French Silk (9 page)

After listening carefully to her explanation, he returned his attention to the catalog. Claire lapsed into silence, watching his gray eyes move across the pages. Occasionally he raised his drink to his lips. His mouth was wide, narrow, masculine, softened only by a fuller lower lip and a vertical dimple in his left cheek.

From a purely objective point of view, he was very good-looking. The sprinkling of gray in his sideburns was attractive. His chestnut hair feathered over the tops of his ears in an appealing fashion. Few men were taller than Yasmine, but when Cassidy had shaken hands with her, Claire had noticed that he topped her by two or three inches. He had a trim physique, yet the forearm resting on his knee looked powerful, and there was strength in his heavily veined hand.

After looking at every page, he closed the catalog. "Thanks."

"You're welcome. Do you think Jackson Wilde was justified? Do you think it's smut?"

"Off the record, hell no. It's sensual, erotic, but hardly porno. On the record, I have to be impartial."

It pleased her to know that he wasn't ready to stone her. She placed her glass of wine on the table and stood up. "Take that copy with you. You might decide to order something."

Picking up the catalog, he too came to his feet. "I doubt it. I'm strictly the white cotton Fruit of the Loom briefs type."

"You might enjoy a pair of the silk boxers for lounging."

"I might. Do you own a gun?"

The question stunned her, following so closely behind the disarming statement. "No, I don't, Mr. Cassidy."

"Do you have access to one?"

"No."

"Back to my original question: where were you the night Jackson Wilde was killed?"

She bit back an angry retort and answered calmly, "I don't recall going out. I believe I spent a quiet evening at home."

"Can someone corroborate that?"

"Does it need corroboration? Do you think I'm lying?"

She held his stare even though it stretched out interminably and made her want to squirm.

Finally he said, "Thanks for the drink." He reached for his jacket and slung it over his shoulder, hooking it with his index finger.

"You're welcome."

The wall of windows caught his eye. Twilight had fallen. From this side of her building, one had an unrestricted view of the river. Lights on the levee and the bridge spanning the river sparkled in the glow that ranged from deep purple to shimmering gold. "Great view."

"Thank you."

She'd guaranteed retaining the coveted view by purchasing the property that extended from her corner to the levee and turning it into a parking lot. It was profitable, and it was a safeguard against her view being blocked by a high-rise hotel or shopping center. The land had appreciated a thousand times over since she had bought it, but she wouldn't part with it for any price.

"I'll show you out."

She preceded him out the door, past the glitzy reception desk, and into the elevator. Once they were on their way down, he asked, "What's on the third floor?"

"My apartment."

"Not many people hold to that quaint custom, living above their place of business."

"They do in the Vieux Carré."

"Spoken like someone who knows."

"I was born here and have never lived anywhere else. I even went to college here, commuting every day by trolley to Tulane."

"Happy childhood?"

"Very."

"No major upheavals or crises?"

"None."

"Not even with your mother?"

Claire shrugged. "Because I never knew her to be any other way, I adapted to her illness as any child with a handicapped parent does."

"What about your father?"

"He died when I was a baby. Mama never remarried. We lived with her aunt Laurel. Shortly after she died, we moved here."

"Hmm. Your mother still lives with you?"

"That's right."

"No one else?"

"Yasmine, when she's in town."

"Who's Harry?"

"Miss Harriett York, our housekeeper and mother's nurse. She doesn't sleep over unless I go out of town."

"How often is that?"

"Twice a year I travel to Europe and the Orient to buy fabrics. I'm also required to make several trips a year to New York."

"How often does Yasmine come to New Orleans?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

"Several things."

"Like?"

"Like where we are on the next catalog." There was no need to inform him that Yasmine's trips to New Orleans had recently become more frequent or why. Volunteering information to him would be foolhardy. As a child Claire had learned not to trust authority figures. They could turn information against you whenever it better served the bureaucracy. For all his manly hands and vertical dimple, Mr. Cassidy was a bureaucrat.

"Is there anything else, Mr. Cassidy?"

"Lots. What's Yasmine doing in New Orleans this time?" Claire released a sigh of resignation. "We're consulting on the next catalog. She's developed the concept and has already picked a location for the shoot. Together we're deciding which items to feature and which models to use."

"What about the rest of the time? When she's not in New Orleans."

"She lives in New York."

"Modeling?"

"Until last year, she bad an exclusive contract with a cosmetics company. She was bored with it, so now the only modeling she does is for the French Silk catalog. Between her responsibilities here and keeping track of her investments, she stays very busy."

Claire was relieved when they reached the first floor. The ride had never seemed so lengthy, the elevator so small and confining. His penetrating gaze made her want to pull a protective cloak around herself.

He slid open the heavy doors. She muttered a hasty thank-you and stepped into the cavernous warehouse. It was silent, still, and dark now. The fans in the windows stood motionless. The warehouse had acted as a combustion chamber, storing the oppressive heat all afternoon until it now seemed to have texture. It not only settled against the skin but seeped into it and stifled the lungs.

Only strategically placed security lights had been left on. They formed pools of light on the smooth, shiny concrete floor. Claire didn't pause in those circular islands of light. They reminded her of prison movies, of sinister searchlights seeking out doomed escapees.

She unbolted the main door and held it open for her unwelcome visitor. "Goodbye, Mr. Cassidy."

"Are you eager to get rid of me, Ms. Laurent?"

Claire could have kicked herself for being so transparent. She groped for a logical explanation. "Mama's on medication. She has to eat at certain times. I don't want dinner to be delayed on my account."

"Very neat."

"What?"

"That excuse. I'd have to be a real bastard to challenge it, wouldn't I?"

"It's the truth."

His sly grin said he knew she was lying but that he chose to let it drop. "One more question and I'll go. Promise."

"Well?"

"Have you ever been in trouble with the police?"

"No!"

"Ever been arrested?"
        

"You said one question, Mr. Cassidy. That's two."

"Are you refusing to answer?"

Damn him. She hated giving anyone in authority the upper hand, but refusing to answer would only complicate matters. "I've never been arrested, but I take umbrage at your asking."

"Exception noted," he said unrepentantly. "Good night, Ms. Laurent. We'll be seeing each other again soon."

She was glad she was standing in shadow so he couldn't see her alarmed expression. "I've already told you everything I know."

He subjected her to another deception-flaying stare. "I don't think so." He had rolled the catalog into a tube, which he now used to tip his forehead in a mock salute. "Thanks again for the drink. You stock very good whiskey."

Claire slammed the door in his face, hurriedly clicked the bolts into place, and leaned against the cool metal. She gasped for each breath as though she'd been running for miles. Her heart was beating so wildly that it ached. Her skin was covered with a fine sheen of perspiration, which she attributed to the heat … even though she knew better.

Chapter 5

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H
is tongue flicked over and around her stiff nipples. The caress elicited sounds from her that had pagan origins. "You're killing me, baby," she gasped.

"Oh, God, don't stop. Don't stop." She caught his earlobe between her strong, white teeth and bit it hard. He grunted in pain, but her untamed responsiveness increased his excitement. His fingers made deep impressions in her firm ass as he clamped her to his hips and thrust himself deep inside her. His mouth captured one taut nipple and sucked it hard.

She screamed and clutched handfuls of his hair, bucking against him wildly, lost in the throes of her climax. Seconds later, he came in long, ecstatic bursts, panting and straining and grimacing.

Yasmine's skin was slick with sweat. It gleamed, reflecting the glow of the bedside lamp like polished bronze, except that none had ever been sculpted as exquisitely as she.

She rose above Congressman Alister Petrie's limp, spent body and with adoration gazed down into his flushed face. "Not bad, sugar," she whispered as she brushed an affectionate kiss across his lips. "You found my G-spot."

Keeping his eyes closed, he chuckled. "Get off me, you insatiable bitch, and pour me a drink."

Yasmine gracefully left the bed and moved to the dresser where earlier she'd arranged a bottle of his favorite brand of scotch, a bucket of ice, and two glasses. Articles of clothing were strewn on furniture and across the carpeting. She was attired only in a pair of large gold earrings that brushed her smooth shoulders whenever she moved her head.

Their love play had begun the moment he'd entered the hotel suite. During a lengthy, tongue-twining kiss, she had guided his hand beneath her skirt, pressing it between her open thighs. "You know what to do, baby. Make me crazy."

"You mean this?" His fingers separated the moist flesh and slipped inside her. "Lucky for you your customers wear your merchandise," he whispered as he stroked her. "What if everybody decided to go without underwear?"

"Everybody would have a lot more fun."

They eagerly shed their clothes without compromising the carnality of the kiss or his manual stimulation. Naked, they fell onto the bed, a tangle of brown and white limbs.

Now, Yasmine mixed his drink while watching him in the mirror. She always loved him best immediately after making love, when his sandy hair was uncharacteristically mussed and his lips were soft and relaxed. They were almost identical in height, but he had more physical stamina than his lean, compact physique indicated. The sheen of perspiration on his smooth chest reminded her of how vigorously he made love, and she felt another tingle of expectation between her thighs.

He stacked the pillows behind his back and sat up against the headboard. Returning to the bed with his drink, she stirred it with her index finger, then ran it across his lips. "How is it?"

He sucked her fingertip. "I taste you," he said huskily. "And me. Delicious. Perfect."

Smiling with pleasure, Yasmine handed him the highball and lay down curled against his side. He kissed her forehead. "You do everything perfect, Yasmine. You are perfect."

"No shit?" Snuggling closer, she applied her mouth to his nipple and damply agitated it with her tongue.

"No shit," he moaned.

"I'd make you a perfect wife."

His reaction was abrupt and negative. He stiffened, and not with heightened desire. "Don't spoil our time together, Yasmine," he urged softly. "These hours are so hard to come by. So precious to me. Don't spoil them by bringing up a topic that makes us both unhappy."

She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. "It doesn't make me unhappy to think about becoming Mrs. Mister Petrie."

"That's not what I meant. You know what I meant."

"I think about it all the time. It's what I want more than anything in the world," she said fiercely. Tears formed in her eyes and shimmered in the soft light.

"Me too, darling." He set his drink on the nightstand and turned onto his side to face her. "You're so beautiful." His hand glided over her breast. Her nipples were only slightly darker than her skin and very responsive. He bent down and kissed one, raising it with gentle plucking motions of his lips.

"Am I a fool to love you?" she asked.

"I'm the fool."

"Do you ever intend to leave her?"

"Soon, Yasmine, soon. You've got to trust me to choose the right time. This is a difficult situation. It's going to take a lot of finesse to escape it without someone getting hurt, namely you."

They had met a year earlier in Washington, D.C., at a black-tie reception in an African nation's embassy. Yasmine had been invited because she was reputed to have roots in that country. The story had been fabricated by some unknown source, but her agent had liked it and kept it alive for publicity purposes. It certainly had more romance and intrigue than the truth—that her family had lived in Harlem for four generations.