by Sandra Brown
“Sorry, Claire. I let Harry go early and decided to take a quick shower. When I came out, Mary Catherine had vanished. Everyone else has gone home for the day. Christ, I thought I’d really goofed this time.”
“Everything’s fine, Yasmine.”
“Who’s he?” She turned to Cassidy with frank curiosity.
Claire made rudimentary introductions. He shook a hand as long as his, but much more slender. Even up close, her skin was flawless, seemingly poreless, the color of heavily creamed coffee. It was dappled with beads of water, indicating that she hadn’t even taken the time to dry off. The robe was undoubtedly all she had on, but she exhibited no modesty at all as she broke a dazzlingly white smile for him.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Cassidy.”
“The same. I’ve admired your work.”
“Thanks.” She looked to Claire for clarification, then back at Cassidy. “Am I supposed to know who you are and why you’re here?”
“No.”
A short, awkward silence ensued. Finally Claire ended it. “Yasmine, would you please take Mama back upstairs? She can take her sherry with her. I’ll be up for dinner as soon as I conclude my business with Mr. Cassidy.”
Yasmine looked at her friend quizzically, but Claire’s expression remained impassive. “Come on, Mary Catherine,” she said. “Claire has business to attend to.”
Mary Catherine didn’t argue with the plan. She rose and extended Cassidy her hand again. This time he figured what the hell, and raised the back of it to his lips. She simpered and smiled and asked him please to extend her regards to his family. Then, trailing the mingled scents of roses and sherry, she drifted out of the room on the arm of the stupefying Yasmine.
As soon as the door closed behind them, he turned to Claire. “I’m sorry. That can be tough. My father was afflicted with Alzheimer’s for several years before he died.”
“My mother doesn’t have Alzheimer’s, Mr. Cassidy. It’s just that she often confuses the present with the past. Sometimes she believes people to be someone else, someone she knew before.”
“Before what?”
“Before she became the way she is,” she replied stonily. “She is what some would call off her rocker, daft, batty, one brick shy of a load. I’m sure you’ve heard all the cruel terms. I know I have. Many times. You see, she’s been like this all my life. And, although I appreciate your treating her kindly, I don’t intend to discuss her mental illness with you. In fact, I don’t intend to discuss anything with you.”
She stood, signaling that as far as she was concerned their meeting was concluded. “I didn’t know Jackson Wilde, Mr. Cassidy. If that’s what you came here to learn, now you know. I’ll show you to the door.”
As she stalked past him, he caught her upper arm and brought her up short. “You don’t get it yet, do you? Or if you do, you’re too smart to let it show.”
“Let go of my arm.”
The fabric of her sleeve was so soft and crushable, his fingers seemed to have melted it until he was touching her skin. His knuckles were embedded in the giving fullness of her breast. Slowly, and with a shocking amount of regret, he relaxed his fingers and released her.
“What am I supposed to ‘get,’ Mr. Cassidy?”
“That I didn’t come here for chitchat and sherry.”
“No?”
“No. I came to formally question you in connection with the homicide of Jackson Wilde.”
She drew in a sharp, sudden breath and shivered reflexively. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Not when you consider all that you stood to lose if his plans for your business had been realized.”
“It never would have happened.”
“Maybe you wanted to make damn certain it didn’t.”
She ran her hand through her hair and visibly composed herself, unwrinkling the lines of consternation in her forehead. When she again looked up at him, her features were as smooth as a porcelain doll’s.
“Mr. Cassidy, as I’ve already told you, I never met Reverend Wilde. I never corresponded with him directly. Nor did we ever speak by telephone, although I was contacted by personnel within his ministry, challenging me to publicly debate him, which I repeatedly declined to do. I had nothing whatsoever to do with him. I certainly didn’t kill him.”
“He placed your business in jeopardy.”
“He entertained the delusions of a fanatic,” she cried, her composure slipping a notch. “Do you honestly believe that he could have toppled the Playboy empire?”
“But you’re much smaller game.”
“Granted. So what?”
“So you’re also headquartered right here in New Orleans. Maybe when he brought his crusade to town, you seized the opportunity to shut him up forever.”
Complacently, she folded her arms across her stomach. “That would have been rather obvious, wouldn’t it? You might believe me to be capable of committing murder, Mr. Cassidy, but please, never underestimate my intelligence.”
“No,” he said softly, as he peered into the depths of her amber eyes. “You can be sure I won’t.”
His stare lasted a few heartbeats too many, switching from accusatory to something closer to interest. Cassidy became profoundly uncomfortable with it. She, however, was the one to break it. “It’s obvious that you don’t have any physical evidence linking me to this crime.”
“How do you know?”
“Because none exists. I wasn’t there.” She raised her chin. “You came here because you’re grasping at straws, scavenging for a case because neither your office nor the police have arrested a suspect and the murder is now over seventy-two hours old. The widow is accusing the local authorities of laziness, incompetence, and indifference. You’re taking a beating from the media, and Wilde’s followers are demanding swift and sure justice.
“In short, Mr. Cassidy, you need a scapegoat.” She paused to draw a breath. “I’m sympathetic to your problem, but my sympathies don’t extend to having my character insulted and my privacy violated. Please leave.”
Cassidy was impressed by the effectiveness and accuracy of her speech. It was true that Crowder was getting nervous over the sticky situation created by the Wilde murder. The press coverage of the police investigation was becoming more sly and sarcastic with each report.
Ariel Wilde and the late evangelist’s entourage were growing increasingly vocal in their criticism of everyone from the honorable mayor to the lowliest cop on the beat. The widow wanted to take Wilde’s body to Tennessee for burial, but the police were reluctant to release it, hoping that, in spite of Elvie Dupuis’s thorough autopsy, they might find a previously overlooked clue. The whole situation, just as Crowder had forecast, had grown nasty, a three-ring circus run amok.
Claire Laurent was correct on all accounts. The sad fact was that Cassidy didn’t have a shred of evidence that could tie her or anyone else to the murder scene. On the other hand, since entering this room he’d felt that she was withholding something. She’d been inordinately polite, but gut instinct told him she didn’t want him here.
When he had been a defense attorney, that same gut instinct had always told him when his client was guilty despite his avowals of innocence. It was the sixth sense that let him know when a witness was lying through his teeth. It was the gut quiver of either victory or defeat that he felt just before a verdict was read. That instinct was rarely wrong. He trusted and relied on it.
He knew there was more to Claire Laurent than what one saw on the surface. Her eyes might be windows to her soul, but the shutters were closed. Only occasionally did one catch a glimpse of the woman living behind them. She was more than a savvy businesswoman and devoted daughter, more than a mess of sexy hair, more than a mouth that made him glad some laws were unenforceable. There were elements to her that she kept carefully concealed. Why?
Cassidy resolved to dig until he knew. “Before I go—”
“Yes, Mr. Cassidy?”
“I want to see a copy of your catalog.”
Chapter Four
Claire was surprised by the request. “Why?”
“I tried buying one at several newsstands and couldn’t find it.”
“The catalog isn’t sold at retail stores. It’s mailed to subscribers only.”
“What’s in it that had Reverend Wilde so hot and bothered?”
“You should have asked him.”
“Well, since he’s unavailable for comment,” he said dryly, “I’d like to see it for myself.”
She had thought that once the media stopped hounding her for a statement, her worries regarding the murder would be over. Never had she expected a visit from an assistant D.A., although she congratulated herself on handling the situation well so far. But now she desperately wanted him to leave so that she could collect her thoughts. Conversely, she didn’t want to appear hostile or, more to the point, as though she had something to hide. He had only asked to see the catalog, after all. As long as his questions didn’t become too personal, she felt there was no danger in humoring him.
“By all means, Mr. Cassidy. Sit down.” She handed him the latest quarterly issue of French Silk’s catalog. To avoid looking nervously at him, she gazed through the windows. The sky was streaked with the brilliant colors of sunset. The river had turned the color of molten brass. “It’s officially the cocktail hour. Would you care for a drink now?”
“Does it have to be sherry?” he asked.
“Wine or something stronger?”
“Scotch, if you have it.”
“Rocks, water, or soda?”
“Rocks.”
She prepared his drink and poured herself a glass of blush wine. When she returned to the divan, he was thumbing through the catalog. He let it fall open across his lap, blinked, and yanked his head back as though he’d been clipped on the chin. He released a stunned breath. “Wow!”
Looking at the page upside down, Claire remarked on his assessment. “We try to appeal to feminine fantasies.”
With his eyes still fixed on the glossy pages, he smiled with self-derision. “Well, I’m sure as hell not feminine, but I’m close to fantasizing. Forgive me for noticing that this model’s practically naked.”
“She’s clothed.”
“In a…”
“Teddy.”
“That leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.”
“That’s our stock and trade, Mr. Cassidy. We sell lingerie and boudoir accessories. And we want our customers to feel pampered, lovely, and desirable when they wear our garments.”
“Hey, I’m not Jackson Wilde. You don’t have to defend your product or your marketing strategy to me. In fact, how can I subscribe to the catalog?”
When he looked across at her and grinned, an odd sensation flurried in Claire’s midsection. She wasn’t flirted with often because most of the men she knew were strictly business associates. There were occasional flirtations on airplanes or in elevators, but they rarely went beyond eye contact and a casual greeting. She discouraged anything more. So her reaction to Cassidy’s roguish grin was unexpected and startling. She sipped her wine in an attempt to quell it.
“Actually the catalog is Yasmine’s bailiwick,” she explained. “Not the subscriptions, of course. We use a telemarketing service for that. Yasmine produces it, you could say. She begins with a concept and then designs the layout.”
“And models.”
He turned the magazine toward Claire. A full-page ad for silk pajamas featured all seventy-two inches of Yasmine reclining on a rumpled bed. The unbuttoned pajama top revealed nothing except the inside curves of her breasts. The bottoms rode about an inch below her navel. Respectable enough. But wet, slightly parted lips and the hungry-tigress look in her eyes made the photograph provocative.
“She sells,” Claire said.
He studied the photo for several seconds. “I can see why.”
“She’s also smart. She began modeling to pay for art school,” Claire explained. “Even after her modeling career took off, she continued studying. When we formed our partnership—”
“How and when did that come about?”
“Six years ago. I had a small, local business, making specialty lingerie, mostly for trousseaus. I wanted to expand, so I took my designs to New York in the hope of finding someone to manufacture and market them for me. I wasn’t successful,” she said ruefully, recalling all the polite but firm no-thank-yous she had received on Seventh Avenue.
“Quite by accident I met Yasmine in one of the showrooms. In friendly conversation she asked what had brought me to New York. Naturally I was star-struck and flattered when she complimented me on my samples. She even ordered some of the items for herself. We hit it off and had several long lunches together. She’s gorgeous, no question. But she’s also an astute businesswoman who knows that a model’s career is short-lived. And she understood what I wanted to do.”
“Which was?”
“Which is to design and manufacture a line of unique lingerie and sell it at a price the average woman can afford. Each season we feature new fabrications and designs that we hope will spark the buyer’s imagination. We offer goods that are different and exciting but affordable. Women can buy bras, panties, and slips at Penney’s. French Silk sells them fantasy garments. We’ve made sexy lingerie respectable.”
“Jackson Wilde didn’t think it was respectable.”
“I didn’t respect him either.”
Cassidy indicated with a slight nod that her point was well taken. “Back to Yasmine. When did you cut her in?”
“A week following our initial meeting.”
“That soon?”
“I knew it would work. She was looking for a new enterprise where she could utilize her artistic talents. I needed her professional know-how. In exchange for a piece of the business, she introduced me to insiders who could bankroll us. After the first catalog went out, we couldn’t fill the orders fast enough. By our third year, we had paid off all our investors. The business continues to flourish.”
“A real success story.”
“Thank you.”
Cassidy turned another page. “Hmm. You use men, too.”
“That’s a recent innovation. Yasmine broached the idea with me; I liked it, and designed some intimate apparel for men.”
“I’ll bet Wilde had specific objections to this.” The ad featured a woman leaning over a handsome young man who was lounging in a wingback leather chair. Her hands, braced on the arms of the chair, were supporting her. Her satin robe was hanging open. “Is there any doubt at all where the guy’s left hand is?”
“Do you think it’s erotic, Mr. Cassidy?”
“Hell yes,” he said thickly. “Don’t you?” He glanced up at her, and Claire felt like she’d been nipped on the belly by sharp but playful teeth.
She lowered her eyes to the ad. “I’m stimulated in a different way. The price of the model’s robe is one hundred twenty-five dollars. That’s the high-ticket item in that issue. The garments are made in Hong Kong. They cost us a fraction of the sale price. Even figuring in the processing, packaging, shipping, and handling it takes to get the piece to the consumer, our margin of profit is tremendous. I look at that photograph and hope that every woman who sees it is enticed to place an order.”
“In the hopes of luring a guy with sapphire eyes and corrugated abs.”
Claire laughed. “Why, Mr. Cassidy! You’re a disgruntled sexist exercising the double standard.”
Her laugh only deepened his frown. “Am I? I don’t like to think so.”
“But you’d just as soon the young man not be in the picture.”
“He’s a lot to live up to.”
“Now you understand how a woman feels when her lover ogles an airbrushed centerfold. We appeal to our subscriber’s fantasy by making her feel that she can be just as lovely as that. The message we convey is that any woman can be beautiful and desirable. ‘Wear this and be adored.’ Perhaps her only fantasy is to lure a couch potato away from Monday Night
Football.”
After listening carefully to her explanation, he returned his attention to the catalog. Claire lapsed into silence, watching his gray eyes move across the pages. Occasionally he raised his drink to his lips. His mouth was narrow, masculine, softened only by a fuller lower lip and a vertical dimple in his left cheek.
From a purely objective point of view, he was very good-looking. The sprinkling of gray in his sideburns was attractive. His chestnut hair feathered over the tops of his ears in an appealing fashion. Few men were taller than Yasmine, but when Cassidy had shaken hands with her, Claire had noticed that he topped her by two or three inches. He had a trim physique, yet the forearm resting on his knee looked powerful, and there was strength in his heavily veined hand.
After looking at every page, he closed the catalog. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Do you think Jackson Wilde was justified? Do you think it’s smut?”
“Off the record, hell no. It’s sensual, erotic, but hardly porno. On the record, I have to be impartial.”
It pleased her to know that he wasn’t ready to stone her. She placed her glass of wine on the table and stood up. “Take that copy with you. You might decide to order something.”
Picking up the catalog, he, too, came to his feet. “I doubt it. I’m strictly the white cotton Fruit of the Loom briefs type.”
“You might enjoy a pair of the silk boxers for lounging.”
“I might. Do you own a gun?”
The question stunned her, following so closely behind the disarming statement. “No, I don’t, Mr. Cassidy.”
“Do you have access to one?”
“No.”
“Back to my original question: where were you the night Jackson Wilde was killed?”
She bit back an angry retort and answered calmly, “I don’t recall going out. I believe I spent a quiet evening at home.”
“Can someone corroborate that?”