French Silk

by Sandra Brown

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re quite welcome. Harry, pass the cookies around, please. Who else would care for punch?”

  Cassidy watched, shaking his head in disbelief. One by one the pickets were lowered and the crowd began to disperse. “They could use her at the U.N.”

  Claire stepped around him and approached her mother. “Thank you, Mama. That was a lovely gesture. But you’d better let Harry take you upstairs now.”

  “I’m glad I could help. They were creating such a ruckus.”

  Claire kissed her mother’s cheek, then signaled Harry to take her back inside. An employee retrieved the tea cart. Claire asked others to collect the empty Dixie cups and napkins and to sweep up the broken window glass that had fallen onto the sidewalk.

  “When you’re finished out here, return to work,” Claire told them. “Let’s try to make up for lost time. Mr. Cassidy, you’re still bleeding. Perhaps you’d better come upstairs and let me tend to that cut on your cheek.”

  As they rode the elevator up, she asked, “Does it hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Would you admit it if it did?”

  “What, and ruin my—what was it?—‘athletic, macho-type’ image?”

  She smiled with chagrin. He smiled back. They continued looking at each other until the elevator came to a jarring halt on the third floor. Mary Catherine was playing gin with Harry when they entered the apartment.

  She looked up from her hand of cards. “Have they gone?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “Everything’s back to normal,” Cassidy said. “Thank you for what you did. But I wish you hadn’t placed yourself in danger like that. The police had it under control.”

  “Sometimes it’s more expedient for one to take matters into one’s own hands.”

  “Come on, Mr. Cassidy,” Claire said, steering him toward the bedroom. “Blood’s dripping on your shirt.”

  “Gin,” he heard Mary Catherine say as he followed Claire into a spacious bedroom. It was decorated monochromatically, in shades of white and ivory. The furnishings were contemporary except for a massive armoire against one wall. Louvered shutters were drawn against the afternoon sun, which cast striped shadows across the king-size bed. He couldn’t help but wonder how many men had slept there with her. She had confessed to having only a few meaningful relationships following her broken engagement, but that could be another in her series of lies.

  “In here,” she said over her shoulder, indicating that he should follow her into the adjoining bathroom. It looked like a 1930s movie set. The walls were mirrored. The tub, set into the floor, was three feet deep and twice as long.

  As gorgeous as it was, it was a room inhabited and used by a real person—a real woman. A peach-colored slip hung from a porcelain hook mounted on the back of the door. On the white marble vanity was a wide array of perfume bottles. A fluffy white lambswool puff hadn’t been replaced in the glass container of body powder, and its silver lid was askew. A strand of pearls spilled out of a satin jewelry box. Two cosmetic brushes, a tube of lipstick, and a pair of gold earrings hadn’t been put away. And the bubble-blowing necklace was also there.

  Everything personified Claire Laurent. Beautiful. Classy. Elegant. Sensual. Cassidy was enchanted by the saturation of femininity. Like a kid in a toy store, he wanted to touch and examine everything.

  “I think I’ve got some peroxide in here.” A spring-loaded latch came open when she depressed a seam in the mirrored wall. A section swung out, revealing a medicine cabinet. “Sit down.”

  His choices were a vanity stool with a white velvet cushion, the commode, or the bidet. The vanity stool didn’t look solid enough to support him. The bidet was out of the question. He sat down on the commode lid.

  Claire approached him with a snowy washcloth, which she had moistened beneath the gold faucet. “You’ll ruin that,” he said, yanking back his head. “The bloodstain might never wash out.”

  She gave him a strange look. “Things are dispensable, Mr. Cassidy. People aren’t.”

  The cut was on the ridge of his cheekbone. He winced when she applied the cold, wet cloth to it. “Why don’t you drop the ‘mister’? Call me Cassidy.”

  “What’s your first name?”

  “Robert.”

  “That’s a respectable name.” She dabbed the cut with the cloth, then tossed it into the basin and took a cotton ball from a crystal canister and soaked it with peroxide. “This might sting.”

  He gritted his teeth as she swabbed the cut, but it was only mildly uncomfortable. “Too Celtic.”

  “And ‘Cassidy’ isn’t?”

  “I didn’t want to be Bob or Bobby. Since high school, it’s been Cassidy.”

  She removed the cotton ball and took a Band-Aid from a metal box in the medicine cabinet. He watched her hands as she peeled open the sterile wrapper and protective tapes, but he looked directly at her as she pressed the bandage over the wound.

  Her breath was on his face. He caught a whiff of her perfume, which emanated from the cleft between her breasts—breasts that he had touched. Her blouse gaped open slightly as she leaned forward, and it took tremendous self-discipline not to peek.

  “There. That should do.” She touched his cheek; her fingertips were cool. She turned away to replace the items she’d taken from the medicine cabinet.

  This was crazy. This was nuts. He would fuck up big time if he let this get out of hand, but, Jesus…

  He reached out and bracketed her waist with his hands, turning her around to face him again. “Claire?”

  She drew her hands back as though to keep from laying them on his shoulders. “You’d better soak that shirt in cold water or the bloodstain will set.”

  “Claire?”

  Involuntarily it seemed, her eyes moved up from the bloodstain on his shirt to connect with his. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said in that husky whisper that echoed in his dreams every night.

  “Don’t misunderstand, Claire. It’s not my standard operating procedure when questioning a female suspect to kiss her.”

  “No?”

  “No. I think you know that.”

  His gaze moved over her, taking in her lovely face, her smooth throat, the breasts that enticed him, the narrow waist and gentle flare of her hips. Acting instinctively, his hand moved from her waist to splay open over her abdomen. It wasn’t an intimate caress. Not really. There were probably three layers of clothing between her skin and the palm of his hand. But it felt intimate in the utter quiet of this most private room of hers.

  He felt overwhelmed by the wrongness of it.

  She was his prime suspect. It was his job to pursue criminals and bring them to justice. His career hinged on this case. It would either make him a shoo-in candidate for the district attorney’s job or forever keep him rooted in the ranks of assistants. He would either earn position and power or remain just another prosecutor trying to trip up drug dealers on tax evasions. He would either be able to redeem himself or forever be condemned for that one major mistake that marred his soul like a dark blot.

  Now, here he was, on the verge of committing another grievous blunder. He couldn’t let it happen. He wouldn’t be derelict in his duty again.

  He lowered his hands. Claire backed up as far as the dressing table. “I don’t think you should touch me like that anymore. It could cost you your case. Because if I was ever indicted, Cassidy, I’d make sure everybody knew about your conflict of interests.”

  “And I’d deny it,” he stated without hesitation. “It would be your word against mine, Claire. No witnesses.”

  “Sort of like the Wilde murder. I can’t prove that you kissed me. And you can’t prove that I killed Jackson Wilde. So why don’t we call it even and drop the whole thing before my life is disrupted even more?”

  She turned and left the room. He followed her into the bedroom, where she had almost reached the door when he posed a question: “Why did you contribute to Jackson Wilde’s ministry?”<
br />
  She stopped dead in her tracks. Turning to face him, she suddenly grew pale and nervously wet her lips. “How did you know about that?”

  While Cassidy stared at her, his optimism took a brutal beating. “I didn’t,” he said quietly. “Lucky guess.”

  Claire sank down onto the end of an upholstered chaise. After a moment she glared up at him. “Very clever.”

  “Don’t bother lying. I’ve got the records. Your name would have popped up sooner or later and all the data will be there. So tell me the truth, okay? How much did you give him and for God’s sake why?”

  “About six months ago, I sent in a contribution check for fifty dollars.”

  “Why?”

  “I had watched his program. Anyone sending in a minimum offering of fifty dollars was entitled to receive three books of prayers, devotionals, inspirational anecdotes, that sort of thing. They were represented as hardbound volumes, with gilt lettering and such. If the books arrived and weren’t all they were cracked up to be, I was hoping to accuse him of mail fraud or whatever the appropriate charge would be.”

  “How were the books?”

  “Exactly as advertised.” She left the chaise and moved to the built-in shelves, returning with the three volumes, which she handed to Cassidy for inspection. “He was too smart not to deliver what he had promised. At least something tangible like books.” She spread her arms wide. “That’s all there was to it. I swear. It was a test, and he passed. I’d forgotten about it.”

  Cassidy didn’t detect a sign of deceit either in her expression or her straightforward gaze. He wanted badly to believe her. But there was that other matter she still had to clarify. He said, “Gloria Jean Reynolds.”

  Claire’s reaction was visible and quick, a blend of puzzlement and astonishment. “What about her?”

  “She made a contribution, too. Considerably more than yours. A thousand dollars.”

  “What?” The question escaped her on a gust of breath. “Yasmine contributed a thousand dollars to Jackson Wilde’s ministry? Why?”

  “That’s what I intend to find out.”

  Chapter Eleven

  When a knock sounded on Congressman Alister Petrie’s office door, he tossed down his pen and frowned. He had specifically asked not to be disturbed.

  “I’m sorry, Congressman,” his secretary said hurriedly when she poked her head through the door. “There’s someone here to see you. I know you requested that no calls be put through, but I thought you’d want me to make an exception.”

  She was usually so mousy and reserved that her excitement got his attention immediately. Her lined face was flushed and there was an unusual twinkle in her colorless eyes. Whoever was paying him this unexpected Tuesday-afternoon visit must be damned important.

  He stood and adjusted his necktie. “I trust your discretion, Ms. Baines. If it’s someone I should see, then by all means show him in.”

  She ducked out of sight. Alister almost peed in his pants when Yasmine appeared in the open doorway. Like an idiot, he cut a guilty glance toward the sterling silver frame holding the photograph of Belle and the children in the place of honor on his desk.

  Thankfully, Ms. Baines, who stumbled in behind Yasmine, was too star-struck to notice his guilty reaction. She was yammering about how surprised she’d been when the famous fashion model—her personal favorite for years—had strolled into the office and asked for an audience with Congressman Petrie.

  Alister, partially recovered from his initial shock, plastered on the smile that had helped him win his first congressional seat. “This is indeed an honor, Miss…”

  “Just Yasmine, Congressman Petrie. It’s a rare privilege to see you, too.”

  It sounded like a cordial greeting, but it blared its double meaning to Alister, especially with the emphasis she placed on the words rare and see. There was a sly glint in her spectacular eyes as he rounded his desk and approached her. If his gait appeared rubbery to Ms. Baines, he hoped she attributed it to his meeting a star and not to his confronting a mistress obviously up to mischief.

  Yasmine was wearing a white dress made of some soft, clinging fabric that hugged her body. The vee where it overlapped across her chest was filled with gold chains of varied designs. Her trademark bangles encircled both wrists. Gold spheres the size of golf balls dangled from her ears. A leopard-print scarf as large as a tablecloth draped one shoulder and extended to the hem of her dress in both front and back.

  She looked fabulous and she knew it. As cool and haughty as a temple priestess, she stood her ground and let him come to her, which he did, hand extended like a penitent. The bitch.

  He clasped her hand. In high heels she was a couple of inches taller than he. He resented having to look up, even slightly, to meet her eye to eye.

  “I’d love to flatter myself and think this is a social call.”

  She laughed, tossing her ebony mane. “I heard one of your campaign speeches last week. I liked what you had to say and decided to contribute to your campaign. We need more men like you in Congress.”

  “Thank you. I’m… speechless,” he stammered, grinning disarmingly for the sake of his still-gaping secretary.

  “May I?” Without waiting for permission, Yasmine moved to a maroon leather seating ensemble that Belle had given him for his last birthday.

  “Of course, Yasmine, sit down. Ms. Baines, you’ll excuse us please?”

  “Certainly. Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Tea?”

  “No, thank you,” Yasmine replied, flashing her brilliant smile. “But you might ask my escorts if they would like something.” She slid the slender strap of her lizard handbag off her shoulder and laid it in her lap.

  “Escorts?” Alister asked thinly. Jesus, this must be a nightmare. How many people knew she was here? Had she led a frigging parade down Pennsylvania Avenue?

  “Bodyguards, from the looks of them,” Ms. Baines whispered. “I’m sure that because of who she is, she has to take them with her everywhere she goes.”

  Yasmine merely smiled placidly, letting the woman draw her own dramatic conclusions. The secretary, grinning giddily, backed out and pulled the door closed behind her.

  Alister’s hands were clenched into fists at his sides. As he approached Yasmine, he wished he could hit her very hard across her flawless face. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He kept his volume low, but his fierce expression conveyed the full measure of his rage.

  He had never used gutter language in front of her except playfully in bed. But in the neighborhood where she’d grown up, that was the vernacular and she wasn’t intimidated by it. She came out of the chair like a shot, dumping her handbag onto the floor. The scarf slipped from her shoulder and also fell to the floor.

  “What’s the matter, sugar?” she sneered. “Aren’t you glad to see me?”

  “I want to know if you’ve lost your frigging mind. Are you trying to ruin me? Who saw you come strutting in here? Jesus, did the press get wind of this?” He dragged his hand down his face as one horrendous possibility after another flashed through his mind like a hellish slide show. “What are you doing here?”

  “Making my campaign contribution.” She unbuttoned the cuffs of her sleeves and, before he realized what she was about to do, peeled the bodice of her dress off her shoulders. It dropped to her waist, caught there by her wide belt. She smiled as she slowly withdrew her arms from the sleeves.

  His anger metamorphosed into lust. His eyes moved down to her thrusting, conical breasts. The nipples were dark and pointed, arrogantly offered to him.

  “I’ve been missing you so bad, sugar,” she crooned as she slowly inched the skirt of her dress up her thighs.

  Heart pounding, lungs laboring, palms sweating, blood rushing to concentrate in his loins, Alister tracked the slow ascent of her hemline with his eyes. Her hosiery came to midthigh, where it was clipped to the suspenders of a garter belt. He groaned involuntarily when she revealed the small triangle of lace that insufficie
ntly covered her mound and its dense thatch of curls.

  “Christ,” he muttered. Sweat was oozing from his forehead and trickling down his face. “If someone walks in—”

  “No one will. Even the president couldn’t get past Hans and Franz out there. I told them nobody, but nofuckingbody, was to come through that door.”

  While he stood transfixed, she hooked her thumbs beneath the elastic band of her panties and pulled them down her legs. After stepping out of them she twirled them around her index finger. “You’d better sit down, sugar. You’re looking a little pale.”

  She gave his chest a light push and he toppled over backward, landing on the leather love seat—the gift from his wife. He didn’t think about that. He didn’t think about anything except the thundering desire in his cock. He reached for her.

  “Not so fast.” She stood in front of him, fists propped on her hips, legs slightly spread. “Why haven’t you been to see me, you lousy bastard?”

  “Yasmine, be reasonable,” he panted. “Can you imagine what my schedule has been like? I’m campaigning, for Christ’s sake.”

  “With your smiling wife at your side?”

  “What am I supposed to do, leave her at home?”

  “Yes!” she hissed angrily.

  “Wouldn’t that make everyone, especially her, a little suspicious? Think about it.” He reached for her again, and this time she allowed his hands to fold around her derriere. “Do you think this separation has been easy for me? Christ, you’re insane to come here, but you can’t imagine how glad I am to see you.”

  “You didn’t seem so glad at first,” she reminded him. “I thought you were about to have a stroke.”

  “I was shocked, stunned. This is dangerous as hell, but… Ah, God, I can smell you.” He leaned forward and burrowed his face in the cleft of her thighs, nuzzling, gnawing, kissing her madly through the giving fabric of her dress. “Too bad you can’t bottle this.”