French Silk (21 page)

"His mother was devoted to him and vice versa. Just as her mother had done for her, she coached Andre on food and wine, etiquette, how to dress, how to differentiate between quality and junk whether it be jewelry, linen, or antique furniture.

"Before Andre's father set her up in a house, she took Andre with her when she met her gentlemen. He waited for her in the lobbies of luxury hotels where people of color weren't even allowed until the early sixties.

"Perhaps because he was granted that privilege, he fell in love with the hotels. To him they were finer and more sacred than cathedrals, because not everybody could enjoy them. He had a place in them that was prohibited to other children. He dreamed of managing one." In a faraway voice, she added, "I'm glad his dreams came true."

"What about his mother?" Cassidy asked. "Does she still have a clientele?"

"No, Mr. Cassidy. She took her own life by slashing her wrists with a straight razor. Andre found her in the bathtub one afternoon when he came home from school."

"Jesus."

"If you aren't prepared for the stink, you shouldn't exhume the past."

He pulled an angry frown. "Do you think I'm enjoying this?"

"If you don't, then why do you persist in dredging up the ugliness in everyone's life?"

"It's one of the least pleasant aspects of my work, Claire. But it's still my work."

"Answer a question for me," she said suddenly.

"What?"

"Should you be calling me Claire?"

They stared at each other for a long moment, the tension thick. At last he turned away from her. "No, I shouldn't."

"Then why are you?"

He turned back around slowly. His eyes seemed to acquire tactile qualities; they touched her everywhere at once. "You may be a liar, Claire, but you're not stupid," he said huskily. "You know why."

She held his stare until the pressure in her chest became unbearable. The only thing worse would have been to stop looking at him, and she couldn't bring herself to do that. She felt drawn to him, linked by invisible tethers.

They had remained so still that when he finally moved, she jumped reflexively. But he only raised his hand to rub the back of his neck as though the muscles ached.

"Back to Andre. He called you that night and told you your mother was at the Fairmont."

She nodded. It was difficult to speak. Her heart was still racing.

"You went to pick her up?"

"Yes."

"Alone?"

"Yes. In my car."

"What time was that?"

"I'm not sure."

"Claire."

"I don't know," she cried, shaking her head impatiently.

"It was after the crusade, because, as you know, I attended that earlier."

He held his temper in check, but she could see it wasn't easy. "Give me an approximate time."

"Midnight, maybe. No later."

"How did Mary Catherine get out of here without your knowing?"

"I told you she can be very resourceful. She went downstairs, undid the locks, and disengaged the alarm before opening the door."

"Even during one of her 'spells,' she can be that lucid? That functional?"

Claire avoided looking at him. "Sometimes."

"Okay, so you drove to the Fairmont."

"I illegally parked across the street. I knew I wouldn't be but a minute, and I wasn't. I rushed to Andre's office, he handed Mother over to me, and we left. I probably wasn't there more than two minutes."

"Did anyone else see you? Other hotel personnel?"

"I don't know. I suppose you could ask."

"Count on it." He shoved his hands into his pockets and stared out the rain-streaked windows. In spite of the grilling he was subjecting her to, Claire noticed that he had a very masculine profile, a manly stance, from his damp hair to the toes of his shoes. "You saw Wilde that night at the Superdome. Then later you were in the hotel where he was found murdered. And you took pains to keep it a secret."

"How many times do I have to explain? I wanted to protect my mother from gossip and speculation. Is that so difficult for you to understand?"

"You stayed in the lobby area of the hotel?"

"Yes."

"You didn't go to any other floor, no other area of the hotel?"

"No."

"Did you use the elevator?"

"No."

He turned and braced his hands on the padded arm of the sofa, bracketing her hips. Leaning into her, he asked, "Then why in hell didn't you tell me this sooner? If it was so damned innocent, why did you lie to me?"

"Because you were trying to implicate me. My name was on Wilde's hit list, and you seemed to think that was important. You had that folder of clippings that I had stupidly tried to destroy. That was two strikes against me already. I was afraid that if you knew I was anywhere near the Fairmont that night, you'd do just as you've done and jump to the wrong conclusion."

"
Is
it wrong, Claire? The only reason you went to the Fairmont that night was to pick up your mother?"

"Just like tonight."

"While you were there, you didn't have your old pal Andre Philippi sneak you into Wilde's suite?"

"Would Wilde have lain there nude and calmly talked to me, a total stranger?"

"How did you know he was lying down nude?"

"Because it's been in the newspaper every day for a month that he was found nude in bed. Besides, even if I had been determined to kill Jackson Wilde, do you think I would have involved someone else?"

"Dammit, I don't know!" he shouted.

His agitation plain, he hung his head between his shoulders. He was so close that she could smell the rain in his hair and on his skin. Even in the darkness she could see the growth pattern of the hair on the crown of his head. If she had turned her head the slightest degree, her lips would have brushed the temple where a vein ticked with frustration.

Eventually he raised his head and looked searchingly into her eyes. "It's so damned neat. You had motivation. You had opportunity. You even had an insider who could help you carry it off. Claire, you've got to admit that from where I stand you look guilty as hell."

"Then why the long face? Isn't this what you wanted? I thought you'd be pleased to finally nail a suspect. What's wrong?"

With slow, deliberate movements, he placed his hands on her shoulders and pulled her up to stand dangerously close to him. "What's wrong? I think I've found the killer." He slid his fingers up through her hair and encircled her head. "But I didn't want it to be you."

Then suddenly his lips were pressed firmly against hers. Before Claire could recover from her initial shock, he tilted his head and deepened the kiss. An involuntary sound escaped her when his tongue separated her lips. It brought with it the taste and texture of a man, a delicious blend of cognac and brawn. Angry and aroused, he kissed her masterfully, brooking no resistance, although at first she was too dumbfounded to stop him and within seconds was too caught up in the kiss to try.

He raised his head only long enough to switch angles and slide his hands from her head to her waist, pulling her against him. He was hard. Desire, like the petals of a spring blossom, opened in her midsection. She moved against him.

"Oh, Christ," he muttered and buried his face in her neck. Deftly he undid the buttons of her blouse. He unfastened the clasp of her bra and slid his hands into the loose cups. His palms skimmed over her first, then his hands caressed her.

His kiss turned wilder, hungrier. Claire clutched handfuls of his shirt, because to let go would mean to topple backward, not only because he was bending her back at such a dramatic angle but because her equilibrium was suffering the effects of his kiss, his touch.

His lips tugged at hers while his tongue plumbed her mouth again and again as though searching for the answers he craved. Their bodies were combustible, each as hot as the other. Within his stroking hands her breasts were full and flushed, their centers raised and responsive.

The intensity of the embrace was frightening. Claire's fiery response scared her. She imagined her control disintegrating, like dry kindling being rapidly consumed by a greedy flame. Soon she would have no control left, and that was the most terrifying prospect of all. All her life people in authority had been trying to tell her what was best for her. She was conditioned to resist.

"Stop!" She averted her head and pushed his hands away. "It was a good try, but you won't get a confession out of me this way."

He released her immediately and stepped back. He clenched his fists at his sides. His breathing was labored, his voice raspy and uneven. "You know damn well that's not why I kissed you."

"Isn't it?" she shot back defiantly.

He turned and stomped away, snatched his trench coat off the coat tree, and yanked open the door. Light from the corridor spilled in, silhouetting him in a bright wedge of it.

For several moments they stared at each other across the gloom, then he stepped through the door and slammed it behind him.

Claire collapsed onto the sofa arm. Covering her face with her hands, she moaned with a repentant attitude that would have made Sister Anne Elizabeth proud. "Oh, God, no. No." Willingly, ecstatically, she had kissed the man who could, and probably would, condemn her to prison for the rest of her life.

* * *

She answered the door wearing a roomy T-shirt over patterned leggings. "Cassidy," she said with no little surprise. "Did you lock yourself out?" She glanced across the walkway that separated their condos, looking for a clue as to why he'd shown up on her doorstep at that hour of the night.

"No. I saw your lights were still on," he remarked, as though that explained everything.

"Come in." Patty-Penny-Peggy moved aside, and he stepped into a living area much like his own, except much better decorated and far neater. "Rough night weather-wise," she said, indicating his trench coat.

"The worst of it is over, I think."

"Sit down. Would you like a drink?"

"No, thanks."

"Oh." She flashed a quick, puzzled smile. "I'd offer you some grass, but I guess that wouldn't be too cool, huh?"

"No."

"Are you hungry? Have you had dinner?"

"I don't remember," he said honestly. "I don't think so, but I'm not hungry."

"Well, sit down. I'll turn on some music. What kind do you like?"

"I'm not particular." He took off his coat and tossed it over the arm of a chair, but he didn't sit down.

She switched on a CD player and a Randy Travis song began to play. "Do you like country?"

"It's okay."

She studied him for a moment, then propped her hands on her hips. "Look, Cassidy, I'm glad you dropped by, but I'm at a loss here. What's going on?"

"I came to fuck."

She blinked twice, obviously taken aback. Then her lips spread into a wide grin. "Why didn't you just say so?" She pivoted on her bare heels and headed for the bedroom.

Cassidy followed.

Chapter 10

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A
riel unwrapped a bite-size Snickers and popped it into her mouth. Her teeth split the chocolate covering, crunched through the peanuts, and sank into the caramel and nougat. She savored the luscious combination of flavors as the candy melted and oozed on her tongue. After maximizing the greatest caloric pleasure from it, she sucked the sticky caramel off her teeth.

Candy wrappers littered the coffee table in front of the divan. As a kid, treats had been prohibited on her family's budget, and Ariel had been lucky if she got a piece of stick candy every few weeks. For the past several years she'd been making up for the deprivation; she couldn't get enough.

She stretched for the sheer pleasure of seeing, hearing, and feeling her silk lounging pajamas slide against her legs. The mirror across the room reflected a woman of leisure, surrounded by nice things all belonging to her. Ariel liked that. Indeed, she wanted to crow about it.

The house she'd grown up in had had indoor plumbing, and that was about the only amenity it could boast. It had been distinctly ugly, the large rooms spartanly and cheaply furnished. She shuddered with revulsion at the memory of it. She had never invited friends over because she was ashamed of her family's old, creaky, ugly farm house. She was also ashamed of the people who lived there. Her brother had been meaner than sin and had terrorized everybody. Her parents had always seemed old, although now she realized that weariness had aged them beyond their years. Nevertheless, that didn't make her feel any more kindly toward them. She was glad they were long dead and buried.

She wished she could bury her memories of poverty as easily and as permanently. But whenever she started feeling complacent about her present life, those recollections would emerge from their dormancy to taunt her. They reminded her of who she'd been before she threw herself on the mercy of the Reverend Jackson Wilde.

Those impoverished days are over forever
, she vowed as she gazed around her living room. Objets d'art filled every nook and cranny. Most of the pieces were gifts from Jackson's followers. He had frequently suggested that they give some of the things away, but Ariel had refused to part with a single item, no matter how cluttered the house became. If she had to install extra shelving, or store things in the attic and under the beds, she would keep everything that came her way. For Ariel, possessions were tantamount to security. She would never be without them again. As she reaffirmed that pledge, she unwrapped another Snickers and devoured it with hedonistic relish.