French Silk(36)

"You can't expect Glenn and me to take your flimsy answer to that all-important question as a concrete alibi."

"You've got no choice," she replied, shuddering at the mention of the detective's name. "You'll have to take my word for it. I was at home that night."

"You didn't go out at all?"

The hard glint in his eyes caused her to hedge. Nervously, she pushed back her bangs. "Perhaps I did. It would have been a brief errand, because I can't leave Mama alone for extended periods of time, especially at night. Frankly, Mr. Cassidy, I don't remember. The date held no significance for me."

He gave her an extended stare, then asked, "Where's Yasmine?"

"She went back to New York yesterday."

As she had known would happen, the morning following their spat, Yasmine had been contrite and apologetic. They'd hugged, made up, and worked hard to finalize the layout for the next catalog. Yasmine had dashed to her bedroom to answer her telephone several times. Twice before returning to New York she had spent the night out, returning the following morning looking depressed and dispirited. But Yasmine's affair with her married lover was her business. She would have to deal with it.

Claire had enough problems of her own, all of them sparked by the man who kept staring at her in the same penetrating way as the Human Resources personnel once had, as though she were a case study and they were looking for irregularities in personality or behavior.

"What's this?" He gestured toward a framed item on the kitchen wall.

"That's Aunt Laurel's recipe for French Silk." Cassidy angled his head quizzically. "I'd had trouble coming up with a name for the lingerie," she explained, smiling at the memory. "Yasmine and I had deliberated over it for months and couldn't agree on anything. One cold afternoon, I got in the mood for chocolate pie and began thumbing through Aunt Laurel's recipe box. 'French Silk', " she said, pointing out the name written in a spidery cursive. "That was it. I knew it the minute I saw it. Aunt Laurel was so pleased when I told her I was naming my company after her recipe. It made her feel a part, as if she'd contributed to it." Her expression turned wistful. "She died only a few weeks after that."

Leaning nearer the frame, Cassidy read the ruled card. "'Gradually cream sugar into the mixture of butter and melted chocolate, add vanilla, beating constantly on low.' Sounds delicious."

"It is. It's rich and sensual and feels on your tongue the way I want my lingerie to feel against bare skin. The very name implies self-indulgence."

When she stopped talking, Claire realized how still they had become, how close, how soundless. He was looking at her mouth, then into her eyes, and if his hearing was as keen as his eyesight, he could hear her heartbeat.

He cleared his throat and put space between them, as though he too had found the long silence uncomfortable. "That's all interesting, but back to the reason I'm here. Your only beef with Jackson Wilde was this First Amendment issue, right?"

"That's right."

"Nothing else?"

"What are you driving at, Mr. Cassidy? Is your method of investigation to shoot in the dark until you hit something? That's not a very economical way to spend the taxpayers' money. Your time would be much better spent hunting down the actual murderer. And my time would be—"

"Are you and Yasmine lovers?"

The question was as unexpected as a falling star and rushed at her with about as much impetus. She stared at him, aghast, her lips parted, her eyes wide. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

"Well, are you?" When she began to laugh, his expression grew darker. "Wilde also stirred up a lot of homophobia in this country. The gay activist groups were on his ass about several issues."

"I see. You figured that he was my enemy on two accounts?" she asked with amusement. "Honestly, I'm not laughing at you, Mr. Cassidy. I'm only imagining how Yasmine would react to your question. Don't you read the tabloids? She's had scores of lovers over the years, all men, and has diligently cultivated a reputation as a femme fatale."

"That could be a pose."

"She'd be crushed to hear you say that. Even if you believed I'm inclined toward lesbianism, how could you possibly think that Yasmine is anything but heterosexual?"

"Because this setup is a little out of kilter, that's why."

"Setup?"

"Your business here."

"How so?" Claire asked, genuinely curious.

"I've been here twice and have yet to see a man. I know cutthroats on death row who would run from that amazon you've got guarding the door downstairs. Every employee I've seen is female, from those folding tissue paper into boxes, to those driving the forklifts. What have you got against men?"

"Nothing."

"Are you married?"

"No."

"Ever been?"

"No."

"Engaged?"

She hesitated. "No."

He raised his index finger as though to snag the lie on the tip of it. "Try again."

Claire felt her temper ignite like kindling. "Have you been prying, Mr. Cassidy?"

"I've been doing my job. Tell me about your relationship with David Allen."