Chapter Two
Lauren woke early Monday morning. The cabin sparkling with sunlight, the salty breeze from the open porthole, the fresh smell of varnish, clean linen and the lavender soaps in the bathroom, it all roused Lauren so completely she was practically forced out of bed. She looked at her small traveling alarm and saw it was six A.M. Then, she recalled the pool on deck and things didn’t seem so bad; the idea of a wake-up swim quite appealed to her. Surely few others would be using it so early on the first morning of the trip? Smiling at her own adolescent impulse, Lauren got into her swim suit and robe, slipped on some deck shoes, picked up a towel, and went in search of the pool.
A big man was doing laps as she approached. All Lauren could see was a dark, wet head, bronzed arms flashing in a strong Australian crawl, and the froth of water from powerful leg beats. She dropped her robe and towel on a deck chair, slipped off her shoes, and dived in neatly. When she came to the surface, she was almost face to face with the other swimmer. With a sense that she was fate’s helpless pawn, she recognized him.
Michael, treading water near her, grinned at her surprise.
“Looks as though we have similar tastes, or the same health guru,” he said.
“How many laps have you done?” Lauren asked, struggling for composure. Michael, seen like this, was a devastatingly handsome figure of strength and physical beauty, and she suddenly felt acutely self-conscious being so close to him.
“Ten,” he said. “Want me to wait till you catch up?”
“That’s a good handicap,” Lauren said rashly. “I’ll race you one lap.”
His raised eyebrows hardened her resolve. Then he smiled, a slow, warm smile that made her want to touch his wet cheek with her hand. “You’re on. We’ll start from a racing dive at that end.”
He swung up easily onto the deck, then pulled her smoothly up beside him. “You call it,” he offered.
Lauren took her stance. “One two, three—dive!”
She sensed that he hit the water a fraction of a second later than she did. He had given her that small advantage, but he wouldn’t hold back, she thought. Then all conscious thought was suspended as Lauren worked her body through the water with every ounce of skill and training and willpower she had. She might not win, but by God, Michael would know he had been in a race.
She reached the end of the pool too quickly and twisted into her best racing turn. As she flashed out for the return length, she caught a glimpse of a bronze arm cutting the air a few feet away. Michael was level with her. Grimly Lauren stroked, giving it the extra surge her swim coach had taught her to use. Michael didn’t know it, but he was racing with a girl who might have made the Olympic team at sixteen, if her parents had not refused to permit her to attempt to qualify. And she’d spent an hour swimming nearly every day of her adult life.
She slapped her hand on the edge of the pool, only to see a big brown hand come down at exactly the same minute. Then, panting and starting to laugh helplessly, they clung to the deck and faced each other.
“You are some classy lady, Lauren Rose,” Michael said, pushing his black hair off his forehead. “And before you ask me, no, I didn’t let you win.”
“You could have beaten me if the pool were a couple of meters longer,” Lauren admitted. “That was my best effort.”
Michael shook his head admiringly. “It was good. I had no idea I was in the company of a swimming master, or is it mistress?” he amended, with the warm, wide grin. “Want to go another few laps for fun?”
Lauren was suddenly tired. “I’ll give it a pass this time,” she said, turning to the ladder.
Michael swung up on the deck and extended both hands. “Want a lift?”
She didn’t, actually. The sight of that wet, bronzed body, firm and well-muscled, with a mat of black hair tapering down to his brief black trunks like an arrow sent alarms off along her nerves. She really didn’t know who he was, or what had been his purpose in looking for her the night before. Still, she had to admit he hadn’t sought her out this morning. She’d found him. Taking his hands, she drove down powerfully with her feet as he lifted. She shot up onto the deck in a movement as graceful as a ballet dancer’s.
He caught and held her for just a moment, to make sure she was steady on her feet. That brief contact of wet skin to bare wet skin sent a charge through Lauren’s body. It had been a long time, she realized, since she had felt just that special thrill of awareness of a male. No, to be honest, she had never felt it before. Whatever Al’s other strengths, he had never made her so conscious of her sexuality—so aware of herself and almost frightened. She turned quickly to pick up her towel.
“You’re very beautiful.” The deep voice was softly abrasive, stirring her to unwilling response. She peered at him above the towel she was drying her face with. He wasn’t smiling; his gray eyes were openly assessing as much of her body as he could see. Lauren remembered she was wearing one of her own designs, a one-piece, well-cut-out suit that flattered a full figure more than a bikini did. It was a curving blend of violet, blue, and rose in a flowing line that made the most of her rounded breasts and hips without neglecting her small waist. It was short enough to make her legs look long and graceful. It gave her confidence now, in the face of the man’s declaration of her beauty.
“Thank you,” she said simply, with a rather tentative smile.
“I wish you’d call me Mike,” he requested.
“Thanks for a good workout, Mike,” Lauren said, catching up her robe and thrusting her arms into it.
“Don’t forget your shoes,” he reminded her, bending to pick them up. “Sit down.”
Almost unthinkingly, Lauren obeyed him. He knelt and, taking her towel from her hand, began to dry her feet carefully.
Lauren drew in her breath. It was the most erotic experience—the feel of those large, strong hands holding her feet and rubbing them firmly with the towel. When he dried each toe separately in a gentle, sensual caress, hot color came into Lauren’s cheeks. Of course he chose that moment to look up at her, his gray eyes intent.
If he laughs at me, I’ll sock him, Lauren promised herself.
Even more disturbingly, Mike didn’t laugh. His glance touched her face, her breasts, and then returned to her feet. Satisfied that he had them dry, he put the deck shoes on carefully, patting each foot as he had it shod. Then he leaned back on his heels and grinned at her.
“That’s a good girl,” he approved. “Now you can get dressed.”
Lauren left him without another word.
*****
Before she faced anyone, especially the sharp-eyed Dani, Lauren knew she would have to get herself together. As she showered and dressed, she told herself sternly that she was no callow ingénue, fluttering over a handsome male body and a challenging smile. She was thirty-five, damn it. A strong, healthy, beautiful thirty-five, a good businesswoman and a top-notch designer. Why was she dithering like some sixteen-year-old? Glancing critically at herself in the mirror over her dressing table, she saw a woman in a simple-looking cream silk dress that moved lovingly over every rounded curve. The armholes were bound with violet silk, the belt and scarf were two more of her signature violet silk scarves. Her eyes—stormy dark, almost purple—flashed in her sweet peach-golden face. Lauren squared her shoulders. “Here I come, world,” she muttered. “I’m going to put on the best show ever.”
She went on deck to walk off her tension before she ate breakfast. As she was returning to the lounge, she noticed a young woman wearing high heels, instead of the more suitable deck shoes. Just as they met, the girl’s heel caught on the raised sill of the door leading out to the deck. Lauren thrust out her arms instinctively and caught her before she fell.
“Oh, thank you,” gasped the girl as Lauren helped her regain her balance.
“Are you all right? You’ll find rubber-soled shoes are much more comfortable, and safer, than heels.” Lauren smiled and would have passed on, but the girl caught her arm.
“You’re one of the models, aren’t you?” she asked. “I saw you last night at the Captain’s party. I’m Gala Devine. I work for Carlos de Sevile.”
“How do you do, Gala,” Lauren said, meeting her smile warmly. “I’m Lauren Rose, with the September Song line.”
Gala—the name seemed appropriate for a de Sevile model, Lauren thought cattily—tried out her ankle and then clung to Lauren’s arm. “Gee, I hope I haven’t strained it. Señor Carlos will kill me.”
“Does it hurt? Perhaps we should get you to the doctor,” Lauren suggested.
Gala tried a few steps, holding on to the other woman’s arm. “No, I think it’s just a little sore. Have you had breakfast?”
“I’m on my way there. We eat at Tables of the World Restaurant—”
“So do we,” Gala said with a smile. “Not Señor de Sevile, of course, but his models, all but the top two. They go to dinner with him at the new Princess Grill Restaurant.”
Lauren allowed herself to look suitably impressed, and suggested that they go down to their own restaurant together. Gala was a cheerful child, but something seemed to be worrying her. Over the spartan breakfast she allowed herself, she broached the problem to Lauren.
“What’s wrong with my dress, Lauren?” she asked.
“Is it a de Sevile?” countered Lauren cautiously. She didn’t like it and knew why, but it might not be diplomatic to make a disparaging comment that might get back to the designer.
“Yes, it’s one of his Sevillana Line. They’re all like this—heavy reds and purples and black and this trim.” Gala held up her slashed red-and-purple sleeve, showing Lauren the tiny white bobbles of cotton that trimmed its fringe.
Lauren decided to level with Gala.
“You know I’m one of de Sevile’s competitors, Gala. He doesn’t worry about me, but I wouldn’t like him to think I’m criticizing his designs.”
Gala nodded, frowning. “But it’s just between us models, isn’t it? I wouldn’t pass it along. Please, what’s wrong with it?”
Lauren gave in. The girl had taste, or awareness of what looked good on her thin, lithe frame. And it wasn’t that dress!
“Well, Gala, you’re quite slender. That style is too mature for you, too heavy-looking.”
“All the Sevillana Line is like this,” Gala muttered discontentedly. “Señor de Sevile—he insists we all call him that, not Mr.—doesn’t seem to care what age women are, he just designs what he likes. This season’s clothes were all red, black, orange, and purple. They’re loose on the breasts on most of us. Models are thin, Lauren. Everyone knows that. But his clothes are cut full on top, tight to below the hips, and then they flare out with lots of ruffles. I don’t like them. They only look good on Dolores, his top model.”
Lauren had to agree. She said cautiously, “The colors are hard to wear, but you’re young enough to get away with them. It’s a Spanish-inspired line, isn’t it? Perhaps that’s why he makes the clothes that we associate with flamenco dancers, tight to the hips and ruffled below.”
Gala sighed. “I like what you’re wearing.” She shifted in her seat and suddenly winced. “I think I will go look up the doc. Señor de Sevile will kill me if I turn up limping tomorrow evening for his showing.”
“Olé,” murmured Lauren as the girl walked gingerly away from the table.
She was just finishing her coffee when the dance troupe came into the dining room. They were all beaming, a delightfully different mood than the one they had been in the night before.
“We’ve got a room with a piano to practice in,” Violet announced. “And the door locks,” added Derek.
“Will you need any of us for fittings?” asked Dolly.
Lauren set a time, thanked them with a wide smile for their assistance, and turned to go. As she passed a nearby table, a man stood up, as though he had been waiting for her. Mike took her arm and led her out of the restaurant.
“I hope you’ll forgive me.” He grinned. “I overheard your comments just now, and you’re right. That pretty little model really doesn’t suit that flamboyant costume. She looks as though she’s wearing mommy’s dress.”
If he were one of de Sevile’s spies, Mike would talk exactly like that, Lauren knew. On the other hand, he might be a roving reporter out for a juicy designers’ war story. She looked at him doubtfully. “How do you fit into this, Mike? What’s your line?”
“I’m an entrepreneur, talent scout, manager—you name it.” He laughed softly. “What’s your verdict on that dress, Lauren?”
“It’s a Sevillana, Gala tells me,” Lauren stalled. “I think it’s probably featured in Landrill’s High Kick boutiques for young women.”
“What do you think of it?” Mike persisted.
Lauren shrugged. “Carlos’s designs don’t try to enhance the wearer; they shout Carlos. I recognized the color combinations and line of the costume before Gala told me.” Lauren admitted. “His dresses are quite good on some eighteen-year-olds—dark, Spanish types with very full figures—but they’re disastrous for slender, blonde teenagers and for most American women over thirty. They also cost so much that only wealthy women can afford them.” She glanced at Mike with a smile. “I hope you’re taking this with a pound of salt, Mike. I’m Carlos’s rival, if only in a very humble way. It could be professional jealousy talking.”
Mike shook his head, his eyes intent on her laughing countenance. “Somehow I don’t think so,” he mused. “You certainly know what suits you, and your models present a most attractive image. Why don’t you tie up with one of the big companies, Lauren? Saks or Bullocks or Landrill’s? Free yourself to create, and let someone else run the business end of it?”
“My husband did have offers,” Lauren explained. “He seemed very much opposed to handing over our line and my designs to what he called the big conglomerates.”
“And what did you think? Or didn’t Mr. Rose permit you to have any ideas of your own—away from the design board, I mean?”
Lauren frowned. It hadn’t been that way, had it? She had always been content to let Al run the business. But she remembered times when she had had to go for a swim in their pool to work off some of the frustrations his autocratic attitudes had roused in her. She shook her head. What did it matter now? She was alone and running the business well—at least the profits were slowly increasing—and loving every minute of it. She put a smile on her face.
“The widow is running her own show, Mike. After this cruise, I may get some offers to sell exclusively to one of the biggies. I’ll wait until that time to make a decision.”
“Very shrewd, Mrs. Rose.” Mike grinned. “So you’ve got something up your sleeve, have you? Not entirely dependent upon the seasick model or the unreliable one?”
So, he’d seen her talking to Derek.
“Dani’s not unreliable,” Lauren pointed out, defending the girl although she was still worried about her long, late-night absences. Too much of that could ruin both complexion and poise.
“Want some help?” Mike offered lazily. “There really are wolves out there, you know. Things happen.”
Lauren held up two sets of crossed fingers. “Bite your tongue,” she warned. “I won’t let you frighten me.”
“Have dinner with me tonight?” he suggested.
“I’m booked.” She grinned. “See you later.”
She noted the rather regretful look on his handsome face—an endearing little crease at the corners of his finely chiseled mouth—but it only served to send her away more quickly. She mustn’t get tied up with a man right now; too much depended upon her keeping her wits about her. And he could be hooked up to any one of the other designers. Maartens wouldn’t stoop to unprofessional practices, nor would Adah Shere, she thought, running quickly down the roster of designers as she went toward her suite. Carlos de Sevile certainly would take any advantage he could get, legal or illegal. Of the other three, Telford was too comfortably assured of the preppie trade to bother, Ben Nowak of Chicago was too arrogant and well-established in the mass markets to need an edge, and Janus of San Francisco was only concerned with the cult group it held with its incredibly fine and sensuous leathers.
Lauren shrugged and unlocked the door of the sitting room.
“Who’s there?” came Nella’s wavering voice from her bedroom.
“Lauren. I’ve come to see if you’d like a walk on deck before breakfast,” Lauren sang out cheerfully.”
A groan was the only answer.
Then Dani appeared in the bedroom doorway, heavy-eyed and sloppy in an old woolen dressing gown two sizes too large for her. Lauren smothered a chuckle at the thought of the reaction she’d get if she let Dani model that way.
“Did you sleep well?” she asked blandly.
Dani shot her a suspicious glare. “You know I was out late, Ms. Rose. I met this man in the casino. He was really doing well, raking it in. He said I was bringing him luck, and asked me to stand beside him. After a while he got tired and bought me a few—” She halted, appalled at what she’d nearly said.
“So he bought you a few drinks,” Lauren concluded. “Lucky we aren’t putting on our show this afternoon.”
“Gee, Ms. Rose. Are we going to be able to put a show on at all? Nella claims she’s still sick—”
“I’ve made some other plans,” Lauren said firmly. “Oh, you get to model all the dresses that look so good on you, don’t worry. But I’ve found some substitutes for Nella.” She returned the girl’s incredulous stare with a smile. “It’s going to be good, but I’ve got to keep it under wraps until I’m sure the—the substitutes can handle it.” She smiled at Dani’s outfit. “You going to wear that number to breakfast? That’ll really put de Sevile’s mind at rest.”
Dani grinned and turned back into the room. “Won’t be a minute,” she called out, banging the bathroom door.
A groan from Nella acknowledged that insensitivity. Lauren went in to stand beside the woman’s bed. She looked gaunt, in spite of her generous curves. She did look ill, and Lauren decided to ask the doctor to call if Nella wasn’t back on her feet by dinnertime.
“What can I order for you?” she asked softly. “Some orange juice? Perrier? Tell me, and I’ll get it for you.”
Nella raised heavy lids. “I’m terribly sorry, Ms. Rose. I know I should have told you before, but I really am afraid of ships and planes.” Her voice broke.
Lauren patted her shoulder and smoothed the red hair from her clammy forehead. “I’m going to wash your face and then ask the ship’s doctor just to glance at you. There may be something very simple he can do to make you feel a lot better.”
Expecting an argument, Lauren was surprised when Nella agreed almost enthusiastically. “Thanks, Ms. Rose. I’ll be glad to see the doctor. Should I change out of this gown?”
Feeling a great deal less worried about the model after that speech, Lauren went to the telephone in her bedroom and requested a visit from the ship’s doctor at his convenience. Then she returned and helped Nella to wash and don a fresh nightgown. Dani, ready for her breakfast by this time, announced that she’d go ahead, and return to the suite for a briefing after she’d eaten.
“Take a walk around the decks first,” Lauren advised. “It’s a marvelous day and you probably need the exercise.”
When the doctor had come and gone, Lauren went in to see how Nella was doing. She found the model ecstatic.
“Wasn’t he wonderful?” Nella breathed. The handsome, middle-aged British doctor had completely won her over. “He says he’ll come back this evening to check on my progress.”
Lauren groaned. Nella was obviously going to enjoy being sick as long as she could count on visits from the Englishman. “The fashion show,” she reminded Nella. “Did he say you’d be able to model the clothes?”
“I forgot to ask,” Nella confessed, dreamy-eyed. “Did you notice the way his hair curled around his ears? Yummy!”
Lauren shrugged. Thank God for Derek’s troupe. Leaving Nella to her daydreams, she went out to find the practice room the dancers had secured. When she knocked, there was a silence; then, the door opened slightly and Tony peered out through the crack. When he saw Lauren, he swung the door wide, pulled her in, and locked the door again.
“Security,” he whispered, grinning widely.
“He likes to play Secret Agent X,” Polly scoffed.
“He’s got the right idea,” Lauren advised them. “I know at least one designer who would be delighted at the chance to sabotage my show.”
This pronouncement sobered even the twins. Derek said quietly, “Come and see what Tony’s done so far. I think you’ll like it.”
With Violet playing softly at the piano they had managed to borrow from the cruise director, the cast ran through the dances and mime that Tony had already set. Lauren was surprised and delighted. They were very professional, very graceful in movement, and witty with their mime. What had been originally planned as a conventional showing of costumes was now a charming and funny musical comedy. When Lauren tried to express her gratitude, the dancers beamed at her and promised that the finished product would be even better.
“How long have we got?” asked Tony.
“Three days. My showing is scheduled for Thursday afternoon. Does that give you enough time?”
“It’s a breeze, luv,” Derek said.
“And the music?” Lauren asked. “Have you chosen songs to match the costumes?”
“Waltzes and fox-trots,” said Tony, “with just a few classical themes—”
“But please, no tangos,” Lauren laughed. “And you won’t breathe a word of this, please?”
“Not even to each other,” Derek promised. “We’ll communicate in mime.”
Laughing, they let Lauren out and locked the door after her.
It was nearly lunchtime. Where did the minutes go? Thursday afternoon would be upon her before she knew it. And Mike had overheard her when she conferred with the troupe at breakfast. What was his angle? Lauren frowned. Even if he told Carlos and Carlos squawked to the cruise director, what could anyone do? There were no rules about how the costumes should be presented. Lauren Rose of September Song had always been known as an innovator, one to break away from stereotypes toward a more body-related, comfortable style. She didn’t force her clients into bloomers or Cossack hats just because somebody like Carlos de Sevile decided he liked them on his currently favorite model.
By the time Lauren had reached her suite, and, after a peek at sleeping Nella, she went to her own room, determined to create for herself as glamorous an appearance as possible.
Fifteen minutes later, wearing a violet jump suit that made the most of her petite yet curving figure, she went up to Tables of the World. She had left her creamy-gold hair to wave softly to her shoulders, and knew she looked her best. After a light meal, she went up to the first of the fashion shows in the Royal Court Lounge.
The spacious, elegant room was crowded with smartly dressed women and a number of men. A babble of conversation and laughter greeted Lauren’s ears as she glanced around to see if any of the other designers had made themselves visible at the Janus presentation. Carlos was there, she noted, prominently positioned in the first row with a brightly plumaged model on either side of him.
“Prepare for leather,” muttered a deep voice at her shoulder.
She didn’t need to turn around to recognize Mike. His hand on her elbow seemed to warm her whole body as he guided her to a couch at the back of the lounge. It was set between two very healthy plants, whose generous greenery made a kind of nook out of the space. Lauren sank down thankfully. She hadn’t come to be stared at, but to evaluate the total presentation: costumes, movement, music, and any quirks of production that might be innovative.
“What are you doing here?” she prodded Mike as he lounged so unselfconsciously beside her. Lauren knew this designer’s clothes were nothing like Mike’s style. Janus was actually two men; Sidney, who managed the business side of the firm as Al had done, and Jan, the wildly trendy designer. Janus’s supple and erotic leathers were the favorite with a whole section of San Francisco’s society, a group that had nothing in common with Mike. He was too fully, and traditionally, male. He was so much man that he didn’t need to prove it. The immaculate, well-tailored suite he wore so casually emphasized his superbly muscled body. He moved in his clothing, Lauren thought with a designer’s awareness, with an efficient grace that was totally masculine.
Given all this, she wondered why he was present at the show. She would have pictured him playing squash or swimming or skeet-shooting, rather than watching fashion presentations. She looked up at his face, her eyes wary. He was watching her, a smile tugging at the corners of his well-cut mouth.
“Maybe I just dropped in on the chance of meeting you,” he murmured, reading her mind with an ease that disturbed her.
The models, both male and female, began their stylized strutting on the wide runway that thrust out into the auditorium. The Janus models wore heavy makeup, a sort of unisex mask that went very well with their sensuous, all-leather outfits. Some of the suedes were draped as skillfully as satin or silk, flexible and clinging. The leathers were of colors Lauren had not known could be secured on such material: pastels, cream, ivory, a dozen shades of purple, green, gold, and silver. The pièce de résistance was a black full suit, supple and soft as velvet, worn with a beret of the same black leather and half boots, on the heel of one of which was a silver spur. This outfit brought a standing ovation.
Mike grinned down at Lauren. “Had enough?”
As they slipped out, he asked, “Spying on the competition?”
Lauren laughed. “I’d like to know who prepares the leather for him. It’s a well-guarded secret,” she said with a smile. Then, soberly, she added, “All the designers attend or have their assistants at every show. Usually, it’s done fairly discreetly—”
“Snooping,” Mike said. “As you were doing?”
“Are you a dress designer, Mike?” At his look of surprise, she added, “You were snooping too.”
“I was hanging around on the off chance of meeting you,” Mike explained almost too glibly. “I want to buy you a drink. I want to know all about you, Lauren Rose.” He was not smiling now, but staring as though he wanted to pierce her lovely facade to discover the real woman beneath.
Lauren found herself telling him about her life before her marriage at nineteen to the brisk, worldly Al. He had projected a successful, man-of-the-world charisma that quite delighted Lauren’s parents, who feared and despised all the youthful protesters, the laid-back drug cultists, and the flower children. To their ultraconservative minds, Allen Rose seemed a mature and sensible man who would protect their only child and guide her into a proper level of society. The glamour had lasted, for Lauren, about two years. From then on, it had been a matter of living according to the standards her parents had trained her to accept.
Of course Lauren did not tell Mike the sordid details, or even very much at all about her marriage, but he seemed to be able to read between the lines. He sat back in the booth he had chosen for them, relaxed and plainly interested, supplying a quiet question occasionally and unobtrusively signaling the steward for a drink from time to time.
Lauren was startled to find herself beginning on a third piña colada. She looked quickly up into Mike’s face. He read her expression correctly and grinned.
“It’s only your third,” he excused her.
“Third! Ye gods, I never drink more than one.”
“What, never?” he quoted, singing the correct notes.
“No, never,” Lauren sang.
And then to finish the comic song from H.M.S. Pinafore, she and Mike chorused together, “Well, hardly ever!”
They shared a smile for their mutual addiction to Gilbert and Sullivan. “I would have bet you were a fan of the Savoyards,” Mike said. “How many times have you seen The Mikado?”
“I’ll tell you when you tell me how many times you’ve seen The Pirates of Penzance,” Lauren challenged.
“You’re not going to tell me you saw the original performance?” teased Mike. “Late 1870s, wasn’t it?”
Lauren slanted him a look from under her long eyelashes. “Yes. Don’t I wear my years well?”
“Wait till you get enough of them to boast about,” Mike teased. “You’re in the flowering time,” he said with a grin, “like, fresh as a daisy? Saucy as a buttercup?”
“Stop right there, buster,” Lauren advised, grinning back at him. “What about you? I’ve told you everything but my social security number! What do you do for a living?”
“I told you,” Mike said succinctly. “I’m a talent scout for some of the bigger chains. I’m one of the people you can expect an offer from, after your show—if it’s any good.”
Lauren laughed aloud at his cheek. It was surprising how truly vital and happy he made her feel. She could never recall experiencing this lift of spirits, this true happiness, with any man before. She thought about his challenge for a minute. “My show is better than what you saw today, and a lot different. But you’ll just have to wait, won’t you?” She got up from the comfortable banquette. “Now I’m going to gloat over my new collection. See you later.” She had to get away from him before she succumbed completely to his charm, that warm, vital maleness that was doing odd things to her senses.
“How about dinner tonight?” Mike had risen with her. He held out his hand to assist her from the booth. Did he know how attractive he was?
Lauren smiled, “Your restaurant or mine?”
He recognized her search for information. “I was thinking, in my suite. More private. I’ll call for you about eight.”
Lauren shook her head. “It’s the Maartens show tonight, and I want to see it. He’s British, based in New York. Best of both cultures. Chic and understated.”
“I still don’t want to see it.” Mike grinned. “Let’s eat afterward. I’ll pick you up outside the Royal Court Lounge after the show.”
He was walking with her away from the lounge, his arm at her back. She could feel the warmth of it through the silk of her jump suit. Why was she so reluctant to let him go? She’d never had such difficulty saying good-bye to any man.
He seemed to understand her reluctance, and to share it. “Once around the deck?” he suggested. “To walk off those piña coladas?”
She accepted the offer. As they strolled along near the rail, Mike asked with an apparent lack of interest, “Will you be seeing much of your little friend?”
“You mean my model Dani? The one who tried to mistake you for the captain when we were embarking?”
“No, I mean the little teenager you were advising at breakfast.”
“Gala Devine? No, I don’t plan to. She’s one of Carlos’s models, as you guessed.”
“What sort of costume would you suggest for a girl like Gala? Something like that very pretty jump suit you have on?”
“No. This is the wrong color for her, the wrong line for her extreme slenderness. She would look like a boy in it. Of course, she might want that effect.”
“You don’t look boyish,” Mike answered.
“This suit is effective for my height, weight distribution, coloring, and age,” Lauren explained. Rather than feeling complimented, Lauren felt he was mocking her, even testing her. She continued in a cold, matter-of-fact voice. “I try to design a dress with the woman who is likely to wear it in my mind. A very plump woman, for instance, would look absurd in this. Or a very thin one.”
Mike nodded.
Lauren, very much aware that the moment was spoiled, nodded back and walked swiftly away.
Unfortunately for her ruffled poise, she found Herbert Masen in her sitting room talking to Nella, who was dressed in a very fetching negligée from the new collection. Since she didn’t particularly like Herbert and was wary of him after his horror stories about ships at sea, Nella must have put on the robe for the British doctor’s delectation. Lauren set her lips firmly. It was her practice never to reprimand her models in front of outsiders; she said nothing, but her displeased glance at the robe got her point across to Nella.
“I was . . . waiting for the doctor to call,” she explained, self-consciously. “When Mr. Masen knocked, I thought he was him.”
“Better get back to bed, Nella. That robe isn’t really warm enough for a sick woman,” Lauren said a little waspishly. When the model had gone, Lauren turned to Herbert. “What can I do for you?” she asked shortly.
Herbert essayed his wheedling smile. “I wanted to apologize for coming in here drunk last night to wait for you, Laurie. I guess I just got worried when things seemed to be falling apart on you.”
“How were you proposing to help me?” Lauren countered.
“Well,” he said with a wide grin, “I was going to offer you my shoulder to cry on, as I remember.”
“But you really don’t remember,” added Lauren. “You came on strong and nasty.”
“Ah, forget that, babe,” Herbert coaxed. “You know I’ve got your best interests at heart.”
“So what else besides a shoulder did you have in mind?”
“I was going to propose to you again,” he confessed, looking like a small boy. “You need a husband, Laurie baby. I can help you with the business details Al always saw to. Leave you free to do your thing with the designs.”
Lauren studied the self-indulgent face of her husband’s best friend. “Sorry, Herbert,” she said as gently as she could. “I really don’t need a husband right now.”
“But you do need someone to get this show on the road—or off the deck. From the look of Nella and from what I hear about Dani, you haven’t got a show. Be reasonable, Laurie-baby. You need me.”
Where had Herbert dredged up this “Laurie-baby” bit? He sounded like an old-style Hollywood producer. Lauren was suddenly very tired of his fat, flabby face, body, and mind.
“You’ll be glad to know that I’m handling it, Herbert,” she said coolly. “Not to worry—” She caught herself short. Would that British phrase give Herbert a lead to her group of dancers? She didn’t think so, but she didn’t want to take any chances. Herbert was looking extremely curious, and he had no scruples about prying. “Look, Herbie-baby, I’ve got to get changed for tonight’s show. It’s Maartens, and he always has elegance.”
“Have dinner with me, Lauren,” Herbert wheedled. “I’m in the Princess Grill Restaurant. It’s really something. I can have a guest if I work it right.”
“I’m dieting, Herbert. See you later.” She hustled him, still talking, out the door and locked it. Then, poking her head into the models’ bedroom, she said clearly, “Don’t open that door for anyone but the doctor, got it? I don’t want my new collection made available for anyone who wants to look at it.”
That harsh but deserved rebuke quite crushed Nella.
Grimly, Lauren ordered a salad and tea to be delivered in one hour, and went to take a shower.
She wore an understated evening gown for the Maartens show. It was deep cream velvet, cut to look simple, a narrow sheath with a slit up one side and a slashed neckline front and back whose narrow opening reached almost to her waist. It had no ornament, depending upon purity of line and suppleness of material for its attractiveness. Her hair she dressed in a knot on top of her head, exposing her long, delicate throat and highlighting her face. She might not make a loud statement about her talents in this subtle gown, but she made a clear one. Shoes and bag of the cream velvet completed her ensemble. Fortified, Lauren went back up to the Royal Court Lounge and found her secluded position before most of the passengers arrived.
It was a much dressier group than that which had attended Janus’s showing that afternoon. The women sparkled and flashed with jewels. There were bright and also deep rich colors. Lauren noted a number of taffeta dresses, and silently condoled the wearers who would emerge from nearly two hours’ sitting down in a cramped space looking crumpled and squashed.
The show began exactly on time and proceeded with the smooth suavity of all Maartens’ productions. The audience, much more restrained than the Janus admirers murmured politely and applauded with gloved hands. Just before the final number—evening gowns and coats—Maartens himself appeared. He introduced the cruise director, Maida Hass, who announced the selection of judges. These were requested to stand upon the mention of their names. There were two women and one man. The first woman was Lady Winston-Bell. Quite a susurrus followed the announcement of her name, and a polite round of applause greeted her as she stood. The second woman was Mrs. Claire Lexington Cornelius, a socialite and respected member of an old New York clan. The applause was a little louder for her; she was well-known to any American with social ambitions. The man was rather a surprise.
“Our third judge is the New York columnist Mr. Rebel Crowell,” said Maida Hass. There was a gasp and then applause. A slender, gray-haired man with wise dark-brown eyes rose and waved nonchalantly, acknowledging the response.
“This way, our show is sure to get superior coverage,” teased Miss Hass. “Will it be Time, Newsweek?”
“Or Playboy?” yelled some wag in the crowd.
There was general laughter as the music started again, softly, for the final section of Maartens’ showing.
While the audience was still applauding, Lauren slipped out of the lounge and found herself almost in Mike’s arms. He wasted no time, leading her off rapidly to an elevator that took them up to the palatial suites which were the pride of the QE II.
Inside the spacious sitting room, Lauren stared around her with wide eyes. “So this is how the upper crust manages to scrape along?” she breathed. “Don’t you feel a little cramped?”
Mike grinned. “If I am, I can always go out on my private balcony, or into one of my two bathrooms, or my—excuse it—bedroom. Want to see?” he teased.
“But of course,” said Lauren, enthusiastically.
That seemed to surprise him. He stared at her, one eyebrow lifted in a quizzical gesture that had her heart pounding.
“It’s probably the only chance I’ll ever have to see one of the super suites on the Queen Elizabeth,” she explained. “Lead on, McDuff!”
“I believe that’s ‘Lay on, McDuff! And damn’d be him that first cries, ‘Hold, enough!’ ” quoted Mike with the wickedest grin Lauren had ever seen. “Which of us is going to cry—”
“Me, right now,” Lauren warned. “I’m starving, in case you’ve forgotten you invited me to dinner.”
“Oh, all right,” Mike grumbled. “Food! That’s all you models think of. You can take the grand tour after dinner.”
As though on signal, a steward brought in a cart set with tempting hors d’oeuvres and wine. Deftly he set out two plates on a small table near the open terrace doors. Lighting the candles, he rolled the cart beside the table so Mike and his guest could make their own choices. On the lower shelf, the cart held covered dishes set on warmers bearing the fish and vegetables for their second course. Murmuring that he would return with the rest of the meal when the gentleman rang, the steward slipped away.
Lauren surveyed the hors d’oeuvres with delight. “I may never get beyond this course,” she murmured, helping herself to artichokes, mushrooms, olives, cucumbers, and cold salmon and mayonnaise. “Do hurry,” she begged Mike.
“You were planning on waiting for me?” her host asked with a smile. “I’d better put you out of your misery.” He finished pouring their wine and filled his own plate.
For several minutes there was a contented silence as they did justice to the food. Lauren drew a deep breath of pleasure. “What’s in the hot dishes?” she asked.
“Ready for it?”
“This first was so good that I’m not sure whether to have seconds on it or move on to the next gourmet’s delight.”
Sole amandine, limes, rice with mushrooms, and baby green peas were so tempting that Lauren reluctantly accepted a fresh plate filled carefully by her host. After a few blissful moments, Lauren raised her head and directed a sharp glance at the big man across the table. “I’ve just figured it out,” she said.
Mike met her glance with a chuckle. “What bee is in your designer bonnet now?”
“All this fabulous food is merely the prelude to some skullduggery—” Against her will, her lips quirked in delight at his charm.
“Softening you up for the kill?” Mike suggested. “Now that’s an idea. What did you have in mind? For my skullduggery, that is?”
Most annoyingly, Lauren found herself coloring under that wicked, knowing gaze. She decided it might be better to share her suspicions honestly, rather than let this creature make his embarrassing assumptions. “I had an idea you might be in cahoots with Carlos or one of the others to find out how I intended to deal with the loss of two-thirds of my modeling team.” She caught his raised brow and explained. “While Nella’s out, I can’t take her place because I have to help Dani on and off with her costumes, get the proper accessories, keep it running backstage.”
“That does seem to present a problem,” Mike said. “What have you decided?”
She looked into his face, trying to read the motives behind his behavior. Could she trust him? Lauren hadn’t had much to do with the business end of the boutique, but she wasn’t naïve. Al had told her grim stories of broken faith and spying and outright piracy. But she wanted to trust Mike. He had a clear and steady glance. She made a decision.
“I’ve hired some new models.”
Mike whistled. “That sounds simple enough the way you say it, but where did you find models on the QE II? Are they trained?”
Lauren chuckled. “Oh, brother, are they trained.”
Studying her enthusiastic, delighted expression, Mike shook his head. “If you’ve recruited some trained models on this ship, lady, you’re a better entrepreneur and talent scout than I am. Who are they?”
Lauren stopped smiling and regarded him soberly. “I have your word not to tell anyone? Not even Dani or Nella?”
“The provocative information shall not pass my lips,” he promised.
Lauren considered him carefully for another minute, her eyes lingering on his well-cut mouth. “I’ve hired Derek Strange and his troupe of dancers.”
Mike stopped eating and stared at her. For a long moment she met his gaze squarely. Only the delicate lift of her eyebrows gave evidence of her wish for his opinion.
He put down his fork, and his eyes narrowed. “No rules against it?” he asked.
“None. I was lucky.” We’ve got a plot for the production that will not only display the wearability of my designs, but will, I really believe, capture the interest of a rather bored Thursday-afternoon audience,” Lauren said quickly. Then, with a wide grin, she added. “Carlos will have kittens.”
Mike threw his head back in a shout of laughter. He poured wine into her glass and then raised his in salute “Triumph to the troupe!”
Lauren drank deeply. It was chancy, but it really was the only way she could have gone. She explained a little of the background to Mike: Herbert’s subversion of Nella, Dani’s determined search for a wealthy companion. “It’s because she’s really very much afraid the show is doomed to fail,” she said to excuse the model’s behavior. “If my show is the disaster Herbert has convinced her it will be, she’ll get part of the blame. Bad luck rubs off on everybody connected. I don’t blame her.”
“How will she fit in with the new recruits?”
“I think she’ll be a good sport,” said Lauren. “Better than if I’d hired real models and given them better billing than she has. This way, she’s doing her thing and they’re doing theirs.”
“This,” Mike said fervently, “I have got to see.”
“You’re invited,” Lauren replied demurely.
Mike rang for the steward, and when the man came, pushing another cart on which steamed more covered dishes with enticing odors, Mike ordered champagne.
Eating her beef Wellington with broccoli, Lauren was startled to realize that she was, for the first time in years, completely happy. Nothing ecstatic or complicated—just a bubbling pulse of bright contentment that seemed to make each simple thing she sensed a special pleasure: the food, both in taste and texture, was a delight; the room was softly lighted and fresh with the sea air coming through the open door; the sound of soft music coming faintly to her ears was a civilized counterpart to the darkly abrasive voice of her companion—her companion.
Michael was her happiness. Lauren stared at him, absorbing the dark shining hair, the tanned face, the beautifully cut lips, the two grooves between his dark eyebrows, the shining silver-gray eyes . . . And more: the scent of him, faint spice mastered by the musk of clean male flesh. What would it taste like, that firm, tanned skin? Lauren dragged her gaze away from her dinner partner and tried to concentrate on the food in front of her.
So absorbed was she in savoring her own reactions that Mike’s deep-voiced comment startled her. “I like a woman who appreciates good food.”
Her glance flew up to meet the amusement in his eyes.
“And other things,” he added, holding her gaze with his.
Lauren’s knife cut through the tender, flaky pastry around the beef, sliced the reddish-brown filet, and conveyed the bite to her mouth. Her eyes closed as she savored the mouthful.
Mike chuckled. “A lady with gusto.”
“It’s all your fault,” Lauren mocked. “You feed me this stuff, I relish it.”
“Want dessert?” he asked.
Smiling, Lauren shook her head.
Quickly Mike tossed off the rest of his champagne and rose. “I feel reckless. Let’s go to the Players Club and gamble.”
Lauren wiped her lips and rose to her feet.” You don’t think I’m already risking enough with my spur-of-the-moment presentation?”
Mike shrugged. “Hard to say for sure until I’ve seen it, but I trust your judgment.”
Lauren thought that of all the personal comments he had made that evening, she liked this last one best.
An hour later she was standing at Mike’s shoulder. He had a large pile of chips in front of him and an admiring group around him who were trying to follow his lead. He turned to her. “Bored? I am. Can’t I persuade you to try your luck?”
Lauren smiled up at him. “If you’re willing to be seen in my company there, I’d like to try the slot machines.”
“Big spender,” he mocked, but he cashed in his chips and went with her to the double row of one-armed bandits. He handed her a plastic cup full of quarters. “Live a little!”
Chuckling, Lauren began to play the slot machine. Her first few tries were failures, then she got ten quarters at once.
Mike sighed elaborately. “I suppose that means we’ll be here all night.”
Her next two tries netted nothing. And then she pulled the handle, discs whirled, colors flashed, and a spate of quarters came clanging out.
“Jackpot!” Lauren crowed. She counted and found she’d won fifty dollars.
“Now what? Craps?” Mike teased.
“Now we get out of here,” Lauren said. “When I make a profit like this, I don’t throw it away.”
“Just a miser at heart,” Mike grumbled.
“Oh, I’m planning to pay you back what you staked me,” Lauren said loftily. “Twenty quarters?” She insisted on handing them over one by one, hoping to embarrass her cocky host in front of a few grinning players. While she was packing the rest of her winnings into her handbag, Lauren glanced along the row of machines toward the casino tables. Herbert was standing at one table, his arm around a slender redhead in a sequined dress. The girl couldn’t have been out of her teens, in spite of the dress and heavy makeup. And standing behind the stool of a silver-haired man at the blackjack table, both hands on his shoulders, was Dani. She too seemed to be watching Herbert. Lauren didn’t try to catch her attention.
Mike walked Lauren toward her section of the ship. He halted near one of the doors leading out on deck. “It’s a beautiful night,” he said softly. “Why don’t we walk a little, to calm down your wild elation over your win?”
Lauren knew she didn’t want the evening to end. It was good to be in the company of an attractive man, a man who seemed to be enjoying her as much as she enjoyed him.
“I’d like that,” she said, and put her hand in the crook of the arm he offered. Under the smooth cloth of his jacket, she could feel his warm flesh, his hard muscles, and she thought of the bronzed body she’d first seen at the swimming pool.
It was beautiful on deck. The moon had gone down, but the warm darkness was filled with stars, both in the sky and reflected on the mirror-smooth sea. There were few people taking advantage of the deck, however. Most of the die-hards were probably in one or other of the nightclubs.
Mike leaned over and whispered in her ear. “Would you care to dance? We could go in—”
“Oh, no. This is perfect.” Lauren said.
He made no comment, either romantic or sarcastic. He merely held her arm a little closer to his side and continued their stroll. After they had walked for a while, they moved to stand by the rail. Watching the silver-white foam churned up by the propellers, they became conscious of music filling the air. It was a waltz. Mike turned as though it were the most natural thing in the world and held out his arms to Lauren. She moved into them with equal unselfconsciousness. They danced dreamily over the deck, keeping within a small area, bodies controlled by the melody.
The music stopped. There was a sound of distant clapping.
“That was the home waltz,” Mike said softly. He still kept her in his arms. He bent his head to her face. Lauren lifted her lips.
Loud voices impinged upon the magic serenity of the moment. Mike lifted his head with a low groan of disgust. “ ‘And only man is vile,’ ” he quoted.
“I’m glad you’re not a chauvinist,” Lauren said unsteadily. One of those loud voices is definitely a woman’s.”
His teeth flashed in a grin as he turned to survey the loud-mouthed intruders, now advancing along the deck toward them.
“It’s your would-be husband,” he informed Lauren in a low voice. “Shall we leave?”
“Yes.” Lauren had recognized Herbert’s voice, and didn’t want to meet him at the moment. Or have him find her with Mike.
“This way,” directed Mike, hurrying her along the deck ahead of the quarreling duo. At that moment a door opened from the well-lighted lounge and several young people came out. The burst of light clearly revealed Lauren’s petite figure. There was a shout from behind them.
“Lauren, I see you. “Wait for me!” Herbert yelled.
Mike pulled her inside the door and closed it quickly. Then he led her almost at a run along a corridor, around a corner, and into an elevator.
“Which floor?” he asked.
When they got out, Mike walked Lauren to her suite. At the door, she stopped and turned to him. “That was a wonderful evening. Thank you,” she said warmly.
Mike took her hand. “Going to ask me in for a nightcap?”
“Not tonight, Mike. Anything would be an anticlimax after that champagne!”
“Even this?” he asked, bending and placing his lips over hers. Lauren opened her mouth to comment and found herself relishing the pressure and warmth and flavor of his kiss. She tried to tell herself that she was enjoying the faintly moist sweetness of his mouth, nothing more. And then he moved forward and she found herself pressed against the door by the urgent authority of his body, and she was conscious of the whole man in a lightning thrill of tension and response . . . .
When he raised his head and stepped back, Lauren was dizzy. She tried to smile nonchalantly, but the glinting look in his eyes told her he was not deceived.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
She watched his broad shoulders moving off down the corridor. Once he passed directly under a ceiling light, and his dark hair gleamed for a moment. She fumbled for her key amid the packed mass of quarters and opened the door.