An Unbroken Marriage. Penny JordanЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Table of Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       CHAPTER TEN

       Copyright

       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