by Sandra Brown
“Wilde had a ‘hit list,’ as this Cassidy called it. A list of magazines that he wanted to abolish. French Silk’s catalog was one of them. Did you know about that?”
“How would I?”
“Well, you and Wilde were so chummy,” she teased.
“I attended a few receptions welcoming him to the city because Belle thought it politically beneficial for me to do so. Personally, I think he was full of shit.”
“Amen. I wonder who had the pleasure of shutting him up permanently,” she said with a wicked grin. “The police must be scrounging for leads. Anyone on that list would have motivation for killing him, but since French Silk is headquartered here in New Orleans, Cassidy thought that maybe… You get the picture.
“Anyway,” she continued, sliding on her bangles, “it wouldn’t have looked too good for me to be toting around a gun, would it? Especially if the D.A.’s office discovered that I was in New Orleans with you that night and not in New York as everyone believes. If it came down to it, would you vouch for my whereabouts?”
“Don’t even joke about it, Yasmine.” He took her by the shoulders. “I know Cassidy by reputation: he’s ambitious and shrewd and always goes for the jugular. It sounds as though he’s grasping at straws to connect French Silk to Wilde’s murder, and it might look silly to us, but you can be damn certain that he’s serious.”
“Well, I’m not worried. He’s got nothing on Claire. He can’t build a case around her catalog’s appearance on a stupid list.”
“Of course not.”
“Then why the frown?”
“Because I don’t want him snooping around you.”
“He didn’t question me.”
“That doesn’t mean he won’t. If he does, I can’t be used as your alibi. Listen, Yasmine,” he said urgently, “until I resolve my marriage, in my own time and in my own way, it’s imperative that no one find out about us.”
“I know that,” she said sullenly.
“You can’t indicate to anyone—anyone—that we’re seeing each other.”
She was glad he’d brought up the topic because she’d been wanting to address it for a long time. “I want to tell Claire about us, Alister. I hate tricking her and acting out games like having her pick me up at the airport when I’ve already been in town for twelve hours. Can’t I confide in her? She’s not going to tell anybody.”
He was stubbornly shaking his head before she’d even finished making the request. “No, Yasmine. You can’t tell anybody. Promise?”
Angrily she thrust his hands off her shoulders. Her eyes glittered dangerously. “Are you so afraid that word will leak out and reach Belle?”
“Yes, I am. If she ever learned the real reason I want a divorce, she’d try to stop it any way she could. And when she realized that I was determined and that it was inevitable, she’d stall and drag out the proceedings indefinitely.”
He sighed and drew Yasmine into his embrace. “Don’t you see? Why give Belle ammunition to hurt us even more than we’re hurting already? I’m thinking of you. I don’t want you dragged into a nasty scandal. No one would understand what it’s like between us. The public would think the worst.”
She cupped his face between her hands. “I love you, Alister. But I’d kill you if I thought you were lying to me.”
He turned his face into her palm and kissed it. “I want to be with you more than anything in the world. I want to be married to you, having babies, all of it.”
They kissed until tenderness blossomed into passion. “We can’t, Yasmine.” He moved her questing hand away from his fly. “I’m already late.”
“You ain’t that late, sugar,” she whispered seductively as she opened his zipper.
The time came, however, when he had to leave. It did no good to pout, cry, threaten, or cajole. When he had to go, he had to go. It was as simple as that. She didn’t like it, but she had learned to accept it. She made their goodbyes as painless as possible.
“When will I see you?”
“I’ve got several meetings with the reelection committee this week,” he told her as he checked the room for anything he might have left behind. “November will be here before we realize it. Then there’s a family reunion in Baton Rouge over the weekend. It’ll be hell, but I have to go.”
“Belle and the children will be there?”
“Of course.” He tipped up her lowered chin and kissed her again. “How about Sunday night? Here. I’ll make up some excuse. They’ll be tired after the weekend. I should be able to get away for an hour or so.”
“Sunday night,” she agreed, trying to look happy about it. It was five days away.
“If I run into a problem, I’ll call you.” She had a private telephone line in her bedroom in Claire’s apartment; it wasn’t answered if she wasn’t there.
He was almost through the door when he turned back. “Do you need some money, Yasmine?”
Her wistful smile disintegrated. “For services rendered?” she snapped. “How much do you figure one of my blow-jobs is worth?”
“I merely want to help.”
“I should never have told you I was in a cash crunch.”
In a weak moment several months earlier she had mentioned to him that her expenditures were running slightly higher than her income. Each month she got a little further behind. Some of her creditors were making threats.
“It’s more serious than a cash crunch, Yasmine,” Alister said reasonably. “You’ve been in financial straits for months.”
When her contract with the cosmetics line expired, the company had decided against renewing Yasmine in favor of a “new look,” a youthful, bouncy blond. Yasmine had pretended to be unfazed by their decision, but it had been a blow to her ego. She’d always known that the life span of a cover girl was short, but when that last major contract had expired, the bitter reality of being a has-been had caused her bouts of depression. At least she hadn’t depended exclusively on that contract for her livelihood.
Neither had she taken into account just how lucrative it had been. She hadn’t reduced her spending to compensate for the loss. In addition, some of her investments hadn’t paid off as well as anticipated. Unreal as it seemed, Yasmine was now broke.
“The situation is temporary, Alister,” she said with asperity. “My accountant and I are working out a solution. Things are already beginning to turn around. In any event, I won’t take money from you. I’d feel like a whore. Don’t offer again.”
“What about Claire? She’d be glad to help you.”
“It’s no more her problem than it is yours. It’s mine, and I’ll work it out.”
She sensed that he wanted to argue further and was glad that he didn’t. Instead, he came back and playfully swatted her fanny. “Sassy and sexy. No wonder I love you so much.” He whisked a kiss across her mouth. “See you Sunday.”
Yasmine and Claire arrived at French Silk at the same time. Yasmine paid her taxi fare, then joined Claire at the door. “What are you doing out at this time of night?”
Claire unlocked the door and turned off the security alarm. “I could ask you the same question, but then I already know the answer, don’t I?” After resetting the alarm, they crossed the warehouse toward the elevator.
“Don’t be sarcastic,” Yasmine said. “Where have you been?”
“Walking. And I wasn’t being sarcastic.”
“You went out walking alone at this hour? You could have been mugged.”
“I know every crumbling brick of the French Quarter. I’m not afraid of it.”
“Well, you should be,” Yasmine said as they got into the elevator. “When you roam these streets at night alone, you’re asking for trouble. The least you could do is carry an insurance policy with you.”
“Insurance policy?” Claire looked down to where Yasmine was patting the side of her shoulder bag. “A gun? You bought another one?” They had discussed the revolver when Yasmine reported it missing.
“I didn’t have to. The original
wasn’t lost after all.”
“I wish it had been.”
They emerged from the elevator on the third floor. Claire quickly checked Mary Catherine’s room to make certain she was safely in bed. Claire hadn’t been away for more than half an hour, but her mother had been known to disappear in much less time.
“Everything all right?” Yasmine asked when Claire joined her in the kitchen. “I’m surprised you left her alone.”
“I had to get some air. I needed to think. I hoped you’d get back, but…” She shrugged.
Yasmine flung down the apple she’d taken from the fruit bowl on the counter. “Okay, that’s two pricks in a row. Instead of throwing these little poison darts, why don’t you come right out and spear me? Say that you disapprove of my affair.”
“I disapprove of your affair.”
The two women exchanged a hostile stare. Yasmine was the first to break it. She plopped down onto a barstool with a muttered, “Oh, hell,” and began picking at the peel of the apple with her sharp fingernails.
Claire went to the refrigerator and poured herself a glass of orange juice that Harry had squeezed fresh that morning. “I’m sorry, Yasmine. I had no right to say that to you. Who am I to approve or disapprove of your private life?”
“You’re my best friend, that’s who. That entitles you to an opinion.”
“Which I should have kept to myself.”
“Our friendship’s based on candor.”
“Oh? I always thought so too, but you haven’t been candid. You’ve never even told me his name.”
“If I could tell you about him, I would.”
Claire studied her friend’s tense facial muscles and red eyes. She’d been crying. Claire sat down on a stool next to Yasmine, removed the apple from her nervous hands, and clasped them between her own.
“I’ve been rude only because I’m worried. And I’m worried because you’re miserable ninety percent of the time. That’s why I disapprove of this affair. You’re unhappy, Yasmine. Ideally, being in love is supposed to make people happy.”
“The circumstances are hardly ideal. In fact it’s the worse scenario you can imagine,” she said with a bleak smile.
“He’s married.”
“Bingo.”
Claire had been afraid of that, but knowing it for fact didn’t make her feel better. “I couldn’t see another reason for the secrecy. I’m sorry.”
It was evident to Claire that Yasmine’s suffering was genuine and deeply felt. This wasn’t a capricious romantic adventure like so many of her previous love interests had been. When they had become friends, Yasmine was living a high-spirited social life. Her dates ranged from professional athletes to business tycoons to movie stars to foreign royalty.
About a year ago, Yasmine’s whirlwind romances had stopped, and she began going away for unspecified lengths of time to inexact destinations. She was evasive and secretive. She was either ecstatic or abysmal, and her mood swings were swift and drastic. They still were. Besides this secret lover, she saw no one else, as far as Claire knew. Undeniably, her friend was in love, and the love affair was making her dreadfully unhappy.
“Does he meet you here in New Orleans?” she asked gently.
“Actually he lives here,” Yasmine replied.
Claire was surprised. “You met him here?”
“No. Actually we met in… uh, back east. Last year. It was purely by coincidence that we both have lives in New Orleans, too.”
“A convenient coincidence.” Claire hated herself for what she was thinking—that the man knew a good thing when he saw it and was taking advantage of Yasmine’s ties to his hometown.
“It’s not that convenient,” Yasmine replied grimly. “He’s paranoid about his wife finding out about us before he has a chance to divorce her.”
“That’s the plan?”
Yasmine whipped her head around. “Yes,” she answered testily. “That’s the plan. You don’t think I’d be having a lengthy affair with a married man unless it was really love, do you? As soon as it’s possible, he’s divorcing her and marrying me.”
“Yasmine—”
“He is, Claire. He loves me. I know he does.”
“I’m sure he does,” Claire murmured, unconvinced. If he loved her so much, why would he cause her this much misery? she wondered. “Does he have children?”
“Two. A boy, ten, and a girl, six. He’s nuts about his kids. I’ve thought of them, Claire. Don’t think I haven’t. I wonder what a divorce will mean to them. Oh, God.”
She propped her elbows on the bar and buried her face in her hands. “When I think of breaking up a family, it makes me sick to my stomach. But he doesn’t love his wife. He never has. Sex between them has always been lousy.”
Claire’s silence must have conveyed her skepticism because Yasmine raised her head and looked at her. “It has,” she insisted. “He’s told me, but I knew even before that. The first time I went down on him, he was so overwhelmed I thought he was going to cry. And he’s told me that his wife would rather die than let him put his mouth ‘down there,’ even if she could conceive of such a thing. She believes there’s no such thing as sex without guilt, so it’s straight missionary position all the way.”
Yasmine had never been squeamish when talking about sex. Before this affair, she had frequently regaled Claire with the lurid details of her active love life.
Now, she stabbed the cool marble countertop with her index fingernail. “I’m the best damn thing that’s ever happened to him, Claire. I’d make him a good wife.”
“Then why doesn’t he make a clean break? Why torture you both?”
“He can’t,” she said with a melancholy shake of her head. “The divorce is going to have a profound effect on his career. He’s well known. He’s in thick with his in-laws and all their friends. Jesus, it’ll be a mess. He has to work it out and wait until the time is right. Until then, I have to be patient and look forward to the day we can be together.”
Claire was less optimistic and felt it was her duty as a friend to play devil’s advocate. “Yasmine, affairs like this seldom turn out sunny.”
“ ‘Affairs like this’? How the hell would you know what it’s like?”
Claire could see Yasmine’s temper emerging so she kept her own at bay. “All I’m saying is that it goes against the law of averages. Men who are well positioned in the community rarely leave their wives and families for their mistresses. Yasmine,” she asked softly, “is he white?”
“So what if he is?”
Yasmine’s chilly reaction indicated that he was. “This is the South. New Orleans. Men here have a tradition of—”
“He’s not like that,” Yasmine interrupted vehemently. “He’s the least racially prejudiced person I’ve ever met.”
Claire forced a smile. “I’m sure he must be or you couldn’t love him.” She knew when to back down. Yasmine’s frame of mind wasn’t conducive to an honest discussion. She was wounded, and like any wounded animal she would lash out at anyone who tried to help her. “Forgive me for bringing it up.”
“Don’t patronize me, Claire.”
“I’m not.”
“The hell you’re not!” Yasmine jumped off her stool. “I doubt if you believe a word I’ve told you. You probably think he’s just screwing me for the hell of it.”
Claire pushed back her own stool and stood up. “Good night. I’m going to bed.”
“You’re running away from an argument.”
“Right,” she shouted back. “I refuse to argue with you about this because it’s a no-win situation. If I say anything negative, you’ll leap to his defense. I don’t care who or what your lover is. My only concern is your unhappiness. If you want to live like this, that’s your business. As long as it doesn’t affect your work, it’s got nothing to do with me.”
“Oh no? What about your jealousy?”
“Jealousy?”
“Don’t strike that innocent posture with me, Claire. I can see through it.
I’m crazy in love with a guy who’s willing to overturn his entire life for me, while your personal life is as sterile as a nun’s.”
Claire silently counted to ten. When Yasmine was upset with herself, she picked fights in order to redirect her anger. It was a character flaw that Claire, over the course of their friendship, had learned to tolerate. Nevertheless, recognizing it didn’t make it any less exasperating. Tomorrow morning Yasmine would be gushing sincere smiles and apologies, calling herself a selfish bitch, and begging Claire’s forgiveness, but Claire wasn’t up to the exhausting exercise tonight.
“Think what you want to. I’m tired. Good night.”
“That Cassidy—does he have a first name?”
“I don’t know.” Claire switched out the lights on the way down the hall toward her bedroom. Yasmine didn’t take the hint. She was on Claire’s heels like a pesky puppy.
“Did you go all cool and haughty on him?”
“I was hospitable.”
“Did he realize he was being buffaloed?”
Claire came to a sudden halt and spun around to confront Yasmine. “What are you talking about?”
“You’re damned good at equivocating, Claire, but based on my first impressions of Mr. Cassidy, I doubt he takes crap like that from a woman.”
“I’m sure he wasn’t regarding me as a woman in that sense. He was here in an official capacity.”
“He stayed an awfully long time.”
“He had a lot of questions to ask.”
“Did you have answers?”
Again, Claire gave her friend a hard look. “Only a few. He wanted to connect me to Jackson Wilde’s murder, and there is no connection.”
“Did you think he was sexy?” Yasmine asked.
“I assume you’re referring to the assistant district attorney and not to the evangelist.”
“You’re equivocating, Claire. Answer the question.”
“I didn’t give Mr. Cassidy’s looks much thought.”
“Well, I did. He’s sexy in a dark, intense way. Don’t you think?”
“I don’t remember.”
“I’ll bet he fucks with his eyes open and his teeth clenched. Makes me hot just to think about it.”