Lauren's Designs (7 page)

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.”