by Sandra Brown
As she blotted her eyes, Claire reached out and covered her hand. “Don’t cry, Mama. It was never… that way… with Mr. Cassidy and me.”
“Oh,” she said with a soft, disconsolate sound. “I thought it was. I hoped it was. I like him very much. He’s such a handsome young man. And he knows how to treat a lady.”
Oh yes, Claire thought, he’s handsome. Vividly she recalled seeing his face dark and intent with passion, his lips sensually caressing her breasts, his chest warmly, fuzzily naked. And he certainly knew how to treat a lady, especially in bed. He gave as much pleasure as he sought, maybe more. Such perfect lovemaking almost had to be calculated, didn’t it?
She pushed aside the thought. It was too painful to think about. She was hopelessly in love with Cassidy, the key word being hopelessly. They could have no future together. Even if they weren’t on opposite sides of a criminal investigation, he embodied the system that she feared and resented. As much as she loved Cassidy the man, she didn’t believe she could ever completely trust Cassidy the prosecutor.
For Claire it was a heartbreaking conflict. When she dwelled on it, she was paralyzed by despair, so she kept this secret love locked away in her heart and pretended it wasn’t there.
She extended her cup. “Pour me some more tea, please, Mama. You make better tea than anyone.” Claire directed their conversation to less disturbing topics. A half-hour later, Mary Catherine withdrew with the tray, leaving Claire alone again. She scanned the newspapers.
Joshua Wilde vehemently denied having had anything to do with his father’s slaying. Ariel accused Cassidy of implicating them only to cover his own ineptitude. She suggested that, for personal reasons, he was sheltering the most viable suspect. She had coyly declined to say who that suspect was, even when specifically asked if she referred to Claire Laurent. Her avoidance only confirmed the insinuation.
Claire was naturally relieved that she was no longer Cassidy’s leading suspect, but she couldn’t afford to get smug. She was temporarily in the eye of the hurricane and must still weather the second, and perhaps more ferocious, half of the storm. If Joshua Wilde became nervous over Cassidy’s allegations, there was no telling what he might do or say to take the heat off himself. Instead of one foe, she would then have two.
Dwelling on that, she jumped when the telephone at her elbow rang. She didn’t answer until the third ring. “Hello?”
“Claire, is that you?”
“Andre? Bonsoir. It’s good to hear from you. How are you?”
“Fine, fine, I’m fine. No, actually…” He paused. “I’m terribly worried about Yasmine.”
Claire frowned with full understanding of his concern. Since the breakup with her lover, Yasmine had been acting strangely. There was nothing that Claire could put her finger on, but something was amiss. On the surface, Yasmine was the same. As they wound up their work at Rosesharon, she had joked with the crew, bitched with Leon, and approached each catalog photograph with her customary imagination and flair. But her enthusiasm and laughter rang false.
Once they were finished in Mississippi, Claire had expected Yasmine to accompany the others back to New York, where the remainder of the catalog shots would be done in a studio. Instead, Yasmine had returned to New Orleans with her. Once ensconced in French Silk, she had dropped the pretense and become sullen and silent.
Yasmine said nothing about completing the catalog. Claire was concerned from a business standpoint, but since their deadline with the printer was several weeks away, she was patiently biding her time. Yasmine stayed in her room all day, every day, then went out every night and didn’t return until the wee hours. She never said where she was going or invited Claire to come along with her.
Claire guessed that she was spying on Congressman Petrie’s house or making attempts to see him. She was tempted to caution Yasmine against such adolescent behavior, but Yasmine didn’t invite conversation. In fact, she went out of her way to discourage it. The door to her room remained locked. She didn’t join Claire and Mary Catherine for meals.
The old Yasmine surrounded herself with people, situating herself amid admirers and basking in their attention. Ordinarily, she hated being alone, so this reversal in behavior was disturbing. Claire had honored her friend’s desire for solitude, as that was obviously the method Yasmine had chosen to heal her broken heart. But perhaps it was time to intervene.
Apparently Andre shared her concern. “Have you seen Yasmine recently?” she asked him.
“Not since last week when you were in Mississippi. She came to the hotel, stayed for about an hour, and left. Claire, you know I never divulge confidences, but knowing how close you are to Yasmine—”
“I don’t dispute your loyalty, Andre. Nor your discretion. Both have served me on many occasions. Rest assured that I won’t pump you for gossip.”
“If I thought that, I wouldn’t have called.”
“Something prompted you to. I can hear the worry in your voice. I gather you spoke to Yasmine when you saw her?”
He told her about their conversation in the hotel corridor and how upset Yasmine had appeared when she left. “I’ve never seen her like that. She was quite distraught. Is she all right now?”
Claire, mindful of Yasmine’s right to privacy, said, “Something very upsetting happened that night. She confided in me the following morning. I believe talking about it helped.”
“Did she return to New York?”
“No, she stayed. Probably because it’s quieter here. Less hectic. I think she’s trying to sort things through before she goes home.”
And Alister Petrie lives here, Claire thought, remembering seeing his picture on the front page of the morning newspaper. She didn’t, however, mention the congressman to Andre. If he knew the identity of Yasmine’s lover, he was being characteristically discreet. He wouldn’t drop Petrie’s name into the conversation. At the risk of placing Andre in a compromising position, neither would she.
“Do you think she’s recovering from this… unpleasantness?” he asked.
That was a tough question. Although they were living under the same roof, Claire had had less contact with Yasmine than she did when Yasmine was in New York and calling her several nights a week for lengthy chats. Her reply was qualified: “She doesn’t seem to be getting any worse.”
“Ah, well, I’m relieved,” he said. He gave a breathy little laugh. “It’s no secret to you that I hold Yasmine in the highest regard.”
“No, it’s no secret to me.” Claire’s teasing smile was soon replaced with another frown. “Maybe I’ve given her too much leeway. I think it’s time we had another woman-to-woman talk.”
“Please let me know if there’s anything I can do. Anything at all.”
“I will.”
“Claire, you’re… you’re not angry with me? That matter with Mr. Cassidy—”
“Forget it, Andre. Please. You were unscrupulously tricked. As I’ve been,” she added quietly. “Don’t fret about it.”
She assured him that it would take more than Cassidy’s exploitation to affect their long-standing friendship. They agreed to have dinner together very soon. Shortly after saying goodbye and hanging up, she reached for the telephone again.
Cassidy sidled up to the undercover cop who’d been assigned to tail Joshua Wilde. As one stranger to another, he asked for a light.
“Didn’t know you smoked,” the cop said in a low, confidential voice. From his pocket he withdrew a lighter and flipped it open. It shot forth a blaze like a miniature flame-thrower.
“I quit a couple of years ago,” Cassidy said, choking on the smoke he inhaled.
“You taking it up again?”
“I just asked you for a light, okay? What else could I casually walk up and ask you for? A blow-job?”
The slender black man grinned. His long hair was pulled into a sleek queue at the back of his head and held there with a tight rubber band. He winked and gave Cassidy’s shoulder a light squeeze. “I’m expensive. Can you affo
rd me?”
Cassidy threw off the caress. “Fuck you.”
“Oooh, sounds delicious, sweet thing.”
Obviously the young cop, whom Cassidy knew was as straight as a plumb line, was enjoying himself at his expense. The guy was tall, slender, and good-looking, so he often worked the French Quarter in this cover. A study of insolence and nonchalance, he leaned against a gaslight post located across the street from The Gumbo Shop on St. Peter Street. Through the microphone hidden beneath the lapel of his flashy sharkskin suit, he’d reported to a central monitor that he’d tailed Josh to the popular restaurant. Cassidy, too keyed up to remain either in his downtown office or his stuffy, lonely apartment, had decided to participate actively in the surveillance.
“How long’s he been in there?”
The cop checked the counterfeit Rolex on his wrist. “Thirty-two minutes.”
“Is he having dinner?”
“Seems so.”
Cassidy’s eyes squinted against the smoke curling from between his lips. He peered through the blue-gray haze, trying to penetrate the windows of the restaurant. “How long does it take for a party of one to eat dinner?”
In character, the cop gave Cassidy an appraisal like a male prostitute sizing up a prospective client. Assuming the lilting lingo of his cover, he said, “Hey man, your ass is way too tight. If we’re gonna have any fun, you gotta relax.”
Cassidy shot him a baleful look and was about to move away when Josh appeared in the enclosed alley that served as the restaurant’s entrance. Cassidy quickly turned his back and pretended to be shopping the T-shirts hanging in the doorway of the souvenir store. Taking glimpses of Josh over his shoulder, Cassidy could see that his jaw was set, his entire aspect angry.
“Uh-oh,” the cop whispered. “Our man’s good and pissed.”
His mind was on what was going on behind him, but once again Cassidy pretended interest in a T-shirt with a ribald message spelled out in glittering letters. A smiling Asian clerk moved forward to give him a sales pitch. “No, thanks. Just looking.”
“Might have known,” the cop muttered. “Only a squeeze can get a man that pissed.”
“A woman?” Cassidy glanced at the restaurant across the street, then whipped his head back around. “Fuck!” he exclaimed with soft but potent emphasis.
“Excuse?” the smiling Asian said.
The cop laughed beneath his breath.
The woman who had emerged from the restaurant with Josh didn’t take notice of her surroundings. She said something to him, then turned and started walking down the sidewalk. Josh seemed on the verge of following her, but reconsidered and only glared at her retreating back. His long, musician’s fingers flexed into fists. Then, with the bearing of an affronted prophet, he stalked off down the sidewalk in the opposite direction.
Cassidy tossed his cigarette into the gutter and bore down on the cop. “I thought you said he was alone.”
“You’re blowing my cover, man.” He smiled and laid his hand on Cassidy’s arm. Eyes smoldering, seductive grin in place, he cooed, “He was alone when he got here. He must’ve met her inside.”
“You take him.” Cassidy hitched his chin toward Josh, who had already reached the intersection with Royal Street.
“You going after the lady?”
“That’s no lady,” Cassidy said as he stepped off the curb and started across the street in pursuit. “That’s Claire Laurent.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Claire drew up short when she rounded the corner and saw Cassidy standing at the door of French Silk. It was the first time she’d seen him since the morning he’d stormed from her bedroom at Rosesharon. Seeing him so unexpectedly caused a catch in her breath. Her heart jumped. But she kept her expression impassive and tried to appear unruffled as she approached him. “Hello, Cassidy.”
“Claire.” He nodded. “Nice evening, isn’t it?” He was perspiring and seemed to be suffering a shortness of breath more severe than her own.
“It’s unseasonably warm. Autumn hasn’t come to New Orleans yet.”
He whisked off a bead of sweat that had made its way through his dense eyebrow and was trickling toward his eye. “Damn right. It’s as hot and sticky as a cheap whore on Saturday night.”
Claire’s hackles rose. “I don’t appreciate your crude analogy, Mr. Cassidy.”
“Oh, we’re back to Mr. Cassidy.”
She wanted to slap the ingratiating grin off his face. Stiffly, she said, “I’m going in.” Demonstrators were marching in front of the building. Their chorus of “Onward, Christian Soldiers” was slow and ponderous. Claire hoped they were growing tired and getting blisters on their feet.
Unnoticed, she slipped in through the side door. Before she could close it, Cassidy followed her inside. “What do you want?” she asked inhospitably. “I think we’ve exhausted the subject of the weather.”
“I was in the neighborhood,” he replied casually. “Thought I’d stop and say hi.”
His chest was rising and falling rapidly, she noted. He hadn’t yet caught his breath. Beneath his suit jacket, the front of his shirt was damp. “I appreciate the friendly gesture,” she said. “Now, if you’ll excuse—”
“Want to go for a bite of supper somewhere?”
“No, thank you. I ate earlier with Mama.”
“Oh, you ate in tonight?”
“That’s right.”
“Then you were just out for an evening stroll?”
“I was busy at my desk all day. I needed to stretch my legs.”
“Go any place in particular?”
“No. Just walked.” She sidestepped him and tried to open the door for him. “I’m sorry, Cassidy, but I’d better get upstairs and check on Mama. I had to leave her al—”
Cassidy grabbed her shoulders and backed her up against the door. “You left her alone so you could keep your date with Joshua Wilde at the Gumbo Shop.”
She had begun to smell a trap, but she was still astonished when the jaws of it sprang closed around her. She cast about for a logical explanation, but none came to her, so she responded with a counterattack.
“You were following me? Were the stories in the newspapers only decoys to throw me off guard?”
“You weren’t under surveillance. We were tailing Josh. Imagine my surprise when you turned out to be his date.”
“If you knew where I was and with whom, why the charade, Cassidy?”
“I took another route and sprinted back here. I wanted to see if you would level with me. As usual, you lied.”
“Because I knew you wouldn’t understand.”
“You knew I wouldn’t swallow any more of your lies.” He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “But give it a whirl, Claire. Try me. When did you first become acquainted with Joshua Wilde?”
“Tonight.”
“You expect me to believe that bullshit?”
“I swear! I made several calls this afternoon until I located where he was staying. I asked him to meet me. He agreed to.”
“Why?”
“Probably because he was curious to meet the scandalous owner of French Silk.”
Cassidy shook his head. “I meant why did you want to meet with him? What could the two of you possibly have to talk about?”
“I offered him money.”
“Money?” he repeated, taken aback.
“Yes. In exchange for his influence over Ariel. I asked him to try to persuade her to stop making allegations about me and my mother, to stop the picket lines, in general to call a truce to this whole mess. I told him I want to live my life and operate my business in peace, no matter what it costs me.”
“You tried bribing him? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“You’re standing too close,” Claire murmured. “I can’t breathe.”
Cassidy’s eyes, which had been probing hers, blinked into awareness. He looked down, saw the white ridges of his knuckles where his fingers were still clenching her shoulders, saw that his b
ody had hers tightly sandwiched between it and the door behind her, and backed away, lowering his hands to his sides.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
“You’re not off the hook yet. Keep talking.”
“That’s essentially it. I know that Jackson, and probably Ariel and Josh, too, took payola from other publications in exchange for immunity.”
“How do you know that?”
“It only makes sense, doesn’t it? Publications that should have been on that list—Jackson Wilde’s hit list, as you called it—were noticeably absent. What about Lickety Split and Hot Pants? Why was a lingerie catalog a target for Jackson Wilde’s pulpit and not those porno magazines? It has to be because they were making certain that Wilde would leave them alone.” She looked at Cassidy with dawning insight. “You’ve probably thought of this yourself.”
“I’ve got people checking on it, yeah. What did Josh have to say?”
“He didn’t admit that his father took bribes, but he didn’t deny it either.”
“Why have you waited until now to think up this alternative solution? You could have paid off Jackson a year ago and spared yourself all this hardship. Did you ever approach him about it?”
“No. Only in the form of the offering you already know about.”
“Then why now, Claire?”
“I’m sick of it, that’s why,” she exclaimed. “Wouldn’t you be? The signs the protesters carry make me out to be a twentieth-century Jezebel. My mother reads them and becomes upset. The people who carry them harass my employees when they report for work. They impede my business by creating traffic jams that make it difficult for us to receive deliveries or ship out goods. One trucking company has already threatened to increase their charges because their drivers have complained about it so much.”
She threw back her head as though imploring heaven for relief. “For months before Jackson Wilde was killed, he was a thorn in my side. And now, weeks after his death, he still is. I want the specter of him out of my life. I want to be rid of him once and for all.”
