"We all have urgent matters pending," one of the members growled. "What the hell is Nick's problem that he can't be here?"
"He said it's a labor relations problem."
"That's no excuse!" another member exploded. "We all have labor relations problems."
"I reminded Nick of that," the chairman replied.
"What did he say?"
"He said that nobody has a labor relations problem like his."
Lauren carried another armload of her belongings out to her car, then she paused to look up at the overcast October sky. It was either going to rain or snow, she decided dismally.
She walked back into the apartment, leaving the door slightly ajar so that she could nudge it open with her foot when she carried out the next load of her things. Her feet were damp from splashing through the little puddles on the sidewalk, and she mechanically bent down and took off her canvas sneakers. She was planning to wear them when she drove home, so she'd have to dry them quickly. She carried them to the kitchen, put them in the oven and turned it on to Warm, leaving the oven door open.
Upstairs she put on another pair of shoes and closed the last suitcase. All she had to do now was write a note to Philip Whitworth, then she could leave. Tears burned her eyes, and she brushed them away with impatient fingertips. Picking up her suitcase, she carried it downstairs.
Halfway across the living room she heard footsteps coming from the kitchen behind her. She swung around in surprise, then froze as Nick stalked out of the kitchen. She saw the reckless glitter in his eyes as he came toward her, and her mind screamed a warning; he knew about Philip Whitworth.
Panicked, she dropped the suitcase and started edging away. In her haste she caught the backs of her knees on the arm of the sofa, lost her balance and landed flat on her back on the cushions.
His eyes gleaming with amusement, Nick looked at the delectable beauty sprawled invitingly across the sofa. "I'm flattered, honey, but I'd like something to eat first. What are you serving—besides baked shoes?"
Warily Lauren scrambled to her feet. Despite his humorous tone, there was an iron grimness in the set of his jaw, and every powerful muscle of his body was tensed. She took a cautious step out of his reach.
"Stand still," he ordered softly.
Lauren froze again. "Why… why aren't you at the international trade meeting?"
"As a matter of fact," he drawled, "I've asked myself that same question several times this morning. I asked myself that question when I walked out on seven men who require my vote on vitally important issues. I asked myself that question on the way here, when the woman in the seat beside me on the plane threw up in a bag."
Lauren choked back a nervous giggle. He was tense, he was angry, but he wasn't furious. Therefore he didn't know about Philip.
"I asked myself that question," he continued, advancing a step, "when I practically jerked an old man out of the back seat of a taxi and took it myself, because I was afraid I'd get here too late."
Lauren tried desperately to decipher his mood and couldn't. "Now that you're here," she said shakily, "what do you want?"
"I want you."
"I told you—"
"I know what you told me," Nick interrupted impatiently. "You told me I'm too old and too cynical for you. Right?"
She nodded.
"Lauren, I am only two months older than I was in Harbor Springs. Even though I feel a hell of a lot older than I did then. But the fact is you didn't think I was too old for you then, and you don't really think so today. Now, I'll unload your car and you can start unpacking your things."
"I'm going home, Nick," Lauren said with quiet determination.
"No, you're not," he said implacably, "You belong to me, and if you force me to, I'll carry you up to bed and make you admit it there."
Lauren knew he could do exactly that. She backed away another step. "All you would prove is that you can physically overpower me. Nothing I admitted there would count. What does matter is that I don't want to belong to you in any way!"
Nick smiled somberly. "I want to belong to you… in every way."
Lauren's heart flung itself against her ribs. What did he mean, belong? She knew instinctively he wasn't offering marriage, but at least he was offering himself. What would happen if she told him now about Philip Whitworth?
Nick spoke, his coaxing voice tinged with desperation. "Consider what an amoral, unprincipled cynic I am—think of all the improvements you could make to my character."
The simultaneous urge to laugh and weep snapped Lauren's control. Her hair tumbled forward in a heavy curtain as she bent her head and fought back tears. She was going to do it; she was going to let herself become that sordid cliché—the secretary in love with her boss, having a secret affair with him. She was going to gamble her pride and self-respect on the chance that she could make him love her. She was going to risk having him hate her when she eventually told him about Philip.
"Lauren," Nick said hoarsely, "I love you."
Her head shot up. Unable to believe her ears, she stared at him through tear-glazed eyes.
Nick saw her tears and his heart sank with bitter defeat. "Don't you dare cry," he warned tersely, "I have never said that to a woman before, and I…" His words trailed off as Lauren unexpectedly flung herself into his arms, her shoulders shaking. Uncertainly, he tipped her chin up and gazed at her face. Her thick lashes were spiky with tears, and her blue eyes were drenched with them. She tried to speak and Nick tensed, braced for the rejection he had dreaded all the way from Chicago.
"I think you are so beautiful," she whispered brokenly. "I think you are the most beautiful—"
A low groan tore from Nick's chest, and he smothered her mouth with his. Devouring her lips with the insatiable hunger that had been torturing him for weeks, he crushed her melting, pliant body to the rigid, starved contours of his own. He kissed her fiercely, tempestuously, tenderly, and still he could not get enough of her. At last he dragged his mouth from hers, fighting down the rampaging demands of his body, and held her in his arms, pressed against his pounding heart.
When he didn't move for several minutes, Lauren leaned back in his arms and raised her face to his. He saw the question in her eyes and the willing acceptance of his decision. She would lie beside him here, or anywhere else he chose.
"No," he murmured tenderly. "Not like this. I'm not going to walk in here and rush you into bed. I did something like that in Harbor Springs."
The impudent beauty in his arms smiled one of her bewitching smiles. "Are you really hungry? I could fix you some sautéed stockings to go with the shoes. Or would you prefer something more conventional, like an omelette?"
Nick chuckled and brushed a kiss over her smooth forehead. "I'll have my housekeeper fix something for me while I shower. Then I'm going to get some sleep. I didn't get any last night," he added meaningfully.
Lauren gave him a look of sham sympathy, which earned her another kiss.
"I suggest you sleep too, because when we come back from the party tonight, we're going to bed, and I intend to keep you awake until morning."
In fifteen minutes he had unloaded her car. "I'll pick you up at nine," he said when he was ready to leave. "It's black tie; do you have something formal to wear?"
Lauren hated to wear the clothes that had belonged to Philip Whitworth's mistress, but for tonight she didn't have any choice. "Where are we going?"
"To the Children's Hospital Benefit Ball at the Westin Hotel. I'm one of the sponsors, so I have tickets every year."
"That doesn't sound very discreet," Lauren said uneasily. "Someone may see us together there."
"Everyone will see us together. It's one of the social highlights of the year, which is why I want to take you. What's wrong with that?"
If the benefit ball was an elaborate society function, none of the other employees at Global were likely to be there, which explained to Lauren why Nick wasn't worried about causing office gossip. "Nothing's wrong with it. I'd love to
go," she said, raising on tiptoe to kiss him goodbye. "I'd go anywhere with you."
17
« ^ »
Nick looked breathtakingly elegant in his raven black tuxedo, snowy ruffled shirt and formal black bow tie when Lauren answered her door that night. "You look wonderful," she said softly.
His own gaze moved with glinting admiration over her vivid features, over her shining hair caught up in intricate sophisticated twists at the back of her head, then froze for a moment at the tantalizing display of her creamy breasts swelling above the neckline of her black velvet sheath gown before sweeping over the straight skirt, which was slashed at the side from knee to heel. "Don't you like it?" Lauren asked, handing him a black velvet cape that was lined with white satin.
"I love them," he said, and Lauren blushed when she realized what he was referring to.
The Westin Hotel was located in downtown Detroit's magnificent Renaissance Center. In honor of the ball, a red carpet had been laid from the curb to the hotel's main entrance. Television cameras were positioned on both sides of it. As Nick's chauffeur pulled his limousine to a stop, newspaper photographers jostled their way to the front, their cameras raised.
A doorman stepped forward and opened Lauren's door. When Nick followed her out of the limousine and took her elbow, flashbulbs exploded on both sides, and television cameras tracked their progress up the red carpet.
The first person Lauren saw when they walked into the crowded ballroom was Jim. He saw them too, and he watched them approaching with a look of ill-concealed glee on his face. Yet when he put out his hand, Lauren noticed that Nick hesitated before acknowledging the greeting.
"You're back early from Chicago," Jim remarked, seemingly oblivious to his friend's cold reserve. "I wonder why?"
"You know damned well why," Nick retorted grimly.
Jim's brows lifted, but he turned his tawny, appreciative gaze on Lauren. "I'd tell you how gorgeous you look, but at the moment, Nick is already restraining the urge to knock my teeth down my throat."
"Why?" Lauren gasped, her own gaze flying to Nick's granite features.
Jim answered with a chuckle. "It has something to do with two dozen red roses and a kiss he witnessed. He's forgotten about a girl I was in love with once but couldn't quite get up the nerve to ask to marry me. He got tired of waiting for me to bolster my courage, so he sent Ericka two dozen—"
Nick's breath exploded in laughter. "You bastard," he said good-naturedly, and this time his handclasp was sincere.
For Lauren it was a night of magic, a night filled with the scent of flowers, of twinkling chandeliers and glorious music. A night of dancing in Nick's arms and standing by his side while he introduced her to the people he knew—and he seemed to know everyone. People surrounded them the moment they stepped off the dance floor or paused to have a glass of champagne. It was obvious to Lauren that Nick was greatly respected and well liked, and she felt absurdly proud of him. And he was equally proud of her—she could see it in his warm smile when he introduced her to his acquaintances, and in the possessive way he kept his arm around her waist.
"Lauren?"
It was well after midnight. She tipped her head back and smiled up at him as they danced. "Hmmm?"
"I would like to leave now." The desire in his gray eyes told Lauren why. She nodded, and without a protest let him lead her off the dance floor.
She had just decided that this was the most perfect night of her life when a familiar voice sent panic shooting through her entire nervous system. "Nick," Philip Whitworth said, his voice raised slightly, his face a mask of cordiality, "It's nice to see you."
Lauren's blood ran cold. Oh no! Not here, not like this! she prayed wildly.
"I don't believe we've met this young lady," Philip added, his brows lifted toward Lauren in a politely inquiring manner that made her feel dizzy with relief.
She dragged her eyes from Philip and looked at Carol Whitworth and then Nick. Mother and son faced each other like polite strangers; a slim, regal blond woman and a tall, darkly handsome man who had her gray eyes. With cool courtesy, Nick introduced them as "Philip Whitworth and his wife, Carol."
In the limousine a few minutes later, Lauren could feel Nick watching her. "What's wrong?" he finally asked.
She drew an unsteady breath. "Carol Whitworth is your mother. Mary told me a few days ago."
His expression didn't alter. "Yes, she is."
"If I were your mother," Lauren said in a suffocated whisper, turning her head away. "I would be so proud of you. Every time I looked at you, I would think, that handsome, elegant, powerful man is my—"
"Your lover," Nick whispered, dragging her into his arms and kissing her with fierce tenderness.
Lauren slid her fingers through his thick dark hair, holding his mouth to hers. "I love you," she whispered.
A sigh of relief seemed to go through Nick's body. "I was beginning to think you were never going to say that."
Lauren snuggled in his arms, but her contentment was short-lived. Her relief that Philip Whitworth hadn't exposed her slowly gave way to alarm. By pretending not to know Philip and Carol in front of Nick, Lauren had participated in a flagrant deception that in a way made a fool of him. Panic rose in her chest. She would tell him tonight, after they made love. She had to tell him before the web of her deception entangled her more than it already had.
When they reached her apartment, Nick lifted her satin cape off her shoulders and draped it over a chair. His hands went to the buttons on his tuxedo jacket, and as he started to take it off, Lauren experienced a thrill of excitement. Turning, she walked over to the windows, trying to steady herself. She heard Nick come up behind her. "Would you like a drink?" she asked in a trembling voice.
"No." His arm slid around her waist, drawing her back against him as he bent his head and pressed a tantalizing kiss against her temple. Lauren's breathing became shallow and rapid as his warm lips touched her ear, then her nape, and his hands began moving lazily over her midriff. One hand angled down over her stomach to curve around her hip, while the other slid up and gently closed over a velvet-covered breast. His touch was exquisite delight, and when his fingers slipped beneath her bodice to tease and possessively caress her sensitive breast, Lauren felt the demanding heat of his rising passion pressing boldly against her from behind.
By the time his hands went to her shoulders, turning her into his arms, quick, piercing stabs of desire were shooting through Lauren's entire body. His parted lips touched hers as his arms drew her gently to his hardened length. He kissed her with a slow, melting hunger, which deepened moment by moment to a burning insistence and then burst into a ravenous urgency. His tongue plunged into her mouth in a deep, raw kiss.
Driven by a mixture of love and the fear of losing him, Lauren arched upward in a fevered need to share and stimulate his burgeoning passion. She felt the gasp of his breath against her mouth as her tongue teased his warm lips, felt the reflexive clutching of his hands on her back and hips as she caressed the hard muscled flesh of his back and shoulders.
Somewhere in the recesses of his passion-drugged mind Nick was aware that Lauren was kissing him as she had never kissed him before, and that she was sensuously moving her hips against his rigid arousal, deliberately inciting the tidal waves of desire that were surging through him. But he didn't actually compare the uninhibited woman in his arms with the shyly uncertain girl she had been in Harbor Springs until Lauren pulled back and started to unfasten the studs from his shirtfront.
He looked down at her graceful hands, and his traitorous mind instantly replayed the same moment in Harbor Springs—except then he had had to put her hand on his shirt and urge her to unbutton it. That night she had been inexperienced and shy. She had obviously gained a great deal of experience since then.
Icy regret and disappointment poured through him, and he covered her fingers with his hands, stopping her. "Fix me a drink, will you?" he said, hating himself for what he was thinking and the way he was
feeling about her.
Taken aback by the tired, defeated bitterness in his voice, Lauren dropped her hands. She went over to the bar, fixed him a bourbon and water and gave it to him. She saw his lips twist in a humorless smile when he noted that she remembered exactly what he preferred to drink, but without commenting on it, he lifted it to his lips and drank.
Lauren was bewildered by his attitude, but she was utterly stunned by his next words. Lowering the glass, he said, "Let's get it over with, so I can stop wondering. How many have there been?"
Lauren stared at him. "How many what?"
"Lovers," he clarified bitterly.
She could hardly believe her ears. After treating her as if her standards of morality were childish, after acting as if promiscuity was a virtue, after telling her how men preferred experienced women, he was jealous. Because now he cared.
Lauren didn't know whether to hit him, burst out laughing or hug him. Instead she decided to exact just a tiny bit of revenge for all the misery and uncertainty he had put her through. Turning, she walked over to the bar and reached for a bottle of white wine. "Why should the number make any difference?" she asked innocently. "You told me in Harbor Springs that men don't prize virginity anymore, that they don't expect or want a woman to be inexperienced. Right?"
"Right," he said grimly, glowering at the ice cubes in his glass.
"You also said," she continued, biting back a smile, "that women have the same physical desires men have, and that we have the right to satisfy them with whomever we wish. You were very emphatic about that—"
"Lauren," he warned in a low voice, "I asked you a simple question. I don't care what the answer is, I just want an answer so I can stop wondering. Tell me how many there were. Tell me if you liked them, if you didn't give a damn about them, or if you did it to get even with me. Just tell me. I won't hold it against you."
Double Standards Page 18
