French Silk

by Sandra Brown

  Yasmine clasped his head between her long, slender hands. “Sugar, I’ve been miserable. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. I lived for a phone call.”

  “I couldn’t risk it.” He raised his head to her breasts and took one of her nipples into his mouth.

  “Yes,” she moaned. “Hard, baby, suck hard.”

  He took a breast in each hand and squeezed hard while he suckled until his jaws ached. She straddled his lap and grappled with his clothes until his throbbing penis was sandwiched between her stroking hands.

  He shoved his hands beneath her skirt, grabbed her hips, and brought them down hard as he thrust into her. She tore at the buttons of his monogrammed shirt, then sank her long nails into his chest. He grunted with a mix of pleasure and pain, and roughly scraped his chin against her raised nipples, burning them with his whisker stubble.

  She rode him frantically, squeezing and pulling like a tight, wet fist, like a mouth. Through the fog of passion, he dimly heard the telephone in the anteroom ring and his secretary’s muffled answer: “Congressman Petrie’s office. I’m sorry but the congressman is presently engaged.”

  Alister almost laughed as Yasmine rolled her hips forward, then backward, as she crammed her breast into his mouth. I’m “presently engaged” fucking my brains out with my mistress, he thought. Wouldn’t that rock the foundations of the Capitol? Wouldn’t his constituents be astonished? Wouldn’t his foes have a field day?

  She came before he did. Closing her arms tightly around his head, she whispered an erotic chant in his ear, “Ohsugarohbabyohgodohyesohfuck,” while one spasm after another gripped him deeper and tighter inside her.

  His climax wasn’t as vocal but was just as tempestuous. For a full sixty seconds afterward she clung to him, her head resting on his shoulder.

  When she sat up, her torso was gleaming with perspiration, the sheen enhanced by the gold chains suspended from her neck. Her tiger eyes still smoldered. She was so damned gorgeous she took his breath… what was left of it.

  “I love you, you son of a bitch.”

  He chuckled, wincing slightly as he slipped out of her and realized they’d made quite a mess. “I love you, too.” Ever aware that there was nothing between him and ruination except a door, he wondered worriedly how long they’d been in there. Nevertheless, he couldn’t hustle her out without dispensing some reassurances.

  “When I don’t call, I’m only protecting you. You’ve got to believe that, Yasmine. I’m constantly surrounded by people. I can barely take a leak without somebody following me into the john. I’m working day and night when I’m here. And it’s even tougher to see you in New Orleans.”

  She cupped his face and brought his mouth up to hers for a slow, wet kiss. “I understand. Truly I do. It’s just that I’ve been so lonesome for you. Can we spend the night together tonight?”

  He was torn by indecision. It might be wise to indulge her. On the other hand, the risks of getting caught in Washington were tremendous. “I really can’t. I’m scheduled on a five o’clock plane this afternoon. There’s a fund-raising function tonight in New Orleans that I can’t miss.”

  “What flight are you taking? I’ll go, too. We can meet tonight after your function.”

  Damn! The situation was getting treacherous. “I can’t, Yasmine. It takes days to set up our meetings. You know that.” She looked angry and crestfallen and suspicious. Quickly he drew her against him and kissed her again. “Jesus, I wish we could. Later in the week, I’ll come to New York. Give me a few days to make the arrangements.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  She pulled her dress back into place and replaced the scarf on her shoulder. Alister’s shirt was hopelessly wrinkled; he hoped it wouldn’t be noticeable beneath his suit jacket. His lap was uncomfortably sticky, too, but there was no help for that.

  Yasmine withdrew a check from her handbag and placed it on his desk. “I hope this contribution doesn’t get me into trouble.”

  “Trouble?” He was readjusting his necktie.

  “Hmm. One’s come back to haunt me. Remember my telling you that I sent an offering to Jackson Wilde under my real name?”

  “Yeah? So? You said you thought it might be worth a try to bribe him.”

  “Well, it wasn’t. I lost a thousand dollars I couldn’t afford to lose. My follow-up letter was returned with a handwritten message: ‘Nice try.’ I never knew if Wilde himself or one of his flunkies wrote it, but apparently he wasn’t into taking bribes.”

  “Either that, or you didn’t offer enough.”

  “Right. Anyway, Assistant D.A. Cassidy found out about it. He called me in New York. I admitted that I had half-heartedly tried to bribe Wilde so he’d leave Claire and me alone. He asked to see the letter, which I’d thrown away the minute I read it.

  “That’s only half of it. Unknown to me, Claire had also sent Wilde money. She chewed my ass for not telling her about my offering. I turned it around and reminded her that she hadn’t told me about hers, either. We had a quite a row over it.”

  “What’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal is that Cassidy isn’t buying our explanations and is reading more into it.”

  “According to the newspapers, he’s trying to scrape up a case out of nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

  “I’m not. It’ll blow over.” She gave him a sidelong look and winked. “Besides, I had a damn good alibi the night the preacher was killed, remember?”

  “Right. You were in New York.”

  “No, I was sixty-nining with you.” Laughing, she opened his lap drawer and dropped her panties inside. “A little something to remember me by, Congressman.”

  “I don’t need anything to remember you by.” He wasn’t a politician for nothing. He knew when to stoke and just how much. Feigning urgency, he pulled her against him. They embraced and kissed once more. He tried to hide the impatience behind his kiss and ignore the desperation behind hers.

  At last she was prepared to go. Then, with her hand on the doorknob, she turned back. “Alister, if I ever found out you were lying to me, I’d be pissed.”

  “Lying?” He took her hand and rubbed it against his fly. In a low voice he said, “There are some things a man can’t lie about.”

  For once she didn’t welcome the chance to fondle him. When he let go of her hand, she let it fall listlessly to her side. “I just thought you ought to be forewarned, sugar,” she said. “I don’t get mad. I get even.”

  Her throaty contralto had an undertone that bothered him. Before opening the door, he assumed another hearty smile for the sake of his secretary. He and Yasmine shook hands. He thanked her profusely for her financial support, even though she didn’t even reside in his state. She left, flanked by two bulging body builders stuffed like sausages into cheap black suits.

  “Well, I’m flabbergasted,” Ms. Baines gushed, laying a hand against her bony chest. “Can you believe that?”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “And she’s so nice. You’d expect somebody famous like her to be conceited, but she’s like normal folks.”

  “Hmm. Well, back to work, Ms. Baines. Please hold all calls unless you hear from Mrs. Petrie.”

  “Oh, she called while you were with Yasmine.”

  Panic and nausea seized him. “I’ll call her back right now.”

  “That won’t be necessary. She only called to confirm the time of your flight. She said she’d be at the airport to pick you up.”

  “Oh, fine.” He turned toward his private office, but came back around as though it were an afterthought. “Did you mention that Yasmine had come to see me?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “I’ll tell her tonight. I’ve heard Belle talk about this model. She’s always saying she wishes she were that thin.” Chuckling, he tugged on his earlobe in a way he knew looked boyish and endearing. “Women always want to be as skinny as models. Can’t for the life of me understand why. It’s so unattractive. Oh, by the
way, she left a check for five hundred dollars. Every penny counts, of course, but it’s hardly worth making a big deal over. Probably just a publicity stunt.”

  He went in and closed his door, hoping that he’d left Ms. Baines with the proper impression—that he’d dismissed Yasmine’s visit and campaign contribution as nothing but an isolated gesture from a quirky celebrity.

  Behind his desk once again, he opened his lap drawer and took out the panties, crushing the lace in his fist. This thing had gone too far. At some point, it had gotten way out of hand. He didn’t need this shit on top of all his other pressures. It was a problem that had to be dealt with soon. But how?

  Yasmine had already caused him more trouble than all his other mistresses put together. Until now, this extramarital affair had been worth the additional trouble. Although her veiled threats didn’t really frighten him, who could predict what a volatile woman like her might do? He had to take her warnings with some degree of seriousness.

  If she wanted to, she could make his life hell. She had the media contacts and the high public profile to wreak havoc on his chances for reelection. She could destroy his family. Dammit, he liked things the way they were and he wanted them to stay that way.

  “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 Twelve

  Claire 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.