Eclipse Of The Heart Read online

  From Back Cover…

  Was he pursuing her for amusement?

  As far as Lorna was concerned, if Alex Kendall didn't consider her sister good enough to marry his cousin, then he certainly wouldn't find Lorna worthy of the family name, either.

  Lorna reproached him for his life-style, his reputation and especially for his arrogant refusal to take no for an answer. She needed more from a man than to top his list of temporary amusements. And she told him so in no uncertain terms.

  "What a marvellous woman you are." His response held no apology. "I'm falling more madly in love with you every minute."

  Excerpt…

  "Come on, you lovely girl, there's no need for tears."

  Alex passed her a handkerchief. "I've known some women to cry at the end of a love affair," he continued wryly, "but not before it's even started!"

  "I don't want an affair with you!" Lorna blew her nose fiercely and tried to stop her hands from shaking.

  "Oh yes, you do."

  The calm certainty in his voice brought a rising tide of anger to Lorna's aid. Jumping to her feet, she tossed back her hair and glared at him. "One fine day, Lord Kendall, it's going to dawn on you that you aren't God's gift to women. I hope you manage to survive the shock!"

  "Bravo!" Alex exclaimed. "But you really must learn to stop fighting both me and you, Lorna. We'll be a lot happier if you do."

  Eclipse Of The Heart

  by

  Mary Lyons

  CHAPTER ONE

  OUTSIDE, in the courtyard of the Louvre Palace, gusts of wind and rain buffeted the canvas walls of the large marquees, while inside one of the huge tents, crammed full to overflowing, the sheer volume of noise was deafening. As the models strode swiftly up and down the raised catwalk the crowd shouted their approval of the clothes being displayed, their applause vying with the music blaring forth from the loud speakers and muffling the screamed instructions from the hard-eyed fashion editors who were trying to direct their photographers clustered around the platform. Suddenly the lights dimmed, leaving only a blue spotlight to illuminate a tall, slim figure modelling Leo Mondrain's final design: the bridal gown which traditionally concluded most of the Paris Ready to Wear collections.

  Gliding slowly down the catwalk to the strains of the wedding march from Lohengrin, Lorna tried to keep her eyes from blinking at the flash of the photographer's bulbs, staring out beyond the serried ranks to some imaginary spot on the far wall of the marquee. The heat and noise were so mind-shattering, it was proving difficult to concentrate on her role: that of interpreting Mondrain's creation so successfully, that for a few minutes the sophisticated audience would indeed believe that they were watching a shy, hesitant bride on her way to her wedding.

  Swathed from head to toe in a long hooded cloak of white ermine and holding a small nosegay demurely in front of her; it was only when she reached the end of the platform, throwing the flowers into the audience and allowing the sumptuous fur cloak to slip from her bare shoulders, that the onlookers could see the creation she was modelling.

  Incredulous gasps and cries of excitement greeted Lorna's slowly revolving figure as she displayed the skin-tight, white satin dress, heavily embroidered with pearls and diamonds, and whose minimal strapless bodice barely covered her breasts.

  'Really, Leo!' Lorna had protested before the show. 'It will only need one deep breath for me to burst out of that dress. What's more, the skirt is unbelievably tight, I'll never be able to walk up and down the catwalk without falling flat on my face!'

  'Mais, non, my darling. You will look wonderful, as always!' Leo had purred in reply. 'And if you should "burst out" as you put it—just think what a sensation it will make!'

  'Great! Thanks!' Lorna grumbled, but only half­heartedly. Not only had Leo been the first of the great Parisian designers for whom she had worked, but she loved his clothes and they both knew that she would give of her best during the show that morning.

  Now, as the music changed to a faster, up-beat tempo, she began to retrace her steps back up the platform. Hardly daring to take a breath, and swaying sensually as she portrayed a modern, liberated version of the traditional bride, the audience erupted as Lorna carelessly dragged the priceless fur cloak on the floor behind her. Frantic screams of 'Bravo!' and 'Mondrain!' assaulted her ears as she reached the end of the catwalk, turning with a smile to take Leo's hand and lead him forward to accept his well-deserved ovation.

  'It's a great success, Leo. Congratulations!' she whispered, leaning over to kiss his cheek.

  'You see, my darling. I told you all would be well with that dress, hmm? Mon dieu! She is one terrible old witch!' he muttered from the side of his mouth as he bestowed a wide, beaming smile on the hatchet-faced editor of one of America's foremost fashion magazines.

  Entering the turbulent chaos of the backstage changing room, Lorna was pounced upon by a dresser who quickly helped to strip off the bridal gown. Naked, save for a pair of brief panties, she gave a deep sigh of relief at being released from the constricting dress, before forcing her way through the crowd to a corner where her own clothes were hanging on a rail. Climbing into a loose-fitting khaki jump-suit, she went over to sit down in front of the brilliantly lit dressing table which ran the length of the tent.

  Slowly removing her make-up, she could feel the tension and excitement draining from her body, leaving her feeling tired and weary. It was always like this after a show, she reminded herself. It was exactly the same reaction she had experienced backstage after a performance in the theatre. Leaning back in her chair she looked in the mirror which clearly reflected the chaotic scene behind her. It's like a cattle market, or maybe a harem, she thought as one half-nude body after another passed across her vision. In her early days as a professional show model, it had taken her some time to become used to the sight of so much naked flesh. Lorna smiled ruefully, remembering how on her first job she had trembled with embarrassment, sheltering behind a large rack of dresses as she tried to change from one garment into another. She had very quickly learnt that during a collection, speed was of the essence, and that no one was the slightest bit interested in the sight of her nudity. During a show, when there was sometimes less than two minutes in which she would have to remove an intricately draped evening gown, replacing it with a formal ensemble which might consist of a suit, blouse, top coat and hat, there was simply no time for modesty.

  'My God! It's just like the black hole of Calcutta in here!'

  She turned to smile up at her friend, Candice, whose apartment she shared when working in Paris. The tall Texan girl slid her long legs into a pair of tight-fitting black jeans, pulling on a baggy T-shirt before she came to sit down on a chair beside Lorna.

  'Whew—I'm whacked!' Candice gave a tired yawn. 'You know, I really hate these tents, they just don't seem to have any atmosphere somehow. Life was a lot more fun when the Prêt-à-porter shows were held all over the city. Now, here we are, all crammed into this place—it's a real drag!'

  Lorna shrugged. 'Mondrain was telling me that holding the shows here in the Louvre Palace, is all to do with the French Government wanting to promote the prestige of French fashion. They've got a big export drive going on at the moment, apparently.'

  'Big deal!'

  'Well, considering the prices they charge for the clothes, it probably is a big deal!' Lorna grinned. 'And you must admit that it has to be better than all those frantic dashes from one showroom to another. It used to cost me a fortune to hire a cab and keep it waiting all day, just so that I would be sure of arriving at the various shows in plenty of time. For instance,' she added, 'we've got Saint Laurent's collection to do next, and now we only have to walk over to one of the other marquees. It's a breeze!'

 
'I suppose you're right,' Candice sighed. 'But why on earth do we do it? The job, I mean. I seem to be spending half my life here in Paris, when if I had any sense at all, I'd be back in the States getting ready to have a nice lunch with my boyfriend—not sitting here in this crummy place.' She looked glumly around at the crowded confusion of models, fitters, design assistants and hairdressers, all shouting at the top of their voices as they packed up the clothes and their equipment.

  'The money!' Lorna murmured, drawing a brush through her long dark gold hair and staring at her reflection with cool indifference. Others might see beauty in her face, but she was only too well aware of the flaws: the slant of her wide green eyes, which gave her a curiously secretive, cat-like expression; the high cheek bones and long straight nose; and above all, her wide mouth with its full lower lip hinting at passionate sexuality. She had learned over the years how to make the best of her imperfect features, but beyond the facial care and attention needed for her job, she took very little interest in her face, regarding it solely as a helpful, necessary tool for her profession.

  'Huh?' Candice queried, feeling a pang of envy as she gazed in the mirror at the girl beside her. Despite the harsh lighting and the fact that Lorna wasn't wearing a trace of make-up, nothing it seemed could dim her striking bone structure and startling good looks.

  'The money,' repeated Lorna, bending down to put her things away in a large tote bag. 'We do it for the money—and the clothes, of course. Like the show I did last night for Georges Lassalle, for instance. I knew he hadn't a bean and wouldn't be able to pay me,' she shrugged. 'But, well, I adore his clothes and I felt that I could give them something.'

  'Wow! Mercy won't like that,' Candice laughed. 'She really hates it when we work for free!'

  Lorna gave a rueful grimace of agreement, recalling her last encounter with their agent. Mercy Bird, of Beautiful Birds Inc., was a tough, thin bean-pole of a woman who owned and ran one of the top agencies in New York, and was quite capable of cutting her models down to size with one of her devastating remarks. 'You've got to cut out these "freebees",' Mercy had warned Lorna in her rasping Bronx voice. 'You aren't getting any younger, kiddo, and it's about time you began to think about your old age pension!'

  Mercy was right, of course. Lorna sighed as she realised that her agent had, after all, only been pointing out the unwelcome truth. At twenty-five years of age it was time she started thinking about her future—and Beth's too, of course. She reached inside the pocket of her jump-suit and took out the letter she had received that morning from her sister. Quickly scanning the large scrawl it was clear that nothing dramatic had happened while she had been in Paris. Which made a pleasant change from the last time she had been away, on a modelling trip to Rome. Beth had apparently been so immersed in practising her music, that she had let the bath overflow into the apartment below. The superintendent of the apartment block had not been amused—and neither had she on receiving the bill for the damage!

  'How's that sister of yours?' Candice asked, leaning over her shoulder.

  'Beth's fine. She's due to graduate from the Julliard School this summer.'

  'Then what's she going to do? Is she still hoping to become a concert pianist?'

  'I honestly don't know.' Lorna's forehead creased in a worried frown. Beth had been extraordinarily secretive of late, refusing to discuss her future career and stonewalling any of Lorna's attempts to find out what her sister wanted to do with her life. She had, moreover, become surprisingly reticent about her private life during the last three months, looking pale and drawn. She didn't want to invade Beth's privacy, but clearly something wasn't right…

  'Oh my God! Look at the time!' Candice jumped hurriedly to her feet. 'We'd better scram. I'll just bet the Directrice at Saint Laurent is doing her nut right now, wondering where we are!'

  'There's no need to panic,' Lorna said, calmly zipping up her bag. 'The show is bound to start at least half an hour late, and from all the noise out there, it sounds as if the audience still hasn't even been admitted to the marquee.'

  Candice put her head on one side, listening to the muffled shouts of exasperation and abuse. Those lucky enough to possess one of the coveted invitations to view Yves Saint Laurent's collection were pressing themselves against the crash barriers guarding the entrance, and vociferously demanding their immediate admittance.

  'Yup—you're right. It sounds just like feeding time at the zoo, doesn't it?' Candice laughed. 'Ah well, c'est la vie, I suppose! Come on, Lorna, let's get the next show on the road!'

  The weather still hadn't improved when Lorna flew back to New York a week later. Her cab driver complained bitterly all the way from Kennedy airport: 'I've heard of April showers, but I tell ya, this has gotta be ridiculous!' He swerved to avoid a heavy truck, leaning out to inform the truck driver that not only was he a menace on the streets, but that his family background left much to be desired—or impolite words to that effect—which provoked an equally abusive reply from the other driver.

  Lorna leaned back in her seat and smiled to herself. Yes, she was back in the Big Apple all right! Glancing out of the window, she saw that there were only a few more blocks to go before the cab reached her apartment overlooking Central Park. It cost her a fortune to live there, but she never regretted her decision of three years ago, and especially not at a time like this when she was feeling so tired and exhausted. In a few minutes she would be able to wind down and relax amidst the familiar and comfortable surroundings. The last weeks had been a strain, and she felt a keen longing to close her own front door and to be alone at last, without fear of interruption or disturbance.

  Joe, the head porter, helped to carry her bags across the marble foyer and into the elevator of the apartment building. Opening her front door, she went through into the living room and over to look out of the large window at the stark outlines of the Manhattan sky­scrapers, etched black against the storm clouds which were still visible in the falling dusk of late afternoon.

  'Anything else I can do for you, Miss Grant?'

  'No, I'm fine. You really shouldn't have insisted on bringing up my cases, Joe.' Lorna pulled the drapes across the window and turned to smile at the elderly man.

  'It's my pleasure.' Joe beamed at the tall, almost too slim girl who was running a tired hand through her long gold hair, the colour of very old, very fine cognac. 'Had a long trip?' he asked. 'Where did you go this time—Paris, France?'

  Lorna nodded. She was feeling far too weary to try and explain that her itinerary had also included Munich, London and Rome. Opening her purse, she walked over to press some money into his hand.

  'Hey, now, there's no need…' he protested, looking up into the girl's wide green eyes, curiously flecked with gold. So like her father's, he thought suddenly. Lawrence Grant, the well-known impresario, had taken over the apartment in what was then a new building, the same month Joe had started work there. Those had been the days: the famous people, the parties, and the women—especially the women! Joe sighed with regret for past glories which had ended as suddenly and dramatically as the car smash which had terminated Lawrence Grant's life, some three years ago.

  'Nonsense,' said Lorna firmly, shrugging off her coat and tossing it over the back of a chair. 'I could never have hauled everything up here by myself. So, have a drink on me, and don't spend it playing poker or Mabel will go up the wall!'

  They both grinned at each other, remembering the times Lawrence, who had suffered from insomnia, had dragged Joe into the apartment during the early hours of the morning to join in a poker game; which had, as often as not, included some of the security guards and anyone else her father could find awake at that time of night. A pastime of which Joe's wife, Mabel, had thoroughly disapproved.

  'Mabel's far too wrapped up in our new grandson to worry about something like that!' Joe winked as he turned to leave. 'But, hell, I sure do miss your dad,' he added. 'Things just aren't the same, somehow.'

  Half an hour later Lorna finished hanging up
her clothes in her bedroom, wandering through into the living room in stockinged feet. Fixing herself a stiff drink, she went over to slump down into a chair and allowed the calm silence of the apartment to seep into her tired mind. Things certainly weren't the same, she thought ruefully, recalling Joe's words. It wasn't just the shock of her father's death which had been so traumatic, but the necessary change in her lifestyle had been equally dramatic. That first meeting with Lawrence's attorneys after the funeral had made matters very clear. Her sister Beth was still away at boarding school in Switzerland, and so Lorna had been alone in the lawyer's office as he had spelled out the hard facts of life; that Lawrence's lifestyle had been lived far and away beyond his earnings, and that he had been existing on credit for the past five years. Everything he had owned was heavily mortgaged or had been put up as collateral for loans which would now have to be repaid. There was no stock, no investments and no capital. In brief, after everything had been sold to meet his debts, including the large holiday home in Maine, there would be no money left.

  Suddenly, from having been the pampered, wealthy children of the celebrated and charming Lawrence Grant, Lorna and Beth now found themselves penniless and their inheritance from their father amounting to nothing more or less than a mountain of debt.

  'It doesn't matter about myself, but what about my sister's education?' Lorna had queried in dazed confusion. 'She's got another term at school, and then my father had intended to send her to the Paris Conservatoire. She's—Beth's an excellent pianist,' she had added lamely.

  The attorney merely shrugged. 'Your father left no provision for that, I'm afraid. I understand that the apartment, here in New York, forms no part of your father's estate, since he put it in your name some years ago. You could sell it to pay your sister's school fees, of course.'

  'But then she'd have no home!' Lorna protested.

  The attorney could only shrug his shoulders again and express his regrets that her father had not been more prudent with his financial affairs.