French Silk(20)

"Do you think it's erotic, Mr. Cassidy?"

"Hell yes," he said thickly. "Don't you?" He glanced up at her, and Claire felt like she'd been nipped on the belly by sharp but playful teeth.

She lowered her eyes to the ad. "I'm stimulated in a different way. The price of the model's robe is one hundred twenty-five dollars. That's the high-ticket item in that issue. The garments are made in Hong Kong. They cost us a fraction of the sale price. Even figuring in the processing, packaging, shipping, and handling it takes to get the piece to the consumer, our margin of profit is tremendous. I look at that photograph and hope that every woman who sees it is enticed to place an order."

"In the hopes of luring a guy with sapphire eyes and corrugated abs."

Claire laughed. "Why, Mr. Cassidy! You're a disgruntled sexist exercising the double standard."

Her laugh only deepened his frown. "Am I? I don't like to think so."

"But you'd just as soon the young man not be in the picture."

"He's a lot to live up to."

"Now you understand how a woman feels when her lover ogles an airbrushed centerfold. We appeal to our subscriber's fantasy by making her feel that she can be just as lovely as that. The message we convey is that any woman can be beautiful and desirable. 'Wear this and be adored.' Perhaps her only fantasy is to lure a couch potato away from Monday Night Football."

After listening carefully to her explanation, he returned his attention to the catalog. Claire lapsed into silence, watching his gray eyes move across the pages. Occasionally he raised his drink to his lips. His mouth was wide, narrow, masculine, softened only by a fuller lower lip and a vertical dimple in his left cheek.

From a purely objective point of view, he was very good-looking. The sprinkling of gray in his sideburns was attractive. His chestnut hair feathered over the tops of his ears in an appealing fashion. Few men were taller than Yasmine, but when Cassidy had shaken hands with her, Claire had noticed that he topped her by two or three inches. He had a trim physique, yet the forearm resting on his knee looked powerful, and there was strength in his heavily veined hand.

After looking at every page, he closed the catalog. "Thanks."

"You're welcome. Do you think Jackson Wilde was justified? Do you think it's smut?"

"Off the record, hell no. It's sensual, erotic, but hardly porno. On the record, I have to be impartial."

It pleased her to know that he wasn't ready to stone her. She placed her glass of wine on the table and stood up. "Take that copy with you. You might decide to order something."

Picking up the catalog, he too came to his feet. "I doubt it. I'm strictly the white cotton Fruit of the Loom briefs type."

"You might enjoy a pair of the silk boxers for lounging."

"I might. Do you own a gun?"

The question stunned her, following so closely behind the disarming statement. "No, I don't, Mr. Cassidy."

"Do you have access to one?"

"No."

"Back to my original question: where were you the night Jackson Wilde was killed?"

She bit back an angry retort and answered calmly, "I don't recall going out. I believe I spent a quiet evening at home."

"Can someone corroborate that?"

"Does it need corroboration? Do you think I'm lying?"

She held his stare even though it stretched out interminably and made her want to squirm.

Finally he said, "Thanks for the drink." He reached for his jacket and slung it over his shoulder, hooking it with his index finger.

"You're welcome."

The wall of windows caught his eye. Twilight had fallen. From this side of her building, one had an unrestricted view of the river. Lights on the levee and the bridge spanning the river sparkled in the glow that ranged from deep purple to shimmering gold. "Great view."

"Thank you."

She'd guaranteed retaining the coveted view by purchasing the property that extended from her corner to the levee and turning it into a parking lot. It was profitable, and it was a safeguard against her view being blocked by a high-rise hotel or shopping center. The land had appreciated a thousand times over since she had bought it, but she wouldn't part with it for any price.

"I'll show you out."

She preceded him out the door, past the glitzy reception desk, and into the elevator. Once they were on their way down, he asked, "What's on the third floor?"

"My apartment."

"Not many people hold to that quaint custom, living above their place of business."

"They do in the Vieux Carré."

"Spoken like someone who knows."

"I was born here and have never lived anywhere else. I even went to college here, commuting every day by trolley to Tulane."

"Happy childhood?"

"Very."

"No major upheavals or crises?"

"None."

"Not even with your mother?"

Claire shrugged. "Because I never knew her to be any other way, I adapted to her illness as any child with a handicapped parent does."

"What about your father?"

"He died when I was a baby. Mama never remarried. We lived with her aunt Laurel. Shortly after she died, we moved here."