by Penny Jordan
Re-read this classic romance by New York Times bestselling author Penny Jordan
Playboy millionaire Simon Herries is willing to go to drastic measures to stop India Lawson’s quest to steal a married friend from his wife—little knowing that he’s jumped to all the wrong conclusions!
Dress designer India is far more innocent than Simon believes, but that won’t save her once the ruthless businessman decides there’s only one way to bring the wayward beauty to heel…stealing her for himself!
Originally published in 1982
An Unbroken Marriage
Penny Jordan
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ONE
‘MELISANDE’S here—and you should see the man she’s got with her!’ Jennifer Knowles announced, walking into her employer’s work-room and rolling her eyes expressively. ‘Gorgeous—and rich too, by the looks of him. Well, if he’s Melisande’s latest, he’ll need to be, won’t he?’ she added forthrightly. ‘I didn’t realise we had anything in hand for her. What is it, there’s nothing in the book.’ She frowned a little as she studied the leather-bound book India used to book in and chart the progress of her orders. ‘We finished the black silk last week.’
‘Umm,’ India Lawson agreed, removing half a dozen pins from her mouth and studying the pink silk blouse she was working on. ‘She’s been invited to a Charity Ball—she rang me yesterday and asked if we could make something for her in a hurry.’
‘Provided you let her have it at next to no cost,’ Jennifer added caustically. ‘Honestly, she’s the limit! She must be earning a fortune from that part she landed in Evergreen. It’s been running for six months now, and there’s no sign of bookings dropping—I know, I tried to get seats for my mother and sister for next weekend.’
India smiled. ‘Well, don’t forget that simply by wearing our clothes Melisande is doing an excellent public relations job for us.’
‘You’re far too easygoing,’ Jennifer scolded. ‘I don’t know how you do it, and you with auburn hair as well.’
India laughed. ‘Tell Melisande I’ll be with her in five minutes, would you Jen—oh, and offer her…’ She had been about to say a ‘cup of coffee’, but changed her mind, remembering her secretary’s description of the actress’s companion. ‘Offer them a glass of sherry,’ she corrected. ‘I can’t leave this blouse until I get these tucks right. I promised Lady Danvers that I’d have it ready for the weekend.’
The expressive line of Jennifer’s departing back said what she thought of the way India, as she put it, ‘pandered’ to her clients’ wishes, but then she did not have the responsibility of a business resting on her shoulders, India reflected.
Of course she enjoyed being her own boss, it had been her ambition since the Fifth Form at school when she had spent her Saturday mornings studying the shoppers in their often drab and ill-fitting clothes mentally re-clothing them in her own designs.
Not that it had been easy, but then those things really worth having rarely were, she decided. She had spent three years at art college, followed by another three in Paris working in a very lowly capacity for one of the well-known couturiers. After that there had been a spell on the buying side, learning about merchandising, stocking control, and a whole host of other vitally important things which sometimes got overlooked—to their cost—by those who thought ‘artistic’ genius enough to guarantee them success.
And it had all paid off. A small legacy from a great-uncle had provided her with enough capital to risk going it alone. To her delight her first very limited range of skirts and blouses had sold, enabling her to take the risk of leasing more expensive premises close enough to the heart of London to be called ‘exclusive’, and now she numbered among her clientele enough socially-conscious women for her designs to be becoming featured in glossy magazines and society columns.
Even so, it paid to keep one’s feet on the ground, which was why India made no demur when women such as Melisande Blake, a well-known actress, insisted on being given a ‘discount’ on clothes which they were going to wear in public.
India smiled wryly as she put the blouse aside and stood up, studying her reflection in the small mirror behind her desk. So Jennifer thought she didn’t have a temper. If only she knew! It was not so much that she didn’t have one; more that over the years she had learned for her own sake to keep it strictly under control, although even now there were occasions when it suddenly and unexpectedly flared into all-consuming life.
Having checked that there were no threads clinging to her grey flannel skirt, India gave her reflection a final cursory glance before walking towards the door.
A short corridor linked the workrooms to the salon proper and when she opened the connecting door the first person she saw was the man whom her secretary had described as ‘gorgeous’. She hadn’t lied, India acknowledged, schooling her features into a professional smile, while inwardly noting the expensive cut of the pearl grey suit, the toning silk shirt and tie, the well manicured but entirely masculine hands, deeply tanned even though it was March, thick dark hair curling over his collar, his eyes a disturbing, hard grey.
‘India darling!’ Melisande greeted her in her husky, carrying voice. ‘You’ve saved my life! Do show me what you have in mind. It must be something special—very special. If Simon likes it he’s promised to buy me another. Will he like it?’ she asked, adding mockingly, ‘Really, darling, isn’t it time you stopped wearing that frightful schoolgirl outfit? No one looking at you would have the faintest idea that you design the most incredibly sexy dresses!’
India thought she had been quite successful in hiding her reaction to hearing her clothes described in such a fashion until she glanced up and found Melisande’s companion watching her with mocking comprehension.
‘Oh, I haven’t introduced you, have I?’ the actress said. ‘Simon darling, this is India, she really is the cleverest thing. India, meet Simon Herries—you must have read about him in the gossip columns.’
‘I have, and in the financial press.’ India agreed lightly, conscious of the sudden alertness in Simon Herries’ expression.
‘You take a keen interest in the world of big business, then?’
Gritting her teeth at the condescending tone, India replied lightly, ‘Of course—what female doesn’t in one form or another?’
She could tell from his expression that her barb had found its mark. He was far too intelligent to have imagined that Melisande’s interest in him was purely altruistic, but, India thought shrewdly, he was attractive enough for it to wound his vanity to be told that others were aware of the fact too.
She had known Melisande for several years, and while the actress made no secret of the fact that she expected her escorts to be presentable and sexually attractive, she also expected them to be wealthy enough to afford her.
India watched her, aware of the contrast they must present. Melisande, small, barely five foot three, with fair, almost silver hair, and prettily feminine features—the archetype of female beauty, while she…. She wrinkled her nose slightly. She was tall, five eight in her stockinged feet; her hair, as Jenny had remarked, was a deep, intense auburn, saved from being unkindly described as ‘red’ by rich russet undertones; her green eyes set slightly aslant beneath well defined eyebrows, only her vulnerably full mouth betraying the fact that she was less self-possessed than first appeared.
She knew that Simon Herries was watching her, and she strived to fight off the inclination to
return his look. She could almost feel his eyes sliding down her body, resting on the unexpectedly full curves of her breasts, the slimness of her waist, and the slender length of her legs.
His eyes rested on her legs for several seconds, a thoughtful, appraising look in them when he finally raised them to India’s faintly flushed face.
‘Quite an enigma,’ he remarked softly. ‘Prissy blouse, schoolgirl skirt and silk stockings.’
‘It isn’t meant to be,’ India assured him with a calmness she was far from feeling—there had been something in the look he had given her which had sent vague frissons of awareness running down her spine. It wasn’t unusual for her clients to bring men along with them—sometimes to pay, sometimes merely to approve, and she was used to the flirtatious, sometimes almost offensive comments some of them made, but this was something different; something alien and almost frightening; an absurd awareness of her own femininity which had nothing to do with the conversation and everything to do with the way had looked at her, and how her body had reacted to it.
‘Oh, India is far from prissy, as I have very good reason to know,’ Melisande remarked archly. ‘I happen to know that she has a very charming and extremely wealthy boy-friend. In fact she brought him to my last party, didn’t you, darling? Melford Taylor,’ she added for Simon Herries’ benefit, mentioning the name of a well-known financier.
Although India wasn’t looking at him, she could feel Simon Herries appraising the salon with fresh eyes. It was decorated in white and gold with touches of green, sharp and fresh, and yet with an unmistakable richness. India had designed it herself, and the alterations and decorations had been carried out by a small firm specialising in stage settings. With ingenuity and flair the work had cost very little in terms of actual money, and India had repaid the help she had had from her friends by recommending them whenever she could. Some of the stage settings for Melisande’s latest play had been designed by them, but because she very rarely allowed her private and business lives to mingle she doubted if Melisande was even aware that she knew them. She had only attended the party Melisande had mentioned because the actress had insisted upon it, and yet India could tell that Simon Herries was assessing the cost of the salon; that he could probably gauge the rental on it to the nearest pound, and was quite obviously thinking that Mel had paid for it.
India was no naïve young girl. She was twenty-five and had lived alone since the death of her parents when she was twenty. She was perfectly well aware of the moral code prevailing in the circles in which Melisande and presumably Simon Herries himself moved; and the conclusions he had undoubtedly drawn from Melisande’s reference to Mel, and she longed to refute them. She and she alone was responsible for her success. She had received no financial ‘help’ or reward from other people, and she bitterly resented the implication that she was the sort of woman who chose the men in her life for what she could gain from the relationship.
Which was quite ridiculous, she told herself as she went to unlock the discreetly concealed floor-to-ceiling cupboards in which she kept completed orders. Why should it matter to her if Simon Herries judged her as he himself was no doubt quite happy to be judged? Her relationship with Melford Taylor was her own business and no one else’s. Except of course that Mel happened to be married, she reminded herself wryly, as she removed the pale blue satin dress from its hanger.
‘I love the colour,’ Melisande enthused. ‘Darling, I really must insist that you design my wardrobe for my next role. You know I’ve landed the female lead in The Musgraves?’
India inclined her head in acknowledgment.
‘It was Simon who clinched things for me really,’ Melisande added, scarlet-tipped nails almost stroking the grey-suited arm resting on the chair next to her own. ‘He has extensive interests in commercial TV.’
‘Really?’
India was not aware quite how dampening she had made the word sound until she looked up and caught the grey eyes watching her with curt anger. She had already heard that Melisande had got the main role in the proposed new TV blockbuster series, but stage costume designing was unfamiliar territory to her, and while she appreciated Melisande’s faith in her, she felt that she had more than enough on her hands with the salon. The sudden boom in ‘high living’ had meant that she had had to take on extra staff to cope with the orders as it was, and she was cautious about who she employed.
‘I’m sure he’ll put in a good word for you with the studio bosses,’ Melisande said.
‘I’m sure Miss Lawson doesn’t need me to help her, not with Melford Taylor as her… backer.’
Fighting down the sudden surge of anger which had almost taken her unawares, India turned her back on him, glad of the excuse of suggesting to Melisande that she help her with the dress. It was years since she had felt such an almost immediate antipathy towards someone, even given that she was being quite deliberately needled. And why, she could not imagine! Even if she were Mel’s mistress, to use an outdated word, what possible business was it of Simon Herries?
In the fitting room she helped Melisande on with the blue satin. The bodice was cleverly draped to flatter the actress’s figure, with the pencil-slim skirt which India knew she favoured.
‘It’s gorgeous!’ Melisande pronounced when she had finished studying her reflection.
‘The hem has to be finished and one or two other little things done, but you’ll have it tomorrow,’ India promised.
She could hear her private phone ringing and sighed, knowing that it would be Mel. She had told him last weekend that there was no future in their relationship. She liked him; he had a good sense of humour and was a pleasant, undemanding companion, but as she had pointed out to him, he was a married man.
Hadn’t she heard of divorce? Mel had asked her quizzically, but India had cut him short. He had, as she knew, two small children, and even if she had been in love with him, which she wasn’t, she doubted if she could have brought herself to be the one responsible for depriving them of their father. The reason was quite simple; during her own childhood her father had had an affair with another woman. It had lasted about a year. India had been twelve at the time, a very impressionable age. She had known that something was wrong. Her mother and father never seemed to laugh any more, and she had caught her mother crying. It hadn’t been long before an older, more knowing child at school had enlightened her. She could remember quite vividly the sickness which had overwhelmed her; the need to be alone, to be assured that what she had heard wasn’t true. She had gone home and poured out the whole thing to her mother. It was true, her mother had explained, but that didn’t mean Daddy no longer loved her. He did, very much.
Her mother had been extremely courageous, India reflected, thinking about that time now. It couldn’t have been easy, trying not to let her own doubts and bitterness affect India’s relationship with her father, but somehow she had succeeded, and been rewarded, when eventually the affair had fizzled out. Afterwards neither of her parents made any reference to what had happened, and to all intents and purposes lived quite amicably together, but the experience had changed India, made her question life and love far more deeply than most girls of her age, and although she was reluctant to admit it, had made her wary and mistrustful, unconsciously unwilling to commit herself to any deep emotional involvement with a man so that somehow, at twenty-five she had emerged from her teens and early twenties without the sexual and emotional experience most girls of her age took for granted.
When they returned to the salon Simon Herries was studying a seascape hanging on one of the walls. India’s father had painted it before his death, and it depicted the view from their Cornish home on the cliffs high above the Atlantic. It was from her father that she had inherited the ambition which had made her successful, India acknowledged. He had been a civil engineer before his retirement, often working abroad. She herself had been conceived during a brief visit her mother had paid him when he was working on a contract in India—hence her unusual name.
&
nbsp; ‘Cornwall?’ he commented to India without lifting his eyes.
‘Yes.’
‘Your secretary came to look for you. She asked me to tell you that there’d been a call for you. Said you’d know who it was from.’ This time he did look at her. ‘It can’t be easy, conducting an affair with a married man. You’re to be congratulated. You’ve obviously been very discreet.’
He made it sound on a par with earning a living as a prostitute! Even Melisande caught the contemptuous undertone and frowned slightly.
‘Oh, really, darling,’ she protested, ‘aren’t you being just the tiniest bit old-fashioned? Extra-marital affairs are the norm these days. Be honest now, if you were married could you see yourself being faithful for the rest of your life? No, I think India has the right idea. Far better to be independent; to have a lover rather than a husband. You will make sure the dress is sent round tomorrow, won’t you?’ she asked India as Simon Herries helped her on with her fox jacket. ‘Simon is taking me to the charity do at the Dorchester and I want to look my best.’
India walked with them to the door. Melisande kissed her on the cheek; she half extended her hand expecting Simon Herries to shake it formally, but to her chagrin he ignored her hand, instead glancing curtly down the length of her body, before following Melisande out to the sleek dark green Ferrari parked outside the salon.
‘Umm, I wish I could find myself someone like that,’ Jennifer commented dreamily, unashamedly watching them depart. ‘Fantastic looks, money—and I’ll bet he rates ten out of ten as a lover as well!’
‘You’d probably be very disappointed,’ India said briefly.
‘You reckon?’
Something in her expression made Jennifer frown. ‘He really got to you, didn’t he?’ she said slowly. ‘I’ve never known you to lose your sense of humour like this before, and God knows we’ve had them all in here. What happened, did he make a pass at you when Melisande wasn’t looking?’
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