Double Standards

Double Standards

Judith McNaught

"Kiss Me, Lauren," Demanded Nick…

"No," she whispered shakily… "Nick, please."

"Please what?" he murmured against her throat. "Please put us both out of this misery?"

"No!"

Nick's jaw tightened. "I'm trying to get you into that bedroom so that we can ease the ache that's been building inside us for weeks…"

"And then what?" Lauren demanded hotly. "I want to know the rules, dammit! Today we make love, but tomorrow we're no more than casual acquaintances, is that it?" Lauren's voice rose in mounting fury. "I'm not ready to be your Sunday-afternoon playmate. If you're bored, go play your games with someone who can handle a casual romp in bed with you."

"What the hell do you want from me?" he demanded coldly.

I want you to love me
, she thought.

A great love and true friends are two of life's most precious gifts
—
and I have been twice blessed for I have had both.

This book is dedicated to Kathy and Stan Zak, whose friendship I treasure.

P
hilip
W
hitworth glanced up, his attention drawn
by the sound of swift footsteps sinking into the luxurious Oriental carpet that stretched across his presidential office. Lounging back in his maroon leather swivel chair he studied the vice-president who was striding toward him. "Well?" he said impatiently. "Have they announced who the low bidder is?"

The vice-president leaned his clenched fists on the polished surface of Philip's mahogany desk. "Sinclair was the low bidder," he spat out. "National Motors is giving him the contract to provide all the radios for the cars they manufacture, because Nick Sinclair beat our price by a lousy thirty thousand dollars." He drew in a furious breath and expelled it in a hiss. "That bastard won a fifty-million-dollar contract away from us by cutting our price a fraction of one percent!"

Only the slight hardening of Philip Whitworth's aristocratic jawline betrayed the anger rolling inside him as he said, "That's the fourth time in a year that he's won a major contract away from us. Quite a coincidence, isn't it?"

"Coincidence!" the vice-president repeated. "It's no damn coincidence and you know it, Philip! Someone in my division is on Nick Sinclair's payroll. Some bastard must be spying on us, discovering the amount that goes into our sealed bid,
then
feeding the information to Sinclair so that he can undercut us by a few dollars. Only six men who work for me knew the amount we were going to bid on this job; one of those six men is our spy."

Philip leaned farther into his chair until his silvered hair touched the high leather back. "You've had security investigations made on all six of those men, and all we learned was that three of them are cheating on their wives."

"Then the investigations weren't thorough enough!" Straightening, the vice-president raked his hand through his hair,
then
let his arm drop. "Look Philip, I realize Sinclair is your stepson, but you're going to have to do something to stop him. He's out to destroy you."

Philip Whitworth's eyes turned icy. "I have never acknowledged him as my 'stepson,' nor does my wife acknowledge him as her son. Now, precisely what do you propose I do to stop him?"

"Put a spy of your own in his
company,
find out who his contact here is. I don't care what you do, but for God's sake, do
something
!"

Philip's reply was cut off by the harsh buzzing of the intercom on his desk, and he jabbed his finger at the button. "Yes, what is it, Helen?"

"I'm sorry to interrupt you, sir," his secretary said, "but there's a Miss Lauren Danner here. She says she has an appointment with you to discuss employment."

"She does," he sighed irritably. "I agreed to interview her for a position with us. Tell her I'll see her in a few minutes." He flicked the button off and returned his attention to the vice-president, who, though preoccupied, was regarding him with curiosity.

"Since when are you conducting personnel interviews, Philip?"

"It's a courtesy interview," Philip explained with an impatient sigh. "Her father is a shirttail relative of mine, a fifth or sixth cousin, as I recall. Danner is one of those relatives my mother unearthed years ago when she was researching her book on our family tree. Every time she located a new batch of possible relatives, she invited them up here to our house for a 'nice little weekend visit' so that she could delve into their ancestry, discover if they were actually related and decide if they were worthy of mention in her book.

"Danner was a professor at a
Chicago
university. He couldn't come, so he sent his wife—a concert pianist—and his daughter in his place. Mrs. Danner was killed in an automobile accident a few years later, and I never heard from him after that, until last week when he called and asked me to interview his daughter, Lauren, for a job. He said there's nothing suitable for her in Fenster,
Missouri
, where he's living now."

"Rather presumptuous of him to call you, wasn't it?"

Philip's expression filled with bored resignation. "I'll give the girl a few minutes of my time and then send her packing. We don't have a position for anyone with a college degree in music. Even if we did, I wouldn't hire Lauren Danner. I've never met a more irritating, outrageous, ill-mannered, homely child in my life. She was about nine years old, chubby, with freckles and a mop of reddish hair that looked as if it was never properly combed. She wore hideous horn-rimmed eyeglasses, and so help me God, that child looked down her nose at
us
…"

Philip Whitworth's secretary glanced at the young woman, wearing a crisp navy blue suit and white ascot-style blouse, who was seated across from her. The woman's honey-blond hair was caught up in an elegant chignon, with soft tendrils at her ears framing a face of flawless, vivid beauty. Her cheekbones were slightly high, her nose small, her chin delicately rounded, but her eyes were her most arresting feature. Beneath the arch of her brows, long curly lashes fringed eyes that were a startling, luminous turquoise blue.

"Mr. Whitworth will see you in a few minutes," the secretary said politely, careful not to stare.

Lauren Danner looked up from the magazine she was pretending to read and smiled. "T
hank
you," she said,
then
she gazed blindly down again, trying to control her nervous dread of confronting Philip Whitworth face to face.

Fourteen years had not dulled the painful memory of her two days at his magnificent Grosse Pointe mansion, where the entire Whitworth family, and even the servants, had treated Lauren and her mother with insulting scorn…

The phone on the secretary's desk buzzed, sending a jolt through Lauren's nervous system. How, she wondered desperately, had she landed in this impossible predicament? If she'd known in advance that her father was going to call Philip Whitworth, she could have dissuaded him. But by the time she knew anything about it, the call had been made and this interview already arranged. When she'd tried to object, her father had calmly replied that Philip Whitworth owed them a favor, and that unless Lauren could give him some logical arguments against going to
Detroit
, he expected her to keep the appointment he'd arranged.

Lauren laid the unread magazine in her lap and sighed. Of course, she
could
have told him how the Whitworths had acted fourteen years ago. But right now money was her father's primary concern, and the lack of it was putting lines of strain into his pallid face. Recently the
Missouri
taxpayers, caught in the vise grip of an economic recession, had voted down a desperately needed school-tax increase. As a result, thousands of teachers were immediately laid off, including Lauren's father. Three months later he had come home from another fruitless trip in search of a job, this time to
Kansas City
. He had put his briefcase down on the table and had smiled sadly at Lauren and her stepmother. "I don't think an ex-teacher could get a job as a janitor these days," he had said, looking exhausted and strangely pale. Absently he'd massaged his chest near his left arm as he had added grimly, "Which may be for the best, because I don't feel strong enough to push a broom." Without further warning, he had
collapsed,
the victim of a massive heart attack.

Even though her father was now recovering, that moment had changed the course of her life… No, Lauren corrected
herself,
she had been on the verge of changing the course herself. After years of relentless study and grueling practice at the piano, after obtaining her master's degree in music, she had already decided that she lacked the driving ambition, the total dedication needed to succeed as a concert pianist. She had inherited her mother's musical talent, but not her tireless devotion to her art.

Lauren wanted more from life than her music. In a way, it had cheated her of as much as it had given her. What with going to school, studying, practicing and working to pay for her lessons and tuition, there'd never been time to relax and enjoy
herself
. By the time she'd turned twenty-three she'd traveled to cities all over the
United States
to play in competitions, but all she'd seen of the cities themselves were hotel rooms, practice rooms and auditoriums. She'd met countless men, but there was never time for more than a brief acquaintance. She'd won scholarships and prizes and awards, but there was never enough money to pay all her expenses without the added burden of a part-time job.

Still, after investing so much of her life in music, it had seemed wrong, wasteful, to throw it away for some other career. Her father's illness and the staggering bills that were accruing had forced her to make the decision she'd been postponing. In April he had lost his job, and with it his medical insurance; in July he had lost his health as well. In past years he had given her a great deal of financial help with school and lessons; now it was her turn to help him.

At the thought of this responsibility, Lauren felt as if the weight of the world was resting on her shoulders. She needed a job, she needed money, and she needed them now. She glanced around at the plush reception area she was seated in, and felt strange and disoriented as she tried to imagine herself working for a huge manufacturing corporation like this one. Not that it mattered—if the pay was high enough, she would take whatever job was offered to her. Good jobs with advancement opportunities were practically nonexistent in Fenster,
Missouri
, and those that were available paid pitifully low in comparison to similar jobs in huge metropolitan areas like
Detroit
.

The secretary hung up the phone and stood up. "Mr. Whitworth will see you now, Miss Danner."

Lauren followed her to a richly carved mahogany door. As the secretary opened it, Lauren uttered a brief, impassioned prayer that Philip Whitworth wouldn't remember her from that long-ago visit, then she stepped into his office. Years of performing in front of an audience had taught her how to conceal her turbulent nervousness, and now it enabled her to approach Philip Whitworth with an outward appearance of quiet poise as he got to his feet, an expression of astonishment on his aristocratic features.

"You probably don't remember me, Mr. Whitworth," she said, graciously extending her hand across his desk, "but I'm Lauren Danner."

Philip Whitworth's handclasp was firm, his voice tinged with dry amusement. "As a matter of fact, I remember you very well, Lauren; you were rather
an
… unforgettable… child."

Lauren smiled, surprised by his candid humor. "That's very kind of you. You might have said outrageous instead of unforgettable."

With that, a tentative truce was declared, and Philip Whitworth nodded toward a gold velvet chair in front of his desk. "Please sit down."

"I've brought you a résumé," Lauren said, removing an envelope from her shoulder purse as she sat down.

He opened the envelope she handed him and extracted the typewritten sheets, but his brown eyes remained riveted on her face, minutely studying each feature. "The resemblance to your mother is striking," he said after a long moment. "She was Italian, wasn't she?"

"My grandparents were born in
Italy
," Lauren clarified. "My mother was born here."

Philip nodded. "Your hair is much lighter, but otherwise you look almost exactly like her." His gaze shifted to the résumé she had given him as he added dispassionately, "She was an extraordinarily beautiful woman."

Lauren leaned back in her chair, a little dazed by the unexpected direction the interview had taken. It was rather disconcerting to discover that, despite his outwardly cold, aloof attitude fourteen years before, Philip Whitworth had apparently thought Gina Danner was beautiful. And now he was telling Lauren that he thought she was, too.