have bet you were a fan of the Savoyards,” Mike said. “How many times have you seen The Mikado?”
“I’ll tell you when you tell me how many times you’ve seen The Pirates of Penzance,” Lauren challenged.
“You’re not going to tell me you saw the original performance?” teased Mike. “Late 1870s, wasn’t it?”
Lauren slanted him a look from under her long eyelashes. “Yes. Don’t I wear my years well?”
“Wait till you get enough of them to boast about,” Mike teased. “You’re in the flowering time,” he said with a grin, “like, fresh as a daisy? Saucy as a buttercup?”
“Stop right there, buster,” Lauren advised, grinning back at him. “What about you? I’ve told you everything but my social security number! What do you do for a living?”
“I told you,” Mike said succinctly. “I’m a talent scout for some of the bigger chains. I’m one of the people you can expect an offer from, after your show—if it’s any good.”
Lauren laughed aloud at his cheek. It was surprising how truly vital and happy he made her feel. She could never recall experiencing this lift of spirits, this true happiness, with any man before. She thought about his challenge for a minute. “My show is better than what you saw today, and a lot different. But you’ll just have to wait, won’t you?” She got up from the comfortable banquette. “Now I’m going to gloat over my new collection. See you later.” She had to get away from him before she succumbed completely to his charm, that warm, vital maleness that was doing odd things to her senses.
“How about dinner tonight?” Mike had risen with her. He held out his hand to assist her from the booth. Did he know how attractive he was?
Lauren smiled, “Your restaurant or mine?”
He recognized her search for information. “I was thinking, in my suite. More private. I’ll call for you about eight.”
Lauren shook her head. “It’s the Maartens show tonight, and I want to see it. He’s British, based in New York. Best of both cultures. Chic and understated.”
“I still don’t want to see it.” Mike grinned. “Let’s eat afterward. I’ll pick you up outside the Royal Court Lounge after the show.”
He was walking with her away from the lounge, his arm at her back. She could feel the warmth of it through the silk of her jump suit. Why was she so reluctant to let him go? She’d never had such difficulty saying good-bye to any man.
He seemed to understand her reluctance, and to share it. “Once around the deck?” he suggested. “To walk off those piña coladas?”
She accepted the offer. As they strolled along near the rail, Mike asked with an apparent lack of interest, “Will you be seeing much of your little friend?”
“You mean my model Dani? The one who tried to mistake you for the captain when we were embarking?”
“No, I mean the little teenager you were advising at breakfast.”
“Gala Devine? No, I don’t plan to. She’s one of Carlos’s models, as you guessed.”
“What sort of costume would you suggest for a girl like Gala? Something like that very pretty jump suit you have on?”
“No. This is the wrong color for her, the wrong line for her extreme slenderness. She would look like a boy in it. Of course, she might want that effect.”
“You don’t look boyish,” Mike answered.
“This suit is effective for my height, weight distribution, coloring, and age,” Lauren explained. Rather than feeling complimented, Lauren felt he was mocking her, even testing her. She continued in a cold, matter-of-fact voice. “I try to design a dress with the woman who is likely to wear it in my mind. A very plump woman, for instance, would look absurd in this. Or a very thin one.”
Mike nodded.
Lauren, very much aware that the moment was spoiled, nodded back and walked swiftly away.
Unfortunately for her ruffled poise, she found Herbert Masen in her sitting room talking to Nella, who was dressed in a very fetching negligée from the new collection. Since she didn’t particularly like Herbert and was wary of him after his horror stories about ships at sea, Nella must have put on the robe for the British doctor’s delectation. Lauren set her lips firmly. It was her practice never to reprimand her models in front of outsiders; she said nothing, but her displeased glance at the robe got her point across to Nella.
“I was . . . waiting for the doctor to call,” she explained, self-consciously. “When Mr. Masen knocked, I thought he