Gossip is news running ahead of itself in a red satin
dress.
— Columnist Liz Smith
Smooth, moneyed and used to having things fall in his lap.
In short, Kayla thought disdainfully, as she watched him
move toward her with a thin gloss of civility, he was
everything that her family history had taught her to avoid.
Noah Whittaker. She'd spotted him instantly when she'd
arrived at the cocktail party tonight at one of Boston's
finer hotels to celebrate a retired Formula One race-car
driver's newly published autobiography.
Her headline about Noah in that morning's Boston Sentinel
flashed through her mind: Caught with Fluffy, Huffy Calls
It Quits. Will Buffy the Man Slayer Be Next for Noah?
She supposed he hadn't liked her story one bit. But she
didn't make the news, she just reported it. And he gave
her plenty of material to work with. He had, in fact,
become a popular figure in her column.
And writing about him was easy. She knew his type. He
acted as if the world were his cocktail, served up dry
with a twist just for him, exactly as her biological
father did.
She watched him approach and pushed aside the irritating
twinge of nervousness. She had nothing to be nervous about.
She knew that, for some women, thoughts of sin and Noah
Whittaker went hand in hand. But she'd been inoculated at
birth against the players of the world — though she could
dispassionately assess the attraction: Noah's hair,
closely cropped but thick, looked as if he dried it with a
blow-dryer set on scorch, its shade a burnished bronze.
Over six feet tall, he had the honed body of an athlete.
He'd had a brief but meteoric career as a race-car driver,
though these days, he was better known as a vice president
of Whittaker Enterprises, the family conglomerate in
Carlyle, near Boston.
Noah stopped in front of her. "Kayla Jones, right?" He
paused for a moment, his face all lean, hard planes of
masculinity. "Or should I say," he added, his tone
betraying a hint of derision, "Ms. Rumor-Has-It?"
Her chin came up. If he thought to faze her, he had
another thing coming. She'd gotten plenty of practice
handling barbs from the pampered and privileged at the
fancy prep school she'd attended on scholarship. "That's
right. It's nice of you to remember."
One side of his mouth quirked up. "Hard to forget when
you've been wielding a machete all over my social life. Or
is that part of your job description as the Boston
Sentinel"s resident gossip columnist?"
Her shoulders stiffened. They'd seen each other a few
times at various social events, but this was the first
time he'd deigned to speak with her personally. "I prefer
the term society columnist. I write for the style section
of the Sentinel."
"Is that what they're calling the fiction part of the
paper these days?"
She attempted a dismissive laugh. "If I hadn't heard that
line before from more people than I can count, I'd say you
were trying to insult me."
He cocked his head, seeming to consider her
question. "That depends. Are you trying to spread lies
about me, or is that just a nice little fringe benefit in
your line of work?"
"For your information, all my columns are carefully
researched and my sources checked for reliability."
"Obviously you need to work harder."
"Are we by chance discussing my column in today's paper?"
"Oh, yeah, we're discussing that all right. And last
week's column. And the one before that. One guess as to
what they all have in common."
"There's no need to descend into sarcasm," she said. "I'm
aware of how often I've mentioned you in my column."
"Are you?" he asked silkily. "And are you also aware it's
your fault that Eve Bernard — or as you've referred to
her, Huffy — broke up with me?"
From what she'd heard, Eve had done more than break up
with him. According to eyewitnesses with whom she'd
spoken, Eve had delivered the news — along with a slap to
the face — in the presence of dozens of departing guests
at a glittering banquet on Saturday night. A Sentinel
photographer had gotten a great shot of Noah, glowering at
Eve and holding her by the forearms.
But what did he mean it was her fault? "As a result of my
column?" she asked with skepticism. "Don't you mean as a
result of your cavorting with Fluffy?" At his sardonic
look, she caught herself. "I mean, Cecily?"
He chuckled cynically. "Cavorting? My, my, what colorful
language you society columnists use. All the better to
write innuendo, I suppose?"
She tossed her head. "Whatever," she retorted, dropping
all pretense of politeness. Out of the corner of her eye,
she noticed other guests had begun to throw curious
glances their way. "There was a photo of you and Cecily
kissing outside the Kirkland Club."
"And we all know a picture is worth a thousand words,
right?" he responded. "Or, in this case, a thousand lies.
In fact, if you had done some inquiring instead of relying
on that shot that your photographer snapped, you would
have discovered that Cecily caught me by surprise with
that kiss."
"How nice for you."
He ignored her. "You see, Cecily has this weird idea that
making the gossip columns will bolster her fledgling
acting career — and so much the better if the guy on her
arm happens to be rich or famous. So she plastered herself
to me the minute she spotted the Sentinel"s photographer."
"Perhaps then," she said sweetly, "you should reconsider
the risk of dating publicity-seeking aspiring actresses.
Or, for that matter, intellectually challenged models.
And, hmm —" she pretended to consider for an instant,
tilting her head " — I seem to recall at least one
ruthless reality-show contestant as well."
"Oh?" he responded, letting his gaze rake over her from
head to toe. "Considering that the field doesn't yet
include any gossip columnists, I don't think my tastes can
be called into question."
"From what I've been able to see, your tastes can best be
described as blond, platinum-blond and strawberry-blond."
"Are you calling me shallow?"
"If the shoe fits," she retorted.
He shook his head. "So young and yet so bitter." Bitter?
No, she was cautious, but that's how a single woman
budgeting to make rent payments had to be. And how the
product of a fling between a slick, social-climbing
financier and his young college intern knew to be. But
then Mr. Playboy Whittaker didn't have a clue about the
struggles of ordinary people.
Aloud, she countered, "We journalists have jobs that
require us to think, and thinking doesn't appear to be
high on your list of criteria for a girlfriend."
"Whether it is or not isn't anyone's business but mine,"
he responded.
"For your information, I didn't just rely on the photo. I
called Huff — I mean, Eve — about it and she confirmed she
was planning to break up with you over the, ah, incident."
"That's because Eve was thinking of her public image. She
believed me when I said your column had misconstrued
things because she knows Cecily is a publicity hound. But,
as she put it, publicly she had to at least look like she
was punishing me for being a naughty boy."
Kayla felt her lips twitch. "Well, that's not my fault, is
it?"
"It is your fault," he disagreed. "You're printing
salacious gossip and you're wreaking havoc on my social
life."
"So find yourself another aspiring starlet," she
retorted. "In fact, I think Buffy the Man Slayer is
between men these days."
"Right, and that's another thing," he said tightly. "I
don't need you trying to line up dates for me.
Particularly not with someone known as a barracuda in
heels."
"Now that's not nice." She spread her hands in an
expansive gesture. "You should consider expanding your
horizons."
He braced an arm on the wall near her head and she took an
involuntary step back. He leaned in, his gaze, green and
grim, boring into hers. "You know, I wonder why you
consider me such a fascinating subject. Is it because you
wish you were one of those women I date?"
"Don't be absurd," she snapped.
He gave her a slow once-over, dwelling on her ringless
hand and letting his eyes linger on her chest before
coming back to meet her outraged expression. "You do
appear a little uptight. What's the matter? Wish your life
had a little more zing in it?"
"No thanks. My mother taught me to stay away from the
players among men."
"Ah," he said. "Now we're getting somewhere. The intrepid
reporter is repressed."
"This isn't about me," she said coldly. What nerve. He
knew nothing about her life. Nothing.
"So, you have no problems dishing about others' lives, but
yours is off-limits, is that it?"
"There's nothing to dish about," she retorted. "I don't
have anything as interesting as a fatal racing accident in
my past!"
The minute she blurted the rejoinder, she winced inwardly,
realizing she may have gone too far. He might be a first-
class jerk who believed his money and his family name
would get him out of any predicament, but she didn't need
to throw a terrible tragedy in his face.
His face turned stony and he straightened. "Be glad you
don't."
"Excuse me," she said, brushing past him and hurrying for
the nearest exit.