Torn Asunder Read online

  "You're an unfeeling monster. I was probably poisoned by bathtub vodka and will die by slow, painful inches... ohhhhh" Cle gripped her head, then one hand clutched at her mouth. She jumped from the bed, aided by Dev who was chuckling.

  He was still grinning when he lifted her head from the toilet bowl and wiped her mouth and face. "Now you're a perfect barberry green. The color clashes with your eyes. And as to your reference to bathtub vodka, I assure you, you can't blame this on anything but the best vodka. Stop reading so much F. Scott Fitzgerald. You just have a decidedly classic hangover!"

  "I could have Asian flu." Cle moaned against his shoulder as he carried her back to bed. "You don't care what happens to me." A tear trickled down her cheek as she watched him tuck the blankets around her.

  "I've told Toner you won't be in until tomorrow. I've left a note for Mrs. Hubbard to look in on you now and then, I'll be home early." Dev leaned over her, his hand pushing at her stringy hair, his lips brushing her clammy skin.

  "What time is it, Dev? I should be up. There's so much to do for the fall collection. Jaime will be beside himself." Her voice was thready and she felt exhausted with the effort of speaking.

  "Its eight thirty in the morning and you are in no condition to go anywhere but to sleep." His face hardened, the strong bones pushing into the flesh of his face. "Damn Toner and his damned fall collection. I told him what I thought of his creation, too." Dev pivoted on his heel.

  Cle wanted to argue with him but he strode out of the room so quickly, and besides there was the matter of her throbbing head, her paralyzed brain...

  That evening when Dev returned home she was feeling better—and chastened. Cle had hurried Mrs. Hubbard out the door, assuring her that she could finish preparing dinner by herself. She wanted the time with Dev, alone.

  She greeted him in the foyer, her hands clasped together, feeling the blood run up her heck when he paused to look at her before closing the front door.

  A smile played around his mouth as his eyes roved her from head to foot, lingering on her face. "You look as though you might survive. I must say I like the color of your skin better this way than the green it was earlier. You're still a little pale."

  "I still feel a little pale." Her smile was weak, her lips wobbling a bit. "Dev, I want to apologize for..."

  "Is that the silk punjabi outfit I brought you from India last year? I love that blue and turquoise combination with your hair and eyes." Dev spoke softly, his hands reaching for her, the growl in his voice making the muscles in her stomach expand and contract like clenching fingers.

  She responded to his kiss, welcoming his tongue, feeling the curl of heat grow in her lower body. She pushed at his shoulders wanting to finish what she had to say to him.

  Dev allowed her lips to pull back a fraction.

  "Dev, I didn't mean to embarrass you last evening. Was it very bad? I know how conservative the Hopewells are. Did they think... I mean, was it—"

  "Hopey's sister Corinne sniffed a few times but the old boy was very understanding. He was worried more about you being sick, than about you being tipsy, love."

  His hand swept down her spine in a soft caress. "You were more beautiful than any woman there. And, drunk or sober, you couldn't make me one bit ashamed of you." His strong white teeth nipped gently at her chin. "My opinion is the only one that matters in that firm, and they had better know and believe it." Dev's voice had the ruthless quality that crept into it from time to time. Cle had never been the brunt of it, but she was made fully aware that Dev was and had been for some time, master of his own destiny, kingpin of the firm and his family. He might not ever use his title, but there was a tinge of lese majeste about him that could not be denied.

  He lifted his head to look at her, the grin back in place. "Now are you going to feed me, or must I starve?"

  Cle laughed, feeling somewhat more reassured than she had earlier. "I'm going to feed you... and it's a surprise." She urged him toward the stairs to go up and change, then rushed to the kitchen to see to the poaching of the salmon that had been flown in from the northernmost coast of Scotland. Dev had once told her that he thought the salmon caught off the coast of Scotland was the most succulent in the world. It had been Jaime who had put her in touch with an importer who had it flown in each day. Tonight seemed the golden time to serve it. Mrs. Hubbard had picked it up in the afternoon, then had fixed the rutabagas Dev said were a "must" to accompany the salmon poached in the driest and palest of sherries. The yellow turnip had never been a favorite with Cle because it was too smelly and strong. Baked in butter and lemon with coarse ground black pepper on the top, the vegetable had a mouth watering appeal for her now. The salad was endive and hard cooked egg with crumbled Roquefort, lightly coated with oil and vinegar.

  Cle was stubborn about the wines they drank, insisting the upstate New York champagne, brut blanc de blanc, was the equal of French. She was a staunch New Yorker. She gave a last adjustment to the centerpiece of tiny pink roses and baby's breath and sighed deeply.

  "Well, well, this is beautiful, darling. Are you going to seduce me?" Dev sauntered into the room, his long stride taking him to her side in an instant, his mouth a welcome pressure on hers. He reached around her into the ice bucket that stood next to his seat. "Ah, a very good year in New York, I know."

  "Of course. There are no bad years in New York," Cle shot back, knowing he expected it.

  He smiled down at her, his arm not releasing her as he lifted his head, a puzzled look crossing his face. "You know something smells just like Western Isle salmon. What is it?"

  "Western Isle salmon!" Cle was gleeful as she watched his face change. Taking his hand she pulled him from the dining room into the kitchen proudly lifting the lid on the simmering liquid. Then she shooed him out to pour the wine while she made the final preparations and served. They ate with gusto, their enjoyment of the food and one another complete.

  It was while they were having cheese and fruit that Cle broached the subject that had been gnawing at her. "Ah, Dev... What happened after I passed out? Was it awful for you?"

  "I thought we talked that all out this morning," Dev said, pouring Drambuie into many faceted crystal liqueur glasses.

  "Well, yes, we did some, but you didn't say what happened at that moment." She squirmed in her chair, not looking at him. "Was I sprawled all over the floor? Oh, Lord, Dev, I've never acted like that."

  He stood and came round to her, taking her hand to draw her to her feet, then leading her into the living room. When she protested that she wanted to clear things, he told her that they would do it together later. He pulled her down beside him on an overstuffed couch opposite its twin, also in the Wedge wood blue that was Cle's favorite color. "First of all, you didn't hit the floor. I caught you and before many people were aware of what happened I had taken you into an anteroom off the ballroom. Only Hopey was with me and he stayed just long enough to determine you weren't really ill. He made our excuses to guests and I brought you home." He leaned forward his mouth closing on her lower lip. "Stop chewing your lips that way. Only I can do that. Don't worry, I took you out of there through a cloakroom and down a back elevator to the underground garage."

  "Oh, Dev, you didn't carry me all that way! I'm too heavy." Cle was anguished, squirming as he laughed.

  "I think you were lighter when we first met. Now you're too contented. You're getting chubby."

  "Pig!" Cle squawked, throwing herself atop him as he lay back on the cushions, pummeling him as his laughter increased.

  They rolled off the couch, narrowly missing the tiny glasses of Drambuie as they continued to wrestle on the floor.

  Cle was triumphant when she managed to pin Dev to the carpet. She clambered fully on top of him, stretching her arms on his to hold him in place. Then she looked down at him. "Gotcha."

  "I surrender." Dev grinned up at her as his arms lifted hers in a slow backward movement. With no effort at all he freed his arms and clamped them around her. "Gotcha,
" he whispered, his one hand pulling her head down to his.

  "That's not fair. You tricked me." Cle couldn't stop giggling while she struggled against Dev's hold.

  "You know I'd do anything to hold you, angel," Dev drawled just before he fastened his mouth to hers and made her forget the hard glitter in his eyes when he spoke.

  "Dev, don't you want to listen to music?" Cle mumbled, her arms tightening on his neck.

  "Yes. You can sing to me while I make love to you," Dev muttered, frowning at the hook and eye fasteners on the punjabis. "Damn things! I'll rip them off you in another minute."

  "Don't you dare, Devon Charles Albert Eldred Carstairs! I love this outfit." Cle glared at him, pushing him to one side so that she could undo the fasteners herself.

  "Stop that," Dev said.

  "Stop what?" Cle moaned, tugging the silk shirt from the waistband of the matching pajama bottoms.

  "Stop calling me by my full name. You know that annoys me. Besides, you forgot to include the name Willett before Charles. My family would never forgive you for such an omission."

  "Your family would never forgive me anything." Cle gasped as his mouth sucked at her breast.

  "It's not my family that you need to please. It's me," he drawled, drawing back to stare at her breasts with a deep, satisfied look on his face.

  Though Cle could tell by the leaping green heat of his eyes that Dev was in the grip of the passion that always held both of them in thrall, she also knew that he would take his time looking at her as he always did. He made no secret of how he felt about her body. He gently tugged at the punjabi trousers, slowly drawing them down over her belly, thighs, knees...off completely. It was wildly erotic, as erotic as the way he began to stroke her from breast to thigh and back again. All the while he kept repeating, "Beautiful, beautiful."

  It still amazed Cle at how unselfconscious she was with Dev, how delighted she felt that her body pleased him. And just as wonderful to her was how Dev's body seemed ever new and marvelous to her. She knew she wasn't an expert on men's bodies, but she was convinced that no man could have a more perfect body than Dev.

  When the stroking hand took on a passionate tremor, Cle felt lost. Her own limbs seemed to be suffering from a bizarre heat that was melting them.

  "You're mine," Dev growled in her ear, his body contracting spasmodically as she caressed him, the tactile delight his body gave her making her purr like a cat.

  The mutterings of their love words increased as did the pace of their lovemaking. Then, deafened and blinded by their need for each other, their only awareness became the rhythm of their love. They moved in tandem, provoking and tantalizing one another, teasing and giving until they were frenzied and rushing to exquisite fulfillment.

  Slowly, ever so slowly, they subsided. They lay entwined and Cle felt awash in a blissful, golden afterglow. Much later Dev lifted her and carried her to their bed.

  Still held in his arms, Cle listened to the even tenor of his breathing as he slept beside her. Even his light snoring sounded like music to her and she snuggled closer to him. Dev. Even his name had charm, dignity, strength. He was all things good to her. She wanted all things good for him. Oh, they fought about some things. And Dev was certainly more possessive than she liked. That was surprising, Cle thought, lifting the hem of the silk sheet over Dev's shoulder. He hadn't appeared to be the possessive type when she first met him. On the contrary, his cynical attitude seemed to communicate a philosophy of taking pleasure where one could find it, going from woman to woman with the sure notion that variety could only be interesting.

  Cle smiled to herself in the dark as she remembered the day they had met in the salon. Jaime himself had been waiting on Lady Clare Wellington and had insisted that Cle do some of the modeling, since Lady Clare's coloring was close to Cle's own deep black hair and porcelain complexion.

  The obviously spoiled Lady Clare was with several friends who had always spent a great deal of money in Jaime's salon so the impromptu modeling of a few dresses turned into an almost complete show.

  The giggling remarks about her bony figure that one of the women made would have embarrassed Cle had not Jaime been so supportive. But it wasn't until Dev walked into the salon and sat down with his cousin Clare and her friends, three women and a man, that Cle felt a hot nervousness.

  Amy Worden, one of the black models, had hissed at her, gesturing her over to the curtain, then parting it just a fraction so that Cle could look out into the salon. To Cle's eyes Dev looked a bored, sophisticated, handsome man as she stared through the opening at him.

  "Doesn't he look like Burt Reynolds, Cle?" Amy whispered, her mouth close to Cle's ear.

  "He has more hair." Cle grinned at the other girl. "And smoother features."

  "Oh, Cle, you're hopeless!" Amy moaned. "Smooth features! Hair! Why any fool knows that Burt Reynolds could be shaved from the top of his head to the tips of his toes and he'd still have it.. .that special 'yum yum' only a few men have." Amy jerked her thumb at the curtain. "And that one out there has yum yum and he'd have it if he had no hair at all. Do you get me?"

  "Yes, I understand." Cle laughed at the other girl who was staring at her in a disgusted way. "But wait until you walk out on the runway and that 'Cecil darling' makes a funny remark just to make the ladies laugh, and you're the butt of the joke. You'll feel like dumping a cup of the fragrant tea they're drinking right on 'Cecil, darling's' head," Cle promised as her friend listened to Jaime's voice. Then Cle lifted her chin, assuming the modeling stance, and glided out to parade a strapless gown in white satin, reminiscent of the thirties. It had been the star attraction in Jaime's "Prohibition Collection." Jaime loved designing clothes typical of a particular era.

  The next dress Cle had modeled looked deceptively simple. It was a cocktail dress, the hem just touching the knee, and composed of yards and yards of deep pink silk. The bodice was tight above a swirling skirt. A flesh colored body stocking was worn under it and it looked perfectly respectable until Cle turned or moved in a fluid fashion. Then the skirt would flare out in puffs of silk revealing glimpses of what appeared to be Cle's nude body. It was provocative, expensive, and demanded a perfect figure to do it justice. Cle's body wasn't perfect.

  She was too thin, but she was tall, her breasts were firm and rounded, and she moved like seeping oil in an unstudied motion that was part of her and totally untaught. Her legs were long and slender with delicate ankles that belied the years of swimming she had done in high school and college.

  With the dress she wore black silk slings that cost more than her full month's salary. Her earrings were jet drops mounted in platinum, her hair had been twisted into a snake atop her head so that her slender neck and fine shoulder bones were delineated.

  When she heard Jaime give the signal, she slid around the curtain and took the first stance.

  Cle laughed to herself in the dark, still remembering the gasps of Lady Clare and her friends when she had twirled on the runway and "Cecil, darling" had gasped, "Good Lord, she's lovely!"

  Dev had said nothing but when she had twirled again, nearer the seated people, she noticed that, though he was still lounging in his chair, there was an electricity emanating from him. Cle was made very aware that she had his unqualified attention.

  She yawned and turned her face into his chest as she recalled how uncomfortable she began feeling after she had traveled the length of the runway twice. The mumblings and mutterings from Lady Clare and her friends were almost zero by the time Cle escaped through the curtain, but Dev's electric silence was a tangible thing.

  Even though she knew that Jaime would be angry with her she cajoled Amy and another model, Suzanne, to finish the show for her. She escaped back to her cubbyhole and began working on the sketches she had devised to show to Jaime, sketches that he might choose to use for part of his spring collection that year. Instead of the flowing lines of skirts, dresses, or suits, a man's face had appeared under her pencil. When she realized it was the same man w
ho had sat with Lady Clare and her friends, she had ripped the paper from the pad and crumpled it into the wastebasket.

  She was still holding her head in her hands sometime later when Jaime came to her workroom.

  "I should be very angry with you, Cleora. You know that I wanted you, not Suzanne, the finish to show." He lowered himself onto the corner of her tiny desk and reached a hand toward her worktable and drawing board. She thought he was about to pick up the sketches clipped to the top of the board when his supple fingers suddenly closed on her sketch pad.

  When Cle made a grab for the pad, he held it easily out of her reach.

  "What's this, my cool, cool Cleora? Drawing the clientele? Or just drawing the one?" Jaime's voice had an irritated twang to it. "Don't be too impressed by Lord Carstairs, Cle. Yes, I said Lord Carstairs, even though he has never used his title, it is still his. He is cousin to the charming Lady Clare Wellington and an international womanizer from what I hear," Jaime finished on a dry note. "With his money he can afford the 'best' of women, too."

  Cle didn't attempt to plumb her own dejection at Jaime's words. "You sound as if you were envious, Jaime."

  "Perhaps I am, a little." He shrugged, straightening from the desk and dropping the sketch he had torn from the pad into the wastebasket unaware of its counterpart all ready there. He leaned down to her, patting her cheek. "Still, I shouldn't complain. We sold five of the collection today including the Pink Moon cocktail dress you modeled." He turned to the door, then paused. "Bring those sketches to my studio tomorrow."

  Cle had been elated but not even her swelling, optimistic feelings had obscured the picture in her mind of the darkly handsome Lord Carstairs who never used his title. He had a magnetic field that had drawn her to him as though she were a metal shaving.

  She left the salon a little late that evening, knowing she would have to race for the bus that would take her across Manhattan to the Bronx. Her little apartment on the third floor of Mrs. Talasio's house was warm and cozy. The smells of southern Italian cooking rose from the kitchen into Cle's one room with bath and kitchenette.