Torn Asunder (5 page)

When
the stroking hand took on a passionate tremor, Cle felt lost. Her own limbs
seemed to be suffering from a bizarre heat that was melting them.

"You're
mine," Dev growled in her ear, his body contracting spasmodically as she
caressed him, the tactile delight his body gave her making her purr like a cat.

The
mutterings of their love words increased as did the pace of their lovemaking.
Then, deafened and blinded by their need for each other, their only awareness
became the rhythm of their love. They moved in tandem, provoking and
tantalizing one another, teasing and giving until they were frenzied and
rushing to exquisite fulfillment.

Slowly,
ever so slowly, they subsided. They lay entwined and Cle felt awash in a
blissful, golden afterglow. Much later Dev lifted her and carried her to their
bed.

Still
held in his arms, Cle listened to the even tenor of his breathing as he slept
beside her. Even his light snoring sounded like music to her and she snuggled
closer to him. Dev. Even his name had charm, dignity, strength. He was all
things good to her. She wanted all things good for him. Oh, they fought about
some things. And Dev was certainly more possessive than she liked. That was
surprising, Cle thought, lifting the hem of the silk sheet over Dev's shoulder.
He hadn't appeared to be the possessive type when she first met him. On the
contrary, his cynical attitude seemed to communicate a philosophy of taking
pleasure where one could find it, going from woman to woman with the sure
notion that variety could only be interesting.

Cle
smiled to herself in the dark as she remembered the day they had met in the
salon. Jaime himself had been waiting on Lady Clare Wellington and had insisted
that Cle do some of the modeling, since Lady Clare's coloring was close to
Cle's own deep black hair and porcelain complexion.

The
obviously spoiled Lady Clare was with several friends who had always spent a
great deal of money in Jaime's salon so the impromptu modeling of a few dresses
turned into an almost complete show.

The
giggling remarks about her bony figure that one of the women made would have
embarrassed Cle had not Jaime been so supportive. But it wasn't until Dev
walked into the salon and sat down with his cousin Clare and her friends, three
women and a man, that Cle felt a hot nervousness.

Amy
Worden, one of the black models, had hissed at her, gesturing her over to the
curtain, then parting it just a fraction so that Cle could look out into the
salon. To Cle's eyes Dev looked a bored, sophisticated, handsome man as she
stared through the opening at him.

"Doesn't
he look like Burt Reynolds, Cle?" Amy whispered, her mouth close to Cle's
ear.

"He
has more hair." Cle grinned at the other girl. "And smoother
features."

"Oh,
Cle, you're hopeless!" Amy moaned. "Smooth features! Hair! Why any
fool knows that Burt Reynolds could be shaved from the top of his head to the
tips of his toes and he'd still have it.. .that special 'yum yum' only a few
men have." Amy jerked her thumb at the curtain. "And that one out
there has yum yum and he'd have it if he had no hair at all. Do you get
me?"

"Yes,
I understand." Cle laughed at the other girl who was staring at her in a
disgusted way. "But wait until you walk out on the runway and that 'Cecil
darling' makes a funny remark just to make the ladies laugh, and you're the
butt of the joke. You'll feel like dumping a cup of the fragrant tea they're
drinking right on 'Cecil, darling's' head," Cle promised as her friend listened
to Jaime's voice. Then Cle lifted her chin, assuming the modeling stance, and
glided out to parade a strapless gown in white satin, reminiscent of the
thirties. It had been the star attraction in Jaime's "Prohibition Collection."
Jaime loved designing clothes typical of a particular era.

The
next dress Cle had modeled looked deceptively simple. It was a cocktail dress,
the hem just touching the knee, and composed of yards and yards of deep pink
silk. The bodice was tight above a swirling skirt. A flesh colored body
stocking was worn under it and it looked perfectly respectable until Cle turned
or moved in a fluid fashion. Then the skirt would flare out in puffs of silk
revealing glimpses of what appeared to be Cle's nude body. It was provocative,
expensive, and demanded a perfect figure to do it justice. Cle's body wasn't
perfect.

She
was too thin, but she was tall, her breasts were firm and rounded, and she
moved like seeping oil in an unstudied motion that was part of her and totally
untaught. Her legs were long and slender with delicate ankles that belied the
years of swimming she had done in high school and college.

With
the dress she wore black silk slings that cost more than her full month's
salary. Her earrings were jet drops mounted in platinum, her hair had been
twisted into a snake atop her head so that her slender neck and fine shoulder
bones were delineated.

When
she heard Jaime give the signal, she slid around the curtain and took the first
stance.

Cle
laughed to herself in the dark, still remembering the gasps of Lady Clare and
her friends when she had twirled on the runway and "Cecil, darling"
had gasped, "Good Lord, she's lovely!"

Dev
had said nothing but when she had twirled again, nearer the seated people, she noticed
that, though he was still lounging in his chair, there was an electricity emanating
from him. Cle was made very aware that she had his unqualified attention.

She
yawned and turned her face into his chest as she recalled how uncomfortable she
began feeling after she had traveled the length of the runway twice. The mumblings
and mutterings from Lady Clare and her friends were almost zero by the time Cle
escaped through the curtain, but Dev's electric silence was a tangible thing.

Even
though she knew that Jaime would be angry with her she cajoled Amy and another
model, Suzanne, to finish the show for her. She escaped back to her cubbyhole
and began working on the sketches she had devised to show to Jaime, sketches
that he might choose to use for part of his spring collection that year.
Instead of the flowing lines of skirts, dresses, or suits, a man's face had
appeared under her pencil. When she realized it was the same man who had sat
with Lady Clare and her friends, she had ripped the paper from the pad and
crumpled it into the wastebasket.

She
was still holding her head in her hands sometime later when Jaime came to her
workroom.

"I
should be very angry with you, Cleora. You know that I wanted you, not Suzanne,
the finish to show." He lowered himself onto the corner of her tiny desk
and reached a hand toward her worktable and drawing board. She thought he was
about to pick up the sketches clipped to the top of the board when his supple
fingers suddenly closed on her sketch pad.

When
Cle made a grab for the pad, he held it easily out of her reach.

"What's
this, my cool, cool Cleora? Drawing the clientele? Or just drawing the
one?" Jaime's voice had an irritated twang to it. "Don't be too
impressed by Lord Carstairs, Cle. Yes, I said Lord Carstairs, even though he
has never used his title, it is still his. He is cousin to the charming Lady
Clare Wellington and an international womanizer from what I hear," Jaime
finished on a dry note. "With his money he can afford the 'best' of women,
too."

Cle
didn't attempt to plumb her own dejection at Jaime's words. "You sound as
if you were envious, Jaime."

"Perhaps
I am, a little." He shrugged, straightening from the desk and dropping the
sketch he had torn from the pad into the wastebasket unaware of its counterpart
all ready there. He leaned down to her, patting her cheek. "Still, I
shouldn't complain. We sold five of the collection today including the Pink
Moon cocktail dress you modeled." He turned to the door, then paused.
"Bring those sketches to my studio tomorrow."

Cle
had been elated but not even her swelling, optimistic feelings had obscured
the picture in her mind of the darkly handsome Lord Carstairs who never used
his title. He had a magnetic field that had drawn her to him as though she were
a metal shaving.

She
left the salon a little late that evening, knowing she would have to race for
the bus that would take her across
Manhattan
to
the
Bronx
. Her little apartment on the third
floor of Mrs. Talasio's house was warm and cozy. The smells of southern Italian
cooking rose from the kitchen into Cle's one room with bath and kitchenette.

She
had been running head down through the cutting November wind, trying to avoid
the deep pools of slush on the sidewalk, the aftermath of a sudden snow storm.
She hadn't heard the car draw up to the curb next to her then cruise in front
of her and stop, the passenger door opening. The "
New York City
caution" that had been
hammered into her by stories told her by friends made her eye the car warily.
She looked around to see if there was someone she could turn to for help just
as the other door opened and Dev stepped from the car.

"Miss
Orwell, I'm Devon Carstairs. I was in Toner's salon today with my cousin and
her friends. I assure you I'm respectable and only want to give you a lift to
your destination."

"I
don't think.. .My bus will be coming." Cle had ducked her head and scooted
past the car, breaking into the light jogging pace she used when she worked
out. It was a little slippery but Cle kept going, praying that her bus would be
as late as usual.

She
was fighting her way through the cluster of people as her bus was pulling away
from the curb. Desperation made her bang her gloved hand on the side of the bus
but the driver never paused.

Cle
took a deep breath and pushed her flyaway hair off her face. She felt shaken
and a little out of breath. She gave a jerky step backward when the sleek
Ferrari filled the space vacated by the bus.

"Get
in, Miss Orwell, before you get spattered with slush and I get arrested."
The voice was less smooth, the harshness denoting irritation.

Cle
giggled to herself in bed, letting her mouth touch Dev's chest. She had never
figured out why at that certain moment she decided not to argue with him and
get into the car.

The
moment the door closed, shutting out the noise of
Manhattan
traffic in the early evening, she
felt panic run with the blood in her veins, pacing the flow then increasing it.
"I'm sure I'll take you out of your way... so if you can just manage to
pass that bus right ahead of us, I can..."

"We'll
have dinner, then I'll take you home, Miss Orwell. I want to talk to you."

"I'm
not hungry. I'm in the habit of taking my main meal at noon. I eat very little
in the evening." She cleared her throat trying to erase the squeak in her
voice. "And I don't have much to talk with you about so if you don't
mind..."

"I
do mind." The voice had a velvet harshness that seemed menacing to Cle.

She
shivered, edging toward the door.

"Miss
Orwell, I have never raped a female in my life, nor have I ever so much as
contemplated an assault."

"Get
plenty of cooperation, do you?" Cle snapped, wanting to reach out for a
handful of the November slush and dump it down the neck of his cashmere coat.

The
hard laugh was accompanied by an assessing glance. "Beauty with a viper's
tongue."

"Then
I suggest you get rid of the viper's tongue and let me out right here."
Cle had her hand on the car door.

"Forget
it. It's locked electronically at the wheel. Now stop arguing with me." He
swung the wheel in a ninety degree turn down an alley, the car slewing a bit in
the slush, then the tires took hold. He pulled into a parking place that led
from the alley down under a building.

"I
don't know where we are. I've never been here," Cle said, her eyes roving
the darkened interior of the garage.

"I'm
sure you haven't." Dev's grin had a lopsided twist to it as he helped her
from the car and led her to an elevator.

"Don't
get pompous with me, Lord Carstairs." Cle gasped as the hand at her elbow
tightened into a numbing grip. "Stop that. It hurts."

"Then
stop being so troublesome. I wasn't being pompous. This is a private club and I
know most of the people who frequent it. I would have seen you or at least
heard about you if you had been here." He turned her to face him as the elevator
sped upward. "My name is Dev Carstairs. If you can't use my first name,
call me mister, not lord. All right?" His voice was soft but the measured
words left no doubt as to the rock hard meaning.