PHILBIN - The Daughters Breakthe Rules

Copyright 2010 Joanna Philbin

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Poppy

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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

First eBook Edition: November 2010

ISBN: 978-0-316-12320-4

To JJ

Carina Jurgensen squeezed the rubber stress ball over and over, looking out the tinted window as their car sped across town. Her dads black Mercedes raced west on Forty-second Street, gliding over potholes and swerving past taxis, as sleek and fast as the Batmobile. They seemed to be headed straight toward the Lincoln Tunnel, which could only mean one thing: they were leaving Manhattan. As they blew past the glittering marquees of Times Square, Carina got the feeling that she was leaving for good.

Beside her in the backseat, her father, Karl Jurgensen, tapped on his BlackBerry with his thumbs, his brows knitted in fierce concentration. From the moment theyd gotten in the car together, he hadnt said a word, not even to their driver, Max. This, she knew, was a bad sign. Wherever they were headed, it was clear that her dad had already made all the arrangements. And he could do anything. That was the thing about having billions of dollarsnothing was impossible. If you wanted to whisk your only child out of New York City on an ordinary November night and make sure she was never seen or heard from again, you could do that. Nobody would stop you.

Her best friends, Lizzie and Hudson, were probably just reaching her building right now. Shed texted them minutes before she left, and now the doorman would tell them that shed just walked out with her dad and a duffel bag into a waiting car, and theyd panic. Theyd been warning her about something like this for weeks. Carina pictured them in her lobby. Hudson would do that frenzied-pacing thing, and Lizzie would stare off into the distance and pull at her red curls, trying to figure out just how serious this was. Of course theyd start firing off texts and phone calls, but she wouldnt get any of them. Her iPhone was in her bag, which was locked up in the trunk and completely out of reach. But she wouldnt be able to talk to them anyway, not with her dad sitting so close to her, emitting a kind of cold rage shed never felt from him before.

Where are we going? she finally asked, daring to turn and look at him.

Karl kept his eyes on his BlackBerry. From this angle, in the dim light of the backseat, Carina thought her forty-two-year-old dad could almost pass for a college kid. It helped that he still had a head of thick brown hair, albeit sprinkled with salt-and-pepper gray, and a strong, movie stars jaw. His days rowing crew at Harvard had given him a lean, broad-shouldered physique, which he maintained with the help of a personal trainer and strict instructions to his chef.

Dad? she asked again. Can you just tell me?

Without bothering to look up, he shook his head. Youve lost the privilege of more information, he said flatly, still typing.

Carina felt her throat tighten with dread. Shed had plenty of fights with her dad over the years, but this was different. She was in serious troublethe kind of trouble that could possibly alter her life forever, and not in a good way.

It had all started in September, two months ago. Theyd been in the middle of another silent dinner at the twenty-seat dining room tablehe at one end, reading a stack of daily status reports on his company and e-mailing his minions on his ever-present BlackBerry; she at the other, doing her geometry homework and texting Lizzie and Hudsonwhen suddenly hed said, Put that away for a second. Id like to speak with you.

She looked up to see his stern face, and a prickly sense of foreboding ran along her skin. The Jurg (as she and her friends called him) had no time for chitchat. His kind of talk usually fell into two categories: announcements and orders. Whatever he had to say sounded like both.

Id like you to start coming into the office, he said, his brown eyes boring into her like lasers from across the table. Three days a week. Wednesdays and Fridays after school, and all day on Saturday. Well start from there.

Come into your office? Her voice bounced off the wood-paneled walls and floated up to the car-size crystal chandelier. What for?

The Jurg steepled his hands. Youre my sole heir, Carina. Its time you learned about the world youre going to inherit.

That world was Metronome Media, his empire of newspapers, magazines, cable television stations, and social networking websites. Hed started the company with one weekly newspaper when he was still at Harvard, and twenty years later, it had become the largest media conglomerate in the Western Hemisphere. One in three people read a Metronome publication or visited a Metronome-owned website every day. And all of this success had made the Jurg one of the richest men in the world. He owned five homes, a collection of vintage Jaguars, a fifty-foot yacht, a helicopter, a Gulfstream jet, and a collection of late twentieth-century art that rivaled the Guggenheim Museums. Celebrities, socialites, kings of small countries, and even the president called him on his private line. Hed even toyed with running for mayor once or twice, and then backed out at the last minute, much to Carinas relief.

Dad, I know all about your world, Carina said, looking him straight in the eye. And I dont want to inherit it.

The Jurg gave her a grave stare. Isnt it a little too soon to know that already? Youre fourteen. You dont know what you want. And honestly, this is better than having you come into the business when youre twenty-two, he said. By the time youre out of Wharton youll be completely prepared.

Im going to Wharton? she asked.

You used to love to come into my office when you were a little girl, he continued, slicing into his steak. Dont you remember? Sitting in my chair? Pretending to hold a meeting in the conference room?

I was eight. I liked playing with American Girl dolls, too.

Carina, I was your age when I had my first job, he said, more seriously. Delivering newspapers. Now, Im not asking you to have a paper route. What Im asking is a few hours a week.

But I have other stuff going on, she said, sitting up straight in her chair. Im the captain of the JV soccer team this year. Did you know that? And I already signed up for Model UN. And what about going to Montauk on the weekends? What about surfing? What about hanging out with my friends?

Her father put down his fork and a faint, exasperated sigh escaped his lips. Carina, soccer and Model UN are extracurriculars, he said. Theyre not your future.

Before she could respond, the door to the kitchen swung open and Marco walked in. He was dressed in the khakis and polo shirt that the Jurg made all of his help wear, and his sneakers barely made a sound on the wood floor.

You have a phone call, sir, he said in his quiet, deferential voice. Tokyo.

The Jurg took one last sip of his iced teahe never drank alcoholand stood up, dropping his silk napkin on the table. Youll start next week, he said decisively, and walked out.