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.