French Silk(142)

She laid a gentling hand in the center of his chest. "His acquittal was determined by a twelve-person jury. You weren't responsible."

"I did my part," he said bitterly.

"You had an obligation to your client."

"I've tried a thousand different ways to justify it, Claire. There is no justification. If not for me and my grandstanding, he wouldn't have been on the streets. That little girl suffered and died on the altar of my conceit and ambition."

Claire's heart was breaking for him. He would carry the guilt with him to his grave. There was nothing she could say or do to change the past, but she wanted to make him see that he had atoned. "It was a hard lesson, Cassidy, but you learned from it. It's made you a better prosecutor."

He drew a deep sigh. "That's my only hope for redemption."

"I'm sorry," she said earnestly.

He looked at her with surprise. "Sorry?"

"Sorry that it happened to you."

"I thought you'd be put off."

"I'd only be put off if you hadn't taken it so hard."

Ducking her head, she kissed his chest, flicking it lightly with her swirling tongue as her lips continued on a downward path. She inched her way down to his navel and the silky strip of hair below it, then nuzzled that dark, dense thatch surrounding his sex.

When her lips grazed his cock, he rasped her name and took her head between his hands, tunneling all ten fingers through her hair. Daintily her tongue moistened the velvety tip and stroked the smooth shaft. She withheld nothing, did everything, tasted, teased, loved him thoroughly.

He pulled her up to straddle his lap and sheathed himself within her only heartbeats before his stunning climax. Crushing his face against her breasts, he sucked her nipple into his mouth. She clutched his head and rode his erection, which was still full and firm inside her. As light splintered through her, she mentally chanted what she couldn't speak out loud. Cassidy, my love … my love … my love.





* * *



Chapter 32

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When Claire awakened, she was alone. She hastily dressed in the clothes she'd worn from New York the day before and rushed downstairs. A policewoman and her male partner were waiting for her in the foyer. When she saw them, she drew up short and, using her fingers, nervously combed back her mussed hair. "Hello."

"Mr. Cassidy had to leave on urgent business," the policewoman told her. "We were dispatched to drive you downtown."

"Oh." She was vastly disappointed by the way Cassidy had chosen to handle this. Why hadn't he awakened her before he left so they could have one last private conversation?

"As soon as you're ready, Ms. Laurent," the policewoman said tactfully.

Claire secured Aunt Laurel's house, locking inside it memories of loving Cassidy along with the treasure trove of memories the rooms already held for her. It broke her heart to cross the porch for what would probably be the last time, but she couldn't nurse any regrets. This was only the first of many sacrifices she would be required to make.

"I'd like to shower and change, if that's possible. I haven't been home since I returned from New York yesterday."

The arresting officers agreed to stop at French Silk. When they pulled up in front, Claire was alarmed to see several patrolmen posted around the building. "What are they doing here?" Her first concern was for her mother, although Mary Catherine was safely ensconced with Harry.

"They're here to keep Ariel Wilde from doing any mischief."

"Oh. Thank you."

The officers rode in the elevator with her up to the third floor and waited while she bathed and dressed. Her vanity seemed misplaced, but she wanted to look her best and took pains with her makeup and hair. She dressed in a simple, elegant two-piece black suit with a slim, short skirt. The jacket had a white shawl collar. On the lapel, she pinned a marcasite brooch, a gift from Aunt Laurel. The silver cuff bracelet she slipped onto her wrist had belonged to Yasmine. In her purse, she carried one of Mary Catherine's hand-embroidered handkerchiefs.

Bolstered by the possessions of the people who had loved her, she left her bedroom and confidently announced, "I'm ready."

But her confidence flagged as she took one last look at her spectacular view of the river. Everything in the apartment testified to the hours of hard work she had dedicated to building a successful business. She had done very well for a girl who had grown up with an emotionally unstable mother, no father, and nothing in the way of commodities except a Singer sewing machine and a wealth of imagination.

When she crossed the warehouse floor for the last time, tears blurred her vision. What would happen to French Silk without her and Yasmine? The outstanding orders would be shipped. Receivables would be collected and invoices paid. But there would be no new business. There wouldn't be another catalog. French Silk would cease to exist.

What an ironic twist—Jackson Wilde had achieved his goal.

Mentally, Claire squared her shoulders. She had done what was necessary. She had known the consequences of her decision and was willing to accept them.

The district attorney's building was still under siege by Wilde's disciples. "Onward, Christian Soldiers" was being sung by the marchers who carried pickets condemning Claire Laurent to eternal hellfire and damnation. She was escorted into the building under armed guard.