French Silk (26 page)

"Hell," he muttered, plowing his fingers through his hair. This time, he didn't see a way out.

The only solution was to call quits to the affair. He'd be sacrificing some quality pussy, but the flip side to that coin was that he'd be sacrificing his lifestyle and career if he was caught. As he stashed Yasmine's underwear in his suit coat pocket for later disposal, he resolved that at his earliest opportunity he'd tell her their affair was over.

Chapter 12

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C
laire was fitting a pattern on one of the dress forms in her studio when the telephone rang.

"Claire, turn on CNN. Quick." It was Yasmine. They hadn't spoken for several days, since their quarrel when Claire had confronted her about making a generous contribution to Jackson Wilde's ministry.

"What's going on?"

"You'll find out soon enough, and you're going to shit a brick. Hurry or you'll miss it." She hung up.

Intrigued, Claire switched on the portable TV that kept her company when she worked into the wee hours. Because Yasmine had prepared her, she wasn't surprised to see Ariel Wilde on the screen. The interviewer was asking her about the recent demonstration outside French Silk, which she freely admitted having instigated.

"Our adversaries would like to believe that since Jackson's death we've retreated from the fight against pornography. Let me assure them that we haven't. This ministry, under my leadership, intends to double its efforts to stamp out all forms of obscene material."

The reporter asked, "Why did you pick up the cause with the French Silk catalog? There are other publications much more graphic."

Ariel smiled sweetly. "The publishers of the more graphic magazines make no bones about being prurient. They don't try to disguise what they are. While I abhor their products, I admire their honesty. At least they aren't hypocritical, like Ms. Laurent, who doesn't even have the courage to debate me."

"Her catalog is tastefully done, Mrs. Wilde. It's sensual, but I'd hardly call it prurient."

"It pictures men and women on the verge of coitus. How lewd can you get?"

Evidently embarrassed, the reporter cleared his throat. "The photos merely suggest—"

"Then you agree that the pictures are suggestive?"

"I didn't say that." He hastily referred to his notes, but before he could pose another question, Ariel said, "I think it's significant that Ms. Laurent's business is headquartered in New Orleans."

The interviewer pounced on the bait. "Significant in what way?"

Ariel pretended to reconsider. "I'd better not say anything further. My attorney has advised me to avoid this subject. However, I feel compelled to point out that one of my husband's most publicized targets is located in the very city in which he was murdered."

Claire saw red. Her gasp filled the silence in the cavernous room. She found herself walking toward the TV set, although she didn't remember leaving her seat.

"Are you implying that Ms. Laurent had something to do with your husband's murder?" the reporter asked.

"She's being investigated by the D.A.'s office," Ariel replied evasively.

"Based on what evidence?"

"None that I know of. I'm certain they're questioning her because of her background."

The reporter looked at her with puzzlement.

"Claire Laurent," she said, "is the illegitimate daughter of a mentally unbalanced woman." She lowered her eyes and assumed a sorrowful expression. "With no more guidance than she had as a child, is it any wonder that her life, even her professional life, is ruled by her passions? Think about it. She obviously possesses talent. Why would she squander her creativity by making sleazy lingerie and advertising it in such a vulgar manner? And why else would she choose for her business partner a woman who, for years, has flaunted her immoral lifestyle?"

"You're referring to the model, Yasmine?"

"Yes. These three women—Ms. Laurent, her mother, and Yasmine—are of such low moral character, I'm sure the same question has occurred to the D.A.'s office as occurred to me: Is publishing a filthy magazine their only crime?"

Claire switched off the set. If she listened to another word she was going to implode. Rage had sent blood rushing to her head. Her earlobes throbbed with it; it clouded her vision.

Ariel Wilde had unmitigated gall. How dare she say those things on a national broadcast? Heretofore, Claire had ignored her snide criticism of the French Silk catalog, but now the invectives had become personal. Ariel had slandered Mary Catherine and Yasmine and all but accused her of murder. How much longer could she stand back and do nothing? Passive resistance didn't work on the Jackson and Ariel Wildes of the world. It was time to act.

She paced while weighing her options. As much as she loathed the thought of it, there seemed no way around making a public statement. When she had cooled down enough to speak, she made a telephone call.

"Newsroom."

"This is Claire Laurent."

She had begun by calling a local network affiliate. Her name had been in the news often enough that it was instantly recognized. "Yes, ma'am. What can I do for you?"

"How would I go about calling CNN?"

"We string for them sometimes. I can get their ear."

"If they're interested in my rebuttal to what Ariel Wilde is saying about me, have a reporter contact me."

"Yes, ma'am. I'm sure someone will call right away."

"I'll be standing by."

Claire hung up, hating what she had just done. She considered privacy a precious commodity. She guarded hers ferociously, mainly for Mary Catherine's sake, but also because Claire intuitively felt that notoriety was tarnishing. In her estimation, to be on public display lessened a person's worth. Publicity seekers were beyond her comprehension. Unlike Yasmine, who thrived on being in the limelight, Claire was content to remain anonymous in the background. For that reason, Yasmine was the one whom people associated with French Silk.

Claire resented being forced to go public. She was also afraid. Between now and her interview, she had to think of words that would negate Ariel Wilde's statements, while keeping her secrets intact.

* * *

The following night she was lying in bed watching a replay of her interview with the CNN reporter when her bedside telephone rang. At first she considered letting it ring. Then, obstinately, she lifted the receiver, but said nothing.

"Claire, are you there?"

"Cassidy?"

"Why didn't you say something?"

"Because every time I've answered the telephone tonight it's been someone telling me to go to hell."

"Wilde's people?"

"Undoubtedly. Most shout an insult and then hang up."

"I guess Ariel's pissed. First that picket line of hers backfired. She got the TV coverage she wanted, but Mary Catherine made her people look like thugs. Then you really put her in her place today. I caught your act earlier."

"It wasn't an act."

"Figure of speech," he said. "You articulated well."

"I meant every word. If Ariel Wilde, or anyone in her organization, maligns my mother or Yasmine again, I'll file a suit for damages that will pitch that ministry into financial chaos."

"You were very convincing."

"Thank you."

"But you didn't deny her veiled allegations that you were somehow involved in her husband's murder." He paused for a response, but Claire remained stubbornly silent. Eventually he said, "If you want, I can pull strings and get your telephone number changed immediately."

"No, thanks. The calls are a nuisance, but the novelty will wear off soon and they'll stop."

"Why don't you turn on your answering machine?"

"Principle. If I'm here, I answer my telephone. I refuse to let them rearrange my life."

He said nothing for a moment, then asked, "Have you had any more protesters outside your door?"

"No," she said, smiling for the first time in twenty-four hours. "I think Mama cured them of that."

"Speaking of your mother, is Harry there to watch her?"

"She's spending the night. Why?"

"I'll tell you when I get there. Meet me downstairs."

"Cassidy, I'm already in bed. I'm tired."

But she was talking to a dead line. She slammed down the phone. If he wanted to see her, he could have made an appointment for the next day. She should let him stand downstairs ringing the bell to no avail.

But, she swung her legs over the side of her bed and went into the bathroom. It looked the same as before, yet she knew she'd never enter it again without thinking of him, disheveled and dripping blood on his shirt. He'd looked roguish and rowdy, and her feminine instincts had responded then as they did now with the memory of his strong hands resting on her waist.

She had threatened him with exposure, citing how a romantic dalliance with her might hurt his cause. She had failed to tell him how damaging such a dalliance could also be to her.

She dressed in a pair of jeans and a white cotton pullover, not wanting him to think she had primped in anticipation of seeing him. She took the elevator down to the first floor. He was ringing the buzzer by the time she reached the door.

"You're right on time," she said when she opened it.

"One of my virtues."

He hadn't dressed up either. She'd never seen him in anything except a suit. Tonight he wore jeans, a casual shirt, an ancient Levi's jacket, and jogging shoes. "Why did you want to see me?"

"Come out here."

"Why?"

"I can think more clearly out here." She looked at him quizzically. "There's too much damn ambience in there," he added brusquely.

The commercial district several blocks away was in full swing, but within two blocks on either side of French Silk the street was dark and still. When she turned after securing the door, Cassidy was at the curb, pacing the pavement where the protesters had marched.

"You look upset," she remarked.

"You could say that." He stopped and faced her. "This offering business—"

"I explained that."

"Yeah. So did Yasmine. But it doesn't seem plausible."

"That's your problem."

"Temporarily," he said shortly. "What time did you tell me you went to the Fairmont that night to pick up your mother?"

Claire hadn't expected the sudden shift in topic. The question made her throat constrict. "I … I told you I wasn't sure, but I guessed around midnight."

"What took you so long?"

"Pardon?"

"Andre Philippi says he called you at eleven. At that time of night, it takes about five minutes to drive from here to the Fairmont. I know because I drove it tonight. Your trip took an hour longer than it should have. What delayed you?"

"Cassidy, I said I got there
around
midnight. It might have been eleven or eleven-thirty. I told you I wasn't sure."

"You're lying!" He slammed his fist into his opposite palm. Claire fell back a step. "You didn't leave for the Fairmont Hotel to collect Mary Catherine until almost midnight because you didn't speak directly to Andre until then. When he called at eleven, he spoke to your answering machine, didn't he? You had to call him back."

He came toe to toe with her. "You weren't here when he called at eleven. You said tonight that you answer your phone if you're here, right? Andre left a message on your machine, so you'd know where Mary Catherine was when you came in and discovered her gone."

Claire's heart was hammering. "I can explain that."

"Save it. I'm sick of your lies. I'm right, aren't I?" He grabbed her arm and hauled her close to him. "Aren't I?"

Coming into contact with the solid strength of his body startled her, but she resented his high-handedness and wriggled free of his grasp.

"Yes, you're right," she flung up at him. "I have a habit of checking Mama's room when I come in. That night, her bed was empty and her suitcase was gone, so I knew what had happened. I was about to go out and look for her when I noticed the message light. I called Andre back immediately. He told me he had spotted Mama in the lobby of the Fairmont, taken her to his office, and given her some sherry. She was groggy and disoriented when I got there, as she often is after the worst of her spells. I drove her home and put her to bed. That's the truth."

"Oh, I believe you, Claire," he said. "I just want to know where the hell you were between the conclusion of the crusade and midnight. Did you make two trips to the Fairmont? One to murder Wilde and another to pick up your mother?"

She said nothing.

"You could drive a barge through the space of time you've got to account for," he said, raising his voice.

"I went for a walk."

Obviously he'd been expecting a more elaborate lie. The simplicity of her explanation caught him off guard. "A
walk?"

"That's right. A long walk. Alone. Through the Quarter."

"At that time of night?" he asked skeptically.