by Sandra Brown
Yasmine could barely contain herself. Her first impulse was to rush through the gates and brutally attack the man who had turned her into a woman so desperate and jealous that she was reduced to spying. Imagine the shock of the formally attired, bejeweled wedding guests if she were to publicly expose Alister Petrie, the best among them, as a lying adulterer. Could she ever regale them with lurid accounts of what he did in bed!
But she couldn’t cause a scene without exposing herself as a jealous fool, and she wasn’t prepared to do that. She was clinging tenaciously to a few shreds of pride, even though it would have been immensely satisfying to witness Alister’s mortification.
She was somewhat mollified when he spotted her. He did a comical double take. His smile collapsed. Appalled disbelief caused his features to go slack. For several moments his jaw hung open, making him look stupid.
As she moved along the fence, Yasmine kept her stare fixed on his fearful eyes. When she passed through the gate, he looked ready to bolt. She took perverse pleasure in moving straight toward him. His tongue darted out to moisten his lips. She got close enough to see sweat popping out on his forehead. At the last possible moment she angled off, walking away from him at no wider a margin than ten degrees.
She took Chartres Street uptown. Although she wanted to gauge Alister’s reaction to the close call she’d given him, she didn’t glance back once.
Claire and Mary Catherine were eating dinner when she arrived at French Silk. Claire apologized for not waiting for her. “There’s so much to do before leaving tomorrow, I wanted to get dinner out of the way early.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m not hungry.” Yasmine didn’t break stride until she reached her bedroom door, which she soundly closed behind her to discourage a visit from Claire.
Having reached the sanctity of her room, the tears that she had stubbornly withheld welled up in her eyes. For the next hour and a half she vacillated between red rage and black despair. One minute she fantasized killing Alister slowly and painfully while his wife watched. The next, she fantasized making love to him until thoughts of all else were obliterated.
Emotionally spent, she lay on her bed, her forearm over her eyes. There was a discreet knock on her door. “I don’t want to talk right now, Claire,” she called out.
“I wouldn’t have bothered you, but something just arrived for you.”
“What?” She lowered her arm and sat up. “A delivery?”
“Yes.”
Yasmine padded barefoot to the door and opened it a crack. Claire extended her a long, slender, flat box. Ignoring Claire’s sympathetic expression, she took the box, thanked her, and closed the door. The box contained a single Sterling rose nestled amid green tissue paper. It was a perfect, flawless bloom of smoky lavender petals. The sweetness of the gesture pierced her soul like a thorn. Mewling with heartache, she cradled the rosebud against her chest and fell back on the pillows, weeping.
Several minutes later the ringing telephone roused her. She rolled toward the nightstand and lifted the receiver. “I just got it,” she said, knowing even before he identified himself who the caller was.
“Darling.”
The sound of his voice precipitated another bout of tears. “I thought you’d be furious with me for stalking you,” she said.
“I was, at first,” he admitted.
“You looked like you’d just swallowed a golf ball when you spotted me through the fence.”
“If the bride had reached out and grabbed my nuts, I couldn’t have been more astonished.” They laughed together softly. Then he said, “I can’t blame you for spying, Yasmine. I’ve been a pig. My time and energy have been consumed by my reelection campaign. I’m so damned busy. Everybody pulling on me in a thousand different directions. I’ve neglected you. Out of necessity, but… What I’m saying is, I’m sorry. Be patient with me, darling. When the election is over things will be different. You’ll see.”
“You and Belle look so happy together, Alister,” she remarked as she slowly wound the telephone cord around her finger. His apology had sounded sincere, but she couldn’t dismiss the happy picture he and his wife had made as they stood hand in hand in front of the church.
“I suppose she is happy,” he said. “She doesn’t have the same passions that I do. That we do. Since I stopped making love with her, she doesn’t even miss it. All she ever wanted was a successful husband and beautiful children. She’s got that. She doesn’t know what real passion is. God,” he moaned. “There’s no comparison between you, Yasmine. You’ve got to know that.”
“No, there’s no comparison. She’s got you and I don’t.”
“I reside with her,” he said evenly. “She doesn’t have my heart. It’s not her I think about every hour of the day. I want to be with you right now.”
“I’ll meet you,” she offered eagerly.
“I can’t. We’re involved in this wedding shit for the rest of the evening. Following the reception, there’s an after-party and an even more intimate gathering after that. It’s essential that I mingle with these people. They’re influential. Three-fourths of the money in Louisiana is represented here tonight. I only sneaked away long enough to order the rose for you and to call.”
“I’m leaving tomorrow, Alister,” she said, trying to keep the whine out of her voice. “I’ll be in Mississippi for at least a week.”
After a slight pause he said, “Next Thursday night. Can you make a round trip to New Orleans?”
“Yes. Rosesharon is only a two-hour drive from here. It’ll be a long night for me, but I’ve got to see you.”
“Thursday then.”
After finalizing their plans, Yasmine said breathlessly, “I can’t wait.”
“Neither can I, but right now I’ve got to go. Belle will start missing me. This call was supposed to be a quick business call.”
“I love you, Alister.”
“Oops, there she is. She’s signaling for me to rejoin the party. See you next Thursday.”
He didn’t even say goodbye before hanging up. Dejectedly Yasmine replaced the telephone. For a long while she sat on the edge of her bed, staring vacantly, immobilized by despair. Never in her life had she felt more blue. Even the rose could no longer cheer her. She’d hugged it so tightly, it was already beginning to wilt.
She finally mustered enough energy to move to her dresser, where she gazed at her reflection in the mirror. Even the crying hadn’t marred the perfection of her face. She studied her image objectively, then asked, “Why the hell are you putting yourself through this, you dumb bitch?”
It wasn’t fair. Alister was at a party, laughing, drinking champagne, dancing, surrounded by people who thought he was bloody marvelous. Here she was: Yasmine, goddess of fashion runways and magazine covers, weeping alone. “What’s wrong with this picture?” she asked her reflection.
Men were bastards. All men. From the abusive father who had deserted her mother when Yasmine was still in diapers, to her current lover, they were sorry, low-down, scummy sons of bitches who rarely had to account for their actions. Seldom did one get his just desserts.
Of course there were exceptions. Once in a blue moon one got the punishment he richly deserved. Like Jackson Wilde.
Claire was clearing away the dinner dishes when she heard Mary Catherine cry out. Dropping the sponge into the sink, Claire ran from the kitchen into the living room. Mary Catherine was sitting in an easy chair reading the evening edition of the Times Picayune. All the color had drained from her face. Her hands were trembling.
“Mama!” Claire cried in alarm. “What is it?” She rushed to Mary Catherine and caught the newspaper as it slipped from her lifeless fingers. “My God,” Claire whispered after reading only a few paragraphs of the front-page story. She lowered herself onto the arm of her mother’s chair.
“Does Mr. Cassidy think you killed Reverend Wilde, Claire?”
“He’s only doing his job, Mama.”
“Did he kiss you?”
“
What does it matter?” Claire asked bitterly. “It’s been reported that he did.”
Mary Catherine covered her face with her hands. “This is all my fault. My sins are reflecting on you. If I hadn’t sinned—”
“Mama, stop that!” Claire drew her mother’s hands away from her ravaged face. “You were young. You fell in love and gave of yourself. You weren’t the sinner. You were sinned against.”
“But it says in the newspaper that because of your upbringing you would try seducing the prosecutor to stay out of trouble. Oh, Claire, I’m sorry. I never wanted anyone to judge you by what I did.”
“This,” Claire said, flicking her hand at the newspaper, “is the handiwork of a wicked, vicious, spiteful woman. Ariel Wilde is trying to make me look guilty in order to turn the attention away from herself. Mrs. Wilde doesn’t know you or me. What difference does it make what she thinks of us? Let her believe what she wants to.”
“But other people, Mr. Cassidy…” Her face reflected her torment. In a fast, hushed voice she whispered, “If only he’d come for me as he said he would. I was there, on time, with my things. I’m sure it was today he said we were to meet. But he wasn’t there and—”
“Listen, Mama.” Claire hastily hunkered down in front of the chair and clasped Mary Catherine’s hands. “I just had a wonderful idea. Why don’t you come to Mississippi with us tomorrow?”
“Mississippi?”
“Yes. For a vacation. Wouldn’t you enjoy a few days away?” Mary Catherine’s troubled face began to relax. Claire pressed her point. “Harry can come along to keep you company while I’m working. Please come. I want you there with me.”
Mary Catherine coyly laid her hand against her throat, looking as flustered as a wallflower who’s just been asked to dance. “Well, Claire Louise, if you really need me there…”
“I do, Mama.” Claire stood and assisted Mary Catherine to her feet. She whisked the newspaper out of sight. “Start choosing what you want to take with you. I’ll call Harry and have her spend the night here. We’ll get an early start in the morning. I’ve rented a van so there’ll be plenty of room. We’ll stop for breakfast somewhere along the way. Oh, this will be a lovely trip! It’s been ages since we went away together.”
“Yes, ages,” Mary Catherine said as she drifted toward her room. “I’ll take that new afternoon dress.”
“By all means. You look beautiful in that shade of blue.”
As soon as Mary Catherine disappeared into her room, Claire snatched up the evening newspaper and read the infuriating article. It was trash, but it effectively planted in the reader’s mind that Claire Laurent, publisher of the scandalous French Silk catalog, was a hussy who had tried seduction as a means of avoiding a murder rap.
Claire tried to locate Cassidy by telephone but was unsuccessful. After cooling down a bit, she reasoned that it was just as well she didn’t speak with him. He wouldn’t be enjoying the notoriety either. It would be better for them to handle this situation individually rather than as a team, which would only fuel Ariel’s hints of an unethical and highly improper affair.
She called Harriet York, informed her of the change in plans, then checked with the proprietors of Rosesharon to make certain they had another bedroom available. As soon as Harry arrived, Claire left her to help Mary Catherine pack while she went downstairs to her workroom to place a long-distance call. She caught her business attorney in New York on his way out to dinner, but he patiently listened while she read him the majority of the newspaper article.
“I warned her not to slander me again,” Claire told him when she finished reading. “She’s waving a red flag in my face, daring me to sue her.”
“That’s what worries me,” the lawyer said. “She wants to prolong her feud with you and take advantage of the publicity it generates. She’s got nothing to lose by pursuing it. You, on the other hand, abhor publicity. Unless you want your private life exposed even more than it already has been—”
“I don’t.”
“Then I advise you to ignore her.”
“Damn!” she muttered. “I know you’re right, but I hate to back down. What good are ultimatums if you don’t follow through?”
“It’s like celebrities who threaten to sue the tabloids for the half-true stories they print. The litigation only creates more adverse publicity. It’s a no-win situation. Unless you want all your dirty laundry aired publicly, your hands are tied.”
“But how can I allow her to go on saying anything she pleases about me and my family?”
“You can’t have it both ways, Claire. If you even hint at whitewashing what can or cannot be said to the media, you’ve got to be prepared for the backlash. Ariel Wilde could then say you stand for the First Amendment rights of free speech and free press only as long as they benefit you.”
Claire sighed. “I never thought of it from that angle.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s her ultimate goal,” the lawyer said. “She’d love to see you eat your words on this censorship issue.”
They discussed it for a few minutes more before Claire said, “I really don’t have a better alternative than to continue ignoring her.”
“That’s my advice. She’s a nuisance, but she can’t really harm you.”
“It’s not me I worry about. I couldn’t care less what Ariel Wilde or anyone else says about me. It’s Mama. When anyone slanders her, I come out slugging. She and Yasmine are the only family I have. We’re a tight little group who stands together or not at all.”
“I know that. That’s why I was so puzzled by that other matter.”
“What other matter?”
Then he broke the really bad news.
The two Mrs. Monteiths were almost interchangeable. Grace’s hair was a shade darker burgundy than Agnes’s, but beyond that there wasn’t much difference between the two buxom women. They were sisters-in-law, they explained to Claire as she checked in to the bed-and-breakfast house known as Rosesharon.
“Our husbands were brothers, you see,” Agnes told her. “We lost them within months of each other.”
“Rather than get into a squabble over who had inherited what in this house, we decided to pool our resources,” Grace contributed.
“Each of us loves to cook. It only made sense to capitalize on our hobby.”
“The place wasn’t fit for guests, though.”
“So we sold off part of the acreage and from that revenue hired a fancy decorator to redo the house from top to bottom.”
“Well, she certainly did a wonderful job,” Claire said, glancing around the wide foyer. The house had been refurbished to antebellum splendor.
“He,” Agnes said in a stage whisper, while bobbing her purplish eyebrows. “Although he was prissier than most females I know.”
“Agnes!” Grace admonished with a giggle, which she tried to cover with her veined, age-spotted hand.
As she imprinted Claire’s credit card, Agnes said, “Your rooms are ready for you. Juice, cold drinks, and snacks of fruit and cookies can always be found in the kitchen if someone misses the regular meals. Breakfast is served between seven and eight-thirty, but there’s always a fresh pot of coffee on the sideboard in the dining room. Lunch is an informal cold buffet. Tea and finger sandwiches are available from three-thirty until five. We open the bar at five, but except for the wine we serve with dinner, there’s an extra charge for liquor. One has to mix his own, and we trust our guests to keep their own tabs. Dinner is the only formal meal. It’s served at seven-thirty.”
Claire liked them and hoped that no one on the crew would take advantage of their hospitality or naïveté. “We’ll try to keep to your schedule,” she told them. “However, if we get behind, I’ll appreciate a little flexibility.”
“Of course, dear. You’re our first ‘working’ guests. We’ve been beside ourselves with excitement. The only thing better would be having a movie filmed here,” Agnes gushed.
“And we love your catalog,” Grace said. �
�When it arrives in the mail, we fight over who gets to look through it first.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” Claire was glad that a smile was called for. She couldn’t have kept a straight face under punishment of death. “From what I’ve seen so far, your home will make a beautiful backdrop for our photos.”
She’d been impressed since leaving the highway and following the tree-lined, gravel road to Rosesharon. Although the growing season was waning, the lawn and flower gardens surrounding the house were still green and lush. White lawn furniture was grouped in the shade of sprawling trees.
The house itself looked like a wedding cake. The bricks had been painted a pale, creamy pink. The six fluted Corinthian columns and all other trim were white. There was a deep, wrap-around veranda shaded by a second-floor balcony. Claire was very pleased with Yasmine’s choice.
“We want to make your stay enjoyable,” Grace told her. “Remember, this is our home. As our guests, you have the run of the place.”
A commotion out on the veranda drew their attention to the front door. A short, wiry young man in a white linen suit and yellow Polo shirt flung open the screen door and made a grand entrance.
“Claire!” he gasped when he saw her. “My God, this is positively fab. Darling!” He kissed her cheeks in turn, then held the light meter, which was suspended from his neck by a black cord, up to her face and checked the reading. “Oh, this is going to be so sweet. I can’t wait to begin, if I don’t expire from the freaking heat first. How do you natives stand it? But the house is fab, really it is. Yasmine said as much, but you know how that bitch is prone to exaggerate.”
Leon was one of the most sought-after fashion photographers in New York. His flamboyance was championed only by his talent with lighting and lens. When he wasn’t pitching temper tantrums or gossiping bitchily, he could be quite amusing.
Leon hadn’t yet stopped talking. “The staircase is to die for. We must have one of the girls languishing on it as though in a swoon.” He struck a pose. “Eyes at half-mast, you know. I’ll shoot it from above. Perhaps in the late afternoon with sunlight striking just the right spots. Yes, yes,” he said clapping his hands. “Someone with lots of hair fanning out behind her head. Moist tendrils clinging to her cheeks. Oh, God, I’m getting chills just thinking about it.”