Lauren's Designs (5 page)

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.