French Silk(14)

When they reached the freight elevator she slid open the heavy double doors. "Second floor."

"Thank you."

The doors clanged shut, sealing him in an elevator larger than his apartment's bathroom. On his way up, he rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows.

He stepped into a corridor that ran the width of the building. Branching off it were other hallways and offices, from which he could hear sounds of clerical activity. Directly in front of him was a set of wide double doors. Instinctively he knew that he would find Ms. Laurent behind them.

Indeed, the doors opened onto a carpeted, air-conditioned office that was exquisitely furnished, complete with a smiling receptionist behind a desk made of glass and black lacquer. "Mr. Cassidy?" she asked pleasantly.

"That's right." He hadn't expected so plush an office above an ordinary warehouse. He shouldn't have removed his jacket and loosened his tie. However, he didn't have time to correct that before the receptionist escorted him to another set of double doors.

"Ms. Laurent is expecting you. Go right in."

She opened the door for him and stepped aside. He went in and received the next in a series of surprises. He had anticipated a glamorous office that lived up to the lavish reception area. Instead, this was a work space—space being the operative word. There seemed to be acres of it. The room was as wide as the building and half as deep. A wall of windows offered a panoramic view of the Mississippi River. There were several drawing tables, each outfitted with a vast assortment of implements, and three headless dress forms, and easels, and a sewing machine, and swatches of fabric … and a woman.

She was seated on a high stool, bending over one of the drawing tables, pencil in hand. As the door closed behind Cassidy, she raised her head and looked at him through a pair of square tortoiseshell eyeglasses. "Mr. Cassidy?"

"Ms. Laurent?"

After removing her glasses and leaving them and the pencil on the table, she came toward him with her right hand extended. "Yes, I'm Claire Laurent."

Her face, figure, and form weren't at all what he had expected. For a moment, while he clasped her hand courteously, his head went a little muzzy. What had he expected Claire Laurent to look like? Another Tugboat Annie? Another petite doll like the receptionist? She was neither. It hardly seemed that she and the doorkeeper belonged to the same species, much less the same sex. For while Claire Laurent was wearing wide-legged trousers the color of ripe tobacco and a loose, tailored silk shirt, there was certainly nothing masculine about her. Nor was she pert and cute like the secretary.

She was tall. Slender. She had fashionably wide shoulders. Her breasts were compact but definitely discernible. Supported by lace, he guessed, because he caught glimpses of it between the soft lapels of the ivory shirt. Her eyes were the color of expensive whiskey, and if whiskey had a voice, it would sound like hers, like a blend of satin and woodsmoke.

"You wanted to see me?"

He released her hand. "Yes."

"Can I offer you something to drink?"

She indicated a sitting area comprised of a divan with deep cushions and a low table between two upholstered chairs. In one of the chairs was a basket overflowing with what appeared to be crochet or knitting. On the table were several crystal decanters reflecting the late afternoon sunlight and casting rainbows on the white plaster walls and hardwood floor.

"No, thanks. Nothing."

"May I hang up your jacket?" She reached for it.

He almost passed it to her before thinking better of it. "No, thanks. I'm fine. Sorry to be so casual, but downstairs is a sweatbox."

Because she wasn't what he'd expected, it had cost him a few seconds of control. Cassidy liked always to be in control, and somehow he wanted to pay her back for stealing that from him. Feeling ornery, he had spoken the statement innocently, but he'd intended it as a dig, which she'd have to be a real airhead to miss. She wasn't. Not by a long shot.

Her eyes flickered defensively, but she obviously decided to let it pass. "Yes, it can sometimes get uncomfortably warm. Please, sit down."

"Thanks."

He moved to one of the chairs and sat down, draping his jacket over his knee. She sat on the divan, facing him. He noticed that her lipstick was wearing off, as though she'd been pulling that full lower lip between her teeth while deep in concentration. Her hair was a light shade of auburn that shimmered like fire in the sunlight. She must have been raking her hands or her pencil through it because the curls and waves were tousled.

Immediately, he knew several things about her. First, Claire Laurent was a working woman. She wasn't hung up on feminine affectations and vanity. She was also a woman trying to hide her nervousness behind hospitality. Only the pulse beating at the base of her elegantly smooth throat gave her away.

From her throat, his eyes moved to the trinket hanging from a black silk cord around her neck. She followed his gaze down and said, "It was a gift from my friend Yasmine."

"What's in it?" The small vial lying against her chest contained a clear liquid. "A love potion?"

His gray eyes connected with hers with an almost audible click. Suddenly Cassidy wished that he hadn't gone to bed last night with a semi-hard-on. He also wished that his errand here today weren't an official one.

She removed the stopper from the vial. At the end of the short wand was a minuscule spool. She raised it to her lips and blew through it. Dozens of tiny, iridescent bubbles burst from it and drifted up and around her face.