Trust, Kayla thought. Did she dare put it into play where Noah was concerned? But then, what choice did she have? She was in love with him. Who’d have thought?
When he got to work, Noah reached into the in-box on his desk and turned over a plain legal-sized envelope. There was no return address, yet suspicion curled within him. Later, he’d say it was an indefinable aura: the presence of her.
He slid his finger under the flap and, once he’d gotten the envelope open, two sheets came tumbling out.
It was the final draft of an article with Kayla’s byline. The headline caught his eye immediately: Noah Whittaker’s Secret Life Revealed. At the bottom of the first sheet, scrawled in ink, was a note that the article would be appearing in that day’s edition of the Sentinel.
He froze.
She wouldn’t. She hadn’t.
Yet, his gut already told him otherwise.
Anger coursed through him. Hadn’t she done enough to him? She’d wrung him out like a used washcloth and hung him out to dry.
Evidently, however, he was worth one more story, he fumed, and she was going to squeeze every bit of news that she could out of him.
He forced himself to read the article.
There was a description of his racing crash and its immediate repercussions. The article went on to discuss how Noah had gone back to the computer-technology field after leaving racing and had joined the family business, which he’d built into a major competitor in the computer field.
He read on, looking for and expecting an exposé of his secret involvement with Medford.
Instead, the article discussed how, contrary to his public image as a high-living playboy, Noah was a well-respected and hard-working entrepreneur who also had his eye on helping others—even if they didn’t know that they were being helped.
That was it. No mention of Medford. No mention of the Cayman Islands. Nothing. The article concluded by saying that the author had discovered that Noah was much more complex and likable than his public image might have let on.
Noah put down the article and grasped his head in his hands. He knew without question who had sent the article to him. And now he knew why.
He’d believed Kayla to be treacherous. Now he found himself revisiting and revising that judgment.
He hadn’t been able to forget her. In the past couple of weeks, he’d been in a foul mood, grousing to his brothers and cracking the whip with his subordinates. In general, he’d been a pain in the ass.
All because he’d been missing her. Wanting her.
Loving her.
He stopped.
Love. Was that what it was, this feeling of having his guts wrenched out of him, stomped on and shoved back into him upside down? This dull ache that he carried with him like an attaché case cuffed to his wrist?
Sure, he’d had the hots for a number of women in the past. He’d had crushes and, later on, serious cases of lust. He’d even had a couple of whirlwind affairs.
But none of those women had sucker-punched him, whipping the wind out of him the way that Kayla had. Certainly no one had gotten under his skin in the same way. No one had peeled away the layers and no one had kept on digging to get beneath the playboy facade.
He was glad it had been Kayla who’d finally done it and discovered the essence of him.
He raised his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips. With a sudden thought, he pulled open his desk drawer and found the photograph he’d tossed in there two weeks ago.
Kayla. She was smiling and happy and carefree in the Caymans—the best romantic idyll of his life. Her bikini molded the body that he’d come to know so well and that still made him ache at night.
Suddenly, he knew what he had to do. It was time for a call to Sybil LaBreck.
Out of habit, Kayla turned on her computer at work and clicked on the link on the Boston World’s Web site that brought her to Sybil LaBreck’s column. Reading the headline, she nearly spewed her coffee. She set down her cup and dabbed at the hot liquid that had spilled when she’d jerked her arm away from her mouth.
Her eyes caught again on the headline: Ms. Rumor-Has-It Rumored to Have Gotten Noah Whittaker: Sweethearts to Walk Down the Aisle.
In all the times she’d read Sybil’s column, she’d often been amused, sometimes annoyed, at being scooped, and occasionally disbelieving. This was the first time, however, that she’d been totally shocked.
It couldn’t be! She’d never known Sybil to make things up out of whole cloth, but she supposed there was a first time for everything.
She forced herself to scroll down and read on: “Noah bought a four-carat sparkler for his honey.” She skimmed the article until her eyes came to rest on a quote purportedly from Noah himself: “‘It’s not an ark, but there’s a twenty-foot yacht that I want to sail into all of our tomorrows with Kayla by my side.’”
Damn, damn, damn. She’d demand a retraction!
Sybil was in for one heck of a tough time. She’d be publicly embarrassed once it came out that what she’d printed wasn’t true. And, of course, Noah could and probably would threaten to sue Sybil’s socks off.
At the thought of Noah, she stopped.
She hadn’t heard from him since she’d sent him a copy of her article. What was he thinking? He definitely wouldn’t be happy about this—being linked in Sybil’s column to her, a woman that he’d come to despise.
Unless, of course, he believed she was the source for Sybil’s story? She dismissed the thought right away, then retrieved it. He wouldn’t think so, would he?
She picked up the phone. There was only one way to answer that question. She dialed Whittaker Enterprises.
When she got through, Noah’s secretary advised her that Noah was in a meeting. When Kayla asked when she could reach him, she was told he’d be out of his meeting within the hour, but then he’d be heading to the airport for an afternoon flight.
Not stopping to think, she grabbed her purse. She had to nip this story in the bud today, and that meant speaking with Noah now. They had to decide what to say when reporters inevitably started calling, not to mention how to curtail any more ridiculous stories from Sybil.
In addition, she promised herself, she was going to say her piece to Noah. Explain and apologize. Afterward, if he had her escorted off the premises by security guards, so be it.
Just as she slipped into her tailored jacket, however, she caught sight of Ed coming toward her, and groaned.
Ed slapped the copy of the Boston World that he was holding against his palm, his expression one of bemusement. “So,” he boomed, his voice audible across the newsroom, “you’ve been holding out on us, Jones.”