we don't know it's us that he's waiting for. This street has lots of trendy places. He could just be on a fishing expedition, hoping he'll get lucky and snap someone good.”

Noah pulled his car keys from his pocket. “Maybe,” he said, because he thought she was engaging in wishful thinking, “but the fact is he's out there now, and he may spot us when we walk out of here.” Catching the panicked look on her face, he asked, “What's the matter?”

“We can't be photographed together! At least not yet, and definitely not leaving a bar and driving off alone together! Not so soon after Sybil published your denial of a relationship between us. It will undermine everything.”

“Ah,” he said, because he understood her predicament, having been there one too many times himself.

“Welcome to my world, baby doll.”

“We can't go out there!” she reiterated.

“Throwing yourself on my mercy, are you?” he said, then added, relenting, “Fine. We'll make the most of the fact that he may not know we're in here.” He looked toward the rear of the bar. “There should be a fire exit at the back.”