Double Standards

"Just leave them to me," Lauren said with a bewitching smile. "I'll hold them off."

"You will?" He grinned. "And just how will you do that?"

Beneath their luxuriant russet lashes, Lauren's blue eyes were twinkling. "The moment anyone starts talking to you about business, I'll interrupt and pretend to distract you."

Nick's gaze dropped to her lips. "That shouldn't be difficult—you always distract me."

And for the next three hours, Lauren did precisely as she'd promised. With a tactical brilliance that would have done credit to Napoleon Bonaparte, she smoothly extricated Nick from at least a dozen business conversations. The moment the discussion began to get too deeply involved, she interrupted to sweetly remind him that he had promised to get her a drink, take her for a walk, show her the grounds or whatever ploy occurred to her at the moment.

And Nick let her do it, observing her highly effective tactics with a mixture of frank admiration and veiled amusement. With his drink in his left hand and his right arm around her waist, he kept her by his side, shamelessly using her as a voluntary shield. But as the evening progressed and the liquor flowed, conversations became louder, the laughter more hilarious, the jokes more bawdy. And the men who wanted to detain Nick became more persistent.

"Do you really need to walk out a cramp in your leg?" Nick asked in a teasing whisper as they strolled away from a florid-faced yachtsman who wanted Nick to tell him everything he knew about some oil company in Oklahoma.

Lauren was sipping her third glass of a delicious after-dinner drink that had the taste and consistency of a chocolate malt, but that she was beginning to realize was far more potent than she had imagined. "Of course not—my legs are perfect," she announced gaily, turning to watch six exuberant people playing doubles tennis on a single court. One of the women, a French movie star, had removed her skirt and was clad in a sequined top, lacy black underpants that peeked from under the edge of it and high heels.

Nick took Lauren's empty glass from her hand and put it down on an umbrella table beside his. "Shall we walk down to the beach?"

A party was in progress on one of the brightly lit yachts. They stood together on the beach, listening to the music and laughter, watching the shaft of moonlight streaming across the lake. "Dance with me," Nick said, and Lauren walked obediently into his arms, loving the feel of them sliding around her.

Laying her cheek against the smooth fabric of his black jacket, she moved with him in time to the orchestra's love song, vibrantly aware of his legs shifting intimately between hers.

Since she'd gotten up that morning she'd been through a session with Mr. Weatherby, an interview with Jim Williams, lunch with Nick, a long drive and now this party where she had drunk more than she ever had before in her life. In one day she'd experienced tension, excitement, hope and passion, and now she was spending the weekend with the man of her dreams. The emotional merry-go-round she'd been on had taken its full toll; she felt deliciously exhausted and more than a little giddy.

Her thoughts floated to the French movie star, and she laughed softly. "If I was that woman playing tennis, I'd have left my skirt on, and taken my shoes off. And do you know why?"

"So that you could play better?" Nick murmured distractedly, nuzzling aside the wavy silken hair that fell over her temple.

"Nope, I don't even know how to play tennis." Abruptly lifting her face to his, Lauren breezily confided, "The reason I'd keep my skirt on is because I'm modest. Or am I inhibited? Well, anyway, I'm one of the two." She laid her cheek against the solid muscles of his chest again. Nick chuckled against her hair, and his hand splayed low against her bared spine, pressing her closer to his hard body.

"Actually," she continued dreamily, "I'm not modest or inhibited. What I am is the confused product of a semi puritanical upbringing and a liberal education. Which means that I think it's wrong for me to do anything, but I think it's perfectly all right for other people to do whatever they want. Does that make sense?"

Nick ignored her question and asked one of his own instead. "Lauren, by any wild chance are you getting drunk?"

"I'm not certain."

"Don't," he commanded.

Although quietly spoken, it was an order, and he meant it to be obeyed. Intending to protest his authoritative attitude, Lauren snapped her head up, but her lips instantly captured his attention. "Don't even consider it," he muttered harshly. Then his mouth opened over hers in a shattering kiss that sent her spiraling off into darkness where nothing existed except the sensual male lips locked fiercely, demandingly, to hers. His hand sank into the thick mass of hair at her nape, and his tongue plunged into her mouth, stroking and caressing hers, retreating to plunge again, until Lauren instinctively gave him what he wanted. Her lips softened and began to move with his, stimulating the desire already flaming between them. Against her, Lauren felt the bold evidence of his rising passion, and shudders of pleasure raced through her. Her body joined forces with his, demolishing her control. Mindlessly she arched herself upward in a fevered need to please him more, and his arm tightened across her hips, pulling her even closer to his rigid thighs.

He dragged his mouth roughly across her cheek, and even his whisper was hoarse with desire. "Lady, you don't kiss like any puritan," he said, and pressed his lips to hers again.

Slowly the pressure of his mouth gentled and then was gone. Shivering with excitement and fear, Lauren weakly leaned her forehead against his shoulder. She was sinking into this abyss of desire too fast, and too deeply, to get free. His next words confirmed it. "Let's go to the Cove."

"Nick, I…"

His hands slid up her arms to her shoulders, then tightened, moving her an inch away. "Look at me," he said gently.

Lauren raised her dazed blue eyes to his silvery gaze.

"I want you, Lauren."

The quiet, straightforward statement sent fire racing through her entire body. "I know," she whispered unsteadily. "And I'm glad you do."

His eyes smiled his warm approval of her candor, and he laid his hand against her cheek, moving it caressingly over her temple to the to the back of her head. "And… ?" he prompted.

Lauren swallowed, unable to tear her gaze from his or to lie to him. "And I want you," she admitted shakily.

His fingers slid into her heavy hair, pulling her head nearer to his descending mouth. "In that case," he murmured thickly, "why are we standing out here?"

"Hey, Nick!" A friendly voice boomed out from a few feet away. "Is that you?"

Lauren jerked away as if sh

e'd been caught in some unspeakable act, then almost burst out laughing when Nick pulled her back and said smoothly, "Sinclair left hours ago."

"No, did he? Wonder why?" the man asked, stepping closer and peering suspiciously through the darkness at them.

"He obviously had something better to do," Nick drawled.

"So I see," the man agreed good-naturedly. Having now identified his prey, he showed absolutely no inclination to take the rude hint and go away. Wearing a sociable smile on his jowly face, he sauntered out of the shadows, a stout, swarthy man who instantly reminded Lauren of a teddy bear. His tuxedo jacket was hanging open, his frilled evening shirt was unbuttoned at the collar and his formal bow tie was dangling loosely around his neck. He looked… lovable, Lauren decided, as Nick introduced the man as Dave Numbers.

"How do you do, Mr. Numbers," she said politely.

"I'm doing pretty well, young lady," he replied with an affable grin. Turning to Nick he said, "There's a hell of a blackjack game going on aboard Middleton's yacht. Bebe Leonardos just dropped $25,000. Tracy Middleton is shooting craps at $3,000 a throw, and George was dealt four of a kind in two different hands. The odds against that happening once are 4,000 to one. The odds against that happening twice must be roughly…"

Keeping a courteous smile on her face, Lauren rested her head against Nick's chest, moving closer to him for warmth, while she pretended to listen to Dave Numbers summing up the results of the gambling in progress. She was not only cold, she was getting sleepy, and Nick's hand moving up and down her back in a lazy caress was having an almost hypnotic effect on her. She stifled a yawn, and then another one, and a few minutes later her eyelids drooped closed.

"I'm putting your young lady to sleep, Nick," Numbers apologized in the middle of quoting the odds on a forth-coming football game.