and thrusting her arms into it.
“Don’t forget your shoes,” he reminded her, bending to pick them up. “Sit down.”
Almost unthinkingly, Lauren obeyed him. He knelt and, taking her towel from her hand, began to dry her feet carefully.
Lauren drew in her breath. It was the most erotic experience—the feel of those large, strong hands holding her feet and rubbing them firmly with the towel. When he dried each toe separately in a gentle, sensual caress, hot color came into Lauren’s cheeks. Of course he chose that moment to look up at her, his gray eyes intent.
If he laughs at me, I’ll sock him, Lauren promised herself.
Even more disturbingly, Mike didn’t laugh. His glance touched her face, her breasts, and then returned to her feet. Satisfied that he had them dry, he put the deck shoes on carefully, patting each foot as he had it shod. Then he leaned back on his heels and grinned at her.
“That’s a good girl,” he approved. “Now you can get dressed.”
Lauren left him without another word.
*****
Before she faced anyone, especially the sharp-eyed Dani, Lauren knew she would have to get herself together. As she showered and dressed, she told herself sternly that she was no callow ingénue, fluttering over a handsome male body and a challenging smile. She was thirty-five, damn it. A strong, healthy, beautiful thirty-five, a good businesswoman and a top-notch designer. Why was she dithering like some sixteen-year-old? Glancing critically at herself in the mirror over her dressing table, she saw a woman in a simple-looking cream silk dress that moved lovingly over every rounded curve. The armholes were bound with violet silk, the belt and scarf were two more of her signature violet silk scarves. Her eyes—stormy dark, almost purple—flashed in her sweet peach-golden face. Lauren squared her shoulders. “Here I come, world,” she muttered. “I’m going to put on the best show ever.”
She went on deck to walk off her tension before she ate breakfast. As she was returning to the lounge, she noticed a young woman wearing high heels, instead of the more suitable deck shoes. Just as they met, the girl’s heel caught on the raised sill of the door leading out to the deck. Lauren thrust out her arms instinctively and caught her before she fell.
“Oh, thank you,” gasped the girl as Lauren helped her regain her balance.
“Are you all right? You’ll find rubber-soled shoes are much more comfortable, and safer, than heels.” Lauren smiled and would have passed on, but the girl caught her arm.
“You’re one of the models, aren’t you?” she asked. “I saw you last night at the Captain’s party. I’m Gala Devine. I work for Carlos de Sevile.”
“How do you do, Gala,” Lauren said, meeting her smile warmly. “I’m Lauren Rose, with the September Song line.”
Gala—the name seemed appropriate for a de Sevile model, Lauren thought cattily—tried out her ankle and then clung to Lauren’s arm. “Gee, I hope I haven’t strained it. Señor Carlos will kill me.”
“Does it hurt? Perhaps we should get you to the doctor,” Lauren suggested.
Gala tried a few steps, holding on to the other woman’s arm. “No, I think it’s just a little sore. Have you had breakfast?”
“I’m on my way there. We eat at Tables of the World Restaurant—”
“So do we,” Gala said with a smile. “Not Señor de Sevile, of course, but his models, all but the top two. They go to dinner with him at the new Princess Grill Restaurant.”
Lauren allowed herself to look suitably impressed, and suggested that they go down to their own restaurant together. Gala was a cheerful child, but something seemed to be worrying her. Over the spartan breakfast she allowed herself, she broached the problem to Lauren.
“What’s wrong with my dress, Lauren?” she asked.
“Is it a de Sevile?” countered Lauren cautiously. She didn’t like it and knew why, but it might not be diplomatic to make a disparaging comment that might get back to the designer.
“Yes, it’s one of his Sevillana Line. They’re all like this—heavy reds and purples and black and this trim.” Gala held up her slashed red-and-purple sleeve, showing Lauren the tiny white bobbles of cotton that trimmed its fringe.
Lauren decided to level with Gala.
“You know I’m one of de Sevile’s competitors, Gala. He doesn’t worry about me, but I wouldn’t like him to think I’m criticizing his designs.”
Gala nodded, frowning. “But it’s just between us models, isn’t it? I wouldn’t pass it along. Please, what’s wrong with it?”
Lauren gave in. The girl had taste, or awareness