Lauren's Designs (12 page)

Lauren got up and walked restlessly about the small space. If Mike wanted a brief affair, would that be enough for her? Although she was very tolerant of such casual or even serious relationships among her friends and acquaintances, would she herself be happy in that kind of an association? With a sense of unease, Lauren felt that she would not. Yet, strangely, she did not begrudge the closeness, the loving sexual experience of the previous night. It had felt so
right
, so naturally sweet and satisfying. Had it been that way for Mike also? And if it had, would he wish to continue the association? On what terms?

Lauren sighed. She had no way of knowing. Mike would have to tell her what he expected. Then she could decide what to do.

She went into her small bathroom, resolved to be at her best for this very crucial evening.

The Carlos de Sevile showing.

And dinner with Mike in his suite afterward.

Chapter Five

Lauren had chosen to wear a dress of violet silk for the de Sevile showing. It had life, even under electric lights, yet it was subtle enough to play off Carlos’s bold, dark colors and make a feminine statement. The silk was molded lovingly over Lauren’s breasts and draped her slender waist, moving into a delightful triple row of horizontal gathers above her neatly rounded hips. From there it fell softly to the floor. It was simple, feminine, and provocative. Lauren hoped it would show de Sevile’s heavy-handed designs for the unsuitable styles they were for most women in their thirties.

And this time, Lauren would be the one seated beside Mike. She wondered again what connection he had with the striking brunette who had been with him last night.

She brushed her golden hair until it shone, and did it up in a gleaming crown on her head. Adds a few inches, she thought, remembering the brunette’s tall, svelte figure. Violet silk shoes and a silk shawl completed her ensemble. She picked up the small clutch purse, just large enough for her tiny lipstick, handkerchief, and the key to the suite.

A knock on the door startled her. She went quickly to open it, a smile on her lips. Instead of Mike, Herbert stood before her.

“I’m giving you one last chance, Lauren. Either agree to marry me or take the consequences.”

“You know the answer to that, Herbert,” she said quietly. “We were never friends. You were Al’s friend. And we really don’t even like each other. Can’t we just let it drop?”

He glared at her. “So be it. You asked for whatever you get, lady.” He turned and strode away.

Lauren closed the door, suddenly afraid. Herbert, like Al, prided himself on never forgetting or forgiving an injury. Often she had heard them recounting, with heavy laughter, the way one or the other of them had paid off a score against someone. But what had she done to Herbert? Only been angry at his efforts to sabotage her showing. Was that a crime? Determinedly she put thoughts of the unpleasant incident out of mind. Herbert had no grievance against her. He would have a few drinks and forget all about her in the company of one of the younger women he favored.

She was making a final careful inspection of her person in the mirror when another knock sounded. This time she opened the door cautiously.

Mike waited outside, an exquisite, tiny purple orchid in his hand. He presented it with a bow. “I was sure your choice tonight would be your signature color. This matches your eyes.” He bent to tie the velvet ribbon carefully around her waist.

“You knew enough not to bring me something I’d have to pin on a shoulder.” Lauren laughed, beaming with pleasure in the tiny, exquisite bloom.

“And thus ruin a costume over which you had spent hours?” He grinned. “Pin holes in that silk? Sacrilege.”

“You are the perfect escort,” Lauren told him, fluttering her lashes absurdly.

The wretch fluttered his right back at her. “And you, my dear, the perfect escortee. Now we’ve got that off our chests, permit me to take you up to Carlos’s tent-show. There’ll be enough razzle-dazzle to satisfy everybody on board.”

“Mike, you said you worked with Landrill’s,” Lauren ventured, as they strolled to the elevator. “Carlos is one of Landrill’s designers. Shouldn’t you be defending him?”

“Why? If he’s good, he won’t need defense. If he’s not, he needs to be told!”

Lauren grinned. “Have you ever tried to tell our Spanish hidalgo anything? If so, how did you get him to listen?”

“Thank God I don’t have to work with him,” Mike said.

Lauren had to be satisfied with that, for there were other couples in the elevator, and no privacy. Mike led her to a seat near the front of the lounge, bordering on the runway.

“Aren’t you afraid we’ll get sideswiped by one of those eighty-pound skirts of the Sevillana collection?” teased Lauren,
sotto voce
.

“Meow!” her partner mocked. “Control your admiration, honey, or you’ll have me thinking you’re afraid of the guy!”

Lauren subsided, smiling. This man was something, she thought, glancing across at his big frame. He held himself well. He’d told her he was thirty-seven. It was a well-kept, trim, and vigorous body, nicely tanned but not playboy-teak; the face showing some laughter lines around the eyes and deep creases around the well-cut mouth, but no flab or fat. Lauren sighed. I hope he wants to mean something to me, she thought wistfully. Not just a shipboard romance.

With a wild flourish of toreador music, the de Sevile presentation began. Glancing around as the lights lowered, Lauren decided it was the largest attendance she had seen so far; whatever else he had, Carlos had a good publicity campaign. Just as she was bringing her gaze back to the stage, Lauren caught a flash of diamonds against black lace. It was the woman Mike had squired last night, the statuesque brunette. She leaned unobtrusively nearer.

“There’s a very beautiful brunette staring at you from the row just behind us,” she whispered. “Should you speak to her?”

Mike turned casually, spotted the woman, and waved nonchalantly. Turning back, he grinned down at Lauren. “Jealous?”

“Should I be?” Lauren asked lightly.

“It all depends,” the wretched man taunted. “Now watch the show, Mrs. Rose, honey. You might learn something from your competitor.”

“Like what?” Lauren gritted.

“Like how
not
to design clothes,” Mike said, obviously pleased with his own humor.

Lauren turned her attention to the runway, resolved to study the presentation with meticulous care. She knew she had much to learn, even from Carlos de Sevile, for he was a popular designer and famous among the “in” groups in the United States.

The show moved with slickly effective packing: Burlington casuals, Wimbledon tennis outfits, luncheon at Buck House, tea at Harrods, afternoon formals for the Queen’s Garden Party. . . .

“Carlos has gone British,” Lauren gasped.

Mike grinned at her in the semiglow of the dimmed lights. “His wily tribute to Cunard,” he murmured. “Carlos believes in grabbing on to a good thing.”

Lauren was silent as the lavish, overstated presentation swayed and wiggled and flounced itself to a conclusion, to the accompaniment of much heel-tapping and some rather tasteless reprises of British popular songs. The finale, called Royal Presentation, was intended to represent three debutantes being presented at the palace, with their fond mama as presenter. The mother looked, to Lauren’s jaundiced eye, to be no older than her daughters, and her gown was as laden with flounces and leathers as theirs. One costume even had a hoop to hold out the heavy skirt.

“I hope that thing’s on wheels,” Lauren muttered. “The poor model will never be able to swing it on her own.”

“Naughty, naughty,” Mike taunted. “Your professional jealousy is showing.”

“I wouldn’t be caught dead presenting those clothes,” Lauren said, between her teeth. “You just wait until you see my designs.”

“I can hardly,” Mike admitted with a grin. “We have to stay here for a few minutes after the show,” he added, grinning. “To congratulate Carlos, you know.”

“You stay,” Lauren retorted. “I’ll meet you for dinner later.”

Mike stopped smiling. “That’s a promise,” he warned her. “Why don’t you grit your teeth and stay here with me? You won’t have to jump up and down, you know. Just be a good girl and tell Carlos nicely how pretty his dresses are.”

Lauren knew he was teasing her, but she couldn’t find the situation amusing. Carlos had snubbed and bad-mouthed her so arrogantly she wasn’t hypocrite enough to tell him she admired his heavily ornate costumes.

“Half an hour, in your suite,” she said, and got up to leave.

She had to move against the stream, as many of the audience were crowding up to the runaway to congratulate Carlos, who, resplendent in white tailcoat, was posing for pictures in a garland of his models. Lauren finally made her way out of the lounge, to be buttonholed by a young man she had seen the first evening at the cruise director’s meeting to set up the program. He was one of the polished youths who had fluttered around Carlos when the designer came to see what September Song was doing.

“Rose?” the young man said, placing himself in her way.

“I am Lauren Rose, yes,” she said quietly.

“Señor Carlos instructed me to warn you that nothing but a legitimate fashion show will be permitted.”

Lauren raised here eyebrows. “Indeed? What
is
that supposed to mean?”

“There have been rumors,” the youth explained loftily. “Word is out that you have some plan to put on a burlesque show tomorrow afternoon—”

“I’d never attempt to outburlesque the sideshow Carlos put on tonight,” Lauren said sweetly. “So vulgar it was almost classic.” She moved aside deftly. “Forgive me, will you? I need some Alka Seltzer.”

The youth stamped his foot petulantly, but Lauren moved away with a laugh. Who had run to Carlos with that bit of gossip? Dani? Nella? Not likely, although Dani might have discussed it in someone’s hearing. Herbert? Did he know? He had enough ill-will to invent such a story on even a hint of her plan. Did he have a hint? Surely not from Mike, who had said he despised Herbert. Shrugging, Lauren went down to her suite to freshen up before her dinner with Mike. She had hardly let herself into the sitting room when the phone rang. It was Tony, in a hurry.

“We’ve run into a snag,” he explained. “Can we borrow the clothes we are to wear, so I can check the choreography and timing?”

“Yes, of course,” Lauren answered. “I’m here for the next half-hour. Borrow a rack from the purser’s office. I’ll throw a sheet over it. Can you and Derek come right away?”

“See you,” Tony said briskly.

Within five minutes there was a subdued knock on the door. Lauren let the two men in and began transferring the clothes to their rack. As she hung up the jewel of her collection, she begged. “Please bring them back the minute you’ve finished?”

Derek looked grave. “It may be long after midnight. Will you mind waiting up to let us in?”

Lauren considered. She might very likely be in Mike’s suite at that hour. She couldn’t risk having the men wake Dani or Nella. Reluctantly she made up her mind to a rather dangerous course of action.

“Keep the clothes overnight. Have you some safe place to lock them up? Don’t leave them in the gym.”

“Violet and I have a small cabin, but it’s all ours.” Derek grinned. “I’ll sit up all night with a shotgun.”

“Do that,” Lauren smiled, watching Tony roll the sheet-covered rack to the outer door. “I appreciate all you’re doing for me.

“Think nothing of it,” Derek whispered, helping Tony out the door with the rack. “See you at eight sharp, luv.”

Lauren washed her face, freshened her makeup, and took her hair down out of its coronet. She brushed it until it shone, and let it flow softly to her shoulders. Then she tied a narrow violet silk scarf around it to hold it off her face. Finally, she donned a dark-purple cape lined with mauve silk.

There could be no all-night meeting tonight. She had to be at the early rehearsal the next day, functioning well. Nothing must stand in the way of the agreement she had made with the Cunard Company to present the very best show of which she was capable. This was her priority: even love—if it
was
love between Mike and herself—must wait until she had kept her promise.

Pulling the cape more closely about her shoulders, she left the suite, locking the door carefully and securely behind her.

She walked up the stairs to Mike’s suite, reluctant for some reason to use the elevators. As she approached his rooms, she could hear music and laughter. Was Mike entertaining others besides herself? Frowning, Lauren hesitated near the outer door of his suite. A laughing couple, coming up behind her, forced her to step aside. They rapped lightly on the door and went in, leaving it ajar. A babble of talk, laughter, shouts and music flooded the hallway. The sitting room was crowded. In a momentary gap caused by the movement of the crowd, Lauren caught a flash of Mike. He was standing with a champagne glass in his hand, talking to the statuesque brunette and Carlos de Sevile.

Lauren turned away and went back down the corridor. This time she took the elevator to her own deck. She had a fleeting wish to seek the dark serenity outside, but her heart was too sore.