French Silk

by Sandra Brown

  The rest of the entourage trailed in, dropping onto pieces of furniture like wounded soldiers. “Jesus, it’s hot,” one of the models said as she lifted a mane of streaked blond hair off her neck.

  There were four female models and two males. Yasmine had used them in the catalog before. It was a convivial group, and they were all on a first-name basis—Felicia, Dana, Liz, and Alison. They were young, nubile, and gorgeous. Kurt, the dark, brooding male model, wore his luxuriant black hair shoulder length. He could look either sleek and European or dangerous and untamed. The other man, Paul, was blond and blue-eyed. His “types” were the boy next door and the buttoned-down yuppie.

  The stylist, in charge of wardrobe, was known throughout the fashion industry simply as Rue. She was a middle-aged crone who had coarse features and a voice like a cement mixer. She was never without a black, acrid cigarette dangling from her lips.

  The makeup artist was a quiet Asian woman with porcelain-like skin and expressive doe eyes. The hair stylist, paradoxically, had virtually no hair. It had been cut very close to her scalp. She compensated by wearing earrings that dangled to her chest.

  Leon’s assistant, as pudgy and pink as a newborn, was a self-effacing young man who rarely spoke and constantly remained in Leon’s shadow.

  “Perhaps we should all get settled into our rooms,” Claire said. “As soon as you’re unpacked, I’d like to have a meeting with Leon and Yasmine to review the shot list.”

  The Monteiths summoned two valets to help with the luggage. Before everyone scattered, Claire spoke above the noise: “Models, before dinner, I’d like you all to go to the Winnebago for a fitting. Rue has already tagged the garments with your names.”

  The models divided themselves up two, two, and two. Claire didn’t know who was sleeping with whom and made a point not to find out. Too much gossip could jeopardize the camaraderie on a location shoot. If there were any minidramas played out during the course of their stay, she’d rather not know about them.

  Mary Catherine was sharing a room with Harry. Leon and his assistant had a room. Claire and Yasmine were doubling in another. Rue, the hair stylist, and the makeup artist had opted to sleep in the Winnebago. Claire was glad. Otherwise there might not have been a vacancy for her mother and Harry.

  Thankfully, she could concentrate on her work, without having to worry about Cassidy questioning her mother. That had been her main reason for hustling Mary Catherine out of New Orleans.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Claire was up early and, over coffee, consulted with Leon, Rue, and Yasmine about the shots they had scheduled for that day. “What would you think of using that old-fashioned vanity table in our bedroom for one of the interior shots?” she asked Yasmine.

  Yasmine responded enthusiastically. “We could shoot the model from the back, looking into the mirror, and it could reflect one of the guys watching her through the balcony doors. We could close those gauzy curtains so you’d see only the silhouette of a man.”

  “It’d be a good shot to feature that backless bra you designed, Claire,” Rue said around a rattling cough.

  “Leon?”

  “Sounds fab. But let’s wait for a cloudy day to do the interior shots. I want to take advantage of this glorious sunshine while it lasts.”

  The weather cooperated with Leon’s wishes. Consequently, the morning sessions went well. By noon they had completed three shots.

  “We’ll resume after lunch,” Claire told everyone as they trooped up the front steps toward the welcome shade of the veranda, where Agnes Monteith was waiting with a cordless phone.

  “A call for you, Miss Laurent. A Mr. Cassidy. I told him we were serving lunch, but he was insistent.”

  “Yes, he would be.” Frowning, Claire took the phone but waited until everyone was inside before saying anything. “Hello, Cassidy.” Her voice didn’t convey any friendliness.

  “How’s Mississippi?”

  “Hot.”

  “No hotter than it is here.”

  “Oh?”

  “Don’t sound so innocent. I’m catching hell from Crowder.”

  “About that newspaper story?”

  “You saw it?”

  “Before I left New Orleans. According to Ariel Wilde, I’m quite a tart, aren’t I?”

  “Much ado about one little kiss.”

  It hadn’t exactly been “one little kiss,” but Claire refrained from pointing that out. “You should have thought of the consequences before you kissed me.”

  “I thought about them. At the time, the consequences didn’t seem to matter a whole hell of a lot.”

  Breathless and feeling overly warm, Claire sank into the nearest wicker chair, wishing she could think of something to say that would fill the awkward silence.

  Cassidy said, “Ariel called Crowder even before she went to the press. Apparently she’s got somebody tailing you.”

  The thought of someone, a stranger, covertly watching her made her feel like she needed a bath. “Damn her! Why can’t she just leave us alone? Why can’t you?”

  “Look, the last couple of days haven’t exactly been a picnic for me either.”

  “I don’t suppose Crowder was too happy with you,” she remarked.

  “He threatened to take me off the case.”

  “You don’t want that, do you?”

  “No.”

  “How is Crowder responding publicly to the newspaper story?”

  “He’s denying everything.”

  “How can he?” Claire exclaimed.

  “It’s their word against ours that I kissed you. Who is Joe Public going to believe, a religious nut or the district attorney?”

  “Crowder would lie to protect you?”

  “Not me. He’d lie to protect the office. He’s a politician first, and supports the establishment as fiercely as you oppose it.”

  Claire was trying to assimilate it all when a chilling thought occurred to her. “In order to get back in Crowder’s good graces, you almost have to indict me. That’s the only way you can prove to Joe Public that you’re unbiased and that my seductive powers have no influence over you.”

  “Hell no,” he said with asperity. “It’s nothing like that.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “All right, to some extent that’s true. But it has nothing to do with politics and Crowder. The only person I have to prove something to is myself. I asked for this case. I demanded it. And now that I have it, it’s my responsibility to bring Jackson Wilde’s killer to justice.” In a softer voice, he added, “No matter who it is. That’s why…”

  “That’s why what?”

  “That’s why I obtained a search warrant for French Silk this morning.”

  His statement produced a severe and gut-wrenching reaction. The thought of her personal things being handled by strangers was untenable. “You can’t do that to me, Cassidy!”

  “I’m sorry, Claire, but I can. I have. In fact, I’m due there now.”

  He hung up without saying goodbye.

  As she rejoined the group for the cold buffet, she stubbornly maintained her smile and tried to act nonchalant, but apparently she didn’t fool anyone.

  Mary Catherine pulled her aside. “Is everything all right, dear? You seem upset.”

  Affectionately she squeezed her mother’s hand. “I’m fine, Mama.”

  “The call was from Mr. Cassidy, wasn’t it? Did he ask you about Reverend Wilde again?”

  “No. Nothing like that. Are you having a good time? What kept you and Harry occupied this morning?”

  Mary Catherine launched into a lengthy description of her activities. Claire found it difficult to concentrate on what her mother was saying. She made appropriate remarks in all the right places, but her mind was on the police search of her private property. God only knew what her employees would think. Later, she would call and assure them that the search was nothing to be alarmed about.

  She executed her duties that afternoon, but her mind kept returning to the stra
ngers in uniform who were pawing through her, Yasmine’s, and Mary Catherine’s bureau drawers, rifling through their official papers, rummaging through their closets, and manhandling their personal things.

  She would never forgive Cassidy for this.

  “Honey, do you know where my gold cuff links are?”

  Alister Petrie emerged from his dressing area with his shirttails flapping. He and Belle were due at a campaign fund-raising dinner party in half an hour. They were running late. He’d arrived home from his afternoon campaign speech with barely enough time to shower and change before charging out again to face another crowd of potential contributors and voters.

  “They’re here on my dresser.”

  Belle was seated on the tufted velvet stool in front of her dressing table, pulling a hairbrush through her blond page boy. It was the same page boy she’d worn since high school and was kept silky and sleek by expensive hot-oil treatments and monthly trims.

  “Did you have a chance to catch me on the tube?” he asked as he approached her, buttoning his shirt.

  “No, darling. I was busy getting ready for tonight. I’m sure you were a smashing success.”

  He reached around her for the cuff links. “Two TV stations…” He yanked his hand back as though it had been bitten by a cobra.

  His cuff links were nestled in a tiny heap of lace that he immediately recognized. His stomach quickened. For several unendurable moments he was afraid he was going to be sick all over Belle’s jars of beauty creams and bottles of perfume.

  His eyes connected with hers in the mirror. Very coolly, she finished clipping on a pair of diamond earrings. “I found those in the pocket of a suit jacket I sent out to be dry cleaned. It’s a wifely little habit of mine to check your pockets before sending things out. You should have known that and been more careful.”

  “Belle, I—”

  “You what, Alister?” She swiveled around on the stool and gazed up at him with an expression too sweet to be sincere. “You’ve taken to wearing women’s underwear?” She picked up the strands of elasticized lace that supported the small triangle. “What’s the term for that predilection? Cross-dressing?”

  Now that he had recovered from the initial shock of seeing Yasmine’s g-string panties on his wife’s dressing table, he started to get angry. Other men had affairs and never had to account for them. Why was he always having to play the penitent?

  “Don’t talk down to me, Belle.”

  “Well then,” she said, snapping the elastic like a slingshot before letting the garment drop back onto the vanity, “the only other conclusion I can draw is that you’re having an extramarital affair.”

  She stood up and brushed him aside. Of all her affectations, this haughty act grated on his nerves the most. With a few practiced gestures and calculated words, she could make him feel gauche and stupid and small.

  He was a United States congressman, by God! No one, not even his wife, was going to humiliate him. He would never confess to having a mistress, much less beg forgiveness.

  Belle withdrew a fluid chiffon dress from her closet and stepped into it, working it up and over her willowy hips. “Do me up,” she said after pushing her arms through the sequined sleeves.

  After he zipped the dress, she turned to face him. “I’m not stupid enough to think you’re faithful to me. Of course you’ve had other women. You have one now and you’ll have others. That’s not the issue.”

  “Then why bring it up?” he asked belligerently. She could have discreetly disposed of the panties and avoided this ugly scene. He took heat all day from a dozen different sources. He didn’t need to catch shit at home, too.

  “I brought it up to point out your appalling stupidity.”

  Alister saw red. “Now just a goddamn minute. I—”

  She held up both hands. “Spare me your righteous indignation, Alister. You can’t afford it. Listen to me and heed what I say.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “If I found out that you’re unfaithful to your wedding vows, others will find out. You’ve been incredibly stupid and alarmingly careless. Sooner or later the odds will catch up with you, just as I did.

  “Throughout the campaign you’ve wooed the public well. You’ve cultivated a strong, solid constituency.” She paused to draw a breath. “How do you think the Bible thumpers, like Jackson Wilde’s followers, would regard you if it was revealed that you’re an adulterer? Even dead, Wilde is a hot item. We can still use his influence. You’ve been vocal in your criticism of local law enforcement for failing to find his murderer. But it could all be for nothing if your Christian image was exposed as fraudulent. Are you willing to sacrifice thousands of votes for a few hours of…” She flipped her hand out, indicating the panties on the vanity.

  “Fucking. It’s called fucking, Belle.” He took delight in the sudden blanching of her face and the stiffening of her spine. “And if you weren’t so prissy in bed, I wouldn’t—”

  “Don’t.” She aimed her index finger at the center of his chest. “Don’t turn the blame for this on me. This is your mistake, Alister. And I’m informing you now that I won’t suffer the consequences of it. I like being Mrs. Alister Petrie, the congressman’s wife. That’s what I intend to continue being.

  “But if you get caught, if you’re exposed as a cheating, lying husband, don’t expect me to attest to what a wonderful, loving husband and father you are. I won’t be made to look a fool.

  “Furthermore,” she continued, lowering her voice to a more confidential pitch, “you know what it’ll mean if I withdraw my financial support from your campaign.” Alister felt the blood draining from his face. Belle smiled. “No one knows—yet—that were it not for my legacy, you wouldn’t have won your first congressional seat. And without my contributions, you won’t win this one. Think about that. The next time you get the urge to fuck—as you so charmingly phrase it—exercise your marital rights.”

  She tapped the front of his starched shirt with her well-manicured nail. “Making me unhappy would be extremely ill advised, Alister. End the affair. Immediately.”

  She came up on tiptoe and gave his lips a soft kiss. “You’d better finish dressing or we’ll be late. Be sure to allow a few minutes to say good night to the children.” At the bedroom door she paused and nodded toward the vanity. “And kindly dispose of those, so I never have to look at them again.”

  Alister was simmering, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. On the surface they had a perfect marriage. As long as things went Belle’s way, life was harmonious. But he suffered no delusions about her. She looked as fragile as a greenhouse orchid. But if crossed, she could be as vicious as a vampire bat.

  She was too self-contained to enjoy good, earthy sex. She liked things neat and tidy, organized, well planned, and controlled. It wasn’t that he had a lover that had upset her. In truth, she was probably relieved that she didn’t have to be inconvenienced so often. What had angered her was the timing of the affair and his failure to conceal it. Belle wasn’t running the show. That’s what had her pissed.

  He approached the dressing table and picked up the lace panties. Too many times his affair with Yasmine had separated him from his better judgment. He shuddered to think of some smart-ass reporter getting wind of his affair with the famous black model. But what was he supposed to do, survive only on the sterile, uninspired sex of his marriage bed? Go completely underground until after the election? It was impossible to keep a low profile during a political campaign. He was like a lightning rod for attracting attention, and he needed that constant public exposure to win voters.

  The two interests were incompatible. Something had to give. He couldn’t have everything.

  As he fingered the lace and thought back to that bizarre afternoon in his Washington office, a smile slowly lifted his lips and he chuckled. “Who says?”

  The diner was as gloomy as Cassidy’s mood. It was one of those family-owned joints that offered cops a discount in return for meager protection and lousy ti
ps. Detective Glenn had suggested it. It was his kind of place—grimy and depressing. Cassidy wished he were anywhere else, discussing any other topic than the one that had occupied them through uninspired burgers, greasy fries, soggy coconut pie, and countless cups of oily coffee.

  “You know, I’ve been thinking,” Glenn said as he lit the next in an endless chain of cigarettes. “Could be one of these gals had a thing going with Wilde. A thing of a romantic nature. Did you ever think of that?”

  “No,” Cassidy said, offended at hearing Claire referred to as a gal. “Whatever made you think that?”

  “That Yasmine’s a hot number with a string of boyfriends a mile long. Who’s she seeing now? Hasn’t been a romance reported in over a year. Strange, huh?”

  “You think she was seeing Wilde?”

  Glenn shrugged. “Maybe those offerings she gave him were payment of a different sort.”

  “You’ve had too much nicotine,” Cassidy said sourly, fanning the polluted air in front of his face.

  “Well, after what we found today, I’d believe just about anything about her.” He whistled. “Pretty weird shit.”

  Cassidy said nothing, but continued to fiddle with the broken napkin dispenser at the end of the booth.

  “And the Laurent broad didn’t come off smelling like a rose, either, did she?”

  “No,” Cassidy replied quietly. “She didn’t. But what we found still doesn’t prove anything.”

  “No, but it’s getting closer.” Glenn slurped his coffee. “What’d Crowder think? You told him, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, I reported back.”

  “And?”

  “He said for us to take the ball and run with it,” Cassidy mumbled reluctantly.

  “So…”

  Cassidy raised his head and looked at the detective across the chipped table. “So?”