Lauren's Designs (6 page)

“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?”