Lauren's Designs (4 page)

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?

Chapter Two

Lauren woke early Monday morning. The cabin sparkling with sunlight, the salty breeze from the open porthole, the fresh smell of varnish, clean linen and the lavender soaps in the bathroom, it all roused Lauren so completely she was practically forced out of bed. She looked at her small traveling alarm and saw it was six A.M. Then, she recalled the pool on deck and things didn’t seem so bad; the idea of a wake-up swim quite appealed to her. Surely few others would be using it so early on the first morning of the trip? Smiling at her own adolescent impulse, Lauren got into her swim suit and robe, slipped on some deck shoes, picked up a towel, and went in search of the pool.

A big man was doing laps as she approached. All Lauren could see was a dark, wet head, bronzed arms flashing in a strong Australian crawl, and the froth of water from powerful leg beats. She dropped her robe and towel on a deck chair, slipped off her shoes, and dived in neatly. When she came to the surface, she was almost face to face with the other swimmer. With a sense that she was fate’s helpless pawn, she recognized him.

Michael, treading water near her, grinned at her surprise.

“Looks as though we have similar tastes, or the same health guru,” he said.

“How many laps have you done?” Lauren asked, struggling for composure. Michael, seen like this, was a devastatingly handsome figure of strength and physical beauty, and she suddenly felt acutely self-conscious being so close to him.

“Ten,” he said. “Want me to wait till you catch up?”

“That’s a good handicap,” Lauren said rashly. “I’ll race you one lap.”

His raised eyebrows hardened her resolve. Then he smiled, a slow, warm smile that made her want to touch his wet cheek with her hand. “You’re on. We’ll start from a racing dive at that end.”

He swung up easily onto the deck, then pulled her smoothly up beside him. “You call it,” he offered.

Lauren took her stance. “One two, three—dive!”

She sensed that he hit the water a fraction of a second later than she did. He had given her that small advantage, but he wouldn’t hold back, she thought. Then all conscious thought was suspended as Lauren worked her body through the water with every ounce of skill and training and willpower she had. She might not win, but by God, Michael would know he had been in a race.

She reached the end of the pool too quickly and twisted into her best racing turn. As she flashed out for the return length, she caught a glimpse of a bronze arm cutting the air a few feet away. Michael was level with her. Grimly Lauren stroked, giving it the extra surge her swim coach had taught her to use. Michael didn’t know it, but he was racing with a girl who might have made the Olympic team at sixteen, if her parents had not refused to permit her to attempt to qualify. And she’d spent an hour swimming nearly every day of her adult life.

She slapped her hand on the edge of the pool, only to see a big brown hand come down at exactly the same minute. Then, panting and starting to laugh helplessly, they clung to the deck and faced each other.

“You are some classy lady, Lauren Rose,” Michael said, pushing his black hair off his forehead. “And before you ask me, no, I didn’t let you win.”

“You could have beaten me if the pool were a couple of meters longer,” Lauren admitted. “That was my best effort.”

Michael shook his head admiringly. “It was good. I had no idea I was in the company of a swimming master, or is it mistress?” he amended, with the warm, wide grin. “Want to go another few laps for fun?”

Lauren was suddenly tired. “I’ll give it a pass this time,” she said, turning to the ladder.