Torn Asunder (16 page)

"No, my pet, I'm not leaving. I'm
not only not leaving your flat, I am not going to leave your side... ever
again." His tones had a slight slur but Cle knew he had a hard head and
that booze rarely bothered him.

"I'm not going to fight with you on
this. I'm going to bed. Just make sure you're out of here tomorrow."

"I bloody well won't leave,"
Dev grated out, then swung away striding toward the lounge and not looking
back.

Cle rushed to her
bedroom. She threw off her strapless cotton and headed for a cold shower.
Instead of singing in the shower, she shouted. "That man is impossible.
What does he want from me? I don't have to put up with this. I'll tip him out a
window!"

She slept
fitfully, having dreams about facing Dev in the bullring. No matter what she
did with her red cape, Dev always seemed to come crashing through the middle.

By the time she
woke up the next morning she had a giant headache. "How ironic," she
said aloud as she sat up in bed, holding her head. "You have a hangover
and you didn't drink." She swung her legs to the floor. "If Dev
doesn't have a hangover, I should hit him over the head just to get him started.
That war-like Limey is the cause of my headache." She was still muttering
as she put on a cool turquoise cotton scooped-necked dress that left her arms
bare. She wore flat-heeled sandals of natural rope and a natural rope shoulder
bag that was big enough to carry all she needed for a day at Max's salon.

To her surprise Dev was in the kitchen
drinking orange juice. A
Palm Beach
suit in champagne silk set off his deep tan. His face had a pallor and there
were lines under his eyes but he looked alert, cool, and successful.

"I thought you would be sound asleep
after your cuddle with the bottle," she said as she poured herself some
juice.

"Did
you?" Dev walked toward the doorway leading to the hall. "I have a
business dinner this evening so I won't be home until late."

"Fine."
Cle ground her teeth when she heard the front door slam. "Why didn't I
tell him to get lost? Why do I put up with him?" Because you love him, the
gleeful inner voice answered her. "How can I continue to love a man who
wants to take over all my life but not really want me in his?" He never
said that, the voice insisted. She felt as though someone had held a lit
cigarette to her skin.

She shut
everything else from her mind and went to work. The salon was teeming with
activity. Max had decided to whip his spring show—which would be like Jaime's
fall show—into shape early enough in the season so that he could eclipse some
of his rivals in design. Jaime had generously offered to help him.

When Cle was working in the big design
studio, bent over her drawing board, Jaime came to talk to her.

"Are you
angry with me, Cle?"

She looked up, smiling at his pixie face.
"No, I'm not angry with you, Jaime. I'm not angry with anyone, but I feel
drained and I've made up my mind that I'm not going to be pushed into another
situation like that if I can help it."

Jaime leaned over and kissed her cheek.
"I don't blame you." He squinted at her. "I think I remember
telling you that Carstairs was not good for you?"

"Please,
Jaime, let's not rehash. I'm not in the mood."

"Well, are you in the mood for
hearing that I'll be heading back to
New
York
in three days?"

She put down her sketching pen. "Not
because of what happened?"

"No, because I have a great deal of
work to do."

She smiled at
him.

"Cle, come
home if it gets too rough here. I'll take care of you. I want to do that. I've
wanted to do that for a long time. We work well together. We get along. You
don't have to stay here the full two years. Come home and I'll take care of
you."

She felt the sting of tears as Jaime put
his arm around her.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Cle
could never remember a time when she and Dev remained more silent with each
other. There had always seemed so much to say to one another that they would have
burst if they hadn't told one another. Now it was different. Neither would
speak unless it was absolutely necessary. Dev seemed to be gone more in the
evenings. Cle was both glad and furious when this happened. She tried to work
late as many nights as she could. Mornings she timed her breakfast so that
there would be the least chance of seeing him.

On
the day that Jaime returned to the
United States
, Cle went to the
airport with him, borrowing Max's gleaming Mercedes sedan to freight Jaime's
luggage.

"Come home with me, Cle," Jaime
urged, as he felt in his pockets for his passport, finally hauling it out to
show Cle. "See, I told you I hadn't forgotten

it." He put it away then looked at
her frowning. "Will you come home now?"

"No."
Cle smiled, feeling strained. "That would be leaving Max in the
lurch."

"Promise
me you'll come if Carstairs becomes more bothersome." He looked like a
petulant elf as Cle, listening to the announcement of the boarding for his
flight, pushed him toward the security area.

It
was no surprise to Cle that the alarm went off when Jaime tried to pass
through. What stiffened her spine and made her surge forward was when she saw
Jaime glare at the offending alarm, then swell with indignation when the girl
monitoring the equipment asked him to step back and be checked. Cle had visions
of him creating a real scene. Before he could let loose one of sarcastic fusillades,
Cle had him by his jacket and was yanking backwards even as his mouth was
opening.

He
turned to glare at her, smoothing down his silk jacket with one hand.
"Cle, my dear, you are in danger of becoming an aborigine. You had best
come home." His tones were frost.

"And
you are in danger of getting an Australian black eye if you act up. Now for
heaven's sake empty your pockets before you miss your flight!"

Jaime's
keys to his house and salon were the culprits. He was the last to board the
flight. Cle waited with held breath until takeoff, sure at every second that
Jaime would tell the pilot to wait just one moment while he gave one more
instruction to his assistant, Cle Orwell.

The
return ride to downtown
Sydney
from the airport would have been much sweeter if Cle had been more sure of
herself driving the big Mercedes. It took all her concentration to drive in the
heavy traffic, so she was unable to look at the sights again. She promised
herself a full tour of
Sydney
her first free moment. She could feel perspiration beading her lip by the time
she had parked the big sedan in the space marked "Brainerd" behind
the salon.

As
soon as she was at her desk, Max called and asked her to come to his conference
room right away. As she replaced the receiver, the phone rang again. "Cle
Orwell speaking."

"It's
Dev." His voice had a detached sound as though he was facing away from the
phone. "Some friends have arranged for us to attend the opera this
evening. I told them that I would have to check with you. Are you busy this
evening?" His voice was flat.

"Ah..
.1..." Cle wanted to give him a haughty no but the words wouldn't come.
"What is the work?"

"Madame
Butterfly. I know you like Puccini."

"Yes.
Yes I do...ah...I have a conference right away." She fumbled.

"All
right. I'll let you go and assume you want to come. Get home early. We are
invited for cocktails first. We'll have supper after the opera." Dev's
voice was abrupt, then there was a buzzing in Cle's ear. The connection was
broken.

If
she had had time to dwell on their conversation at all, she would probably have
rung him back and canceled. The first moment she had to go over it in her mind
was the end of the day after Max had dropped her in front of the apartment.

She
found herself laying out a rose-pink shirtwaist in silk. The severity of the
style was given drama by the color and the gold-studded buttons down the front.
The full skirt just touched her knee, the inverted pleats flaring whenever she
moved. She was putting in antique drop-style earrings when Dev knocked at her
door and opened it. She stared at him in the mirror, not moving or speaking.

"You
look lovely. Are you ready?" His eyes roved over her from the hot pink
peau de soie slings with the medium heel to her hair which she had coiled at
her neck, a pink bone spike shoved through the chignon.

"Yes."
She joined him then and they left the apartment.

"You
look like Madame Butterfly with your hair in that style and with the pink
needle through it."

"I
have no intention of committing hara-kiri," Cle murmured as they descended
in the elevator.

"I
wouldn't let you." His voice held the same coolness as hers.

As
he handed her into the car she couldn't stop the shiver that ran through her.
If it took a thousand years, she would free herself from his hold, that
emotional, spiritual upheaval she felt whenever she was near him, whenever he
spoke to her.

The
Porsche purred through the traffic and Cle envied how easily Dev handled the
press of cars.

She
cleared her throat. "Do I know the people who are attending the opera with
us?"

"No,
but I think you've heard me speak of Cubby Willson. He and I have been friends
since
Harrow
."

She
turned to look at him. "Oh, these aren't lawyers from a—"

"No."
Dev interrupted her. "No lawyers this evening. There will be eight of us.
Cubby and Lucille I know, of course. I've been in touch with them since I
landed in
Australia
.
I think Harry Blake will be here as well. Harry and I go way back. I, know his
wife slightly. The other couple are Australian friends of Cubby and
Lucille."

"Oh."
Cle felt flustered. She had armed herself against lawyers. She would have to
rearm against these people. It would be harder. They all knew Dev, knew his
background.

"Now
don't start making a big thing out of this." His hand moved and rested on
her knee. In the old days they had often driven this way. He had never seemed
to be able to be with her without touching her. She knew he was only trying to
comfort her but she felt tongue-tied because of the first bodily contact she
had had with him in days and days.

The
house was a stone building, squarish and solid. Before Cle could properly study
the profusion of flowers and climbing shrubs around it, the door was open and a
barrel-chested man, blond and balding, rushed through the door enveloping Dev
in a bear hug.

"Finally,
you old dog." The man pounded Dev on the back. "Good to see
you." He stood back from a grinning Dev, still holding him by the
shoulders. Dev was only slightly taller than the sandy browed giant with the
pale brown eyes. "Where's your paunch, old man? Lord, will you look at mine?
You would think I had the children, not Lucille."

"You
look as good as when we played rugger together," Dev answered, his laugh
wide, emphasizing the tiny dimples that were at each corner of his mouth. It
was so long since she had seen them she felt mesmerized by them.

All
at once she felt herself lifted past Dev, so that she was eye level with the
chuckling Cubby. "I thought Englishmen were restrained," she gasped,
laughing.

"Not
Yorkshiremen," Cubby stated then gave her a big kiss full on the mouth.
"So you are Cle, the beautiful Cle who has knocked Devon Carstairs out of
his Italian moccasins. You are gorgeous. Come along. You have to meet Lucille
who is eaten up with curiosity to see the woman who snagged
Devon-the-Devil-with-Women." Cubby finally set her down after Dev untwined
his friend from her. Still he managed to put one arm around her as he was
leading her into the house. "That's what he was called at school,"
Cubby announced, smiling hugely when his friend told him to shut up.

She
felt as though she was swept into the room on the heels of a hurricane as Cubby
announced to everyone that Cle was here.

A
tiny doll-like creature with carrot-red curls all over her head came up to Cle,
arms outstretched. "I'm Lucille Willson and I'm married to that tropical storm."
She turned- from Cle to embrace Dev.