Torn Asunder Read online

  TORN ASUNDER - ANN CRISTY

  CHAPTER ONE

  Cle Orwell stretched and yawned, loath to open her eyes and start the day. She felt the warmth on her right side, the warmth that had become familiar and necessary in the short year she and Dev Carstairs had been together. Dev of the emerald eyes, whose warm gleam triggered a fire in her. Dev of the tall, broad shouldered athlete's body which so excited her. Dev of the finely honed legal and business mind which kept her on her toes mentally and challenged her constantly. Dev of the midnight black hair, not the blue black of her own, but the night black of an Indian's with the persistent wave to it that no amount of brushing tamed. Dev of the six foot three inch height and massive physique that made her own five foot ten inch height and fine boned frame seem diminutive. Dev who made every hair on her body feel curled, even to the hair on her head that was so straight it looked plumbed from crown to shoulder.

  They had been together a year! She couldn't believe it! The anniversary of the day they had decided to live together would be in less than two weeks. Two weeks! Cle frowned, even as she lifted one hand to stifle another yawn. That's how long she knew Dev when she agreed to live with him. Two weeks of seeing each other every second they could, two weeks of having all her conceptions of a quiet bland love mutually satisfying to both parties ripped apart, two weeks of a shuddering, raw awareness that without him nothing would ever have the same dimension or color again. As the dawn was breaking after their first night together, the night that neither of them slept, Dev had whispered that he wanted her to stay with him, to live with him.

  Did Dev remember that moment? Did he remember that night?

  Cle swung her legs off the bed and came to a sitting position, trying not to be bothered by the thought that he might not recall those moments that were so precious to her, that were so vivid they might have just passed. She chided herself for being so stupid, being depressed because Dev might not—probably would not—remember the anniversary of the day they decided to live together! How Dev would laugh if she told him how daffy she was acting! She could hear him saying that. "Cle, darling, you're daffy!" he would say. Then, she thought with a pang, he just might tell her that he would leave her and go back to London where he came from. She shivered, angry with herself for being so imaginative. After all, she was a twenty seven year old woman who had a very satisfying, however budding, career in design.

  She remembered for a fleeting moment the young twenty year old Cle, fresh from the School of Design at Rochester Institute of Technology, coming to New York for the first time. She had been green as grass and scared witless when she applied for the job at Toner Fabrics and Design. She was still embarrassed when she remembered her stuttering acceptance of Jaime Toner's offer. It was exactly what she'd wanted: working in clothing design, not fabric design, with such a supremely talented, well known person. She hadn't been able to believe her great good luck!

  Her own innate shyness kept Cle in the background for the first few years, but gradually Jaime had come to recognize her talent and begun to give her more sophisticated assignments.

  "What are you dreaming about? Come back under the covers and let me warm you," Dev's voice crooned in her ear as one of his arms snaked around her waist and pulled her back to him.

  Cle smiled, her face turned away from him. "We'll be late. You have a conference call from Bonn today and I have to put the final touches on the fall show," she whispered teasingly, her body pliant in his arms as he turned her toward him, her own arms reaching up to feather the dark stubble on his cheeks. "You have to shave and shower. So do I." She laughed. "Shower that is!" She ran her hands up into his anthracite black hair, tousled by sleep.

  "Yes, I know, but as much as I need to get a running jump on the day, I need to have you, too." He mumbled this into her neck, one hand running from thigh to hip to breast over her naked body. His mouth slipped down to her shoulder then fastened gently on her breast. The sucking and pulling sensation of his mouth drove her crazy... as he well knew. Her body turned liquid as he touched her. There was a fleeting moment of resentment, but before Cle could analyze it she was submerged in Dev again, drowning in that well of feeling that never seemed to quench the thirst they had for one another.

  He played with her body as though he were composing a beautiful melody, and her form was the rare Guarneri on which it would be performed. With gentle awareness he probed all the recesses of her body that gave her the most pleasure. It never ceased to amaze Cle how devotedly Dev went about arousing her. Her pleasure seemed to be to him the most erotic thing in the world and one of his greatest joys in their love play.

  But, then, she knew how much she delighted in pleasing him, too, and, as her fingers danced over him in the caresses he enjoyed, she felt ecstatic. Her rapture mounted when Dev's body arched in response to her touches.

  Their blood pounded in tempo as their need reached incendiary stages. The silent explosion of their bodies was accompanied by their sighs and groans.

  "Dev! Oh, Dev!"

  "Cle, darling."

  They were long past the time when they tried to check the flood of passion that engulfed them, and it was always so wondrous to Cle, so incredible. The intensity of the emotion increased each time they made love. It irritated Cle somewhat that Dev never seemed to be as affected as she was, that after, he was able to switch to "normal" faster than she could.

  This time was no exception. As she lay breathing in ragged cadence against his neck, he was able to speak in normal tones. He let his hand move in a whirling motion down her spine and over her buttocks. "Cle, I know we've talked of this before, but I want you to rethink your position on my trip back to England. I want you to go with me."

  "I want to go with you, Dev, you know that, but Jaime is getting the new line ready. With a little luck, I could be chief designer. I've waited for this chance, Dev, worked hard for it."

  He rolled away from her and sat on his side of the bed, his back stiff. "I think I've heard all this at some time or other—"

  "Then why don't you listen to me?" Cle argued, watching him rise to his feet and walk toward the bathroom. No matter how long they were together, how many years she knew him so intimately, she was aware that she'd never stop admiring his body: the long trim torso, narrow hips, muscular thighs, broad shoulders. She gazed at the light feathering of hair down his spine and remembered the tactile delight when she caressed him there. She hated to argue with Dev. He made the sun rise each morning for her. Still she didn't feel that she could back down on this. Too many times she put aside her own needs and wants in order to fulfill some request or need of Dev's. More and more, he seemed to demand her time, her energies away from her work. Cle knew she couldn't let him do it again... not this time. She had worked too hard for this chance.

  She heard the bathroom door close with a muted slam and sighed, turning over on her stomach to bury her face in the pillow. It hurt so much when Dev was angry with her as he was now. Her feelings for him seemed to have ballooned out of all proportion, and it was getting worse. Even when she was hard at work on a design, his face would suddenly jump into her mind. She might be shopping for clothes on her lunch hour and find herself in the men's section of the store looking at a sweater that was just the color of Dev's lime green eyes.

  Cle was still lying there day dreaming when Dev returned from the bathroom, his hair glistening wet and curling, his face tight and controlled, the look that told her his anger was at full height.

  "Are you coming to the Hopewell party this evening or have you something that can't wait at Toner's?" His clipped British accent was more pronounced when he was angry. At the moment he sounded like John Gielgud doing Hamlet.

  "Of course I'm coming to the Hopewell party. We planned on going." Cle pushed herse
lf to a sitting position, her eyes not quite meeting his.

  "Say it out, Cle, for God's sake." Dev threw the towel to the floor with unaccustomed violence.

  She glared at him. "Don't use that courtroom tone with me, solicitor. Your international reputation doesn't cut any ice here." In her agitation, she rose to her knees, letting the sheet fall.

  The hard look on Dev's face softened, the sensual fullness of his lower lip more prominent as his eyes roved her body. "What reputation is that, darling? My bedroom one, I hope." His words had a softer slur to them, making Cle smile, even though that was the last thing she wanted to do.

  "Never mind that now." She gave a reluctant laugh as he growled. She bit her lip looking right into those metal green eyes. "Dev, I've told you before, that with the show coming up my hours would be erratic. Tonight Jaime wants to go over the choice of gowns for each model. I'll be as fast as I can. I won't come home and dress. I'll cut corners, taking my things to the salon. I'll just dress there and call a cab to go right to the hotel. I won't be too late." Cle held her breath while Dev stepped into a pair of gray trousers of the richest worsted that were tailored to hug his body like a glove. It was one of Cle's favorite suits and she loved to see Dev in it.

  He didn't turn to look at her until he had knotted his hand woven, deep blue and silver tie. "All right, if that's the best you can do. I'll meet you at the hotel."

  The quick peck he gave her before he left the apartment told her more clearly than words that Dev was far from placated.

  She stepped into the shower, sighing, the ambivalent feelings crisscrossing her mind. On one hand she was furious at Dev for what she felt was his high handed treatment of her career and his lack of understanding. At the same time she felt a wrenching pain that they should quarrel so often about something that should have been so easy to handle. Why wasn't it easy to handle? And why exactly did they have such a problem working out such things? She'd asked herself these questions a thousand times; a thousand times she hadn't come up with good answers. And, so, she let the cold water course down her body until she was gasping.

  Cle had to repair her makeup twice, her slight hand tremors betraying her tension. She knew that Dev would expect her to be wearing something black when she arrived at the gathering: Black was his preference for her at any function that included his colleagues. Dev was managing director of Hopewell, Brand, and Carstairs and, according to Silas Hopewell, considered one of the most brilliant in his field of international law and business.

  As her hand was reaching for one of the simple black dresses in the closet, Cle paused, a mutinous look on her face. Turning from the closet, she reached into her lingerie drawer. She stuffed silky under things into the canvas carryall that was like another arm to her. In it was her sketch book, her notes, swatches of fabric, and almost all the personal items that she considered necessary for her workdays.

  By the time she had eaten her breakfast of a small bowl of bran with milk and honey, juice, and tea, she was having second thoughts about not bringing the black dress with her. "What if Jaime doesn't have anything suitable made up, stupid?" she muttered aloud to herself as she rinsed her dishes and set them on the drain board. Mrs. Hubbard, the daily, would put them in the dishwasher but habits of neatness were a part of Cleora Orwell, plain, middle class girl from upstate New York. She grimaced at her reflection in the gilded mirror in the hall, stifling the voice that told her to turn back and get that basic black dress out of the closet.

  From habit she gave a quick glance around the ornate foyer to see if she had left anything behind her. Not for the first time, she marveled at the richness of the entrance to Dev's apartment, the curving wrought iron staircase in bronze leading to the second floor. A scant twelve months ago she'd never imagined herself living in such a place—never even thought to see the inside of one! Now it was her home, and had been for almost a year. She frowned at the shiver along her spine, then shook herself, checked to see if she had her key, then closed the door and walked toward the private elevator that would take her to the street entrance where she would catch her bus. Not all Dev's arguments and urgings had changed her habits of catching a bus to work and only in the worst weather would she take a taxi, when she was able to find one. The frugal habits that she was raised with were an integral part of her and something that Dev didn't understand but accepted with mocking tolerance.

  The bus was late and so was Cle, not by much, but enough to keep her in a flurry of activity until most of the morning had passed. She had meant to ask her boss about a dress before he had worked himself into one of his emotional states that was the norm for a day in the life of the theatrical—but very talented—Jaime Toner.

  Most of the models and modistes had gone to lunch by the time Cle entered the private elevator that took her to Jamie's studio. She knew that, as usual, he would be lunching on grapefruit and oranges plus a plate of English biscuits spread lavishly with crunchy peanut butter. Since most of his staff found his lunches appalling, Jaime generally ate alone, usually with swaths of material stretched around dummies or draped on couches and tables. Jaime would munch and stare, munch and stare. His studio was huge and—besides all the accoutrements of design—he had a sumptuous office adjoining the studio all done in pale blue with navy accessories. The wood fittings were oak and very British. Though Jaime had been born in Brooklyn, educated in France, and had a Spanish mother, he was addicted to English decor and was fond of saying that his great grandfather was born in Sussex. Still, aware of all his affectations, he was lovable—and enviable. Jaime Toner was outrageously talented.

  Cle looked around the cluttered studio, knowing from experience that—far from chaos—it was organized in the extreme: Everything was. She watched him now as he bit daintily into a wedge of orange and stared at a kaleidoscopic colored silk draped across a chair.

  "Jaime?" she called, her voice soft.

  "Eh?" he glanced up, an irritated wrinkle on his forehead. He looked at Cle blankly. His brow smoothed as he recognized her. "Ah, Cleora, how did you know I had you on my mind today. Come in, come in. Join me for lunch."

  Cle was sure that the fact she liked peanut butter was one of her most appealing characteristics as far as Jaime was concerned.

  "I was talking to Brainerd this morning and I told him about the new line that I was thinking of starting and he told me that he is interested in beginning one himself. He asked me if I could recommend any talented person to him. I mentioned your name, dear." Jaime spoke kindly, handing her a cracker topped with a glob of crunchy peanut butter. With this he handed her a small paper plate with wedges of grapefruit on it and a neatly folded napkin.

  Cle gave a resigned sigh. "I think you're about to tell me that I won't be the chief designer for the new line." She bit into one of the grapefruit wedges, the juice spurting toward Jaime.

  "You won't get violent will you, Cle?" His voice had that funny squeak to it that Cle found amusing, but it didn't fool her. Jaime was very shrewd. He took a corner of his napkin and dabbed at the tiny marks of grapefruit that had landed on his smock.

  "Why not me, Jaime?"

  "Certainly not your talent, Cleora! You have a great deal of talent, dear, as you know. But... well, dear, you could use more seasoning. You need more experience in the public eye. Your instincts are still not honed as they should be. You will be chief designer one day, I'm sure, but not yet. As I said, Brainerd called—"

  "I'm not about to go to Sydney, Australia, for my seasoning, Jaime, as much as I admire Max Brainerd's work. I would love to work with him, of course, but..." Cle shrugged and brushed at the cracker crumbs on her pink velvet corduroy vest.

  "Ah, yes, there are other considerations are there not? The illustrious Devon Willett Carstairs, lawyer of international repute, consultant to the platinum set, wealthy patron of the arts, bearer of fine old name and title, the title which he does not use." Jaime gave her an elfin grin when she stared haughtily at him. "I've often wondered why he doesn't use his title."


  "He considers titles useless in this fast world. Dev is a very liberal man."

  "Yes, isn't he just?" Jaime asked, his tone sly.

  It irritated Cle that remarks like that still made her flinch and, hard as she tried, she wasn't able to prevent the red stain rising up her neck. She rose to her feet suddenly, letting the napkin slide to the floor. Before she could turn away, Jaime took her arm in surprisingly strong fingers for such a flaccid looking person.

  "No, wait, don't go, Cle. You know my stupid tongue. Please don't leave me. Let me tell you about the new line," Jaime urged.

  Cle knew that in his own way he was apologizing. He absolutely never gave out information about a new line unless it was in the sanctum he called his conference room, a soundproof room that opened off his studio as did his office. Torn between her anger that he should have been able to strike at such a raw spot, her living with Dev, and her eagerness to hear what Jaime had to say about the new line, she hesitated.

  "Please, Cle, I'll never make a remark about you and Dev again." Jaime paused a moment, a tiny frown on his face. "But you shouldn't mind remarks at this late date. You've been together a long time."

  "A year. It doesn't matter. I still mind comments about us. I suppose I always will." She sank into her chair again and looked at Jaime in an inquiring way, hoping that he would take the hint and talk about the line instead of her and Dev.

  Jaime wasn't too informative but he willingly talked of the fabrics he would be using, his decision to raise hemlines. When it came to the themes and shapes of the designs he would create for the season, he was more evasive.

  Cle was stunned when Jaime rose and said that it was time to go back to work, that the lunch hour was over. She had been so absorbed that she hadn't noticed the time passing. She was leaving Jaime's studio when she remembered why she had wanted to see him. "Jaime, before I go, I have to ask you something."

  Jaime looked at her, one sandy eyebrow raised. Not for the first time, Cle wondered how anyone with a Spanish mother could have such pale coloring. "What is it?"