Diamond Spur

by Diana Palmer

  He felt used. Damn women everywhere, he thought bitterly as he looked down at Kate’s bent head. Damn them! And damn her most of all.

  He turned on his heel without a single word and climbed in the Bronco. He gunned it out into the road, and he never looked back. Not once.

  Kate, watching him go, was grateful that she’d managed to set him off and make him leave so quickly. Tears were pouring down her cheeks. Another few seconds, and she’d have blurted out the truth. That he was all she wanted, ever. That a career would always be second to what she really wanted—making a home for him, and giving him the children Melody didn’t want to give him.

  She turned back into the house, broken sobs racking her. She didn’t hear the Bronco stop just down the road, or see the hard-faced man sitting in it look back with tormented eyes in a face like broken stone. She didn’t hear his soft, agonized “Kate!” or hear the faint break in his voice that not one other human being had ever heard, or ever would. She’d never know how close he came in that instant to turning the Bronco around and going back to force her to marry him. Because after a minute, he regained his pride and pulled away, smoking a cigarette as he drove back toward the Diamond Spur. In all his life, he’d never felt so empty, or so determined that Kate would never get past his defenses a second time. She didn’t want him. All right. Let her have her career. He didn’t want her. He whipped the Bronco out onto the main highway, and left skid marks behind him.

  Inside the house, Kate was doing some hard thinking, now that her mind was firmly back in control again. Well, she’d done it now. She was no longer a virgin. She’d given him her body, without asking for anything, and he’d taken it. He’d taken her all the way to heaven. But despite the tenderness and the pleasure, it was still just sex. Just a mutual physical sharing.

  She went back into the house and closed the door. She wondered if she’d ever be able to look at that sofa and rug again without seeing herself nude on them. She felt guilty and shamed and vaguely sick at what she’d done. All her noble motives went up in smoke the minute her clothes and principles were back in place. So much for free sex, she thought with a faintly hysterical laugh. It wasn’t free. It came with a price tag of guilt and shame and self-contempt, unless it was done with love on both sides. What a pity, she thought miserably, that she’d had to learn that lesson in such a hard manner.

  It got harder, too. Jason went to Australia, and he was gone six weeks, not five. And Kate’s period didn’t start. But morning sickness did.

  Chapter Ten

  August slid into September, and with barely six weeks before market week in New York, Kate pushed herself to the limit to finish her collection. As each piece was painstakingly draped in muslin, and then sewn and tried on and adjusted and revised if necessary before it went into the next stage of development, she watched her ideas turn into moderately priced women’s casual clothes. A buyer from one of the companies that did business with Clayborn came by to look over those designs, and was so impressed with them that he put in an advance order for a record number of them.

  Kate was over the moon. Especially when Mr. Rogers told her that the move was unprecedented by that particular buyer. He beamed, and so did Kate and the design staff. Then came the most exciting news of all. One of their publicists from New York was coming out to interview Kate and get some preliminary shots of the collection for a press kit to be handed out during market week, and in the various merchandise marts. It might even make the pages of Women’s Wear Daily and Apparel South!

  So much was going on that Kate was able to ward off thoughts of Jason. During the daytime, anyway. She worked herself to exhaustion. But at night, the memories haunted her, sweet and sensuous. She could feel Jason’s hard mouth on her body, taste him on her lips. And at those times, her heart would ache and tears would sting her eyes.

  It was for the best, she kept telling herself. Of course it was. He didn’t want commitment, and neither did she. She had a career to think about, she was going to be famous and rich. Unfortunately, a lot of hard work went with those things, and she began to realize that a career was going to rob her of any kind of normal lifestyle. She got up early and went to bed late, always thinking of new ideas, always designing. She did cost estimates on the backs of envelopes, because production costs were the bottom line of any collection in a manufacturing company’s budget. She thought about threads and closures and trim while she ate. And always in the background was the memory of sewing on the line, which was an eternal threat if her collection didn’t market well. She might have talent, but so did thousands of other designers. It took a unique eye toward trends and color and style to make a great designer. It took an understanding of world politics and world economy, because those things influenced fashion. Bad economy made popular a simple black dress because it could be worn more than one season. A focus on military affairs could produce a camouflage phase, or a focus on a certain country could influence bits and pieces of fashion from it. It was difficult to forecast trends, and there were people who got paid to do nothing else. But a good designer, with the proper training, would have a flair for it. Kate only hoped hers would suffice.

  The fashion reporter, who was on the staff of Clayborn’s New York office, found Kate’s accent fascinating and kept her talking over three cups of coffee.

  “And you’ve been sewing on the pants line all this time, imagine,” Roberta Kowalsky sighed. She was petite and dark and elegant, and Kate liked her immediately. “Well, tell me about your background.”

  Kate told her as much as possible without a single mention of Jason or the Diamond Spur, except to say that her father had worked for it.

  “Yes, I know Jason,” Roberta said surprisingly. “I met him at a cocktail party in Manhattan. He used to date one of the models I knew. A dish, a real dish. She got a film offer, and now she’s making movies in Great Britain. She married a lord or a baronet, or some such royalty, and they have a little girl. What was her name,” she mused, while Kate held her breath. “Oh, yes. Melody. Melody Jones.”

  “I’ve heard of her,” Kate said, her voice unnaturally husky.

  “We all thought she’d marry Jason,” Roberta sighed. “But I guess no mere rich man could hold a candle to her film aspirations. And she’s really very good. I hear her latest film may get an Academy Award nomination next year.”

  “Good for her,” Kate said.

  “Yes. I like a success story. Like yours,” she added with a smile. “Say, how would you like to fly up to New York with me and see the preparations for market week? You can meet our house model and some of the design staff and get acquainted. And I can photograph you all over Manhattan. It will make a great layout.”

  “I don’t know,” Kate hesitated. She tired easily these days, and she still had a lot of work to do.

  “Just for the weekend,” Roberta promised. “Come on. I’ll get the tickets, make reservations for the hotel room, and shepherd you all over town. You’ll love it.”

  Kate sighed. “Okay.” She grinned.

  “Good girl!”

  It was all arranged in no time. Kate wore one of her own embroidered denim outfits, a full circle skirt with a slinky cowl blouse and an open vest, and carried only some casual things. She had no dressy dress except for the black crepe disaster, and she wasn’t wearing that to New York to be laughed at. Besides, Roberta had promised her the loan of an original design from one of their own staff.

  “Take care of yourself up there,” Mary sighed as she told Kate good-bye in the San Antonio airport. Mr. Rogers had driven them there, and Roberta was waiting to accompany her.

  “I’ll be fine,” Kate told her mother. She bent and kissed Mary’s cheek. “Lock the doors at night. I’ll phone you when I get checked into my hotel, okay?”

  “Okay, darling.” She hugged Kate once more and reluctantly said good-bye, watching her daughter disappear through the funny box beside the conveyer belt. Mary had never flown, and distrusted airplanes. But Mr. Rogers had promised that
Kate would be well looked after.

  Kate hadn’t ever flown before, either, and her stomach felt distinctly queasy as she eased into the first-class seat beside Roberta when their flight was called.

  “Want anything to drink?” Roberta asked her as the plane taxied out to the runway minutes later.

  Kate felt sick. “No. Thank you.”

  “It might calm your stomach.” Roberta grinned. “But if you’d rather not, they might have some milk or an antacid.”

  “It’s all right,” Kate groaned. “I’ll be fine.”

  But she didn’t feel fine. They taxied onto the runway and the plane shot up into the sky, leaving Kate’s stomach behind. It felt like one of those space movies, where spaceships were launched and the pilots looked sick. That was how Kate felt. Her head was swimming and she wished she could find a wet cloth.

  “Are you okay?” Roberta asked.

  “Fine. Just a little nauseated,” Kate whispered, leaning back with her eyes closed.

  “How about a cold cloth?” the stewardess asked gently. “I’ll bring you one, and some cracked ice.”

  “Thank you,” Kate said, and had never meant the words more.

  “Don’t worry. Lots of people get sick the first time they fly,” Roberta said comfortingly. She patted Kate’s hand.

  But Kate wasn’t prone to motion sickness. It had been over a month since Jason had made love to her, and her period hadn’t started. She’d assumed that it was emotional upset, because of all the pressure, that had made her late. But this sickness that came so suddenly so often, her paleness, and the ease with which she tired were adding up to lullabies.

  “We’ll be there before you know it,” Roberta assured her. She ordered a gin and tonic with her lunch. Kate drank one cup of black coffee and prayed for the plane to land.

  It did, hours later, and then came the long walk from the terminal to the main building, the longer wait at the baggage claim, and then the wait for a taxi into the city.

  By the time they weaved over bridges, through tunnels and city traffic, past graffiti-sprayed walls and down wide, crowded streets to the hotel, Kate was ready to throw up her hands and jump in the river. She couldn’t remember a time in her life when she’d felt worse.

  But oddly enough, it wasn’t her possible pregnancy that disturbed her the most. It was how she was going to conceal it from her mother and Jason, if it really was pregnancy. She knew she wasn’t going to have anything done about it. She’d wanted babies as long as she could remember. And Jason’s, despite their parting, would be a dream come true. She loved him so much. If she never saw him again, that would never end. A baby would be a part of him that she could keep and love and take care of. A little boy with dark hair and dark eyes….

  “Here we are,” Roberta said brightly as the cab stopped in front of a huge Madison Avenue hotel.

  “Wow,” Kate sighed.

  “It’s the best. But so are you, kid.” Roberta grinned. She paid the driver, who set their luggage out on the sidewalk for the hotel bellboy to pick up.

  “I’ve never been in a hotel before,” Kate whispered.

  “Don’t worry. Think of it as a restaurant with rooms. This one has a reputation for its Cajun cooking. You’ll love it!”

  Kate followed Roberta through carpeted space under crystal chandeliers to a desk where no one seemed to be a native American. Everyone had an accent, and Kate couldn’t understand a word they said. On the other hand, she was just as unintelligible to them with her Texas drawl. The bell captain came for the bags and motioned the women to follow them, adding something that went right over Kate’s head.

  “I’ll translate for you,” Roberta chuckled as she put Kate into the elevator and pushed the tenth floor button.

  “Nobody’s from here,” she wailed. “And you’ll be gone. They’ll never understand me.”

  “I’ll take good care of you, Kate, my friend. You just leave it all to me. Here.” She motioned Kate out of the elevator behind the bell captain, who stopped in front of one of the doors and held out his hand with a smile.

  Roberta put the key into it. As he opened the door into the room, Kate caught her breath at the splendor of it. It was as nice as Jason’s house on the inside.

  “Like it?” Roberta asked, smiling at Kate’s fascination. “Thanks,” she told the bell captain, tipping him after he’d opened the curtains and turned the lights on.

  After he left, Kate kicked off her shoes and looked out at the city with its endless traffic, horns, and sirens. Far away she spotted the river, and down below people scurried past like colorful ants.

  “Everybody in the country must live here,” Kate mused.

  “Half of it, anyway. If you’ll be all right for a while, I’ll dash home and put up my stuff and check my messages. Then I’ll come back for you and take you over to my office. Since it’s Friday, there will still be some staff there. You can meet people.”

  “I’d like that,” Kate sighed.

  “Okay. Just relax.”

  “I’ll do that, all right.” Kate let her out, locked the door, and collapsed on the bed. She was asleep almost instantly.

  A loud knocking at the door awakened her. She got up, stopping suddenly at the taste of nausea, then put her feet on the floor.

  “I’m coming,” she called.

  She opened the door and there was Roberta, glaring at her. “Never open the door until you look through the peephole,” she was cautioned. “This is the city, not rural Texas.”

  “I’ll remember. Lord, I feel green,” she murmured, and weaved toward the bathroom.

  “You must have eaten something that didn’t agree. Here, I’ve got an antacid. Try this.” She handed Kate a pill. Kate took it, certain that an antacid wouldn’t harm her even if she was pregnant. It did seem to help.

  She bathed her face and went back into the room, where Roberta was talking to someone on the phone.

  “I called your mother,” she explained, handing out the receiver with a grin. “Want to tell her you’re okay?”

  “I think I’d better,” Kate said sheepishly. “I went to sleep.” She took the receiver. “Hi, Mom.”

  “What’s this about being nauseated?” she was asked immediately. “You haven’t picked up any of those viral things, have you?”

  “I don’t know,” Kate replied. “I’ve been feeling pretty off-color lately. I think it’s the pressure.”

  “I’m not surprised, the way you’ve pushed yourself. Was the trip all right?”

  “It was fine. I’ll be back Sunday afternoon. Are you sure you don’t mind that drive to pick me up?”

  “Not one bit,” she assured Kate. “You have fun.”

  “I’ll try. I’ll bring you back a present,” she promised.

  “No, you don’t. You spend your money on yourself. I don’t need anything.”

  Kate smiled. “Okay.” But she knew she would. She always brought Mary something, even if she just went into San Frio shopping.

  “Okay. Be good. I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Mama,” she said gently. “Good night.”

  She put the receiver down with a sigh. “What do we do now?”

  “We travel,” Roberta laughed. She was wearing a neat blue business suit with epaulets, which had been designed by one of the staff.

  The office was on Seventh Avenue, the heart of the textile district. Kate saw men moving racks of clothing along the sidewalk, trucks loading and unloading, the logos of manufacturing companies everywhere. They came to a building that boasted Clayborn’s logo, and Kate felt a surge of pride.

  “That’s us!” she enthused.

  “You bet, that’s us.” Roberta led her into another elevator—there seemed to be nothing else in this city—and they went up to the offices.

  It was a lot like the company back home, except that everyone dressed to the hilt. One woman particularly caught Kate’s eye—a black woman with elegant carriage, and the look of royalty.

  “Who is she?
” Kate asked Roberta. “She’s beautiful.”

  The black woman heard her and turned, her chin at an arrogant angle.

  “I’m sorry,” Kate flushed. “But you carry yourself so well…most people slouch.”

  “I never slouch,” the woman said with a faint Southern accent. She looked Kate up and down, and she didn’t smile. “That’s very nice,” she said. “You designed it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You must be the Texas girl.”

  “Not girl. Designer,” Roberta said shortly. She glared at the woman, who averted her eyes and went back to work. “Don’t mind Clarisse,” she told Kate. “She thinks she’s God’s sister.”

  Kate wasn’t listening. She was watching the woman’s back stiffen, even though she didn’t reply or even turn her head. There was pain in that exquisite carriage, and more than a little fear. Odd, when the woman was so lovely.

  “This is Bates. She’s our head designer,” Roberta indicated a heavyset woman of fifty or so with black hair, snapping eyes, and a ready smile. “And these are the other girls.” She introduced at least six more women, whose names went right past Kate. “And Clarisse LeBon, you met,” Roberta added, indicating the black woman who was standing apart from the others, putting trim on a dress that graced a fitting form.

  Kate went through the motions. She talked to the women and made modest noises when they spoke favorably about her own designs. She toured the office and looked at their own sketches and sample garments for the coming shows. It was no surprise at all to discover that Clarisse was the house model.

  “She doubles as receptionist and secretary during slow seasons,” Roberta told her, glaring toward the black woman. “If she’d unbend a little, she might go further. I hear she has design ambitions of her own, but she’ll never get a chance with her nose in the air. She’s been here three months and none of us like her.”