French Silk(140)

"Hold on."

While Andre waited for the officer to return to the line, he scanned the front page of the evening papers again. According to the latest articles, Yasmine had been cleared of any involvement in the Wilde murder case. But beneath a blurry black-and-white photo of her, the caption suggested that she had participated in subversive activities and was very possibly deranged. The unfairness of the allegations struck Andre like a stinging slap in the face. Like his maman, Yasmine hadn't been properly appreciated or protected. He could no longer tolerate it.

To add insult to injury, the second headline declared Claire Laurent Jackson Wilde's confessed killer. Surely the report was inaccurate. Why in heaven's name would Claire confess to murder? It was preposterous. Moreover, it was untrue. His attempts to reach her for an explanation had gone unrewarded. No one was answering the phone at French Silk.

The entire world seemed to have gone haywire. He alone stood sane amid rampant insanity. To correct these grievous wrongs, he had no alternative but to contact Mr. Cassidy.

"Hey? You still there?"

"Yes," Andre replied eagerly. "Can you give me Mr. Cassidy's private number?"

"Sorry, no. I was told he had left for the day and was unavailable until tomorra mawnin', when he'll prob'ly make a statement."

"I'm not media."

"Sure. If you say so."

"I swear it."

"Tell you what, if you want, I'll give your name and number to a detective, name of Howard Glenn, who's been working with Cassidy."

Andre remembered the untidy brutes who had invaded his hotel the morning following the murder. "I'll speak only with Mr. Cassidy."

"Suit yourself, fella."

The policeman disconnected him, leaving Andre feeling adrift and agitated. He stewed over what he should do. He couldn't concentrate on his work. For the first time in his tenure as night manager, he neglected his responsibilities and his guests. Why wasn't the telephone at French Silk being answered? Where was Claire? Where was Mr. Cassidy?

And when he finally spoke with him, could he bring himself to tell him what he must?





* * *



Chapter 31

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From Cassidy's car, Claire had phoned her mother at Harry's house. For the time being, Mary Catherine was out of harm's way. Cassidy had been unable to reach Crowder and had become extremely upset about it.

"Call that detective you've been working with," Claire suggested after hearing a litany of curses.

"No. I know what he would want me to do."

"Bring me in handcuffed and shackled?"

"Something like that." Cassidy shook his head. "It's imperative that I speak to Tony first. I'm not taking you back until I do."

So she had been granted one night's reprieve. They had returned to Aunt Laurel's house. After eating the supper they had bought at Mr. Thibodeaux's café, Claire had pleaded exhaustion and retreated to her bedroom upstairs. She undressed and hung her clothes in the closet where some outdated garments were still stored. Now, she scooped cool water from the pedestal sink onto her face and neck.

The bathroom looked exactly as it had the day she moved from Aunt Laurel's house. She had designed the art deco bathroom in her new apartment, but she still loved the Victorian quaintness of this bathroom with its claw-footed tub, pedestal sink, and tile floors. She found towels and washcloths stored in the chiffonier. They smelled of floral potpourri.

She used one of the towels to blot her dripping face. When she straightened up, she saw Cassidy's reflection in the oval framed mirror above the sink. He was standing in the doorway, silent and still, watching her.

The lamplight in the bedroom behind him was dim, so half of his face was cast in shadow, heightening his intense predatory aspect. He was bare-chested, and his suspenders had slipped from his shoulders, forming loops against his hips. One forearm was raised, bracing him against the jamb. The other arm hung at his side. Although he hadn't moved, his stance conveyed power, strength, and a suggestion of latent violence.

Wearing nothing except an apricot satin bra and panties set, Claire felt more naked than if she'd been nude. She resisted the impulse to grab one of the towels to cover herself. The expression on Cassidy's shadowed face intimated that any attempt at modesty would be wasted effort. Besides, she didn't think she could move. His stare had captivated her.

He walked forward until he was a hair's breadth from touching her. They regarded each other in the mirror, their gazes hungry. He raised his hands, slipped them beneath her hair, and rested them on her bare shoulders.

"I'm going to make love to you."

Her shoulders slumped forward as though from the weight of his hands. "You can't. We can't." He brushed aside her hair and laid a tender kiss on her shoulder. "Don't, Cassidy," she murmured. "Don't." Belying her protests, when his lips moved to her nape, her head dropped forward in compliance.

"Claire," he whispered into her hair, "I've fallen in love with you."

"You can't say these things to me."

"I want you. Now."

"Stop, please. You'll regret this. I know you, Cassidy," she said with feeling. "I know how you think. You'll hate yourself for the rest of your life if you do this."