Chapter One
A glistening black limousine drew up in front of the Ocean Passenger Terminal in New York, where the bright star of the Cunard Line, the Queen Elizabeth II, was waiting at Berth 4 to begin her five-and-a-half-day cruise to England. A short, stocky man jumped out of the car and gave a hand to his three female companions. These women, all apparently in their mid-thirties, were so striking that even the crowd of hurrying, preoccupied travelers paused a moment to gape at their beautiful, well-dressed figures. As they stood on the sidewalk, there was a seductiveness about them that claimed the eye as surely as their delicate perfume tantalized the nostrils. The stocky man and the chauffeur began to deal with the suitcases.
Lauren Rose beckoned smilingly to two porters. “Over here, please!”
“Damn it, Lauren, you’ll never get—” began Herbert Masen crossly. Then he paused, mouth open, as the two porters hurried up to the limo and began piling suitcases onto their trolleys.
Lauren twinkled her demure smile at her late husband’s best friend. “You shouldn’t underrate the power of two of L.A.’s most glamorous models, Herbert.”
Herbert grunted. “To say nothing of yourself, Lauren. That’s a damned fetching outfit you’ve got on,” he added, his eyes busy with her lovely figure. Then he spoiled the compliment by adding, “Good idea to have all three of you wearing your designs. It should promote sales.”
Lauren herded her two models, who were weary and yawning from the ordeal of a night flight from Los Angeles, into the elevator that led up to the main floor of the terminal’s vast, crowded reception area. Herbert began fussing about their tickets and passports.
Lauren said firmly, “Herbert, will you entertain Nella and Dani while I get things organized? Give them some Perrier, or a flower or something. Not candy or coffee. I’ll pick them up in the waiting room in twenty minutes, Scout’s honor.”
Herbert gave her his self-conscious little smirk, which usually meant he was up to something. Lauren drew a steadying breath. Her late husband’s oldest friend had insisted upon accompanying her to New York, to the very dockside. His concern for her welfare, however, was of such a fidgety, tense nature that she had wished several times since they left Los Angeles that she’d refused his help at the start. An uncomfortable suspicion had crept into her mind as he continued to suggest actions that invariably delayed or hindered her plans. Was Herbert Masen trying to sabotage the most exciting opportunity Lauren had ever had?
She had been invited to present her whole new collection to that little group of American women who set the trend for all the fashion-conscious females in the country. But why would Herbert wish to place obstacles in her way? He had shares in the company her former husband had started to showcase his wife’s talents. Since her line—the sophisticated and flattering September Song—had firmly found its market in women in their thirties who were tired of buying dresses designed for eighteen-year-olds, Herbert had shared in the slowly increasing dividends.
Still, there had been pressures. Soon after Al’s death, Herbert had urged her to take him into partnership. When she refused, he had been even more insistent that Lauren sell the boutique, the workshop, the name and goodwill she had earned for her line of clothing and accessories—and marry him!
“We’ll put your money and mine into a Swiss account,” he had proposed one evening after he had wined and dined her lavishly at the Los Angeles Bonaventure Hotel. “Then we’ll go and live on the French Riviera.” He wiped gravy from his beef Wellington off his lips after he spoke.
Looking at his puffy face, red and shiny with his enthusiasm for his food, Lauren had finally decided that she must break the connection with him entirely. Herbert had been Al’s friend, never hers. She didn’t even like him. She would gradually stop seeing him.
Easier planned than done. Although she refused all his invitations, Herbert kept dropping in at the house, at the boutique, even at the homes of friends when he learned she would be there. When the New York office of a London publicity firm had asked her to bring her models and her new collection to take part in a glamorous Fashion Cruise on the superb Queen Elizabeth II, Lauren had been both excited by the challenge to her skills as a designer and glad for the opportunity to get away from Herbert Masen until he’d found a new interest.
Pulling herself together quickly with the reminder that the Ocean’s Passenger Terminal in New York was no place to stand and ruminate, Lauren checked with a member of the purser’s staff to be sure that her sealed rack of costumes had been delivered aboard and was safely locked in her suite. Then she presented passports and tickets at the appropriate counters. She was instructed to collect her two models for check in, and did so with some trepidation. Nella had been fretting all night long on the plane about what a poor sailor she probably was, and Dani had spent the time flirting with every personable male in sight. Lauren had a grim suspicion that her troubles were only starting.
She was exasperated to find that Herbert had bought queasy Nella and Dani a sandwich and a Coke from the dispensers. “Are you crazy?” she asked the models, holding out her hands for the thick, greasy packages. “If you get mayonnaise on those suits, I’ll kill you. Don’t you remember there are photographers waiting at the gangway?” She glared at Herbert. “Are you doing this deliberately, Masen?”
“Doing what?” His voice, his narrow smile, were too innocent.
“Good-bye, Herbert,” Lauren said grimly. “I’ll try to forget your help.”
She shepherded Nella and Dani through Immigration and led them up to the embarkation hall. A dozen photographers rushed toward them, calling out a babble of instructions to the models. Nella and Dani moved automatically into a series of graceful, elegant, and provocative postures. Dani sparkled at the lenses, her dark curls gleaming, her small figure moving seductively. Nella, tall and big-busted, went into a rehearsed sequence of movements that showed off her statuesque figure as well as Lauren’s designs.
Lauren drew in a deep breath of relief. The models were professionals. In spite of their weariness, confusion, lack of sleep and food, and especially in spite of Herbert Masen’s efforts, the Lauren Rose September Song mannequins were triumphantly displaying the top numbers of this year’s line. And in her own suite on board, safely locked away, were the new designs, the new collection that would, she hoped, win the admiration of fashion-conscious women over thirty years of age. It was thrilling to watch her two models turn and sway and smile, smokey-eyed and beguiling, and to see how gracefully her dresses clung and flowed, glorifying the women’s figures. Lauren exhaled a deep breath of satisfaction.
At that minute, a gray-haired reporter approached her. “Who are you?” His question wasn’t insolent, merely routine.
“Lauren Rose, September Song Line, Los Angeles.” Lauren handed him a small publicity package. She held out her hand with the smile that had won her the friendship and loyalty of her employees as well as her many customers. “I’m also wearing one of this year’s top sellers.” She gestured at her raw-silk suit, a creamy-gold that exactly matched her softly waving hair. The silk scarf at her throat brought out the deep, almost violet-blue of her eyes. “September Song is created for the lovely woman over thirty who has kept both her wits and her figure.”
The man chuckled, his brown eyes gleaming with admiration. “Quotable!”
“May I know your name?” Lauren asked. His answer delighted her. “Reb Crowell!” she exclaimed. “We love your columns in California. It’s an honor to have you covering us.”
His suddenly wicked grin sparkled. “I’ll be glad to cover you any time,” he teased. “Want to hear my opening paragraphs?” At her smiling nod, he declaimed, in the manner of a TV commentator, “At four-forty-five on a bright Sunday afternoon the QE II, darling of the international darlings, pet of the jet set, pulled majestically away from the dock and headed out past the Statue of Liberty—who was green with envy—on a highly publicized voyage, the Fashion Cruise. Seven of America’s finest dress designers
are on board, with their latest dazzling collections and their world-famous models. The cream of society from Bel Air to Boston has checked into luxurious staterooms on the greatest liner afloat for the five-and-a-half-day cruise from New York to Southampton. Four glamorous afternoons and three glittering evenings will be devoted to the seven individual showings of the most exciting clothes and accessories American creativity and taste can design—a fabulous fashion preview for America’s best-dressed women.
“A panel of judges will be chosen from among the first-class passengers on Sunday evening. These fashion-wise experts will attend all seven shows and then, at the Captain’s Dinner the last night before docking, the winner will be announced—”
“Don’t say it,” interrupted Lauren, laughing, as she held up two sets of crossed fingers. “I’m not superstitious, but—”
“What’s the correct good-luck phrase for designers?” queried Crowell, grinning. “Break a leg? No, that’s show biz. Tear a dress?”
“Go away before you hex my collection,” Lauren begged, looking over toward the photographers. “It’s time I rescued my models. I do thank you for your encouragement . . . I think?” she added with a mischievous smile. Crowell grinned at her.