French Silk(30)

* * *

The cold-water tap was on full blast, and it was still only lukewarm. Cassidy supposed he should be grateful that at least it was a powerful spray. As the water struck the back of his neck, it worked out some of the tension. But not all of it.

Eventually he soaped, shampooed, rinsed, and stepped out of the shower. By that time, his coffee had brewed. He followed the rich smell of New Orleans coffee and chicory into his postage-stamp-sized kitchen and poured a cup. Scalding and bitter, it gave him twin jolts of caffeine and optimism. Maybe today would produce something.

He padded to the front door of his Metairie condo and opened it to get his morning paper. The woman who lived across the narrow stone walkway was putting letters into her mailbox.

She looked him over and grinned with amusement. "Good morning, Cassidy."

He gripped the knot of the towel wrapped around his waist. "Good morning."

"I haven't seen so much of you lately."

Ignoring the double entendre, he said, "I've been busy."

"So I've been reading." She nodded toward the newspaper he'd tucked under his bare arm. From there her eyes ventured to the water-beaded hair on his lower belly. "Have you had a chance to use that sample soap I gave you last week?"

She worked at Maison-Blanche, representing an international cosmetics line. She was constantly leaving samples from their men's collection on his doorstep. Thanks to her, he had more cosmetics than the female impersonators who pranced in the clubs on Bourbon Street. He stuck to Dial and a splash of shaving lotion, but he hated to hurt her feelings. Feeling a tingle from every hair follicle that she was studying, he said, "Yeah, it was great."

"Smell good?"

"Hmm."

She looked into his face and her eyes lingered. They'd run out of things to say. He recognized her soft expression for what it was. He toyed with the idea of inviting himself into her condo for croissants and coziness, but dismissed the thought before it was fully formed. "Well, I'm running late. 'Bye."

He closed the door seconds before the knotted towel slipped over his buns, then fell to the floor. His neighbor, Penny or Patty or Peggy or something like that, was pretty and available, as far as he knew. She'd made overtures before, which he'd ignored for one reason or another, chiefly due to lack of time and interest.

Maybe this morning he should accept her subtle invitation. Maybe getting laid was just what he needed to improve his outlook. "Hell, I doubt it," he muttered. If it were that easy, he could have climbed out of this slump days ago. Women weren't that hard to come by.

He kicked the wet towel out of his path and stalked naked into the kitchen. He sipped his coffee while waiting for his toaster to spring two slices of wheat bread. Opening his Times Picayune, he noted that the Wilde murder story had been demoted to page 4. But there in black and white was an article suggesting that the authorities were baffled. Incompetence was strongly suggested. For those who didn't already know—and since the media had been saturated with reports, it seemed impossible that the facts weren't known to everyone—the crime scene was restaged according to the press release Cassidy had helped compose.

The reporter quoted him as saying that the combined forces of the police department and the district attorney's office were following several good leads, which was true, and that an arrest was imminent, which was a lie. They weren't even close to arresting anybody. They didn't have shit.

His toast popped up. He buttered both slices, sprinkled them with sugar and cinnamon, and bit off a piece. Claire Laurent sprang to mind. Her mouth would taste like warm butter and cinnamon-sugar.

"Dammit." He braced his hands on the countertop and leaned forward, his chin lowered to his chest. Even though his shower wasn't five minutes old, he began to perspire; the tiny droplets trickled down his sides, chest, back, and belly. Arousal curled around his sex like tendrils of mist off a bayou, taunting and teasing and, to his greater frustration, causing quite a reaction.

Ever since his visit to French Silk, he'd been suffering night sweats. Like malaria, the debilitating symptoms recurred night after night. They made him weak, made him crazy, made him horny. He wanted to blame his adolescent malady on the product French Silk manufactured. If a normal guy looked at enough models wearing skimpy underwear, he would get turned on. It was a rule of nature. Every garment featured in the French Silk catalog was sexy. Either sexy/sweet, sexy/cool, or sexy/hot. But always sexy.

Those glossy pages were a definite turn-on, but he'd studied centerfolds since about age twelve and had never been plagued with a fever like this. The difference was the woman who inspired the catalog. Claire Laurent was as provocative as the merchandise she peddled. He couldn't get her out of his mind, and not necessarily within the context of his investigation. He had wondered more than once if those damn bubbles she'd blown weren't in fact a voodoo love potion.

"How'd it go at that underwear place yesterday afternoon?" Crowder had asked him at their routine morning meeting.

"You mean French Silk?"

"Is there another one involved in this case?"

"It's quite an operation. I had no idea the business was that expansive.

"I don't care about the business. Did you talk to the Laurent woman?"

"Yes. At length."

"Anything?"