French Silk(146)

"You never told me she was black."

"What?"

"Your mistress was black." Belle's fists were clenched at her sides. Her nostrils flared with indignation and disgust. "It's humiliating to both of us that you had to find your fun outside this bedroom. But to think of the father of my children sleeping with a… Did you kiss her on the mouth? Oh, God!" She rubbed the back of her hand across her lips in a scrubbing motion. "The thought of it makes me sick. You make me sick. That's why I don't want you in my bed."

Alister didn't like being upbraided like a twelve-year-old caught jerking off. He'd suffered enough humiliation yesterday in the D.A.'s office, so he struck back. "If you knew just half the sex tricks Yasmine did, I wouldn't have had a mistress in the first place. Black, white, or any other color."

Belle's eyes drilled into his. She didn't raise her voice, but her soft-spoken tone was more sinister than a shout. "Watch yourself, Alister. You've committed a series of monumental blunders. Left to your own devices, you probably would have dug yourself in so deep you couldn't get out. But thanks to my quick thinking, you walked away from your mistakes unscathed."

She turned and took something from the nightstand drawer. "I'm curious about the misdeeds you've committed that haven't yet come to light." She tossed the small object in the air, flipping it end over end like a coin. "You see, I know that you had words with Reverend Wilde the day of his death. Despite appearances, the two of you weren't on the best of terms when you joined him on the podium that night."

She caught the object in her hand and looked down at it musingly as she continued. "If I discovered your mistress, perhaps the reverend had, too. You're not smart enough to hire someone discreet to do your dirty work for you. You might have been stupid enough to take matters into your own hands, tried to solve your problem without guidance, which we both know you desperately need."

Alister watched as she replaced the matchbook, bearing the logo of the Fairmont Hotel, in her bedside drawer. "I hope I'm wrong, but I suspect that you eagerly grasped my idea to confess to your mistress only to cover up an uglier transgression.

"If that's so, then heed this warning. I'm through with covering up for your mistakes, Mister. For instance, if Mr. Cassidy came to me with questions about that night, I would be forced to tell him that I had called your room at the Doubletree repeatedly and received no answer. To protect myself and my children, I would be pressed to show him that matchbook."

Her voice turned cold. She pointed her finger at him. "I'm giving you fair warning—if you get out of line again, I'll divorce, disgrace, and disinherit you. Once my family and I are finished with you, you'll be lucky to get a job skimming out cesspools.

"You're being placed on probation, dear," she said with saccharine sarcasm. "In public, you'll be the shining example of truth, justice, and the American way. You'll be a devoted husband and a doting father, a smiling, sterling pillar of virtue and integrity.

"After awhile, you might earn back your place in my bed. Until the time I deem you worthy, don't even ask to rejoin me there. I can't bear the thought of having your hands on me. Do I make myself clear?"

"As a bell," he replied flippantly. "No pun intended."

He marched from the room, slamming the door behind him. Who needed her arid, sterile bed, he asked himself angrily as he returned to the guest room to finish dressing. She was so stiff and dry, he'd just as soon f*ck a corn husk.

He relished his anger. It kept him from acknowledging his fear, which was insidiously lurking in the dark shadows of his mind like a rat, waiting for an opportune time to dart out and seize him.

Not for a single second did he doubt Belle's threat of exposure and desertion if he messed up again. Nor did he question her ability to ruin him if she so desired. She had not only the impetus of a woman scorned to motivate her, she had the muscle and the money behind her to make good her threats.

She liked being a congressman's wife. It elevated her, gave her prestige. But, hell, with her fortune, she could buy herself a judge or a governor or even a senator if she wanted one. In other words, Alister Petrie could be replaced. What if Cassidy hadn't bought his story? What if he did question Belle?

That possibility made his knees weak and his bowels loose. He stumbled to his unmade bed and sat down on the edge of it, holding his throbbing head in his hands. Belle had him by the short and curlies, and she damn well knew it. The bitch.

What could he do about it?

For the time being, nothing except wait. He'd had several close calls. Belle was still on his side, but for how long? Only as long as her cushy position in the world wasn't threatened. God forbid it ever was.

All he could do now was hope to sweet Jesus that Claire Laurent's phony confession stuck.

* * *

Cassidy's stunning statement brought Crowder to his feet. "Have you lost your frigging mind? Pardon me, Ms. Laurent."

Claire didn't notice his crude language. She was in shock, coupled with profound relief. Her mother wasn't a suspect! But Alister Petrie?

"I know it sounds crazy," Cassidy said, "but when I lay out all the facts, you'll begin to see, as I did, that Petrie is guilty of killing Jackson Wilde."

"You're just pissed off at him," Crowder said. "A word of advice, Cassidy—don't mess with him. He's poison."