French Silk (35 page)

"I know, I know," Yasmine said irascibly. "Jesus, do you think it was easy for me to approach that fat-mouthed lawyer? I never would have except that I'm in dire need of cash. I've sold my last fur coat and all my good jewelry. Those shares are all I have left to liquidate."

"You could use them as collateral to borrow from me."

"I said no, all right?"

"I don't understand—"

Yasmine vaulted off the bed. "Don't harp on me, Claire. I won't borrow from you, but I'll sell you the bloody stocks. Okay? Cam we cap it off now? I'll have some cash, and the company will be saved. Hallelujah and amen! That's the last I want to hear of it because I've got another crisis in my life right now."

"That's no excuse for going behind my back and against my wishes. We've all got problems." She flattened her hand against her chest. "I've been accused of murder."

"By Cassidy?" Yasmine snorted. "He hasn't got anything on you."

"They've matched the carpeting in my car to fibers found in Wilde's hotel room."

Yasmine looked surprised. "Since when?"

"Since they got a warrant to search French Silk."

"What!"

"Yes. They found some nasty voodoo stuff in your room, Yasmine, including a doll that looks like Wilde."

"That was a joke!"

"That's what I told Cassidy. He didn't think it was funny."

"Come to think of it, I didn't see him crack a smile all afternoon."

"He believes that I was in Jackson Wilde's hotel suite the night he died. Those carpet fibers place me there."

"How many cars with carpet exactly like yours are in Orleans Parish? Dozens, if not hundreds, right?"

"I'm sure that's the only reason why Cassidy didn't arrest me this afternoon," Claire told her. "He said a good defense attorney would have statistics about all those Chrysler products and how many potential murderers that adds up to." She walked toward the balcony doors. "I'm afraid, Yasmine."

"Balls. You've never been afraid of anything. Not in the time I've known you."

"I am now."

"Of Cassidy?"

"He's part of it. Mostly I'm afraid of not having control over this situation. That's the scariest feeling there is—that you've lost control of your destiny."

"Relax, Claire. Cassidy's not going to put you in jail."

"Oh yes he will," she said with a mirthless laugh. "When he believes he's got enough evidence to get a grand-jury indictment, he'll have me arrested."

"Before or after he fucks you?" Claire looked at Yasmine with stunned surprise. Yasmine shrugged. "The man wants you so bad he's in pain. At any given moment, he looks ready to pounce."

"And read me my rights."

"Uh-uh," Yasmine said, shaking her head. "He wants you on your back, or whatever, moving with him." Before Claire could offer an argument, she continued, "Look, I had my first man when I was thirteen. When you start that early, you develop a sixth sense about these things. I can smell when a man wants it. I know when a woman is ready to give it to him. And you're both ripe to bursting. He walks into a room, and your aura goes neon … and vice versa. The sex vibes are so thick, they pollute the air."

"Cassidy bid for the Wilde murder case. He was assigned to it because he's good. A conviction will make him a strong contender for the D.A.'s office. The vibes you sensed coming from him are animosity, not lust," Claire argued. "He's irritated with me for not making his job easier. As soon as he turns up something that places me in that room with Jackson Wilde, he'll do everything within his power to prove me guilty."

"But we know you're not, don't we?"

For several seconds they held each other's stare across the room. Inside Claire's head, her heartbeat was as loud as a pile driver. She felt dizzy.

Finally she said, "I'll draft a check for one-fourth of your shares. That'll give you some ready cash, but you'll still retain a partnership in French Silk. If it becomes feasible, you can buy the stock back for the amount I paid."

"Thanks," Yasmine said, unsmiling.

"Thank me by not going behind my back again."

* * *

His fountain pen was missing.

When he put on his jacket for dinner, Cassidy noticed that the gold engraved pen—a gift from his parents upon his graduation from law school—was missing. He kept it in the left breast pocket of his coat and was rarely without it.

He searched the top of the bureau in his bedroom, thinking he might have overlooked the pen lying among the loose change and other pocket accessories. But it wasn't there. He searched through the pockets of his other jackets, to no avail. He was positive he hadn't left it anywhere. He never loaned it and conscientiously returned it to his pocket after each use.

He mentally retraced every place the jacket had been since he had put it on that morning. Because of the stifling, unseasonable heat, he'd left it hanging on a coat tree in the foyer when he went for a walk around the grounds of Rosesharon shortly after lunch.

Had someone stolen his pen? Why? Among the people at Rosesharon, he couldn't think of one who was likely to rifle through another person's pockets in search of treasure. The staff? He couldn't imagine the Monteiths tolerating thievery among their employees, all of whom seemed dedicated to their guests' comfort and contentment.

The pen was only moderately valuable, but he deeply regretted the loss for sentimental reasons. As he descended the staircase to join Claire's group for dinner, he was as upset as he was befuddled.

Two of the models were loitering at the mini wet bar, a twentieth-century addition to the original house. He squeezed between them to pour himself a Chivas on the rocks. "Don't forget to mark it down," the stunning brunette said.

"No, I won't."

"Are you an honest cop or a dirty cop?" her leggy blond companion asked teasingly.

"I'm not a cop." He smiled engagingly.

"Hmm," she hummed skeptically, while tapping her front tooth with her fingernail. Then she pulled her finger through her glossy, pouty lips. "I'd bet you could get dirty."

He clinked his glass with hers. "And you'd be right."

To their disappointment, he excused himself and worked his way toward Yasmine, who was standing at one of the windows, staring out across the veranda to the lawn, where the shadows were long and deep. "Nice place."

He got the full drop-dead treatment from her tiger eyes. "If you're that trite with a jury, it's a wonder you ever win any cases, Mr. Cassidy."

"I was only trying to make polite conversation."

"Spare me."

He sipped his scotch. "Are those bad vibes I get from you intentional?"

"I don't like cops."

He ground his jaw and succinctly repeated, "I'm not a cop."

"Same as."

She was an incredibly gorgeous woman. Even standing this close, he couldn't find a flaw in either her face or her form, and continuing to look for one would be an endless pleasure. But he didn't like her. She had an attitude, the kind of arrogance that couldn't be punctured with threats, cajolery, or flattery, the kind he hated to cross-examine on the witness stand. If she chose to lie, dynamite wouldn't shake the truth out of her.

Using the kind of language he knew would draw a response, he asked, "What burr got up your ass?"

"You, for one. Why don't you lay off Claire?"

"Because she may have killed a man."

"Yeah, right. And I'm one of the Seven Dwarfs."

"You don't think she did it?"

Yasmine made a scoffing sound.

"Then that brings me to you. You had just as much motivation as she. Maybe I'm not here to watch Claire at all. Maybe I'm here to keep an eye on you."

Her beautiful lips broke into a wide smile. Propping one band on her hip, she thrust out her chest and tossed her head like a proud filly. "Well, here I am, sugar. Look your fill."

He chuckled. "You differ from Claire there. She wants me to keep blinders on."

"I don't care if you look till your eyeballs bleed, I just don't want you lurking around bothering Claire. You get on her nerves."

"Did she tell you that?"

"She didn't have to. I know her. Besides her mother, the thing she loves best is French Silk. She's a perfectionist. These shooting sessions are tense and tiresome enough without her getting into a tizzy on account of you."

"Claire doesn't seem to me the kind of woman who gets into tizzies."

"You don't know her the way I do. She never loses her cool. But she simmers, and the coals burn hot until—" She stopped.

He raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Well? Until what?"

"Never mind."

"What was said during your summit conference this afternoon? Did you have words over your remark about Jackson Wilde?"

"Wouldn't you love to know?"

"Yes, I would."

"Go fuck yourself, Cassidy."

He saluted her with his highball glass. "Spoken like you mean it."

"Count on it, sugar. Right now the whole male population is on my shit list."

"Oh? What'd we do?"

"You drew breath." Having said that, she tossed back the remainder of her wine.

"Dinner!" Grace Monteith rang a little bell as she slid open the doors to the dining room.

Cassidy had arranged it so that he was seated across the table from Claire. Although the models were young and lovely and would have made any setting a visual feast, they seemed insubstantial when compared to Claire Laurent—the difference between grape Kool-Aid and the hearty burgundy that Agnes Monteith was pouring into his wineglass.

As he ate his plate of pot roast and vegetables, he assessed his dinner companions, wondering who among them had taken his pen. He was convinced that it had been stolen, probably out of sheer meanness.

Among the three stylists, none looked sneaky enough to pilfer an engraved fountain pen. The models? They'd all been busy that afternoon. It was unlikely that one had had time to rifle through his pockets. And why would one want to?

He had ample opportunity to observe everyone without drawing notice, because Leon dominated the conversation, while his assistant ate neatly and silently at his side.

"I love the old seesaw on the west lawn," Leon said while slathering butter on a yeast roll. "We must do something on the seesaw."

"How about leggings?" Claire suggested.

"Tremendous," Leon gushed. "So good for straddling. The seesaw, that is." He giggled, then sobered while chewing industriously. "Although, I love the idea of contrasting something silk against those rough, rotting boards. Hmm. I'll think about it. While exploring, did anyone else run across that outdoor shower?"

"That was installed for field hands to use after they came in from picking cotton," Grace supplied as she passed around dessert.

"I've got dibs on a shot using that shower," Yasmine announced. "But my idea's a secret."

"I gotta smoke," Rue said, leaving the table to go out onto the veranda. "You girls had better stop stuffing in this rich food or your guts will be poking out tomorrow." No one paid her any attention.

"First thing in the morning," Leon said, "I want the model who's going to wear that long, sheer nightgown—"

"Felicia," Yasmine told him.

"Felicia dear, you get first call tomorrow."

"Shit," Felicia muttered into her caramel custard.

"I want the morning sunlight backlighting her." Leon held his hands in front of his face and formed right angles with his thumbs as though looking through a frame. "We might get lucky and have natural dew. If not, this dear lady has offered to turn on the sprinkler for us." As Agnes poured him a cup of coffee, he caught her hand and kissed the back of it. "Either way, the grass will be wet and sparkly. I see it absolutely glistening. I want the hem of the nightgown to be damp and trailing. Maybe falling off one shoulder. A peek of booby."

"Kurt could be lounging in the background," Yasmine suggested. "Like on the veranda, with his hair down and wearing only a pair of pajama bottoms."

"I love it," Leon squealed. "Don't shave in the morning, Kurt. I just adore those shots that suggest postcoital scenes. Oh, my dear Agnes, your cheeks are positively fiery. Forgive me for being so blunt. Do you think I'm terribly naughty?"

Cassidy, rolling his eyes at the affectation, happened to glance at Claire. She was suppressing her laughter. They exchanged a smile. Even among so many people, it was a private moment.

He immediately squelched the tenderness welling through his midsection. If Claire weren't his prime suspect, he'd be trying his damnedest to get her into his bed. He knew it. So did Crowder. So, probably, did she. Hell, he'd told her as much.

No more private moments
, he sternly told himself.
Not even shared looks across the dinner table.

The Monteiths encouraged them to take their coffee into the double parlors or out onto the veranda, where it was cooler since the sun had set.