French Silk (11 page)

Claire unlocked the door and turned off the security alarm. "I could ask you the same question, but then I already know the answer, don't I?" After resetting the alarm, they crossed the warehouse toward the elevator.

"Don't be sarcastic," Yasmine said. "Where have you been?"

"Walking. And I wasn't being sarcastic."

"You went out walking alone at this hour? You could have been mugged."

"I know every crumbling brick of the French Quarter. I'm not afraid of it."

"Well, you should be," Yasmine said as they got into the elevator. "When you roam these streets at night alone, you're asking for trouble. The least you could do is carry an insurance policy with you."

"Insurance policy?" Claire looked down to where Yasmine was patting the side of her shoulder bag. "A gun? You bought another one?" They had discussed the revolver when Yasmine reported it missing.

"I didn't have to. The original wasn't lost after all."

"I wish it had been."

They emerged from the elevator on the third floor. Claire quickly checked Mary Catherine's room to make certain she was safely in bed. Claire hadn't been away for more than half an hour, but her mother had been known to disappear in much less time.

"Everything all right?" Yasmine asked when Claire joined her in the kitchen. "I'm surprised you left her alone."

"I had to get some air. I needed to think. I hoped you'd get back, but…" She shrugged.

Yasmine flung down the apple she'd taken from the fruit bowl on the counter. "Okay, that's two pricks in a row. Instead of throwing these little poison darts, why don't you come right out and spear me? Say that you disapprove of my affair."

"I disapprove of your affair."

The two women exchanged a hostile stare. Yasmine was the first to break it. She plopped down onto a barstool with a muttered, "Oh, hell," and began picking at the peel of the apple with her sharp fingernails.

Claire went to the refrigerator and poured herself a glass of orange juice that Harry had squeezed fresh that morning. "I'm sorry, Yasmine. I had no right to say that to you. Who am I to approve or disapprove of your private life?"

"You're my best friend, that's who. That entitles you to an opinion."

"Which I should have kept to myself."

"Our friendship's based on candor."

"Oh? I always thought so too, but you haven't been candid. You've never even told me his name."

"If I could tell you about him, I would."

Claire studied her friend's tense facial muscles and red eyes. She'd been crying. Claire sat down on a stool next to Yasmine, removed the apple from her nervous hands, and clasped them between her own.

"I've been rude only because I'm worried. And I'm worried because you're miserable ninety percent of the time. That's why I disapprove of this affair. You're unhappy, Yasmine. Ideally, being in love is supposed to make people happy."

"The circumstances are hardly ideal. In fact it's the worse scenario you can imagine," she said with a bleak smile.

"He's married."

"Bingo."

Claire had been afraid of that, but knowing it for fact didn't make her feel better. "I couldn't see another reason for the secrecy. I'm sorry."

It was evident to Claire that Yasmine's suffering was genuine and deeply felt. This wasn't a capricious romantic adventure like so many of her previous love interests had been. When they had become friends, Yasmine was living a high-spirited social life. Her dates ranged from professional athletes to business tycoons to movie stars to foreign royalty.

About a year ago, Yasmine's whirlwind romances had stopped, and she began going away for unspecified lengths of time to inexact destinations. She was evasive and secretive. She was either ecstatic or abysmal, and her mood swings were swift and drastic. They still were. Besides this secret lover, she saw no one else, as far as Claire knew. Undeniably, her friend was in love, and the love affair was making her dreadfully unhappy.

"Does he meet you here in New Orleans?" she asked gently.

"Actually he lives here," Yasmine replied.

Claire was surprised. "You met him here?"

"No. Actually we met in … uh, back east. Last year. It was purely by coincidence that we both have lives in New Orleans, too."

"A convenient coincidence." Claire hated herself for what she was thinking—that the man knew a good thing when he saw it and was taking advantage of Yasmine's ties to his hometown.

"It's not that convenient," Yasmine replied grimly. "He's paranoid about his wife finding out about us before he has a chance to divorce her."

"That's the plan?"

Yasmine whipped her head around. "Yes," she answered testily. "That's the plan: You don't think I'd be having a lengthy affair with a married man unless it was really love, do you? As soon as it's possible, he's divorcing her and marrying me."

"Yasmine—"

"He is, Claire. He loves me. I know he does."

"I'm sure he does," Claire murmured, unconvinced. If he loved her so much, why would he cause her this much misery? she wondered. "Does he have children?"

"Two. A boy, ten, and a girl, six. He's nuts about his kids. I've thought of them, Claire. Don't think I haven't. I wonder what a divorce will mean to them. Oh, God."

She propped her elbows on the bar and buried her face in her hands. "When I think of breaking up a family, it makes me sick to my stomach. But he doesn't love his wife. He never has. Sex between them has always been lousy."

Claire's silence must have conveyed her skepticism because Yasmine raised her head and looked at her. "It has," she insisted. "He's told me, but I knew even before that. The first time I went down on him, he was so overwhelmed I thought he was going to cry. And he's told me that his wife would rather die than let him put his mouth 'down there,' even if she could conceive of such a thing. She believes there's no such thing as sex without guilt, so it's straight missionary position all the way."

Yasmine had never been squeamish when talking about sex. Before this affair, she had frequently regaled Claire with the lurid details of her active love life.

Now, she stabbed the cool marble countertop with her index fingernail. "I'm the best damn thing that's ever happened to him, Claire. I'd make him a good wife."

"Then why doesn't he make a clean break? Why torture you both?"

"He can't," she said with a melancholy shake of her head. "The divorce is going to have a profound effect on his career. He's well known. He's in thick with his in-laws and all their friends. Jesus, it'll be a mess. He has to work it out and wait until the time is right. Until then, I have to be patient and look forward to the day we can be together."

Claire was less optimistic and felt it was her duty as a friend to play devil's advocate. "Yasmine, affairs like this seldom turn out sunny."

""Affairs like this'? How the hell would you know what it's like?"

Claire could see Yasmine's temper emerging so she kept her own at bay. "All I'm saying is that it goes against the law of averages. Men who are well positioned in the community rarely leave their wives and families for their mistresses. Yasmine," she asked softly, "is he white?"

"So what if he is?"

Yasmine's chilly reaction indicated that he was. "This is the South. New Orleans. Men here have a tradition of—"

"He's not like that," Yasmine interrupted vehemently. "He's the least racially prejudiced person I've ever met."

Claire forced a smile. "I'm sure he must be or you couldn't love him." She knew when to back down. Yasmine's frame of mind wasn't conducive to an honest discussion. She was wounded, and like any wounded animal she would lash out at anyone who tried to help her. "Forgive me for bringing it up."

"Don't patronize me, Claire."

"I'm not."

"The hell you're not!" Yasmine jumped off her stool. "I doubt if you believe a word I've told you. You probably think he's just screwing me for the hell of it."

Claire pushed back her own stool and stood up. "Good night. I'm going to bed."

"You're running away from an argument."

"Right," she shouted back. "I refuse to argue with you about this because it's a no-win situation. If I say anything negative, you'll leap to his defense. I don't care who or what your lover is. My only concern is your unhappiness. If you want to live like this, that's your business. As long as it doesn't affect your work, it's got nothing to do with me."

"Oh no? What about your jealousy?"

"Jealousy?"

"Don't strike that innocent posture with me, Claire. I can see through it. I'm crazy in love with a guy who's willing to overturn his entire life for me, while your personal life is as sterile as a nun's."

Claire silently counted to ten. When Yasmine was upset with herself, she picked fights in order to redirect her anger. It was a character flaw that Claire, over the course of their friendship, had learned to tolerate. Nevertheless, recognizing it didn't make it any less exasperating. Tomorrow morning Yasmine would be gushing sincere smiles and apologies, calling herself a selfish bitch, and begging Claire's forgiveness, but Claire wasn't up to the exhausting exercise tonight.

"Think what you want to. I'm tired. Good night."

"That Cassidy—does he have a first name?"

"I don't know." Claire switched out the lights on the way down the hall toward her bedroom. Yasmine didn't take the hint. She was on Claire's heels, like a pesky puppy.

"Did you go all cool and haughty on him?"

"I was hospitable."

"Did he realize he was being buffaloed?"

Claire came to a sudden halt and spun around to confront Yasmine. "What are you talking about?"

"You're damned good at equivocating, Claire, but based on my first impressions of Mr. Cassidy, I doubt he takes crap like that from a woman."

"I'm sure he wasn't regarding me as a woman in that sense. He was here in an official capacity."

"He stayed an awfully long time."

"He had a lot of questions to ask."

"Did you have answers?"

Again, Claire gave her friend a hard look. "Only a few. He wanted to connect me to Jackson Wilde's murder, and there is no connection."

"Did you think he was sexy?" Yasmine asked.

"I assume you're referring to the assistant district attorney and not to the evangelist."

"You're equivocating, Claire. Answer the question."

"I didn't give Mr. Cassidy's looks much thought."

"Well, I did. He's sexy in a dark, intense way. Don't you think?"

"I don't remember."

"I'll bet he fucks with his eyes open and his teeth clenched. Makes me hot just to think about it."

Yasmine was trying to provoke her. Refusing to be baited, Claire stepped into her bedroom. "I thought you were in love."

"I am. But I'm not blind. And I'm not dead." Through Claire's closed bedroom door, Yasmine added, "And even though you'd like for Mr. Cassidy and every other man to think your drawers could form icicles, neither are you, Claire Laurent."

As she listened to Yasmine's withdrawing footsteps, Claire glimpsed her reflection in the mirrored door of the armoire. Quite unlike herself, she looked agitated, confused, and afraid.

And Mr. Cassidy was the reason.

Chapter 6

«
^
»

A
ndre Philippi finished his dinner and neatly placed the silverware on the rim of his plate. He blotted his mouth on the stiff linen napkin, folded it, and laid it aside. He then rang for a room service waiter to retrieve his tray. The roast duck had been a trifle dry and the vinaigrette on the fresh, cold asparagus had had a trace too much tarragon. He would send a memo to the head chef.

As night manager of the Fairmont Hotel, New Orleans, Andre Philippi demanded optimum performance from everyone on staff. Mistakes simply weren't tolerated. Insolence or slip-shod service was grounds for immediate dismissal. Andre believed that hotel patrons should be treated as pampered guests in the finest home.

In the small washroom adjacent to his private office, he washed his hands with French milled soap, gargled with mouthwash to guard against halitosis, and took pains to dry his pencil-thin mustache as well as his lips. He smoothed his hands over his, oiled hair, which he wore combed straight back from his receding hairline, chiefly because that was the neatest style he could derive, but also to combat the natural tendency of his black hair to curl. He checked his nails. Tomorrow was his day to have them clipped, filed, and buffed. He had a standing, weekly manicure appointment, which he religiously kept.

Always with an eye on the hotel's operating budget, he conscientiously switched off the light in the washroom and reentered his office. Ordinarily his position wouldn't have warranted a private office, but Andre had more seniority than anyone else, including the upper-echelon executives.

And he knew how to keep a secret.

Over his tenure, he'd been granted many favors because often his discretion had been required by his superiors. He'd kept secrets about their vices ranging from one's predilection for young boys to another's heroin addiction. The private office was just one expression of appreciation that Andre's confidence had earned him.