French Silk (37 page)

Claire wanted to protest the overt sexiness of the shots, as she had done about the model's prominent nipples the day before. But her motives for wanting to start an argument were different. The fact was, Yasmine looked like a work of art. Such perfection of form could never be labeled obscene. The image she created was erotic, yes, but not pornographic. It was a celebration of human sensuality, not propaganda for moral decay. And since a close-up of the pajamas would be shown in a small box photo beside the large one, Claire couldn't complain that the item would be misrepresented in the catalog.

Not everyone would look as spectacular as Yasmine did in the pajamas, but the fantasy of doing so would sell them by the thousands. Claire would no doubt be applauding Yasmine's inspiration like the rest of the crew were it not for Cassidy, who was gaping at Yasmine like a star-struck, sex-crazed adolescent.

Claire was hot, angry, nervous, distracted, and jealous, and it was all his fault. He was responsible for this unwelcome, juvenile resentment churning inside her.

She should order him to leave the set. But he would demand to know why, and if she said that he was bothering everybody, all the others would deny it, and that would be tantamount to admitting that his presence was aggravating only to her.

Yasmine was undeniably gorgeous, but Claire had never been jealous of her before. Yasmine cultivated her image of savage sexiness, which Claire had always found amusing if she thought of it at all. It certainly had never sparked envy. Yasmine was merely being Yasmine as she stretched and postured for the camera. She was in her element. She wasn't deliberately trying to entice Cassidy.

"You like it, Claire?" Yasmine called over her shoulder.

"Yes," she said dispassionately. "It's very nice."

Yasmine lowered her arms and turned around. She didn't bother to cover her bare breasts. "'Nice'? It's not supposed to be nice."

"What's it supposed to be?"

"Well for damn sure not
nice
. It's supposed to be attention-getting and arousing. It's supposed to sell these goddamn pajamas, which, frankly, I think are the most lackluster design you've ever come up with. They've got no style, no class, no nothing. I'm trying to put some zing into an item that otherwise would be a major flop."

Yasmine's speech was delivered with such antipathy that it silenced even Leon. A strained hush fell over the set. Even Rue, who collected sarcastic gems to toss out at the most inopportune times, smoked in silence while everyone else found something other than Claire and Yasmine to focus on. They'd heard them clash before, but never to this degree.

Claire's chest felt close to cracking from internal pressure, but she turned to Leon and asked calmly, "Have you got all the shots you need?"

"I think so. Unless you think we need more." He was being uncharacteristically obsequious and soft-spoken, as though afraid he might detonate an explosion.

"I trust your judgment, Leon."

"Then I'm finished."

"Okay. Thanks, everybody. That's it for today. See you at dinner."

Claire turned her back on them and headed for the house. She walked at a fast clip, wanting only to reach the cool, dim privacy of her room, where she could nurse her jealousy in solitude.

She had almost reached the veranda when Cassidy intercepted her. "Why did you do that?" Sweat had made the hair around his face damp. He looked as hot and short-tempered as she.

"I'm in no mood for one of your inquisitions, Cassidy."

"Answer me. Why did you let Yasmine get away with embarrassing you in front of everyone?"

"Yasmine embarrassed only herself. Now, get out of my way." She managed to get around him and made it up several steps before he blocked her path again.

"You didn't approve of erect nipples yesterday, but today Yasmine couldn't have looked more naked if she'd been naked. I don't get it."

"You're not supposed to."

"Why did one set of poses bother you and not the other?"

"Because there's a fine distinction between sensuality and overt titillation. I'm looking for shots that will excite without being offensive."

"You know from experience that it's purely subjective."

"Invariably. But I'm the first judge, and I've got excellent taste," she stated boastfully but confidently. "I trust my judgment on what's quality and what's questionable."

"Did you like Yasmine's poses?"

"I said I did, didn't I?"

"But you didn't sound as though you meant it, and everybody heard that, especially Yasmine."

"My job isn't to stroke Yasmine's ego."

"No, your job is to sell merchandise, and that shot will sell pajamas."

She blew a strand of hair off her forehead. "Is there a point to this, Cassidy?"

"You were suddenly uncomfortable with Yasmine's sensuality. Why?"

"Did you think she was sensual? I don't know why I'm even asking, when it was so apparent that you did. You were riveted." He gave her a strange and quizzical look, which only made her madder. "Well, weren't you?"

"I wasn't particularly mindful of my reaction," he said softly. "But obviously you were."

Claire, realizing that she was dangerously close to revealing too much, averted her head. "Is that all, Cassidy?"

"Not quite. What kind of relationship do you have with Yasmine that allows her to insult you like that? Anyone else would have come back with both barrels loaded."

"Yasmine attacks other people only when she's upset with herself. I understand that."

"She attacked you yesterday with that crack about Wilde. What gives? What reason does she have to be upset with herself?"

"None of your damn business." Executing a hasty sidestep, he parried her attempt to go around him. Seething, Claire glared up at him. "All right, I'll tell you this much. Yasmine is taking the van to New Orleans tonight to see her lover. She plans to return early tomorrow morning."

"Then what's the problem?"

"I think they might have quarreled the last time they were together."

Cassidy gazed at a point beyond her shoulder for a moment. "She's taking the van?"

"Hmm."

"Does she ever drive your car?"

"You're losing your touch, Cassidy." His eyes swung back to hers. "The reasoning behind that question is amateurish and transparent. You want to know if Yasmine was driving my car the night Jackson Wilde was murdered. You fail to recall that she was in New York that night and that I was driving my car."

He bore down on her. "I'm relieved that you remember that, Claire. I was beginning to think you'd forgotten that your car connects you to Wilde's murder."

"It appears to."

"Temporarily. Sooner or later a clue is going to mark you as a killer."

She shuddered, spoke low. "Excuse me. I'm going in now." She got through the front door without being apprehended, but he caught up with her in the foyer. He covered her hand where it rested on the balustrade.

"Claire, why do you do that? Why do you just turn your back and walk away when I make those kinds of allegations? Why don't you deny them?"

"Because I don't have to. I'm innocent until proven guilty, remember? I've got nothing to fear from you."

"The hell you don't." He leaned forward, straining the words through his teeth. "You can't continue to simply walk away. I didn't follow you to Mississippi on a whim, you know."

"Then why did you come here? Why impose yourself on me, why interfere with my work? To bully me about nonexistent affairs with Jackson Wilde? To try to place a wedge between Yasmine and me? Divide and conquer? Is that your current strategy?"

"No. I came because I had no choice. The evidence against you is no longer circumstantial. We've got something tangible in those carpet fibers. So far I've kept you from being formally arrested."

"Why?"

"Number one, because I don't want to look like a fool before the grand jury and get you no billed for lack of more solid evidence."

"And number two?"

The pendulum inside the grandfather clock swung back and forth, ponderously ticking off the seconds they spent staring at each other. Finally he replied, "Because I want to give you the benefit of the doubt. But Glenn and everybody else in a position of authority is getting antsy to close this case."

"They're responding to the ranting of a hysterical woman."

"Who happens to be pregnant."

Claire's breath left her body in an audible rush. "Pregnant?"

"Ariel Wilde collapsed last night during a prayer service in Kansas City. If you'd watched the news you would have seen it." There were no TVs in the guest rooms at Rosesharon. During a guest's stay, he was virtually incommunicado with the outside world unless he read the local newspaper, which carried very little national or world news.

Claire's head was spinning. "She's pregnant?"

"That's right," he said tersely. "That practically eliminates her as a suspect."

"Not necessarily."

"Not to you, maybe. Maybe not even to me. But to everybody else's way of thinking, she's off the hook. Which way do you think public sympathy will swing? To the lady epitomizing motherhood and goodness, or to the woman who publishes dirty pictures?"

"It might not be Jackson's child," Claire said, sounding desperate, like someone grasping at a lifeline. "It could be Josh's baby."

"I know that. And you know that. But Joe Average Citizen doesn't. All he sees on his color Panasonic is a saintly, weeping, pregnant widow, who looks like the last thing on her agenda would be adultery with her stepson and the cold-blooded murder of her husband.

"Be prepared, Claire. Ariel will play this for all it's worth. Twice you've experienced the kind of media manipulation she's capable of. The threat of libel suits doesn't faze her. She'll verbally paint the picture of an immoral, opportunistic monster taking her husband's life and imposing tragedy on her and her unborn baby. Because of the groundwork she's already laid, whose face do you think that monster will wear in the minds of most people?" He leaned down closer to her. "Are the grim implications of her pregnancy beginning to sink in?"

They weren't only sinking in—they had found a nesting place in the recesses of her heart where her deepest fears were lodged. It would be folly, however, to let Cassidy see that she was afraid. "What do you want from me?" she asked defiantly.

"A confession."

She made a scornful sound.

"Then, dammit, don't let me accuse you without putting up a fight. Stamp. Scream. Beat on my chest with your fists. Become outraged, incensed. Don't retreat behind that cool façade; it only makes you look guiltier. You can't remain aloof any longer, Claire. Fight back, for God's sake."

"I wouldn't lower my dignity to such a level."

"Dignity!" he bellowed. The features of his face turned stiff with rage. "Jail is undignified, Claire. So is a murder trial. So is life in prison." His breath fell hotly on her face. "Damn you, tell me my suspicions are wrong. Give me something absolute that will shoot down all the facts I have working against you."

"Until I'm indicted, I shouldn't have to worry about defending myself. The judicial procedure—"

"Screw procedure! Talk to me!"

"Mr. Cassidy?" The wavering voice came from Mary Catherine, who was hovering in the dining-room archway. "Why are you shouting at Claire? You're not going to take her away, are you?"

"Of course not, Mama!" Claire exclaimed.

"Because I really can't let you take her."

Claire moved quickly to her mother's side and placed an arm around her shoulders. "Mr. Cassidy and I were just … debating something."

"Oh."

Where was Harry? Claire asked herself. Why wasn't she with her mother? "Everything's fine, Mama. I promise. Are you feeling well?"

Mary Catherine formed a tremulous smile. "We're having stuffed pork chops for dinner. Doesn't that sound delicious? I must ask them to trim all the fat off Aunt Laurel's. That's the only way she'll eat pork, you know. Otherwise she gets indigestion. Oh, forgive me, Mr. Cassidy, for discussing such an indelicate matter in mixed company."

Cassidy cleared his throat. "Quite all right."

"Aunt Laurel wants to get some cuttings from the rosebushes here to plant in the courtyard. Wouldn't that be lovely, Claire Louise?"

"Yes, Mama. Lovely."

Mary Catherine walked past Claire to the coat tree near the door, where Cassidy's sports coat was hanging. She removed something from the pocket of her skirt and slipped it into the breast pocket of the jacket. Without acknowledging her strange action, she continued the conversation. "Claire dear, your face is flushed."

"It's hot outside."

"Are you perspiring, dear? That's not at all ladylike. Perhaps you should take a bath and change before dinner."

"I plan to, Mama. I was just on my way up."

"You work much too hard. Aunt Laurel and I were talking about it this afternoon over tea. You really should take care." Mary Catherine stroked her cheek lovingly before drifting upstairs and out of sight. The instant they heard her bedroom door close, Cassidy moved to the coat tree and reached into the breast pocket of his coat.