by Sandra Brown
“No I won’t.”
“Yes, yes you will.”
“Shh.”
He massaged his way down her back and unhooked her bra. Claire moaned when his hands slipped beneath the lace-trimmed cups. He palmed her breasts, reshaping them with gentle squeezes. Then he caressed the nipples with his fingertips until they were stiff and distended. His mouth moved to the other side of her neck and took tender love bites.
“Cassidy, don’t. I don’t want to be a blot on your conscience. This isn’t right. You know it. Please stop.”
Her pleas sounded weak and insincere even to her own ears, and when his hand slid down her belly and into her panties, she stopped making them altogether. She could lie to him, but her body couldn’t. At her center, she was creamy and warm.
He pushed down her underpants; she stepped out of them. He unfastened his trousers and moved closer to her, until she felt the firm pressure of his sex. When he sent it deep into her wet, silky heat, their sighs of gratification harmonized.
Bracing herself against the porcelain sink, Claire was able to meet his slow, deep thrusts. He took her hips between his strong hands and drew her against the warm fuzziness of his middle. Then splaying his hand over her abdomen, he held her motionless in place. She used her interior walls like a tight fist to squeeze him. He grimaced in ecstasy and turned his face into her neck.
“Oh, Jesus,” he groaned. “I could never get too deep inside you.”
Claire tilted her head and ground it against his. “Cassidy.”
He reached around and laid his fingertips against her parted lips, then covered them with his hand. She kissed his palm, sponged the pads of his fingers with her tongue, sank her teeth into the fleshy base of his thumb. His thrusts grew faster, more urgent, animalistically possessive. Claire’s passions, too, rose to a feverish pitch. She couldn’t contain the cry she uttered when he slid his hand from her tummy to between her thighs and fondled the swollen, sensitive hood of her sex, which he so amply filled. At his stroking touch, a current of electricity shot through her body. It radiated through her thighs, and she clenched them tightly. It shimmied up through her belly and into her breasts and concentrated in their tight centers.
Cassidy folded both arms around her waist and leaned over her until she was bent over the sink and his chest was resting on her back. She was totally surrounded by, filled with, immersed in him. The glory of it made her heart soar. With a joyful sob, she submitted to a burst of love and fulfillment. When the hot rush of his climax filled her, she turned her head and captured his mouth in a deep, long, searching kiss that was seasoned with her tears.
“You didn’t have to say that you love me,” Claire whispered as she threaded her fingers through his hair. It had been neglected and needed a trim. She liked it better this way, shaggy and unmanageable. “I would have succumbed to your charms anyway,” she teased.
“I told you because that’s the way it is.” He adjusted his leg more comfortably against hers beneath the bed sheet. “I started falling in love with you from the minute I met you. Or maybe it was when you blew those damn bubbles at me from that vial you were wearing around your neck. It was symbolic and suggestive and erotic as hell.”
“I didn’t intend it to be.”
“No? Maybe it was the way you held your mouth.” He ran his finger over her lips, smiling wistfully, before his expression turned bleak. “Every time Crowder accused me of letting my feelings for you get in the way of my investigation, I denied it. But he’s right.” He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “I didn’t want the killer to be you, Claire.”
She burrowed her face in his chest hair. “I don’t want to talk about it. Please. Let’s talk about something else, something that ordinary lovers talk about.”
“We aren’t ordinary, Claire.”
“But for an hour, let’s pretend we are. This is Nawlins, where anything’s possible. So let’s make-believe that we met under normal circumstances. We were instantly attracted to each other. We’ve made love but are still in that magical getting-acquainted stage.” She propped herself on her elbows and gazed down at him. “Tell me what hurt you so badly.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t insult my intelligence, Cassidy. There’s something very painful in your past. I recognize the symptoms. What hurt you? What made you angry and determined to do well at all costs? Was it your wife? The divorce?”
“No. That was amicable. I didn’t love her.” He rubbed a strand of her hair between his fingers. “Not like I love you.”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“I’m trying.”
“It won’t work. I’m as persistent as you.”
He sighed with exasperation. “It doesn’t make very good pillow talk, Claire.”
“But I want to know.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve got so little time with you,” she cried impatiently, all joking aside. Softening her tone, she added, “I want to make the most of it. You’re the last lover I’ll ever have, Cassidy. I want to know all I can about you. It’s important to me.”
His eyes stayed linked with hers for a suspended moment before he said, “You’ll be sorry you insisted.” She shook her head. Following a brief hesitation, he related the painful story he had recently told Tony Crowder.
Claire said nothing, giving him time to tell it in his own way. When he finished, he said, “Know where they found the bastard? Playing pool and drinking beer with his buddies. He’d left an eleven-year-old girl raped and murdered in a dry creekbed, and he was out partying with friends. He didn’t fear arrest. He didn’t think anything could touch him. I helped make him that arrogant.”
She laid a gentling hand in the center of his chest. “His acquittal was determined by a twelve-person jury. You weren’t responsible.”
“I did my part,” he said bitterly.
“You had an obligation to your client.”
“I’ve tried a thousand different ways to justify it, Claire. There is no justification. If not for me and my grandstanding, he wouldn’t have been on the streets. That little girl suffered and died on the altar of my conceit and ambition.”
Claire’s heart was breaking for him. He would carry the guilt with him to his grave. There was nothing she could say or do to change the past, but she wanted to make him see that he had atoned. “It was a hard lesson, Cassidy, but you learned from it. It’s made you a better prosecutor.”
He drew a deep sigh. “That’s my only hope for redemption.”
“I’m sorry,” she said earnestly.
He looked at her with surprise. “Sorry?”
“Sorry that it happened to you.”
“I thought you’d be put off.”
“I’d only be put off if you hadn’t taken it so hard.”
Ducking her head, she kissed his chest, flicking it lightly with her swirling tongue as her lips continued on a downward path. She pecked soft kisses over his navel and inched her way down the silky strip of hair below it, then nuzzled that dark, dense thatch surrounding his sex.
When her lips grazed his cock, he rasped her name and took her head between his hands, tunneling all ten fingers through her hair. Daintily her tongue moistened the velvety tip and stroked the smooth shaft. She withheld nothing, did everything, tasted, teased, loved him thoroughly.
He pulled her up to straddle his lap and sheathed himself within her only heartbeats before his stunning climax. Crushing his face against her breasts, he sucked her nipple into his mouth. She clutched his head and rode his erection, which was still full and firm inside her. As light splintered through her, she mentally chanted what she couldn’t speak out loud. Cassidy, my love… my love… my love.
Chapter Thirty-Two
When Claire awakened, she was alone. She hastily dressed in the clothes she’d worn from New York the day before and rushed downstairs. A policewoman and her male partner were waiting for her in the foyer. When she saw them, she drew up short and, using her
fingers, nervously combed back her mussed hair. “Hello.”
“Mr. Cassidy had to leave on urgent business,” the policewoman told her. “We were dispatched to drive you downtown.”
“Oh.” She was vastly disappointed by the way Cassidy had chosen to handle this. Why hadn’t he awakened her before he left so they could have one last private conversation?
“As soon as you’re ready, Ms. Laurent,” the policewoman said tactfully.
Claire secured Aunt Laurel’s house, locking inside it memories of loving Cassidy along with the treasure trove of memories the rooms already held for her. It broke her heart to cross the porch for what would probably be the last time, but she couldn’t nurse any regrets. This was only the first of many sacrifices she would be required to make.
“I’d like to shower and change, if that’s possible. I haven’t been home since I returned from New York yesterday.”
The arresting officers agreed to stop at French Silk. When they pulled up in front, Claire was alarmed to see several patrolmen posted around the building. “What are they doing here?” Her first concern was for her mother, although Mary Catherine was safely ensconced with Harry.
“They’re here to keep Ariel Wilde from doing any mischief.”
“Oh. Thank you.”
The officers rode in the elevator with her up to the third floor and waited while she bathed and dressed. Her vanity seemed misplaced, but she wanted to look her best and took pains with her makeup and hair. She dressed in a simple, elegant two-piece black suit with a slim, short skirt. The jacket had a white shawl collar. On the lapel, she pinned a marcasite brooch, a gift from Aunt Laurel. The silver cuff bracelet she slipped onto her wrist had belonged to Yasmine. In her purse, she carried one of Mary Catherine’s hand-embroidered handkerchiefs.
Bolstered by the possessions of the people who had loved her, she left her bedroom and confidently announced, “I’m ready.”
But her confidence flagged as she took one last look at her spectacular view of the river. Everything in the apartment testified to the hours of hard work she had dedicated to building a successful business. She had done very well for a girl who had grown up with an emotionally unstable mother, no father, and nothing in the way of commodities except a Singer sewing machine and a wealth of imagination.
When she crossed the warehouse floor for the last time, tears blurred her vision. What would happen to French Silk without her and Yasmine? The outstanding orders would be shipped. Receivables would be collected and invoices paid. But there would be no new business. There wouldn’t be another catalog. French Silk would cease to exist.
What an ironic twist—Jackson Wilde had achieved his goal.
Mentally, Claire squared her shoulders. She had done what was necessary. She had known the consequences of her decision and was willing to accept them.
The district attorney’s building was still under siege by Wilde’s disciples. “Onward, Christian Soldiers” was being sung by the marchers who carried pickets condemning Claire Laurent to eternal hellfire and damnation. She was escorted into the building under armed guard.
“I thought you’d take me directly to the sheriff’s office,” she remarked as she was being hustled into the elevator. “Isn’t that where I’ll be formally booked?”
“Mr. Cassidy instructed us to bring you to the D.A.’s office,” the male cop informed her.
“Do you know why?”
“No, ma’am.”
She was taken directly to Tony Crowder’s office. The outer area seemed to have suffered no adverse effects from the chaos that had taken place there the day before. Secretaries were at their desks, going about their business. Crowder’s personal secretary stood as they approached. She held open the door for Claire and closed it behind her immediately, leaving her alone with the district attorney.
He was seated behind his desk. His expression was grave. Annoyance showed in his eyes. Brusquely he said, “Good morning, Ms. Laurent.”
“Good morning.”
“Would you like some coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
“Sit down.” Once she was seated in the chair he indicated, he said, “I apologize for what happened in this office yesterday afternoon.”
“I was partially responsible, Mr. Crowder.”
“But your safety was placed in jeopardy. That’s inexcusable. We beefed up the security this morning.”
“I noticed. I also want to thank you for posting policemen at French Silk. Although my business no longer has a future, I’d hate for it to be destroyed by vandals.”
“That was Cassidy’s idea.”
“I see,” she said softly. “I must remember to thank him.”
“He’s due here in a matter of minutes. Don’t ask me why.”
“You don’t know?”
“Haven’t a clue. He called before I was even out of bed this morning and arranged this meeting.” He clasped his hands on the edge of his desk and leaned toward her. “Ms. Laurent, did you kill Jackson Wilde?”
“Yes.”
“With your friend’s gun?”
“Yes.”
“How long has Cassidy known this for fact?”
The door behind her opened with gust of air and a blast of energy that was palpable. She quickly turned. Cassidy’s stride was long and confident as he advanced into the office. His hair had been washed and neatly combed. He had shaved recently. His dark suit was wrinkle-free from the fitted vest hugging his torso to the hem of his trousers that broke the vamp of his shoes in exactly the right spot.
“Good morning, Tony.”
Claire was taken aback. She didn’t know this Cassidy. This wasn’t the Cassidy who had made love to her with matching degrees of tenderness and fervency, who whispered words of passion in her ear while his body moved within hers, who had touched her in ways, both emotionally and physically, that no one else ever had. This Cassidy was a stranger.
“Good morning, Claire.”
His voice was the same. His handsome features were dear and beloved to her. It was the well-tailored suit that put her off. That bureaucratic uniform had made him her adversary from the moment he walked in the door.
“Good morning, Mr. Cassidy,” she replied in a husky undertone.
“Can I get either of you some coffee before we begin?”
“Forget the coffee,” Crowder said crossly. “What’s this about? As a courtesy, shouldn’t Glenn be in on this?”
“He’s otherwise occupied. I’ll get to that later.” Cassidy wasted no time but came straight to the point. “Claire’s confession was phony. She didn’t kill Jackson Wilde.”
“Oh for Christ’s sake!” Crowder exploded. “She sat right there not thirty seconds before you breezed in here and admitted to me that she did.”
“She’s lying.” Cassidy looked down at Claire with a trace of a smile. “She has a bad habit of that.”
“She appears to be in full control of her faculties. Why would she confess to a felony homicide she didn’t commit?” Crowder demanded to know.
“To protect someone else from prosecution.”
“That’s not true!” Claire exclaimed.
“She says that’s not true,” Crowder echoed.
“Bear with me, Tony,” Cassidy said. “Give me five minutes.”
“I’m counting.”
“Last night I had Claire re-create the crime for me.”
“Without a lawyer present? Jesus.” Crowder dragged his hands down his face.
“Just shut up and listen,” Cassidy said impatiently. “Claire waived her right to have an attorney present, but it doesn’t matter. She didn’t kill Wilde. She wasn’t even there.”
“You mean at the murder scene?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.” He fished something from his breast pocket and handed it to Claire. “Read the part that’s underlined.”
“What is it?” Crowder asked.
“It’s a portion of the press release we issued to the media the morning f
ollowing the murder.”
Claire scanned the underlined sentences. They described the scene of the crime. “I don’t understand.”
“The statement is inaccurate,” Cassidy told her. “Deliberately so. I planted a bogus fact to weed out the crazies and chronic confessors who invariably surface after a sensational murder.”
Claire’s heart began to beat hard against her ribs. She reread the sentences, frantically trying to pinpoint which detail might be a decoy.
Cassidy bent over her chair and lowered his voice. “Last night when you recounted the murder, you quoted this almost verbatim, Claire. You got your facts from the newspaper, not from the scene itself.”
“I was there. I killed him.”
“If that’s so, then show me the discrepancy,” he challenged.
“I—”
“You can’t, can you?”
“No. Yes.” She groped blindly for a way out. “I can’t remember every little detail.”
“You remembered them last night.”
“You’re confusing me.”
“You’re confusing me, too, Cassidy,” Crowder said. “If she said she did it, she did it.”
“You just want to end this thing,” Cassidy shouted.
“And you want to continue sleeping with Ms. Laurent.”
“Damn you, Tony!”
“Then deny it!”
“I can’t. I don’t even want to. But whether I’m sleeping with her or not, do you want to sentence a woman to life imprisonment for something she didn’t do?”
The question momentarily silenced Crowder, although he continued to fume. Cassidy knelt in front of Claire and covered her hands where they were tightly clenched in her lap.
“Claire, last night you said that when you stood at the foot of Wilde’s bed, you noticed his Rolex wristwatch lying on top of his Bible on the nightstand. You said the symbolism of that made you sick.”
“Wait! It wasn’t a Rolex. It was an expensive wristwatch, but it might not have been a Rolex. I’ve never placed much importance on labels, so when I said ‘Rolex’ I meant it in a generic sense. After I read the newspaper accounts, it probably stuck in my mind that his watch was a Rolex.”
