French Silk

by Sandra Brown

  Joshua Wilde. Cassidy’s gut instinct told him that the young man wouldn’t have the gumption to kill a fly, much less a tyrannical father. On the other hand, he’d had the moxie to boink his old man’s wife.

  The problem with prosecuting Ariel or Josh was that he didn’t have a shred of physical evidence on either of them. It was all circumstantial and conjecture. If the jurors followed the judge’s instructions and entertained any reasonable doubt, Ariel and Josh would walk. Assistant District Attorney Cassidy would have lost his credibility and let the real killer, whoever it might be, go free.

  That prospect was unthinkable. His main objective was to make sure that didn’t happen. Above all else, he was committed to catching the bad guy and convicting him.

  Or her.

  Thoughts of Claire made him swear liberally as he ground out his first, virtually unsmoked, cigarette and lit another. He envisioned her as she had been that afternoon. Her dishevelment had been fetching, the perspiration having given her skin a healthy glow. The humidity had made the hair around her face curl beguilingly. She had looked hot and bothered. But when he’d confronted her about it, she’d been too damn proud to claim those two human frailties, jealousy and lust.

  Feeling restless and mean, Cassidy rolled off the bed and hiked a pair of jeans up over his hips. He didn’t bother buttoning them before he yanked open the French doors and stepped onto the balcony. The air was even sultrier than it had been earlier. There wasn’t a breath of breeze.

  He glanced toward the French doors of Claire’s room and saw darkness. She was sleeping. He gazed up at the sky; the low clouds looked swollen and bruised. The smell of rain was pervasive, but he didn’t feel a drop. The atmosphere was electrically charged, as though something consequential were about to take place.

  No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than a flash of lightning sizzled across the sky just above the motionless treetops.

  When the sky was split by a brilliant, jagged fork of lightning, Claire sprang into a sitting position. She held her breath in anticipation of the thunder. It cracked like a whip across the roof of the house, rattling windows and glassware. It was followed by a strong gust of wind. Her French doors burst open, swinging into the room and banging against the interior walls. The sheer draperies billowed like sails suddenly unfurled.

  Claire slid from the bed and walked across the room. Rosesharon’s trees were swaying in an angry wind that seemed to be blowing in no particular direction. It tore at her hair and molded her chemise to her body. Another bolt of lightning temporarily spotlighted the balcony.

  That’s when she saw Cassidy. He was standing at the railing, shirtless, smoking, looking straight at her. She started to duck back into her bedroom and seal shut the French doors, but she couldn’t move. His riveting gaze had immobilized her. Saying nothing, he pushed himself away from the railing and came toward her with a slow, measured, predatory tread.

  Her heart started racing as fast as the frenzied wind. Her mind spun as erratically as anything in the wind’s path. She spoke the first inane words that came to her: “I didn’t know you smoked.”

  Cassidy still said nothing but continued moving forward in that same dangerous manner. He didn’t stop until he was within arm’s reach. Claire felt herself drawn to him by a physical and inexorable tug, as though he had a powerful magnet inside his chest.

  Breathlessly she said, “I think a storm is finally about to break.”

  He flicked his cigarette over the balcony railing, then reached for her, pulling her against him with the force of the next thunderclap. The kiss he ground upon her mouth was as ruthless as the wind. He snapped open her hair barrette and let it drop unheeded to the floor, then moved his fingers through her hair, tilting her head first to one side, then the other, so that her mouth had to obey the rapacious demands of his.

  Heat emanated from him, through his skin, through the hair that matted his chest. His unleashed sexual desire seeped into Claire and she responded, suddenly acknowledging it as the source of her recent discontent. It blossomed and spread through her—a sweet, aching need for this… for Cassidy.

  Her fingers curled into the fleshy part of his shoulders and she arched against him. He made a low, erotic sound. His mouth left hers to seek the hollow of her neck. Claire’s head fell back as she welcomed the sucking motions of his lips.

  He slid his hand down her back, over her bottom, and tilted her higher and closer to him, pushing his erection against her cleft. He lowered one strap of her chemise and bared her breast. He sought the nipple first, closing his lips around it and madly laving it with his tongue. Soft, glad little cries escaped Claire’s parted lips until he took them again in a kiss.

  The ferocity of the storm was fully upon them now. The fierce wind howled. Lightning flashed and thunder cracked. Rain fell in torrents. Sheets of it were driven beneath the balcony roof to splash against their bare feet. They were mindless of it all.

  Until they heard approaching voices.

  In order to enjoy the rain, two of the models had decided to take the balcony route to their rooms instead of the interior hallway. Claire pushed Cassidy away and glanced toward the corner of the house, where at any moment the models would appear.

  Taking her hand, he stepped into her room and pulled her in behind him. He latched the French doors just as the models rounded the corner, where they paused to watch the storm.

  Cassidy backed Claire against the French doors and they became hopelessly entangled in the sheer drapes. Any objections she might have uttered were silenced by his kiss. His tongue entered her mouth and plumbed it seductively. His hands moved beneath her chemise. They felt warm and strong against her derriere as he lifted one of her thighs and propped it on his. His knuckles lightly fanned her pubic hair. Her belly quickened reflexively and she almost cried out. To trap the sound, he covered her mouth with his.

  Outside, one of the models said, “It’s really coming down. I’ve never seen lightning like this.”

  “Shh! You’ll wake up Claire.”

  Claire was fully awake. Every fiber of her body was responding to Cassidy’s touch. His fingers separated the lips of her sex; one slipped inside her. With a subtle flexing motion, he extended it fully before gradually retracting it again and again. Claire clutched at him. He ended a torrid kiss and penetrated her eyes with a hot, hard stare while continuing to stroke her.

  “We’d better get to bed, too.”

  “What time’s your call?”

  “Eight-thirty.”

  A squeal. “Watch it, it’s slippery. I almost fell.”

  “Rue would shit if you showed up tomorrow with bruises.”

  Cassidy withdrew his finger and found the distended heart of her sexuality. Round and round he caressed the slippery nubbin. Claire blinked frantically in an attempt to keep her eyes open. Cassidy’s image was blurring. She noted that his hair was falling over his brows, that his features were set and tense, and that his eyes were feverish.

  Claire was seized by a purling climax. She fought it, but it washed through her like a powerful, intravenous drug. Instant warmth. A jolt of passion. A rush of sublimity.

  The models’ voices had faded, leaving only the sounds of the storm and the silky rasp of heavy breathing. Cassidy wrapped his arms around her and carried her to the bed, where he laid her down before following with his own body. He removed her chemise, then his hands moved over her flushed breasts. His fingertips lingered on her nipples, and the sensations that concentrated there were so strong, Claire whimpered. He lowered his head and kissed them urgently but tenderly. She grasped handfuls of his hair, knowing she should stop this, but conceding that she might just as well try to stop the pounding rain.

  He kissed her belly. Anxiously she murmured, “Cassidy?”

  “Shh.” He blew gently on her delta of hair.

  “Cassidy?”

  Disregarding her hesitancy, he scooped her hips in his hands and lifted her against his open mouth. His tongue investigated
her sweet, wet center. He flicked it lazily, delved deeply. He nuzzled her affectionately, then kissed her intently, as though sucking the nectar from a piece of luscious fruit. With the tip of his tongue he reawakened that tiny seed of femininity.

  The pleasure built until it was unendurable. “Please,” she gasped.

  He knelt between her thighs and thrust himself into her. His breathing was labored and hot against her neck. She heard him groan, “Oh, Christ. Christ.” Then he began to move, stretching and stroking her until she became oblivious to everything except him.

  The skin on his back was damp. His muscles rippled beneath her hands. She slid them inside his jeans and cupped his buttocks, drawing him deeper into her. He murmured with pleasure. They kissed. His lips tasted musky and forbidden. She licked them delicately, then greedily.

  He gathered the fullness of her breast in his palm and brushed his thumb across the raised center, then lightly rolled it between his fingers. Claire’s back arched off the mattress. She caught her breath sharply and spoke his name. The first climax had been only a harbinger. This time when she came she felt like part of a fireworks display. She was showered with fiery sparks and fell through space for what seemed eternity before the final glimmer was extinguished.

  Moments later, Cassidy allowed himself to come. He embraced her tightly and filled her ear with erotic messages as she felt his warm, surging release deep inside her.

  Replete, they rested, his head lying on the slopes of her breasts, her legs folded around him. Eventually he sat up and peeled off his jeans, then lay back down and gathered her close. Claire snuggled against his naked body.

  The storm had passed, but it continued to rain. The distant thunder reminded her of the night Cassidy had first kissed her, the night they had gone to the Ponchartrain Hotel to pick up Mary Catherine.

  With a shudder, Claire pushed away the thought. She didn’t want to remember who they were and the opposing roles they were playing in a real-life drama.

  Feeling her shudder, he tenderly kissed her temple. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Something.”

  She sighed, a smile playing about her lips. “That was the dirtiest sex I’ve ever had.”

  A chuckle started deep inside his chest, just below her ear. “Good.”

  She strummed his ribs, excited by the sensations conducted through her fingertips. “Cassidy?”

  “Hmm?”

  “What will happen tomorrow?”

  He rolled her onto her back and leaned above her, laying his finger lengthwise against her lips. “If we talk about that, I’ll have to leave. Is that what you want?” He stroked her lips, then kissed her, deeply, wetly, intimately, giving her his tongue. He nudged apart her thighs and moved against her suggestively. He was already hard again.

  She sighed. “No. Don’t leave.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Andre Philippi was beside himself with excitement. Yasmine was in his hotel again. Yasmine! The most exquisite creature in the world.

  He was taking a routine stroll through the lobby when he saw her come in. Even though the sun had already set, she was wearing opaque, wrap-around sunglasses. Obviously she didn’t want to be recognized. If he weren’t so familiar with her face, she might have escaped even his notice. But he spent more time staring into close-up photographs of her than he spent looking at himself in the mirror. Her face was better known to him than his own.

  Her gait was purposeful as she strode toward the bank of elevators. One was standing open. Andre rushed to join her inside it before it began its ascent. “Yasmine. Welcome.” He executed a quick bow.

  “Hello, Andre.” She smiled and removed her sunglasses, slipping them into her large shoulder bag. “How are you? It’s been ages since I’ve seen you.”

  Claire had introduced them several years ago at a small dinner party she had hosted. They had since been together on numerous occasions. However, it never failed to thrill and flatter Andre that she regarded him as a friend.

  “I’ve been well. And you?”

  “Can’t complain.” Her smile seemed to congeal around her words, as though they might not be wholly sincere.

  “Are you in town to work on the catalog?”

  “We’re shooting pictures for the spring issue over in Mississippi. I just came back for the evening.”

  He never questioned a guest’s reason for being in his hotel. That would have been a breach of his policy, which guaranteed absolute privacy above all else. “How is Claire?”

  “Frankly, she was in a snit when I left her this afternoon,” Yasmine replied.

  “Oh, dear. Did Mary Catherine—”

  “No, it had nothing to do with her mother.”

  He waited politely, hoping that Yasmine would expound upon their mutual friend’s distress without his having to ask.

  Yasmine rewarded his discretion. “I guess the pressure of the job got to her today. You know Claire. She never blows her top, which is the healthy way to get mad. She just simmers quietly and makes everybody around her feel like shit.”

  Sensing that there had been conflict between the two women he liked and admired so well, Andre responded diplomatically. “I’m confident that the catalog will be well worth the effort you’ve put into it.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” Her lack of enthusiasm was evident.

  “Isn’t the creative aspect of the catalog always anxiety producing?” he inquired politely.

  “This time more than usual.”

  “Why so?”

  “Cassidy.”

  Andre blanched. “You mean he’s there?”

  “Yep. He followed Claire to Rosesharon and has practically become a permanent fixture on the sets.”

  He nervously wet his lips. “Why in heaven’s name is he hounding her like that?”

  The elevator had reached the designated floor. Andre stepped out with Yasmine, and they began walking together down the hotel corridor.

  “He still suspects her of Wilde’s murder.”

  “But that’s preposterous!” Andre stumbled, as though his heart had dropped all the way to the floor and tripped him. “Oh dear. This is terrible. And it’s all my fault.” Perspiration broke out across his forehead. From his breast pocket he removed an immaculate linen handkerchief and blotted at the beads of sweat. “If I hadn’t fallen for his trick and identified Claire as the caller on that recording—”

  “Whoa!” Yasmine laid a commiserating hand on his shoulder. “Claire told me how upset you were when that happened. Listen, Cassidy is one smart cookie. One way or another, he would have found out that Claire was here at the Fairmont the night Jackson Wilde was shot. You didn’t reveal anything that he wouldn’t have discovered sooner or later.”

  She lowered her voice to a confidential pitch. “If you want to know what I think, I think Cassidy’s more interested in proving Claire innocent than guilty.”

  “Which, of course, she is,” Andre hastened to say. “Claire was here that night to pick up Mary Catherine, nothing more. I would swear to that in court. I would do anything to protect a friend.”

  “Your friends count on that.”

  Andre found that statement cryptic and unsettling. He wanted to reemphasize his belief in Claire’s innocence, but Yasmine began moving away. “I’ll look forward to a longer visit soon, Andre.”

  He reached for her hand, bowed over it, and kissed the back of it. “Au revoir, Yasmine. Your incandescent beauty lends light to everyone around you.”

  The smile that had made her famous broke across her face. “Why you little stinker! You’re a poet!”

  “I confess,” he admitted sheepishly. She would never know about the hours he had spent composing odes to her beauty and charm.

  She laid her palm against his cheek. “You’re a real gentleman, Andre. Why can’t all men be as kind and considerate and loyal as you?” Her smile became sad. She withdrew her hand, then turned and walked away from him. He didn’t follow her. That would have been improper.
But he waited until she was admitted into a room after knocking and speaking her name softly.

  Andre didn’t envy the man waiting for her on the other side of the door. His love for Yasmine wasn’t sexual. Its origins were in his soul and it resided on a much higher plane than the physical realm. With all his heart, he wanted her to experience love and happiness in all their various forms and from whatever sources they could be derived.

  He practically floated back to the elevator in a state of euphoria. Yasmine had touched his cheek with affection. Her hand had felt smooth and cool, like his maman’s caress when he was a boy. There had also been something in her eyes that had reminded him of his mother—a familiar poignancy that he remembered only too well. But he put that thought aside and didn’t let it compromise the bubbling joy of the moment.

  “You cocksucking bastard. You motherfucker.” Yasmine lambasted Alister Petrie with a litany of obscenities.

  “Charming language, Yasmine.”

  “Shut your lying mouth, you son of a fucking bitch.”

  Fury radiated from her like the red waves from a space heater. Her body was taut and bristling with rage. It burned in the depths of her eyes. “You never intended to leave your wife, did you?”

  “Yasmine, I—”

  “Did you?”

  “During an election year, it would be political suicide. But that doesn’t mean—”

  “You goddamn liar. You slimy, stinking piece of rat shit. I could kill you.”

  “For God’s sake.” He ran his fingers through his hair. It was still tousled from their coupling, which had been almost as ferocious as their argument. They’d heaved and bucked and clutched and wrestled as if it were a contest rather than an act of love.

  “You’re overreacting,” he said in a calming tone, trying to prevent another outburst of her violent shrieks. “This is only a temporary separation, Yasmine. It would be best—”

  “Best for you.”

  “Best for both of us if we cooled it for a while, at least until after the election. I’m not breaking off the affair permanently. Jesus, do you think I want that? I don’t. You’re my life.”