French Silk

by Sandra Brown

  “How many times do I have to explain? I wanted to protect my mother from gossip and speculation. Is that so difficult for you to understand?”

  “You stayed in the lobby area of the hotel?”

  “Yes.”

  “You didn’t go to any other floor, no other area of the hotel?”

  “No.”

  “Did you use the elevator?”

  “No.”

  He turned and braced his hands on the padded arm of the sofa, bracketing her hips. Leaning into her, he asked, “Then why in hell didn’t you tell me this sooner? If it was so damned innocent, why did you lie to me?”

  “Because you were trying to implicate me. My name was on Wilde’s hit list, and you seemed to think that was important. You had that folder of clippings that I had stupidly tried to destroy. That was two strikes against me already. I was afraid that if you knew I was anywhere near the Fairmont that night, you’d do just as you’ve done and jump to the wrong conclusion.”

  “Is it wrong, Claire? The only reason you went to the Fairmont that night was to pick up your mother?”

  “Just like tonight.”

  “While you were there, you didn’t have your old pal Andre Philippi sneak you into Wilde’s suite?”

  “Would Wilde have lain there nude and calmly talked to me, a total stranger?”

  “How did you know he was lying down nude?”

  “Because it’s been in the newspaper every day for a month that he was found nude in bed. Besides, even if I had been determined to kill Jackson Wilde, do you think I would have involved someone else?”

  “Dammit, I don’t know!” he shouted.

  His agitation plain, he hung his head between his shoulders. He was so close that she could smell the rain in his hair and on his skin. Even in the darkness she could see the growth pattern of the hair on the crown of his head. If she had turned her head the slightest degree, her lips would have brushed the temple where a vein ticked with frustration.

  Eventually he raised his head and looked searchingly into her eyes. “It’s so damned neat. You had motivation. You had opportunity. You even had an insider who could help you carry it off. Claire, you’ve got to admit that from where I stand you look guilty as hell.”

  “Then why the long face? Isn’t this what you wanted? I thought you’d be pleased to finally nail a suspect. What’s wrong?”

  With slow, deliberate movements, he placed his hands on her shoulders and pulled her up to stand dangerously close to him. “What’s wrong? I think I’ve found the killer.” He slid his fingers up through her hair and encircled her head. “But I didn’t want it to be you.”

  Then suddenly his lips were pressed firmly against hers. Before Claire could recover from her initial shock, he tilted his head and deepened the kiss. An involuntary sound escaped her when his tongue separated her lips. It brought with it the taste and texture of a man, a delicious blend of cognac and brawn. Angry and aroused, he kissed her masterfully, brooking no resistance, although at first she was too dumbfounded to stop him and within seconds was too caught up in the kiss to try.

  He raised his head only long enough to switch angles and slide his hands from her head to her waist, pulling her against him. He was hard. Desire, like the petals of a spring blossom, opened in her midsection. She moved against him.

  “Oh, Christ,” he muttered and buried his face in her neck. Deftly he undid the buttons of her blouse. He unfastened the clasp of her bra and slid his hands into the loose cups. His palms skimmed over her first, then his hands caressed her.

  His kiss turned wilder, hungrier. Claire clutched handfuls of his shirt, because to let go would mean to topple backward, not only because he was bending her back at such a dramatic angle but because her equilibrium was suffering the effects of his kiss, his touch.

  His lips tugged at hers while his tongue plumbed her mouth again and again as though searching for the answers he craved. Their bodies were combustible, each as hot as the other. Within his stroking hands her breasts were full and flushed, their centers raised and responsive.

  The intensity of the embrace was frightening. Claire’s fiery response scared her. She imagined her control disintegrating, like dry kindling being rapidly consumed by a greedy flame. Soon she would have no control left, and that was the most terrifying prospect of all. All her life people in authority had been trying to tell her what was best for her. She was conditioned to resist.

  “Stop!” She averted her head and pushed his hands away. “It was a good try, but you won’t get a confession out of me this way.”

  He released her immediately and stepped back. He clenched his fists at his sides. His breathing was labored, his voice raspy and uneven. “You know damn well that’s not why I kissed you.”

  “Isn’t it?” she shot back defiantly.

  He turned and stomped away, snatched his trench coat off the coat tree, and yanked open the door. Light from the corridor spilled in, silhouetting him in a bright wedge of it.

  For several moments they stared at each other across the gloom, then he stepped through the door and slammed it behind him.

  Claire collapsed onto the sofa arm. Covering her face with her hands, she moaned with a repentant attitude that would have made Sister Anne Elizabeth proud. “Oh, God, no. No.”

  Willingly, ecstatically, she had kissed the man who could, and probably would, condemn her to prison for the rest of her life.

  She answered the door wearing a roomy T-shirt over patterned leggings. “Cassidy,” she said with no little surprise. “Did you lock yourself out?” She glanced across the walkway that separated their condos, looking for a clue as to why he’d shown up on her doorstep at that hour of the night.

  “No. I saw your lights were still on,” he remarked, as though that explained everything.

  “Come in.” Patty-Penny-Peggy moved aside, and he stepped into a living area much like his own, except much better decorated and far neater. “Rough night weather-wise,” she said, indicating his trench coat.

  “The worst of it is over, I think.”

  “Sit down. Would you like a drink?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Oh.” She flashed a quick, puzzled smile. “I’d offer you some grass, but I guess that wouldn’t be too cool, huh?”

  “No.”

  “Are you hungry? Have you had dinner?”

  “I don’t remember,” he said honestly. “I don’t think so, but I’m not hungry.”

  “Well, sit down. I’ll turn on some music. What kind do you like?”

  “I’m not particular.” He took off his coat and tossed it over the arm of a chair, but he didn’t sit down.

  She switched on a CD player and a Randy Travis song began to play. “Do you like country?”

  “It’s okay.”

  She studied him for a moment, then propped her hands on her hips. “Look, Cassidy, I’m glad you dropped by, but I’m at a loss here. What’s going on?”

  “I came to fuck.”

  She blinked twice, obviously taken aback. Then her lips spread into a wide grin. “Why didn’t you just say so?” She pivoted on her bare heels and headed for the bedroom.

  Cassidy followed.

  Chapter Ten

  Ariel unwrapped a bite-size Snickers and popped it into her mouth. Her teeth split the chocolate covering, crunched through the peanuts, and sank into the caramel and nougat. She savored the luscious combination of flavors as the candy melted and oozed on her tongue. After maximizing the greatest caloric pleasure from it, she sucked the sticky caramel off her teeth.

  Candy wrappers littered the coffee table in front of the divan. As a kid, treats had been prohibited on her family’s budget, and Ariel had been lucky if she got a piece of stick candy every few weeks. For the past several years she’d been making up for the deprivation; she couldn’t get enough.

  She stretched for the sheer pleasure of seeing, hearing, and feeling her silk lounging pajamas slide against her legs. The mirror across the room reflected
a woman of leisure, surrounded by nice things all belonging to her. Ariel liked that. Indeed, she wanted to crow about it.

  The house she’d grown up in had had indoor plumbing, and that was about the only amenity it could boast. It had been distinctly ugly, the large rooms spartanly and cheaply furnished. She shuddered with revulsion at the memory of it. She had never invited friends over because she was ashamed of her family’s old, creaky, ugly farmhouse. She was also ashamed of the people who lived there. Her brother had been meaner than sin and had terrorized everybody. Her parents had always seemed old, although now she realized that weariness had aged them beyond their years. Nevertheless, that didn’t make her feel any more kindly toward them. She was glad they were long dead and buried.

  She wished she could bury her memories of poverty as easily and as permanently. But whenever she started feeling complacent about her present life, those recollections would emerge from their dormancy to taunt her. They reminded her of who she’d been before she threw herself on the mercy of the Reverend Jackson Wilde.

  Those impoverished days are over forever, she vowed as she gazed around her living room. Objets d’art filled every nook and cranny. Most of the pieces were gifts from Jackson’s followers. He had frequently suggested that they give some of the things away, but Ariel had refused to part with a single item, no matter how cluttered the house became. If she had to install extra shelving, or store things in the attic and under the beds, she would keep everything that came her way. For Ariel, possessions were tantamount to security. She would never be without them again. As she reaffirmed that pledge, she unwrapped another Snickers and devoured it with hedonistic relish.

  When Josh came in carrying a cup of coffee and the morning newspaper, he noticed the candy wrappers immediately. “Is that your breakfast?”

  “What of it?”

  “Not exactly oat bran, is it?” He sank into an easy chair, placed his cup at his elbow, and unfolded the paper. “It’s a miracle. We’re not front-page news anymore.”

  Watching him almost soured the candy in her stomach. Lately, Josh was about as much fun as a forty-year plague. They still made love every night. He was skilled and ardent and had an artist’s sensuality. His fingertips played her body as they did the piano keys, with strength and sensitivity.

  But half the excitement of sleeping with him had been the thrill of cuckolding Jackson. Since secrecy and guilt were no longer adding spice to the affair, the lovemaking had grown bland. Even after an orgasm, she hungered for something more.

  Yet, she couldn’t account for her restlessness and dissatisfaction. The Cincinnati crusade had gone exceptionally well. Two TV shows had been taped and were ready for broadcast. During the tapings, the auditorium had been packed to capacity.

  Ariel had sung. Josh had played. Several disciples had tearfully testified to what Jackson Wilde and his ministry had meant to their lives. Then Ariel had taken the podium and begun her heartrending sermon. It had taken days to memorize. Each crack in her voice, each gesture, had been carefully choreographed and rehearsed in front of her mirror. The time and effort had been well spent. Before she was finished there wasn’t a dry eye in the place, and the offering plates were overflowing with greenbacks.

  Those who, weeks before, had been skeptical of her ability to continue the ministry without Jackson’s stern leadership had been effusively complimentary. She’d proved them wrong. She was just as charismatic and persuasive as her late husband had been. People had flocked by the hundreds to see her, considering every word she spoke a precious gem. The world was in her pocket.

  So why was she feeling vaguely discontent?

  It just still wasn’t enough. She had hundreds of thousands of followers, but why not millions? Suddenly she sat up. “I don’t think so.”

  Josh lowered one corner of his paper. “Pardon?”

  “I don’t think it’s so bloody wonderful that we’re no longer front-page news.” She swung her legs off the divan and began to roam around the room. She fidgeted, straightening tasseled cushions, rearranging crystal vases, and repositioning porcelain shepherdesses.

  “Well, if it makes you feel any better, here’s our ad on page fifteen of section two.”

  He turned the paper toward her so that she could see the ad. Across the top, printed in the ministry’s trademark typeface, was the title of their television show. Beneath that was a full-face drawing of her, holding a microphone in front of her mouth, tears rolling down her cheeks. The date and time of broadcast were printed beneath.

  Ariel critically studied the ad. “ ‘The Jackson Wilde Prayer and Praise Hour,’ ” she read. “Jackson Wilde is dead. Why haven’t we changed the name of the program?”

  “To what?”

  “Why not The Ariel Wilde Prayer and Praise Hour?”

  “Why not The Prayer and Praise Hour?”

  “Because that’s too plain. Besides, people need an individual to identify with.”

  “You, I suppose.”

  “Well, why not? I’m the one doing most of the talking now.”

  Josh watched her over the rim of his coffee cup as he took a sip. “Call the damn show anything you please, Ariel. I really couldn’t care less.”

  “That’s readily apparent.”

  He tossed the newspaper aside and angrily surged to his feet. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that if it weren’t for me, this whole outfit would have collapsed after Jackson died. You don’t have the balls to hold together a scout troop, much less a ministry like ours. It’s a good thing you’ve got me. Otherwise, you’d be out hustling gigs with tent revivals.”

  “I’d be a lot happier doing that. At least I wouldn’t feel like a carrion bird picking at a dead man’s corpse.”

  One carefully penciled eyebrow arched. “If you’re so unhappy, you know where the door is.”

  Josh glared at her, but, as she had known he would, he backed down. He went to the piano and after running through several chords he began playing a classical piece with all the verve and courage he lacked in dealing with sticky situations.

  When finally he had calmed down, he looked up at her, but continued to play. “You know what’s really pathetic? You don’t realize what a joke you are.”

  “Joke?” she repeated, affronted. “To who?”

  “To everyone within the organization. You’re blinded by your inflated self-importance. People are laughing behind your back. Why do you think two of the board members have already resigned?”

  “Because they didn’t like having a woman calling the shots. I threatened their masculinity. Who gives a damn? We didn’t need them.”

  “This ministry, which you brag about holding together, is crumbling, Ariel. Only you’re too pumped up with ego to see it.” He ran his hands over the keys, completing the piece, then began another. “Daddy’s probably sitting up there somewhere in heaven, having a good laugh on us.”

  “You’ve gone soft in the head.”

  He grinned at her knowingly. “You’re still scared of him, aren’t you, Ariel?”

  “You’re the one who’s scared.”

  “I admit it,” he said. “You don’t.”

  “I’m not scared of anything or anybody.”

  “He’s still got you under his thumb.”

  “Like hell.”

  “Why do you eat like a lumberjack and then go throw it up?” He finished the piece on a fortissimo that punctuated his question.

  Ariel’s cocky defensiveness wavered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh yes you do. You’ve been doing it for months. As soon as you’ve eaten, you go into the bathroom. You binge on things like candy bars, then force yourself to throw up. That’s a sickness. Bulimia.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Who are you, the surgeon general? So I watch my weight. TV cameras add at least fifteen pounds. I don’t want to look like a white whale when I descend that freaking staircase.”

  He reached up and encircled
her narrow wrist, turning it up so that she could see how much his long fingers overlapped. “You don’t simply count calories, Ariel. You stuff yourself, then you make yourself vomit.”

  She yanked her hand away. “Well, what if I do? Jackson was always on my case about my weight. I had to do something to keep it off.”

  “Didn’t you ever figure him out?” Josh asked with a rueful smile. “He was a master at preying on a person’s weakness. That’s how he exercised mind control. He constantly hinted that my mother was stupid, until she began to believe it. For the last few years of her life, she was afraid to offer an opinion on anything at the risk of being ridiculed.

  “You know his bit with me. He let me know at every turn that I lacked the musical talent I craved. Every chance he got, he reminded me that I was only good enough to pound out gospel music and was mediocre at that.

  “With you, it was your weight. He knew you were self-conscious about it, so he used that to keep you humble. He was as sly as Satan, Ariel. He was so subtle, you didn’t even know you’d been gigged until you realized that your self-esteem was lower than shit.

  “You should have ignored him when he teased you about your ‘baby fat’ and your overactive sweet tooth. You were always slender enough. Now you’re on the verge of emaciation. Besides, as you noted only moments ago, he’s dead. He can’t harp on you anymore.”

  “No, he’s got you to do it for him.”

  Josh shook his head in resignation. “You’re missing the point, Ariel. I’m not being critical. I’m worried about your health. I—”

  “Wait, Josh, I’ve got an idea.” She reached down and mashed her hands over his, causing the keys to crash discordantly.

  He pulled his hands from beneath hers. “You bitch! “If you ever—”

  “Oh, stop. I didn’t hurt your precious hands. Listen, what you said earlier, about us not making news any longer? Well, you’re right. We’ve got to do something to correct that.”