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 tantalizin
g 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?
About the Author
Elizabeth Chater was the author of more than 24 novels and countless short stories. She received a B.A. from the University of British Columbia and an M.A. from San Diego State University, and joined the faculty of the latter in 1963 where she began a lifelong friendship with science fiction author Greg Bear. She was honored with The Distinguished Teacher award in 1969, and was awarded Outstanding Professor of the Year in 1977. After receiving her Professor Emeritus, she embarked on a new career as a novelist with Richard Curtis as her agent. In the 1950s and 60s she published short stories in Fantastic Universe Magazine and The Saint Mystery