French Silk (57 page)

"That sounds out of character for you, Claire. By using her gun you implicated Yasmine in a murder."

"I didn't think the gun would ever be fired again. I certainly didn't expect Yasmine to take her own life with it." Tears formed in her eyes. Because of the events that had unfolded so quickly since her return from New York that morning, she still hadn't had an opportunity to grieve privately over the loss of her friend. "I wish I had disposed of the damn thing. Yasmine was in more emotional distress than I guessed. She was a disaster waiting to happen. I was too busy to notice, too caught up in my own crisis, too involved with—" Suddenly she broke off and glanced at Cassidy, then quickly lowered her eyes. "I was too involved with this murder investigation to realize that she was silently crying out for help. I failed her."

Cassidy said nothing for a moment. Then he asked, "That night, when you met Jackson Wilde face to face in the Super-dome, what did you feel toward him?"

"Interesting," she said softly. "I didn't feel the unmitigated hatred that I expected I would. Believing me to be a new convert, he laid his hands on my head. There was no cosmic current. I felt no mystical attachment, either physical or emotional. When I looked into his eyes, I expected to experience a tug of recognition, a biological click, something deep inside me.

"Instead, I gazed into the eyes of a stranger. I felt no magnetic attraction to him. I didn't want to claim him as my father, any more than he had wanted to claim me thirty-two years ago." She raised her head slightly. "I'm glad he never knew me. After the heartache and mental illness he inflicted on my mother, he didn't deserve the privilege of knowing me."

"Bravo for you, Claire." He stared at her for a long moment, his gaze full of admiration. He even lifted his hand toward her cheek, but let it drop before touching her. Eventually he scraped back his chair and stood up. "I've got to go to my car and call Crowder. He's probably had a stroke or two by now. Is there anything to eat in the house?"

"I'm not hungry."

"You should eat anyway."

She shrugged indifferently. "There's a café around the corner. It doesn't look like much from the outside, but Mr. Thibodeaux makes good fried-oyster sandwiches."

"Sounds fine. Let's go."

"I'll stay here."

"Not a chance. Besides, you promised Harry you'd call." Claire didn't have the energy to argue with him. His mouth was resolutely set, his stance unarguable. Feeling like she weighed a thousand pounds, she preceded him from the house.

* * *

"I'm trying to reach Assistant District Attorney Cassidy."

"You dialed the wrong number. You've called the NOPD, sir."

"I know that, but the D.A.'s office is closed for the day."

"That's right, it is. Call 'em tomorra."

"No, wait! Don't hang up."

Andre Philippi was in a tizzy. He'd finally worked up enough nerve to call Mr. Cassidy, but his attempts had been thwarted, first by the timeclock, now by an uncaring, dullwitted incompetent at the police station.

"It's imperative that I reach Mr. Cassidy tonight. There must be some way to contact him after hours. Does he have a pager?"

"I don't know."

"Then will you please check with your supervisor?"

"Do you wanna report a crime?"

"I want to speak to Mr. Cassidy!" Andre's naturally high-pitched voice rose to a full falsetto. Knowing he was reaching hysteria and realizing that his speech was conveying that, he willed himself to calm down. "It's about the Jackson Wilde case."

"The Jackson Wilde case?"

"That's right. And if you refuse to cooperate, you'll be obstructing justice." Andre hoped that was the correct term. He'd read the phrase once, and it seemed appropriate to use now. In any event, it was intimidating enough to get results.

"Hold on."

While Andre waited for the officer to return to the line, he scanned the front page of the evening papers again. According to the latest articles, Yasmine had been cleared of any involvement in the Wilde murder case. But beneath a blurry black-and-white photo of her, the caption suggested that she had participated in subversive activities and was very possibly deranged. The unfairness of the allegations struck Andre like a stinging slap in the face. Like his
maman
, Yasmine hadn't been properly appreciated or protected. He could no longer tolerate it.

To add insult to injury, the second headline declared Claire Laurent Jackson Wilde's confessed killer. Surely the report was inaccurate. Why in heaven's name would Claire confess to murder? It was preposterous. Moreover, it was untrue. His attempts to reach her for an explanation had gone unrewarded. No one was answering the phone at French Silk.

The entire world seemed to have gone haywire. He alone stood sane amid rampant insanity. To correct these grievous wrongs, he had no alternative but to contact Mr. Cassidy.

"Hey? You still there?"

"Yes," Andre replied eagerly. "Can you give me Mr. Cassidy's private number?"

"Sorry, no. I was told he had left for the day and was unavailable until tomorra mawnin', when he'll prob'ly make a statement."

"I'm not media."

"Sure. If you say so."

"I swear it."

"Tell you what, if you want, I'll give your name and number to a detective, name of Howard Glenn, who's been working with Cassidy."

Andre remembered the untidy brutes who had invaded his hotel the morning following the murder. "I'll speak only with Mr. Cassidy."

"Suit yourself, fella."

The policeman disconnected him, leaving Andre feeling adrift and agitated. He stewed over what he should do. He couldn't concentrate on his work. For the first time in his tenure as night manager, he neglected his responsibilities and his guests. Why wasn't the telephone at French Silk being answered? Where was Claire? Where was Mr. Cassidy?

And when he finally spoke with him, could he bring himself to tell him what he must?

Chapter 31

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F
rom Cassidy's car, Claire had phoned her mother at Harry's house. For the time being, Mary Catherine was out of harm's way. Cassidy had been unable to reach Crowder and had become extremely upset about it.

"Call that detective you've been working with," Claire suggested after hearing a litany of curses.

"No. I know what he would want me to do."

"Bring me in handcuffed and shackled?"

"Something like that." Cassidy shook his head. "It's imperative that I speak to Tony first. I'm not taking you back until I do."

So she had been granted one night's reprieve. They had returned to Aunt Laurel's house. After eating the supper they had bought at Mr. Thibodeaux's café, Claire had pleaded exhaustion and retreated to her bedroom upstairs. She undressed and hung her clothes in the closet where some outdated garments were still stored. Now, she scooped cool water from the pedestal sink onto her face and neck.

The bathroom looked exactly as it had the day she moved from Aunt Laurel's house. She had designed the art deco bathroom in her new apartment, but she still loved the Victorian quaintness of this bathroom with its claw-footed tub, pedestal sink, and tile floors. She found towels and washcloths stored in the chiffonier. They smelled of floral potpourri.

She used one of the towels to blot her dripping face. When she straightened up, she saw Cassidy's reflection in the oval framed mirror above the sink. He was standing in the doorway, silent and still, watching her.

The lamplight in the bedroom behind him was dim, so half of his face was cast in shadow, heightening his intense predatory aspect. He was bare-chested, and his suspenders had slipped from his shoulders, forming loops against his hips. One forearm was raised, bracing him against the jamb. The other arm hung at his side. Although he hadn't moved, his stance conveyed power, strength, and a suggestion of latent violence.

Wearing nothing except an apricot satin bra and panties set, Claire felt more naked than if she'd been nude. She resisted the impulse to grab one of the towels to cover herself. The expression on Cassidy's shadowed face intimated that any attempt at modesty would be wasted effort. Besides, she didn't think she could move. His stare had captivated her.

He walked forward until he was a hair's breadth from touching her. They regarded each other in the mirror, their gazes hungry. He raised his hands, slipped them beneath her hair, and rested them on her bare shoulders.

"I'm going to make love to you."

Her shoulders slumped forward as though from the weight of his hands. "You can't. We can't." He brushed aside her hair and laid a tender kiss on her shoulder. "Don't, Cassidy," she murmured. "Don't." Belying her protests, when his lips moved to her nape, her head dropped forward in compliance.

"Claire," he whispered into her hair, "I've fallen in love with you."

"You can't say these things to me."

"I want you. Now."

"Stop, please. You'll regret this. I know you, Cassidy," she said with feeling. "I know how you think. You'll hate yourself for the rest of your life if you do this."

"No I won't."

"Yes, yes you will."

"Shh."

He massaged his way down her back and unhooked her bra. Claire moaned when his hands slipped beneath the lace-trimmed cups. He palmed her breasts, reshaping them with gentle squeezes. Then he caressed the nipples with his fingertips until they were stiff and distended. His mouth moved to the other side of her neck and took tender love bites.

"Cassidy, don't. I don't want to be a blot on your conscience. This isn't right. You know it. Please stop."

Her pleas sounded weak and insincere even to her own ears, and when his hand slid down her belly and into her panties, she stopped making them altogether. She could lie to him, but her body couldn't. At her center, she was creamy and warm.

He pushed down her underpants; she stepped out of them. He unfastened his trousers and moved closer to her, until she felt the firm pressure of his sex. When he sent it deep into her wet, silky heat, their sighs of gratification harmonized.

Bracing herself against the porcelain sink, Claire was able to meet his slow, deep thrusts. He took her hips between his strong hands and drew her against the warm fuzziness of his middle. Then splaying his hand over her abdomen, he held her motionless in place. She used her interior walls like a tight fist to squeeze him. He grimaced in ecstasy and turned his face into her neck.

"Oh, Jesus," he groaned. "I could never get too deep inside you."

Claire tilted her head and ground it against his. "Cassidy." He reached around and laid his fingertips against her parted lips, then covered them with his hand. She kissed his palm, sponged the pads of his fingers with her tongue, sank her teeth into the fleshy base of his thumb. His thrusts grew faster, more urgent, animalistically possessive. Claire's passions, too, rose to a feverish pitch. She couldn't contain the cry she uttered when he slid his hand from her tummy to between her thighs and fondled the swollen, sensitive hood of her sex, which he so amply filled. At his stroking touch, a current of electricity shot through her body. It radiated through her thighs, and she clenched them tightly. It shimmied up through her belly and into her breasts and concentrated in their tight centers.

Cassidy folded both arms around her waist and leaned over her until she was bent over the sink and his chest was resting on her back. She was totally surrounded by, filled with, immersed in him. The glory of it made her heart soar. With a joyful sob, she submitted to a burst of love and fulfillment. When the hot rush of his climax filled her, she turned her head and captured his mouth in a deep, long, searching kiss that was seasoned with her tears.

* * *

"You didn't have to say that you love me," Claire whispered as she threaded her fingers through his hair. It had been neglected and needed a trim. She liked it better this way, shaggy and unmanageable. "I would have succumbed to your charms anyway," she teased.

"I told you because that's the way it is." He adjusted his leg more comfortably against hers beneath the bed sheet. "I started falling in love with you from the minute I met you. Or maybe it was when you blew those damn bubbles at me from that vial you were wearing around your neck. It was symbolic and suggestive and erotic as hell."

"I didn't intend it to be."

"No? Maybe it was the way you held your mouth." He ran his finger over her lips, smiling wistfully, before his expression turned bleak. "Every time Crowder accused me of letting my feelings for you get in the way of my investigation, I denied it. But he's right." He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "I didn't want the killer to be you, Claire."

She burrowed her face in his chest hair. "I don't want to talk about it. Please. Let's talk about something else, something that ordinary lovers talk about."

"We aren't ordinary, Claire."

"But for an hour, let's pretend we are. This is Nawlins, where anything's possible. So let's make-believe that we met under normal circumstances. We were instantly attracted to each other. We've made love but are still in that magical getting-acquainted stage." She propped herself on her elbows and gazed down at him. "Tell me what hurt you so badly."