Chapter One
A glistening black limousine drew up in front of the Ocean Passenger Terminal in New York, where the bright star of the Cunard Line, the Queen Elizabeth II, was waiting at Berth 4 to begin her five-and-a-half-day cruise to England. A short, stocky man jumped out of the car and gave a hand to his three female companions. These women, all apparently in their mid-thirties, were so striking that even the crowd of hurrying, preoccupied travelers paused a moment to gape at their beautiful, well-dressed figures. As they stood on the sidewalk, there was a seductiveness about them that claimed the eye as surely as their delicate perfume tantalized the nostrils. The stocky man and the chauffeur began to deal with the suitcases.
Lauren Rose beckoned smilingly to two porters. “Over here, please!”
“Damn it, Lauren, you’ll never get—” began Herbert Masen crossly. Then he paused, mouth open, as the two porters hurried up to the limo and began piling suitcases onto their trolleys.
Lauren twinkled her demure smile at her late husband’s best friend. “You shouldn’t underrate the power of two of L.A.’s most glamorous models, Herbert.”
Herbert grunted. “To say nothing of yourself, Lauren. That’s a damned fetching outfit you’ve got on,” he added, his eyes busy with her lovely figure. Then he spoiled the compliment by adding, “Good idea to have all three of you wearing your designs. It should promote sales.”
Lauren herded her two models, who were weary and yawning from the ordeal of a night flight from Los Angeles, into the elevator that led up to the main floor of the terminal’s vast, crowded reception area. Herbert began fussing about their tickets and passports.
Lauren said firmly, “Herbert, will you entertain Nella and Dani while I get things organized? Give them some Perrier, or a flower or something. Not candy or coffee. I’ll pick them up in the waiting room in twenty minutes, Scout’s honor.”
Herbert gave her his self-conscious little smirk, which usually meant he was up to something. Lauren drew a steadying breath. Her late husband’s oldest friend had insisted upon accompanying her to New York, to the very dockside. His concern for her welfare, however, was of such a fidgety, tense nature that she had wished several times since they left Los Angeles that she’d refused his help at the start. An uncomfortable suspicion had crept into her mind as he continued to suggest actions that invariably delayed or hindered her plans. Was Herbert Masen trying to sabotage the most exciting opportunity Lauren had ever had?
She had been invited to present her whole new collection to that little group of American women who set the trend for all the fashion-conscious females in the country. But why would Herbert wish to place obstacles in her way? He had shares in the company her former husband had started to showcase his wife’s talents. Since her line—the sophisticated and flattering September Song—had firmly found its market in women in their thirties who were tired of buying dresses designed for eighteen-year-olds, Herbert had shared in the slowly increasing dividends.
Still, there had been pressures. Soon after Al’s death, Herbert had urged her to take him into partnership. When she refused, he had been even more insistent that Lauren sell the boutique, the workshop, the name and goodwill she had earned for her line of clothing and accessories—and marry him!
“We’ll put your money and mine into a Swiss account,” he had proposed one evening after he had wined and dined her lavishly at the Los Angeles Bonaventure Hotel. “Then we’ll go and live on the French Riviera.” He wiped gravy from his beef Wellington off his lips after he spoke.
Looking at his puffy face, red and shiny with his enthusiasm for his food, Lauren had finally decided that she must break the connection with him entirely. Herbert had been Al’s friend, never hers. She didn’t even like him. She would gradually stop seeing him.
Easier planned than done. Although she refused all his invitations, Herbert kept dropping in at the house, at the boutique, even at the homes of friends when he learned she would be there. When the New York office of a London publicity firm had asked her to bring her models and her new collection to take part in a glamorous Fashion Cruise on the superb Queen Elizabeth II, Lauren had been both excited by the challenge to her skills as a designer and glad for the opportunity to get away from Herbert Masen until he’d found a new interest.
Pulling herself together quickly with the reminder that the Ocean’s Passenger Terminal in New York was no place to stand and ruminate, Lauren checked with a member of the purser’s staff to be sure that her sealed rack of costumes had been delivered aboard and was safely locked in her suite. Then she presented passports and tickets at the appropriate counters. She was instructed to collect her two models for check in, and did so with some trepidation. Nella had been fretting all night long on the plane about what a poor sailor she probably was, and Dani had spent the time flirting with every personable male in sight. Lauren had a grim suspicion that her troubles were only starting.
She was exasperated to find that Herbert had bought queasy Nella and Dani a sandwich and a Coke from the dispensers. “Are you crazy?” she asked the models, holding out her hands for the thick, greasy packages. “If you get mayonnaise on those suits, I’ll kill you. Don’t you remember there are photographers waiting at the gangway?” She glared at Herbert. “Are you doing this deliberately, Masen?”
“Doing what?” His voice, his narrow smile, were too innocent.
“Good-bye, Herbert,” Lauren said grimly. “I’ll try to forget your help.”
She shepherded Nella and Dani through Immigration and led them up to the embarkation hall. A dozen photographers rushed toward them, calling out a babble of instructions to the models. Nella and Dani moved automatically into a series of graceful, elegant, and provocative postures. Dani sparkled at the lenses, her dark curls gleaming, her small figure moving seductively. Nella, tall and big-busted, went into a rehearsed sequence of movements that showed off her statuesque figure as well as Lauren’s designs.
Lauren drew in a deep breath of relief. The models were professionals. In spite of their weariness, confusion, lack of sleep and food, and especially in spite of Herbert Masen’s efforts, the Lauren Rose September Song mannequins were triumphantly displaying the top numbers of this year’s line. And in her own suite on board, safely locked away, were the new designs, the new collection that would, she hoped, win the admiration of fashion-conscious women over thirty years of age. It was thrilling to watch her two models turn and sway and smile, smokey-eyed and beguiling, and to see how gracefully her dresses clung and flowed, glorifying the women’s figures. Lauren exhaled a deep breath of satisfaction.
At that minute, a gray-haired reporter approached her. “Who are you?” His question wasn’t insolent, merely routine.
“Lauren Rose, September Song Line, Los Angeles.” Lauren handed him a small publicity package. She held out her hand with the smile that had won her the friendship and loyalty of her employees as well as her many customers. “I’m also wearing one of this year’s top sellers.” She gestured at her raw-silk suit, a creamy-gold that exactly matched her softly waving hair. The silk scarf at her throat brought out the deep, almost violet-blue of her eyes. “September Song is created for the lovely woman over thirty who has kept both her wits and her figure.”
The man chuckled, his brown eyes gleaming with admiration. “Quotable!”
“May I know your name?” Lauren asked. His answer delighted her. “Reb Crowell!” she exclaimed. “We love your columns in California. It’s an honor to have you covering us.”
His suddenly wicked grin sparkled. “I’ll be glad to cover you any time,” he teased. “Want to hear my opening paragraphs?” At her smiling nod, he declaimed, in the manner of a TV commentator, “At four-forty-five on a bright Sunday afternoon the QE II, darling of the international darlings, pet of the jet set, pulled majestically away from the dock and headed out past the Statue of Liberty—who was green with envy—on a highly publicized voyage, the Fashion Cruise. Seven of America’s finest dress designers are on board, with their latest dazzling collections and their world-famous models. The cream of society from Bel Air to Boston has checked into luxurious staterooms on the greatest liner afloat for the five-and-a-half-day cruise from New York to Southampton. Four glamorous afternoons and three glittering evenings will be devoted to the seven individual showings of the most exciting clothes and accessories American creativity and taste can design—a fabulous fashion preview for America’s best-dressed women.
“A panel of judges will be chosen from among the first-class passengers on Sunday evening. These fashion-wise experts will attend all seven shows and then, at the Captain’s Dinner the last night before docking, the winner will be announced—”
“Don’t say it,” interrupted Lauren, laughing, as she held up two sets of crossed fingers. “I’m not superstitious, but—”
“What’s the correct good-luck phrase for designers?” queried Crowell, grinning. “Break a leg? No, that’s show biz. Tear a dress?”
“Go away before you hex my collection,” Lauren begged, looking over toward the photographers. “It’s time I rescued my models. I do thank you for your encouragement . . . I think?” she added with a mischievous smile. Crowell grinned at her. “I’ll even mention your name.”
Still smiling, Lauren got Nella and Dani away from the photographers and onto the deck. She was just looking around for a steward to direct them to their cabins when Dani ran over to a tall, handsome man in a navy blazer, white slacks, and a white yachting cap. Putting her hand on his arm coaxingly, she pouted up into his amused face.
“Are you the captain?” she asked.
“No, miss, I’m not. Can I get you a steward?”
“I don’t know how to find my cabin,” Dani said, fluttering her long eyelashes at him.
Lauren set her teeth. This was all she needed: a model on the make! She came up to them with a smile pinned to her lips. “Dani, if you’ll come with me, I promise you we’ll find your stateroom. It’s right next to mine.” Then, when the model seemed reluctant to let go the man’s arm, she added more firmly, “Nella wants to lie down and you’ve got to change before dinner.”
With a final languishing smile, Dani turned to follow her employer into the lounge. Lauren’s exasperated glance caught the outrageous grin on the big man’s face. He saluted mockingly.
Lauren’s reaction to his grin surprised her. She felt as though she had been touched by a live wire. Her senses were aware of him, alert to every detail of his strong physique . . .
Hold it. She caught herself up abruptly. You’ve got a job to do.
She found a courteous steward who led them to their suite. Dani prowled around while Lauren tipped and thanked the man and made sure the sealed clothes rack was safe in her stateroom. Nella had subsided into a comfortable chair, looking pale. Lauren checked out the accommodations the promoters had secured for them: a pleasant, small sitting room from either side of which opened a bedroom. The models’ cabin had twin beds and a special triple mirror.
Lauren firmly directed the two into their room. “Get ready for dinner,” she advised them. “It won’t be formal, since this is the first night, but you’ll find the other models will be very much on stage. Wear the dark-red velvet shift, Dani. It’s perfect with those pretty black curls of yours. Nella, wear the green silk A-line.”
“Green!” Nella groaned. She staggered over to her bed. “I’m not sure I’ll be up to it tonight, Ms. Rose,” she whimpered. “Oh, I think I’m going to be si-i-ick. . . .”
“You can’t be sick yet,” Dani argued with her. “We’re still tied up at the dock.”
“Can’t I?” asked Nella. Since she was obviously requesting information rather than issuing a challenge, Lauren was able to reassure her.
“I’ll get you some Dramamine and you’ll be in good shape. The Queen Elizabeth II has wonderful stabilizers that keep her steady even in a storm. There really is nothing to be afraid of—”
The words were barely out of her mouth when there was a heavy, blasting roar. Nella screamed and curled up on the bed in a tight huddle.
“It’s only the whistle, dopey,” Dani said, hanging up her black-and-white suit and sitting down at the dressing table to change her makeup. As Nella rose hesitantly to begin undressing, Lauren went back across the sitting room into her own bedroom. It was the same size as the other and as charmingly decorated and furnished, but it seemed larger because it held only a single bed. Sighing with pleasure, Lauren removed her small, smart cream hat and suit and put them away carefully in the wardrobe. The blue-violet scarf and her shoes came off next. She walked into the tiny bathroom and scrutinized her face in the generous mirror. Her soft, cream-gilt hair was a little crushed by the hat, but a quick brushing would restore its lustrous waves. One of each, she thought. Dani’s a roguish small brunette with a charming tangle of shining black curls. Nella is a statuesque redhead. And I am a middle-sized blonde. As she stared at her violet-blue eyes with their frame of black lashes, the neat nose, which just escaped being too small, and the wide, soft mouth, she suddenly saw, imposed between her and her image, the mocking smile of the dark man in the blazer.
She had never been so instantly aware of a man before. His half-teasing salute was a challenge that had sparked every nerve in her body to alert response. Even now, she was conscious of every detail of his splendid body: his broad shoulders, the strong, full column of his throat, the thick, shining dark hair, the amazing gray eyes that shone like silver. . . .
Cool off, she advised herself. Smiling wryly, she stepped into the shower, then dressed in the violet sheer wool she had chosen to wear for the first night’s dinner. The next half-hour was spent in coaxing her models into their dresses and soothing Nella’s fears. One thing she said made Lauren very angry. Apparently, Herbert Masen had given poor Nella dire warnings of the agonies and hazards to be expected upon the high seas. So he had been trying to sabotage her showing. A minute’s thought told Lauren why. If the show was a disaster, she would be more amenable to his offer of marriage and a sale of the boutique and the September Song name. Or so Herbert probably figured. Well, she’d show Mr. Masen. She praised the models lavishly enough to soothe their deep insecurities, then outlined the evening’s events clearly for them.
“First we are to go to the captain’s dayroom for cocktails. All the other designers and their models will be there, so we will have to keep very quiet about what we are going to show.”
Nella and Dani nodded solemnly; they knew more than she did about the rivalries and dirty tricks in the fashion business.
Lauren resumed, “Then we go to our own dining room for dinner. There are four dining rooms on the QE II, you know.” They hadn’t, but they nodded again, eyes bright with interest. “After dinner, we meet with the cruise director, who will tell us all the details we need to know about the different presentations, especially our own. Then he’ll take us to the lounge where we’ll be putting on our show and let us look at the dressing rooms, runway, and stage. They have some scenery if we wish it, also props.”
Dani sighed. “Wouldn’t it be super if that gorgeous officer we met on deck was the cruise director? I know he fell for me.”
In spite of Lauren’s fears, Nella and Dani behaved with perfect propriety during the cocktail hour, both nursing a Perrier as they had been instructed. The cruise director turned out to be a woman, to Dani’s disappointment. She seemed competent and friendly, and made clear and careful explanations. It was not too surprising to discover that the other six designers had assistants to deal with their models and with the mechanics of the presentations. One or two of them spoke to Lauren, but the rest either ignored her completely or accepted their introduction to her with a patronizing air.
“Who’s she?” she heard someone ask Carlos de Sevile, the dark, insolent Spaniard who was chief designer for the expensive, exclusive C. M. Landrill chain of department stores based in Los Angeles. Lauren had been introduced to Carlos on several occasions. She lingered behind the two, waiting to hear what de Sevile would say about her.
“Some cheap little dressmaker,” Carlos drawled with a heavy accent, which made Lauren smile because she knew he had been born and educated in Los Angeles. “No competition to us, I assure you.” The two men laughed as they accepted a drink from a passing steward.
Lauren walked away without anger. She knew that Landrill’s had tried twice to secure her own designing skill, to put September Song garments and accessories under contract exclusively for their chain of stores. Al had always refused, ranting about conglomerates and big business destroying the small, quality boutiques. Lauren had often wondered what his real reasons were.
She had never really understood Al. Her marriage had been a mistake, although she had tried very hard to make it work. Al had always preferred his nights out with the boys, his trips to Vegas or Mexico or Canada with his special male friends. He seemed to have some deep grudge against the world, and in the last few years his anger and resentment had turned against her also. But she must not waste time thinking of that now, she told herself. She collected Nella and Dani to take them to dinner.
They were seated in a spacious, elegant dining room by attentive, smiling stewards, and the models were well pleased. Lauren, who had done her homework, realized that this was not the most posh of the four restaurants, but it suited her very well to keep a low profile at the moment. The table, centered with fresh roses, seated eight. Lauren found their five table companions delightful. When the dining steward had noted everyone’s choices from the impressive menu, she introduced herself and her models.
The older of the two men, Derek Strange, presented his party. They were an English dance troupe, returning home after a five-week tour in the United States. Derek Strange and his wife, Violet, were obviously older than Lauren; Tony Carr, lean and handsome, was about her age; Polly and Dolly Darby, twins, were in their early twenties, Lauren judged. Their manners were charming, but Lauren sensed an underlying depression that even their determined, chins-up cheerfulness could not hide. Halfway through the meal, interrupting a debate on the differences between English and American humor, Nella clutched at Lauren’s arm.
“The ship is rolling. I can feel it.”
Everyone at the table stared at the statuesque redhead, who was very pale. The men glanced at each other, frowned, then shrugged.
“I don’t feel any motion,” Dani argued. “You’re imagining it.”
Lauren got up. “Let me see you to the cabin, Nella,” she said gently. “You’ve had no sleep for nearly thirty-six hours. I’m sure when you’re rested you’ll feel better.”
“I’ll stay with these people,” said Dani. “I’m not tired.”
Lauren glanced at Violet Strange. “Where will you be, later, Mrs. Strange?” she asked softly, helping Nella to her feet.
“Here or the pub on this deck,” the woman answered her with a friendly smile. “We’ll look after your mannequin as if she were a doll.”
“We’ve got a business meeting after dinner,” explained Lauren. “Dani will need to know the stage, dressing rooms—all sorts of details.”
“You’ll be back before we’ve finished dinner,” Mrs. Strange assured her. “Not to worry.”
Lauren got Nella comfortably settled in bed with a cold cloth on her forehead and then sent for a stewardess and requested some Dramamine. The Englishwoman came back in a remarkably short time with some tablets and a glass of water. “Doctor says give her these and she’ll be right as rain tomorrow.”
“Thank you very much,” Lauren replied with real gratitude.
Nella accepted everything docilely. Then she sobbed, “I just know I’m going to be sick. I shouldn’t have come.”
Within ten minutes, however, she was sleeping peacefully. Lauren hurried back to the dining room. Dani and the dance troupe were still enjoying their dinner, which was superb and served with style. Lauren sat down at the table with relief. In response to their kind queries, she explained that Nella was a bit of a hypochondriac.
“She’s a nitwit,” Dani announced coldly. “Just because Mr. Masen told her all those stories about storms at sea, she’s sure that we’ll all drown or something. Seasick. It’s as calm as an oyster.”
The men chuckled. Dinner proceeded without any further problems, and Lauren enjoyed both the food and the service very much. The company of the dance troupe could, she felt, have been pleasant, had it not been for the unhappiness she sensed in them in spite of their attempts to be cheerful.
Finally she turned to Violet Strange. “Is something wrong? Can I help you in anyway?”
Violet gave her a wry look. “Is it that plain, then? We were trying to keep a stiff upper lip.”
There was a little pause as the waiter served their desserts. Dani had ordered a fruit-and-cream concoction, but Lauren hadn’t the heart to object. There had been enough trauma at the table already. When they were eating again, Violet smiled at Lauren. “We expected to be rejoicing at this point. Our tour of your country was most successful. Then yesterday our promoter disappeared with all the receipts from the trip. All he left us was our return tickets. So we’re going home broke.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” breathed Lauren. “What a rotten trick.”
Violet shrugged. “It’s happened before to dancers and it will again, I’ve no doubt. But we were good. We deserved our moment of celebration on the ship.”
It was time for Lauren and Dani to go to the Royal Court Lounge for their briefing, yet she really hated to leave Violet and the rest of the troupe. “Perhaps we might meet later, at the pub?” Lauren proposed. A vague idea was drifting around in her head. She wanted to think it through clearly before she made a move. So, with smiles exchanged, the dinner party broke up. Lauren was leading Dani out of the dining room when they ran into a stocky man in full evening dress.
“Herbert! What are you doing here?” Lauren demanded.
“Surprise!” Herbert smirked. “I decided you needed me to get you through this cruise.”
“You are the last person I need, you—you traitor,” snapped Lauren. “Thanks to you, Nella has gone to bed convinced she’s seasick, and we’ve got a show to put on. Just stay away from her, and from me, or I’ll—” She stopped for want of a dire-enough threat.
Herbert laughed. “Well, if she can’t do the show, you’ll make out just about as well as if she could. You can take her place, can’t you? You hadn’t a hope in hell of winning against the big guns they’ve got on the program, anyway. Why don’t we all just relax and enjoy the trip?”
Lauren could not remember ever being as angry as she was at that moment. Not only had he ruined Nella’s usefulness, but he had come on the trip to gloat over Lauren’s failure! Getting her voice under control, she told him, “You’ll have to excuse us now, Herbert. We’re due at a meeting in the Royal Court Lounge—no guests allowed,” she ended sharply as he offered an arm to each of the two women.
Lauren led Dani away quickly. When they reached the spacious room where the fashion shows were to take place, Lauren discovered that none of the other designers was present, just their assistants and models. This did not disturb Lauren; in fact, she was secretly amused at the rather snobbish jostling for prestige it implied.
“I’m in no position to be arrogant,” she told a worried Dani. “It’s my job to see you get the best dressing room and the best help I can give you. At the moment, that’s me.”
Dani gave her a long, level look. “You really are a doll to work for, Ms. Rose,” she said, as though just now convinced of the fact. “I always figured I’d rather work for a man, but you don’t pull any tricks and you’re here to help me when I need you.”
“Thank you, Dani.” Lauren suppressed a chuckle. “Now let’s get you set.”
It was easier than Lauren had dared hope, since the assistants, however top-lofty, had to bow to Lauren’s superior status. Carlos de Sevile’s deputy sent off a frantic note to his employer after Lauren secured for Dani the dressing table in the best position in the room; apparently the assistant had quite forgotten that he and his models wouldn’t be backstage when Lauren’s September Song line was being shown. The session was nearly over and the cruise director was assuring everyone of her continued assistance when the flamboyant Spanish designer stormed into the lounge.
“What’s going on here?” he barked, his gaze darting at once to Lauren’s shining gold head. “What are you pulling, Rose?” There was no trace of the fascinating Spanish accent he usually affected.
“I’m just doing my job, buster,” she said cheerfully. “Who wants to know?”
Just for a moment, before he realized she was joking, de Sevile’s expression was ludicrous with surprise. Then his full mouth tightened and he said angrily, “I’ll report you to the judges—”
“For what? I’m just attending to the logistics of the show with my models. We were all invited to come.”
“Carlos de Sevile doesn’t have to be here in person. I have assistants to do such jobs,” he began with insolent emphasis.
Lauren laughed. “So report me for being faithful to my duty and courteous to our hosts,” she suggested. Then she added, “You’ll look like a fool, of course, but that’s nothing new.”
She walked away, her gleaming head high, her violet eyes bright with satisfaction.
An awed Dani spoke softly at her shoulder. “You really told that honcho, Ms. Rose. Aren’t you afraid he’ll hit back?”
“Let him,” Lauren was too elated to be cautious. “Things are tough all over! It really did me good to puncture his hot-air balloon.”
Dani shook her head. “I’ve been in the business a long time, Ms. Rose. Better watch out behind you from now on,” she warned gloomily. “You’ve only got me—and yourself, of course—now that Nella’s out of it. You’ll have to shorten all Nella’s stuff if you want me to wear them, and I’ll need you backstage to help if I’m to wear both sets of dresses. It’s a mess.”
Lauren refused to be downcast. “Let’s join our dancing friends in the pub, shall we? They’ve had a worse knock than we have, and they’re still smiling. I like them, don’t you?”
Dani refused to commit herself. Her own tastes ran to obviously wealthy men, like the handsome fellow in the blazer. “That hunk of man on deck,” she murmured soulfully. “I knew he wasn’t an employee of Cunard. His blazer was a Bill Blass and his shoes came from Gucci. In my book, he’s a ten, maybe even an eleven.”
Lauren grinned and led the way to the cozy Crown and Anchor pub with its very British ambience. She found the troupe gathered around a small table at the rear. Derek got up politely to find two more chairs, but Dani told them she was going down to her stateroom. Derek set Lauren’s chair between himself and his “storm and strife.”
“He means wife, dear,” Violet interpreted. “How did the briefing go?”
Lauren told them about de Seville and got them laughing. Then she insisted upon buying a round. “Why should you, luv?” Derek asked. “We’ve still got our pocket money.”
The others laughed ruefully, but Lauren insisted. “You see,” she explained, two dimples very much in evidence beside her soft, wide mouth, “I’ve got a proposition to make.”
“To me, I hope,” teased Tony, the younger man who was the lead dancer and choreographer for the troupe.
“To all of you,” Lauren said soberly. “You know that one-half of my team is out. I can’t take Nella’s place, since our figures and coloring are so different, but mostly because I’m needed backstage to help with costume changes and accessories, as Dani has just reminded me.” She looked at each of them in turn: Derek was lean, handsome, silver-haired, fortyish; his wife, Violet, was buxom and tall, her hair dyed a silvery blue; Tony had a hard, young-old face crowned with dark hair and must be, she thought, about thirty-five years old. Then there were the twins, one fair and one dark as Dani, in their late twenties with slender dancer’s figures, no hips and no bust. But at this moment they were all alike in the keen interest and hope on every face.
“I’d like to hire you to put on my show for me,” Lauren said quietly.
There was a moment of stunned silence as all eyes sought Derek, their manager. He frowned. “All of us? But we’re not—uh—mannequins,” he began, doubtfully.
“All the better,” Lauren launched eagerly yet quietly into her plan. “I’ve drawn the worst spot on the program, Thursday afternoon, when both the audience and the judges will be bored by the presentations. But for me, Thursday’s a good time because it gives us a chance to work out a show that might catch their attention. I got the idea at dinner tonight.” She beamed at them. “You’re dancers. You move beautifully. You’ve got stage presence and a kind of witty gallantry about you—”
The men bowed solemnly across the table at her, and the women smiled. Lauren went on. “I thought, when I saw some of the scenery backstage tonight, that I’d set the scene in a modish boutique, with Dani as a lay figure wearing our showiest dress. It’s ivory velvet with a pastel sequin bodice and a multipetaled chiffon skirt. The petals move and separate as the model walks. Oh, it’s perfectly modest—almost.” She chuckled at their expressions, then continued, “I thought I’d have three cleaning ladies come in to do their nightly thing, and fall in love with the dress. They can lift or help her down from the stand, then admire her as she displays the dress. When she’s back on her stand, they move her into an alcove and one of them—whichever the dress fits—comes out wearing it.”
She caught the flare of interest in the dancers’ eyes. “The other two, doing a double take, then come out wearing my creations, and the three dance along the runway to suitable music, admiring one another and themselves. Do you like it so far?”
“We like it,” Tony said firmly. “Where do Derek and I come in?”
Lauren gave him a broad grin. “I knew you’d back me up,” she crowed. “You’re such good sports, and I’m really in a spot.”
“Knights-errant, that’s Tony and me,” Derek hammed it up. “So what do we do?”
“You are night watchmen who come to check out the activity in the dress salon,” Lauren told them. “You dance the ladies once down the runway and back to the stage, using steps you, Tony, have choreographed to display my dresses to their best advantage, with appropriate music. Then you men lead the women offstage and lift Dani back to her stand. She’ll be wearing my most seductive lingerie. Derek will hastily bring out my high-style evening cape and whirl it around to cover her.”
“A little humorous mime there,” Derek decided, grinning.
“I love it,” Violet gasped.
All the others were equally enthusiastic. “We can handle both the dancing and the mime,” Tony said without false modesty. “We’ll need to see the costumes, get an idea of the kind of music and dance steps that would show them off to best advantage . . .” he paused, pondering.
Lauren could have hugged them all. “If you’re free to come to my suite right now. I’ll show you the dresses. I haven’t anything for you men to wear, though.”
“Chauvinist,” Tony gibed.
Derek smiled. “No problem, we’ve our own costumes. I’ll work something out,” he said thoughtfully.
They followed Lauren to her suite, where she glanced into the models’ bedroom. Nella was asleep. Dani, as she might have expected, was not present. Lauren led the troupe to her own bedroom and locked the door.
“Just a precaution,” she told them. “It’s really important that no one—not even my own employees—get any idea of what we’re doing. I can’t be sure they wouldn’t mention it to the wrong people, and we’d have de Sevile screaming to the cruise director or someone.”
“We understand all about professional caution and jealousy,” Polly said quietly.
After removing the padlock, Lauren zipped open the rack cover from her new collection. Each costume was kept immaculate in its own cover. Quickly Lauren stripped these off and began matching sizes to her new models. To her relief, Violet was just a little heavier than Nella, and about the same height.
“We’ll take you to the hairdressing salon and have your hair colored light auburn, if you don’t mind too much?” Lauren asked.
“Of course she doesn’t.” Derek grinned. “It’s about time she roused my interest with a new color.”
His wife swatted at him. “Enough of your sauce. You could use a new look, too.”
“No, I love that silver—so good with formal black,” Lauren said. “Do you men have black tights? Then, with security guard patches, that should do for your first entrance. Evening dress for your subsequent appearances, I think.”
“They’ve got tails and dinner jackets,” Dolly volunteered.
A few minutes later Lauren sat back on her heels from pinning up a hem and sighed her satisfaction. “I must be the luckiest dress designer in the whole U.S.A.,” she breathed, beaming up at them. “Dani’s things will fit the twins perfectly, with the hems shortened just a tad, and the seams taken in. I thought models were slender. Dancers must really diet.”
Through indulgent laughter, Polly worried, “That means you’ll have to take in all the—uh—”
“Corsages is the polite word, I think,” Derek suggested.
“Bodices,” Tony corrected him primly.
This was received with laughter by the women, then Lauren said, “Dressmaking is my business, after all, and alterations are a big part of it. September Song clothes aren’t styled for immature figures. Actually, you twins are younger than Dani, and less—ah—mature. . . .”
This time it was the men who chuckled. Derek said, with mock complaint, “I really cannot permit that canard about my wife’s figure, Mrs. Rose. Our English word for her is buxom.”
“Especially in the corsage,” Tony added.
Violet mimed aggression at them both. Lauren found she was feeling very close to them all. They were gallant in disaster. She thanked them again for their help, explained carefully about the age group for which she designed, and apologized to the twins. “You’re supposed to be between thirty and thirty-five. Can you mime it?”
“We can act the part—and enjoy it in those clothes,” Polly promised eagerly. “They’re an inspiration to be thirty.”
“To wear those dresses,” Dolly agreed. “I’d pretend to be seventy.”
The troupe expressed satisfaction with the salary Lauren was able to offer them. They were eager to get started, and began to point out various dresses and suggest music and choreography. In fact, Tony had already found an old envelope in his pocket and was making notes.
Derek ushered the dancers into the corridor. “We’ll be up half the night,” he said mock lugubriously. “When Tony gets started setting a dance . . .”
“We’ll be in touch tomorrow,” Violet promised, “to show you our ideas. Thank you.” She pressed Lauren’s hand and went after her friends.
Closing the door gently, Lauren leaned against it, trembling with the aftereffects of tension. She had committed herself and her livelihood to a group of unknown talents. Charming and professional as they all seemed, how could she know whether their dancing and mime would enhance her costumes or make them look ridiculous? The trembling became a violent shaking. Lauren gasped for breath. Suddenly the cabin seemed to close in on her, to be airless. Catching up her coat, Lauren left the room, locking the door behind her, and made her way up to the deck.
It was dark and windy, and at first she thought she was alone. She walked quickly to the rail and grasped its comforting hardness with shaking hands. She forced herself to breathe deeply, desperately seeking to absorb the tranquility promised by the vast, quiet ocean and the clear moonlight.
And then she became aware of a human presence behind her, felt it with a sharp alertness, an immediate sensory perception that struck into her consciousness like a dazzling light. The first assault was to her sense of smell. A tantalizing mixture of spice and the musky redolence of a man’s clean, warm body drifted to her nostrils. Next, there was the moisture of breath against her neck, and the heat radiating from a large body close to her back. Her own skin, in spite of her coat, was cold in the night air; the contrast between her chill and this new warmth was disturbing. Lauren stood very still. She had never been so sharply aware of another person in her life. She turned slowly to face whoever was standing behind her.
She found herself face to face with the man whom Dani had accosted as they were boarding, the man whose mocking smile had taken note of her exasperation at the model’s behavior. Instead of the blazer, he was now wearing a beautiful, form-fitting dinner jacket with a soft white shirt and black tie. He was taller than she remembered, and loomed over her with his powerful chest and shoulders, his dark head bent toward her as he stared at her. The moonlight turned his eyes to liquid silver.
And then his voice sounded in her ears, deep and dark like the ocean depths, but warmer, warmer . . . a husky voice, as erotic as the rasp of black velvet against the fingertips.
“Are you all right, Mrs. Rose? Can I help you?”
Lauren caught her breath, then held her voice steady as she answered, “Thank you, no, I’m fine. I was . . . feeling a little tired, but it’s not surprising, really. I haven’t slept in over thirty-six hours.” She tried for an easy, casual laugh. “Jet lag?”
“Not enough proper food to eat and too much responsibility, wouldn’t you say?” he answered, astonishing her.
That touch of condescending male chauvinism was just the stimulation Lauren so desperately needed. Her head lifted and she stared up into the dark face above her. “I’ve been carrying a fairly heavy load of responsibility for a number of years now, Mr.—?” she waited with an intense curiosity she didn’t understand to hear him name himself.
But he threw her off balance again when, instead of giving her his name, he said abruptly, “With, of course, the help of Mr. Herbert Masen.”
“Herbert?” Lauren’s voice broke into scornful laughter. “All Herbert does is complicate the issue. He’s determined I’ll—” She broke off, unwilling to share any more of her private concerns with this man, even if he did seem to know a surprising amount about her affairs. Better to confront him at once, she decided. “Just who are you? And how do you happen to know so much about me?”
“I’ve been listening to your Mr. Masen in the bar for the last hour. He told me he is willing to marry you in spite of the mess you are making of your fashion presentation. Then you will sell your boutique and the rights to your designer clothes, after which you both plan to laze away the rest of your lives following the jet set from one resort to another. With you footing the bills.”
Lauren’s scorn was evident in her voice. “You think I’ve agreed to that repulsive little scenario?”
“Well,” the man drawled insolently, “One would hope not, of course. But I have noticed that you can’t control your models.”
Lauren set her jaw against an angry retort. In a moment, she said quietly, “I’ve controlled my employees and marketed my designs successfully for ten years. Perhaps both you and your drinking buddy have something to learn about me. Now if you’ll excuse me—” She tried to move past him toward the interior of the ship.
Instantly he was in front of her again. He didn’t touch her, but she felt the force of him on her senses as she had before and something more—a sort of recognition, a familiarity. He was speaking again, but this time the deep, caressing voice held neither insolence nor condescension.
“You don’t think this is a chance meeting, do you? I’ve been looking for you all night on a matter of business.”
Lauren stared up at the unsmiling face. Moonlight emphasized the sharp planes of his face and sparkled in his silver eyes. He went on speaking.
“It seems I may have been wrong. You don’t fit the picture Masen drew of you. But you are having trouble with the details of your presentation, are you not? You’ve got the worst time slot on the program. One of your models is sick and the other man-crazy, and Masen says Carlos calls your designs trashy.”
Lauren drew a deep breath. “Perhaps you and Masen should wait until the votes are counted before you trash me,” she said. “Or you might try to find a more reliable spy. I’m putting on a show, Mr. Anonymous, and neither Masen nor Carlos de Sevile is going to stop me.”
Suddenly, he caught her by the wrist. “Forgive me. I can see that the half was not told me. I admit there’s no excuse for my behavior. It was just that I got angry at what I thought you were doing with your chance to show your designs. May we start again, please, with a clean slate? Maybe I can help you.”
But Lauren had had enough. “I can handle it, thank you.” The confidence she had in Derek’s troupe and her own skills sounded in her voice. “Carlos and Masen are in for a surprise.”
“I’d really like to help,” he repeated. “My name’s Michael. May I just stand by you here for a few minutes to enjoy the night air? Will you have a cigarette?”
Lauren found herself relaxing at his evident eagerness to make amends. “Thank you, no, I don’t smoke. But I would like to stay on deck for just a little longer. It’s relaxing; the sea is so big and dark and ancient . . .
He moved to the rail beside her. Sharing a comfortable silence, they leaned on the rail, their bodies just touching, and looked outward across the moving darkness. Then, as they kept vigil, a lovely sight met their eyes. At a good distance to the south they saw a glow of light that, as they watched, became a toy ship plowing past them, westward to New York, sparkling and beautiful against the dark of night and sea. They watched it until its lights were once more a misty blur. Then a cold wind swept against Lauren and she shivered.
Michael put a hard, warm hand over hers on the rail.
“All those people on the other ship,” Lauren whispered. “Don’t you feel as though you could almost touch them? How I wish I knew them all—their life stories, their fears and dreams, what each one is hoping for as they race toward New York.”
He caught her against his side with a strong, friendly arm.
“What a romantic you are. And here I thought Lauren Rose was a hard-hearted, grasping businesswoman.” He was teasing her, but his voice was still gentle. “You’d better deal with your problems on this ship before you try to comprehend those of the rest of the world.” He gave her a brief, hard hug that Lauren found oddly comforting from a stranger. “Now, to bed! Or the designer of the September Song line will never be alert enough to organize her fashion showing.” He led her back inside. “May I get you some wine? Cocoa?” he wheedled, grinning.
Lauren knew it was definitely time she removed herself from the clutches of this wily charmer. Slipping out from under his arm, she smiled up into his laughing countenance. “Good night,” she said firmly. “Good night.”
He caught her hand.
“ ‘Parting is such sweet sorrow,’ ” he teased, his gray eyes luminous with laughter. “Now my line is ‘Sleep dwell upon thine eyes . . .’ and then how does it go?”
A Shakespeare buff as well as everything else, Lauren groaned silently. This guy was too much. Could he be an actor? He was good-looking enough, and he certainly had presence.
He was speaking again, declaiming, his arresting voice full of amusement, and something else. “ ‘Peace in thy breast! Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest!’ ”
His eyes went boldly to the violet wool draped so snugly over Lauren’s rounded breasts as he quoted those provocative words of Romeo’s. He moved toward her quickly, but Lauren slipped from his grip and walked down the corridor toward her stateroom.
As she went, she told herself that this man could be very dangerous to her peace of mind. He was wildly attractive, and he certainly knew it. The knowledge was in the wicked glint in his gray eyes, in the wide, challenging smile that made a woman so much aware of his masculinity—and her own feminine response to it. Women probably spoil him rotten, she mused, turning into her own entry hallway. Better be careful he doesn’t get under my guard.
She hadn’t had time to be lonely since Al’s death, and she hadn’t been accustomed to much male attention for the last few years of their marriage. Al had been busy making the boutique go, and he liked to spend his free time with his men friends—“getting away from the hassle,” he called it.
You’re ripe for somebody like Michael, she warned herself. Don’t be a pushover. You don’t know this guy from Adam. He might even be a pal of de Sevile’s.
She opened the door to the sitting room and halted on the threshold, surprise and anger battling for supremacy. Herbert was sprawled on the couch, glaring foolishly at her. His red face and slightly glazed eyes told the story. Before she could speak, he said, with slurred speech, “Where’ve you been? Who with?”
It had been a long forty hours. And the pressure breaking down Lauren’s patience with Herbert’s sly, malicious tricks had been building up even longer. Her voice shook with rage. “It’s none of your damned business, Masen. Now get out of here and don’t come back.”
Herbert staggered to his feet, scowling. “I don’t have to put up with—”
Lauren was ready to hit him. “Get out!” She held the door open and stood aside.
With a ludicrous attempt at dignity, Herbert stalked past her.
Lauren locked the door after him. Tomorrow she’d warn Nella and Dani never to leave that door, or their own door to the corridor, unlocked. Herbert’s expression had been vindictive. The new collection was in her room. Each of them had a key; it had to be that way. She wasn’t their mother or their keeper. But the doors must be kept locked to protect the dresses. Lauren was so worried that she opened the models’ door quietly, to warn Dani if she were still awake.
Nella slumbered peacefully. Dani’s bed had not been touched. With a sigh that was half a groan, Lauren went to her own bedroom. It was only as she was drifting off to sleep that she recalled something Michael had said. It had not been a chance meeting. He had been looking for her “on a matter of business.” De Sevile’s business?