Double Standards

17

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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."