Chapter One
Philip Whitworth 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 hinged 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. "Thank 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 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
résum 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.
While he read her résumé, Lauren let her gaze drift over
the stately splendor of the immense office from which
Philip Whitworth ruled his corporate empire. Then she
studied him. For a man in his fifties, he was extremely
attractive. Though his hair was silvering, his tanned face
was relatively unlined, and there was no sign of excess
weight on his tall, well-built body. Seated behind his
huge, baronial desk in an impeccably tailored dark suit,
he seemed surrounded by an aura of wealth and power, which
Lauren reluctantly found impressive.
Seen now through the eyes of an adult, he didn't seem the
cold, conceited snob she remembered. In fact, he seemed
every inch a distinguished, elegant socialite. His
attitude toward her was certainly courteous, and he had a
sense of humor too. All things considered, Lauren couldn't
help feeling that her prejudice against him all these
years might have been unfair.
Philip Whitworth turned to the second page of her résumé,
and Lauren caught herself up short. Exactly why was she
having this sudden change of heart about him, she wondered
uncomfortably. True, he was being cordial and kind to her
now -- but why wouldn't he be? She was no longer a homely
little nine-year-old; she was a young woman with a face
and figure that made men turn and stare.
Had she really misjudged the Whitworths all those years
ago? Or was she now letting herself be influenced by
Philip Whitworth's obvious wealth and smooth
sophistication?
"Although your university grades are outstanding, I hope
you realize that your degree in music is of no value to
the business world," he said.
Lauren instantly pulled her attention to the subject at
hand. "I know that. I majored in music because I love it,
but I realize there's no future in it for me." With quiet
dignity she briefly explained her reasons for abandoning
her career as a pianist, including her father's health and
her family's financial circumstances.
Philip listened attentively, then glanced again at the
résumé in his hand. "I noticed that you also took several
business courses in college."
When he paused expectantly, Lauren began to believe he
might actually be considering her for a job. "Actually,
I'm only a few courses short of qualifying for a business
degree."
"And while attending college, you worked after school and
during the summers as a secretary," he continued
thoughtfully. "Your father didn't mention that on the
telephone. Are your shorthand and typing skills as
excellent as your résumé claims?"
"Yes," Lauren said, but at the mention of her secretarial
background her enthusiasm began to fade.
He relaxed in his chair and, after a moment's thought,
seemed to come to a decision. "I can offer you a
secretarial position, Lauren, one with challenge and
responsibility. I can't offer you anything more than that
unless you actually get your business degree."
"But I don't want to be a secretary," Lauren sighed.
A wry smile twisted his lips when he saw how discouraged
she looked. "You said that your primary concern right now
is money -- and right now there happens to be a tremendous
shortage of qualified, top-notch executive secretaries.
Because of this they're in demand and very highly paid. My
own secretary, for example, makes almost as much money as
my middlemanagement executives."
"But even so..." Lauren started to protest.
Mr. Whitworth held up a hand to silence her. "Let me
finish. You've been working for the president of a small
manufacturing company. In a small company, everyone knows
what everyone else is doing and why they're doing it.
Unfortunately, in large corporations such as this one,
only high-level executives and their secretaries are aware
of the overall picture. May I give you an example of what
I'm trying to say?"
Lauren nodded, and he continued. "Let's say you're an
accountant in our radio division, and you're asked to
prepare an analysis of the cost of each radio we produce.
You spend weeks preparing the report without knowing why
you're doing it. It could be because we're thinking of
closing down our radio division; it could be because we're
thinking of expanding our radio division; or it could be
because we're planning an advertising campaign to help
sell more radios. You don't know what we're planning to do
and neither does your supervisor or his supervisor. The
only people who are aware of that sort of confidential
information are division managers, vice presidents, and,"
he concluded with smiling emphasis, "their secretaries! If
you start out as a secretary with us, you'll get a good
overview of the corporation, and you'll be able to make an
informed choice about your possible future career goals."
"Is there anything else I could do in a corporation such
as yours that would pay as well as being a secretary?"
Lauren asked.
"No," he said with quiet firmness. "Not until you get your
business degree."
Inwardly Lauren sighed, but she knew she had no choice.
She had to make as much money as she possibly could.
"Don't look so glum," he said, "the work won't be boring.
Why, my own secretary knows more about our future plans
than most of my executives do. Executive secretaries are
privy to all sorts of highly confidential information.
They're -- "
He broke off, staring at Lauren in stunned silence, and
when he spoke again there was a triumphant, calculating
quality in his voice. "Executive secretaries are privy to
highly confidential information," he repeated, an
unexplainable smile dawning across his aristocratic
features. "A secretary!" he whispered. "They would never
suspect a secretary! They wouldn't even run a security
check on one. Lauren," he said softly, his brown eyes
gleaming like topaz, "I am about to make you a very
unusual offer. Please don't argue about it until you bear
me out completely. Now, what do you know about corporate
or industrial spying?"
Lauren had the queasy feeling that she was hanging over
the edge of a dangerous precipice. "Enough to know that
people have been sent to prison for it, and that I want
absolutely nothing to do with it, Mr. Whitworth."
"Of course you don't," Philip said smoothly. "And please
call me Philip; after all, we are related, and I've been
calling you Lauren."
Uneasily, Lauren nodded.
"I'm not asking you to spy on another corporation, I'm
asking you to spy on mine. Let me explain. In recent
years, a company called Sinco has become our biggest
competitor. Every time we bid on a contract, Sinco seems
to know how much we're going to bid, and they bid just a
fraction of a percent less. Somehow, they're finding out
what we're putting into our sealed bids, then they cut the
price of their bid so that it's slightly lower than ours
and steal the contract from us.
"It just happened again today. There are only six men here
who could have told Sinco the amount of our bid, and one
of them must be a spy. I don't want to dismiss five loyal
business executives just to rid myself of one greedy,
treacherous man. But if Sinco continues to steal business
from us this way, I'm going to have to begin laying people
off," he continued. "I employ twelve thousand people,
Lauren. Twelve thousand people depend on Whitworth
Enterprises for their livelihoods. Twelve thousand
families depend on this corporation so that they can have
roofs over their heads and food on their tables. There's a
chance you could help them keep their jobs and their
homes. All I'm asking you to do is to apply for a
secretarial position at Sinco today. God knows they'll
need to increase their staff to handle the work they just
stole from us. With your skills and experience, they'd
probably consider you for a secretarial position with some
high-level executive."
Against her better judgment, Lauren asked, "If I get the
job, then what?"
"Then I'll give you the names of the six men who might
possibly be the spy, and all you have to do is listen for
mention of their names by anyone at Sinco."
He leaned forward in his chair and folded his hands on his
desk. "It's a long shot, Lauren, but frankly, I'm
desperate enough to try anything. Now, here's my part of
the bargain: I was planning to offer you a secretarial
position with us at a very attractive salary...."
The figure he named amazed Lauren, and it showed. It was
considerably more than her father had been making as a
teacher. Why, if she lived frugally she could support her
family and herself.
"I can see that you're pleased," Philip chuckled. "Wages
in big cities like Detroit are very high compared to
smaller places. Now, if you apply at Sinco this afternoon
and they offer you a secretarial position, I want you to
take it. If the salary there is lower than the one I just
offered you, my company will write you a monthly check to
make up the difference. If you are able to learn the name
of our spy, or anything else of real value to me, I will
pay you a bonus of $10,000. Six months from now, if you
haven't been able to learn anything important, then you
can resign from your job at Sinco and come to work as a
secretary for us. As soon as you complete the courses for
your business degree, I'll give you any other position
here you want, providing of course that you can handle
it." His brown eyes moved over her face, searching her
troubled features. "Something is bothering you," he
observed quietly. "What is it?"
"It all bothers me," Lauren admitted. "I don't like
intrigue, Mr. Whitworth."
"Please call me Philip. At least do that much for me."
With a fired sigh, he leaned back in his chair. "Lauren, I
know I have absolutely no right to ask you to apply at
Sinco. It may surprise you to learn that I'm aware of how
unpleasant your visit with us fourteen years ago was. My
son, Carter, was at a difficult age. My mother was
obsessed with researching our family tree, and my wife and
I... well, I'm sorry we weren't more cordial."
Under normal circumstances, Lauren would have turned him
down. But her fife was in a state of complete upheaval,
and her financial responsibilities were staggering. She
felt dazed, uncertain and incredibly burdened. "All
right," she said slowly. "I'll do it."
"Good," Philip said promptly. Picking up his telephone he
called Sinco's number, asked for the personnel manager,
then handed Lauren the phone to make an appointment.
Lauren's secret hope that Sinco might refuse to see her
was instantly dashed. According to the man she spoke to,
Sinco, had just been awarded a large contract and was in
immediate need of experienced secretaries. Since he was
planning to work late that night, he instructed Lauren to
come at once.
Afterward Philip stood up and put out his hand, clasping
hers. "Thank you," he said simply. After a moment's
thought, he added, "When you fill out their application
form, give your home address in Missouri, but give them
this phone number so that they can reach you at our
house." He wrote a number on a note pad and tore off the
sheet. "The servants answer it with a simple hello," he
explained.
"No," Lauren said quickly. "I wouldn't want to impose.
I...I'd much rather stay in a motel."
"I don't blame you for feeling that way," he replied,
making Lauren feel rude and ungracious, "but I would like
to make up for that other visit."
Lauren succumbed to defeat. "Are you absolutely certain
that Mrs. Whitworth won't object?"
"Carol will be delighted."
When the door closed behind Lauren, Philip Whitworth
picked up his telephone and dialed a number that rang in
his son's private office, just across the hall. "Carter,"
he said. "I think we're about to drive a spike into Nick
Sinclair's armor. Do you remember Lauren Danner...?"