Torn Asunder (2 page)

As her hand was
reaching for one of the simple black dresses in the closet, Cle paused, a
mutinous look on her face. Turning from the closet, she reached into her lingerie
drawer. She stuffed silky under things into the canvas carryall that was like
another arm to her. In it was her sketch book, her notes, swatches of fabric,
and almost all the personal items that she considered necessary for her
workdays.

By the time she had eaten her breakfast
of a small bowl of bran with milk and honey, juice, and tea, she was having
second thoughts about not bringing the black dress with her. "What if
Jaime doesn't have anything suitable made up, stupid?" she muttered aloud
to herself as she rinsed her dishes and set them on the drain board. Mrs.
Hubbard, the daily, would put them in the dishwasher but habits of neatness
were a part of Cleora Orwell, plain, middle class girl from upstate
New York
. She grimaced
at her reflection in the gilded mirror in the hall, stifling the voice that
told her to turn back and get that basic black dress out of the closet.

From habit she gave a quick glance around
the ornate foyer to see if she had left anything behind her. Not for the first
time, she marveled at the richness of the entrance to Dev's apartment, the
curving wrought iron staircase in bronze leading to the second floor. A scant
twelve months ago she'd never imagined herself living in such a place—never
even thought to see the inside of one! Now it was her home, and had been for
almost a year. She frowned at the shiver along her spine, then shook herself,
checked to see if she had her key, then closed the door and walked toward the
private elevator that would take her to the street entrance where she would
catch her bus. Not all Dev's arguments and urgings had changed her habits of
catching a bus to work and only in the worst weather would she take a taxi,
when she was able to find one. The frugal habits that she was raised with were
an integral part of her and something that Dev didn't understand but accepted with
mocking tolerance.

The bus was late
and so was Cle, not by much, but enough to keep her in a flurry of activity
until most of the morning had passed. She had meant to ask her boss about a
dress before he had worked himself into one of his emotional states that was
the norm for a day in the life of the theatrical—but very talented—Jaime Toner.

Most of the models and modistes had gone
to lunch by the time Cle entered the private elevator that took her to Jamie's
studio. She knew that, as usual, he would be lunching on grapefruit and oranges
plus a plate of English biscuits spread lavishly with crunchy peanut butter.
Since most of his staff found his lunches appalling, Jaime generally ate
alone, usually with swaths of material stretched around dummies or draped on
couches and tables. Jaime would munch and stare, munch and stare. His studio
was huge and—besides all the accoutrements of design—he had a sumptuous office
adjoining the studio all done in pale blue with navy accessories. The wood
fittings were oak and very British. Though Jaime had been born in Brooklyn,
educated in
France
, and had
a Spanish mother, he was addicted to English decor and was fond of saying that
his great grandfather was born in
Sussex
. Still, aware of all his
affectations, he was lovable—and enviable. Jaime Toner was outrageously
talented.

Cle looked around
the cluttered studio, knowing from experience that—far from chaos—it was
organized in the extreme: Everything was. She watched him now as he bit
daintily into a wedge of orange and stared at a kaleidoscopic colored silk
draped across a chair.

"Jaime?" she called, her voice
soft.

"Eh?" he glanced up, an
irritated wrinkle on his forehead. He looked at Cle blankly. His brow smoothed
as he recognized her. "Ah, Cleora, how did you know I had you on my mind
today. Come in, come in. Join me for lunch."

Cle was sure that
the fact she liked peanut butter was one of her most appealing characteristics
as far as Jaime was concerned.

"I was talking to Brainerd this
morning and I told him about the new line that I was thinking of starting and
he told me that he is interested in beginning one himself. He asked me if I
could recommend any talented person to him. I mentioned your name, dear."
Jaime spoke kindly, handing her a cracker topped with a glob of crunchy peanut
butter. With this he handed her a small paper plate with wedges of grapefruit
on it and a neatly folded napkin.

Cle gave a resigned sigh. "I think
you're about to tell me that I won't be the chief designer for the new
line." She bit into one of the grapefruit wedges, the juice spurting
toward Jaime.

"You won't get violent will you,
Cle?" His voice had that funny squeak to it that Cle found amusing, but it
didn't fool her. Jaime was very shrewd. He took a corner of his napkin and
dabbed at the tiny marks of grapefruit that had landed on his smock.

"Why not me, Jaime?"

"Certainly not your talent, Cleora!
You have a great deal of talent, dear, as you know. But... well, dear, you could
use more seasoning. You need more experience in the public eye. Your instincts
are still not honed as they should be. You will be chief designer one day, I'm
sure, but not yet. As I said, Brainerd called—"

"I'm not
about to go to
Sydney
,
Australia
, for my seasoning, Jaime,
as much as I admire Max Brainerd's work. I would love to work with him, of
course, but..." Cle shrugged and brushed at the cracker crumbs on her pink
velvet corduroy vest.

"Ah, yes,
there are other considerations are there not? The illustrious Devon Willett
Carstairs, lawyer of international repute, consultant to the platinum set,
wealthy patron of the arts, bearer of fine old name and title, the title which
he does not use." Jaime gave her an elfin grin when she stared haughtily
at him. "I've often wondered why he doesn't use his title."

"He
considers titles useless in this fast world. Dev is a very liberal man."

"Yes, isn't
he just?" Jaime asked, his tone sly.

It irritated Cle that remarks like that still
made her flinch and, hard as she tried, she wasn't able to prevent the red
stain rising up her neck. She rose to her feet suddenly, letting the napkin
slide to the floor. Before she could turn away, Jaime took her arm in
surprisingly strong fingers for such a flaccid looking person.

"No, wait, don't go, Cle. You know
my stupid tongue. Please don't leave me. Let me tell you about the new
line," Jaime urged.

Cle knew that in his own way he was
apologizing. He absolutely never gave out information about a new line unless
it was in the sanctum he called his conference room, a soundproof room that
opened off his studio as did his office. Torn between her anger that he should
have been able to strike at such a raw spot, her living with Dev, and her
eagerness to hear what Jaime had to say about the new line, she hesitated.

"Please, Cle, I'll never make a
remark about you and Dev again." Jaime paused a moment, a tiny frown on
his face. "But you shouldn't mind remarks at this late date. You've been
together a long time."

"A year. It doesn't matter. I still
mind comments about us. I suppose I always will." She sank into her chair
again and looked at Jaime in an inquiring way, hoping that he would take the
hint and talk about the line instead of her and Dev.

Jaime wasn't too informative but he
willingly talked of the fabrics he would be using, his decision to raise
hemlines. When it came to the themes and shapes of the designs he would create
for the season, he was more evasive.

Cle was stunned
when Jaime rose and said that it was time to go back to work, that the lunch
hour was over. She had been so absorbed that she hadn't noticed the time
passing. She was leaving Jaime's studio when she remembered why she had wanted
to see him. "Jaime, before I go, I have to ask you something."

Jaime looked at her, one sandy eyebrow
raised. Not for the first time, Cle wondered how anyone with a Spanish mother
could have such pale coloring. "What is it?"

"I was wondering if you might have a
dress I could wear tonight." She pressed her lips together, feeling uncomfortable.
"There's a dinner party for Dev's colleagues and business associates. He
likes me to wear black... and I have a few good black dresses..." Cle
cleared her throat.

"But you
don't feel like wearing them, is that it?" Jaime looked at her, amused
comprehension on his face. "You are such a quiet thing, Cleora dear, that
probably Dev is like the rest of us. He doesn't realize how determined and
independent you can be." Jaime waved aside any comment she might have made
and stood looking at her, his face expressionless.

Cle stayed quiet, knowing from experience
that Jaime was thinking hard. It was a mortal sin to disturb him in these
moments.

"I think I have the dress for you.
Young Mrs. Deerhurst's dress." At Cle's puzzled look, Jaime gave her an
irritated glance and explained. "I thought I told you. After I designed it
for her, I decided it would not suit her. She was very angry that I wouldn't
let her wear it and didn't come to the salon for almost two weeks after our argument."
He shrugged. "How foolish she was to think that I would sell her a dress
that I knew didn't suit her. Silly female." He stood there, his fist
pressed to his mouth. "Yes, this will suit you and I have accessories to
go with it." He grinned. "You will be the sensation of the dinner
party."

"Jaime,
wait," Cle called to him as he left the studio and strode down the hall
toward an even larger work area where many of the creations were locked away
and much of the newly designed fabric was kept under lock and key.

Cle hurried after
him, not catching him until he had inserted his key and was unlocking the door.
"Listen, I don't want to wear anything bizarre..."

Jaime stopped so
suddenly that Cle crashed into his back. "Are you implying that Jaime
Toner would design anything that could be construed as bizarre?"

"No, of course not, but—" she
gasped, a little out of breath and feeling frazzled. "Dev doesn't like me
to be sensational. Well, what I mean is..."

"I know
exactly what you mean. Devon Carstairs wishes to hide your light under a bushel
for reasons that are known only to himself."

Cle let her
breath out in a hiss. "Just what the hell do you mean, Jaime? If you're
saying Dev is ashamed of me, trying to hide me, well then let me tell you
you're all wrong. He isn't that way at all."

"Oh, I don't think he's ashamed of
you either, but he certainly likes to play down your beauty. Perhaps he doesn't
want you to try and compete with those exotic women his colleagues have in
tow." He gave her a very irritated look, then held up his hand, palm
outward. "I refuse to stand here and debate the merits of the famous
lawyer from
England
.
Do you want me to dress you or not?"

At the moment, Cle wanted to tell him to
jump out the window. "Yes." She glared at the smirk on his face and
followed him to the back of the warehouse like room.

Again, Jaime
inserted a key into a lock and they entered a room that was several degrees
colder than the outer room. It took only a few minutes for Jaime to find what
he wanted. Cle shivered as he shoved boxes into her arms. Then with Jaime
leading the way and carrying the dress bag over his arm, they retraced their
steps to his studio. Cle staggered a little. The boxes weren't heavy, just
unwieldy.

In his usual autocratic tone Jaime
ordered her to dress so that he might make any changes he deemed necessary.

"Jaime, I
haven't time to try these things now. I'll do it later when the salon closes. I
have to run through some sketches with Carr and I'm already late," Cle
explained.

Without answering
her, Jaime picked up the phone, barked some instructions, then slammed the
receiver down on the cradle. "There, now! Will you be quiet? Carr will go
over them with Danski and for heaven's sake don't tell me that she doesn't know
about the sketches because she's your assistant and if she doesn't know, I'll
fire the two of you. Now go. Change!" He sat down on a swivel chair and
sent it skidding across the room. In moments he was immersed in the study of
some silks that were strewn on a table.

It took two trips to the dressing rooms
to cart all the boxes and the dress bag. Cle glared at the concentrating Jaime,
who seemed to be unaware of her existence as she struggled with her burdens.

She gulped with pleasure as she opened
the first box and found silky lingerie that could have floated on air. Her
eyebrows peaked in amusement at the peach colored sheerness of the
undergarments, what few there were.