French Silk(38)

Cassidy shook his head with misapprehension. "But even then, families didn't disown their daughters for getting pregnant."

"The Laurents did. My grandparents never spoke to my mother again. As far as they were concerned, she ceased to exist and so did I."

"She never disclosed who your father was?"

"No."

"And he never acknowledged you, even secretly?"

"No. I'm sure he was afraid of the consequences. He was a member of the same social circle and apparently enjoyed the benefits. He saw what happened to my mother and didn't want the same to happen to him. I don't blame him really."

"Bullshit."

"Excuse me?"

"You wouldn't be human if you didn't hold him accountable."

Claire, feeling like an insect pinned to a corkboard, took a cautious step backward. "Are you trying to make a point, Mr. Cassidy?"

"Whoever killed Wilde had a grudge against men."

"You've deduced that? How clever."

"Not so clever. It was an obvious case of overkill. He was shot one extra time."

"You're referring to the shot to his groin."

"How'd you know?"

"It was in all the newspapers that Wilde had been shot in the testicles." She shook back her hair and faced him defiantly. "So, because I was born on the wrong side of the blanket and have numerous women on my payroll, you've leaped to the brilliant conclusion that I'm the one who pulled the trigger on Jackson Wilde."

"Don't be cute."

"Then don't be ridiculous," she said, raising her voice. "I've freely admitted that I abhorred everything that man stood for. I disagreed with virtually everything he said. So what? Many did."

"True. But only the livelihoods of a few were being threatened, so that places your name high on the list of suspects."

"You're wasting your time investigating me."

"I don't think so. I've caught you in too many lies."

"I explained about the clippings."

"I'm not talking about that."

"I lied to you about my father only to protect my mother. Surely you'll concede that she's suffered enough humiliation without my sharing her past with you."

"I'm not talking about that lie, either," he said.

"Then what? The suspense is killing me."

He turned his back on her and stalked to the door. He wore his dark suit well. The tailored vest snugly fitted his trim torso, and there was no wasted fabric in his trousers. It would have been a luxury if she could have concentrated on his considerable attractiveness as most women would.

But Claire saw him through the eyes of a frightened child. She couldn't separate the man from the bureaucracy he represented. She'd learned at an early age to fear, loathe, and strike out against it. She projected her antipathy for it onto him.

How dare he dig into her mother's sorrowful past? It had caused Mary Catherine so much grief that, in order to survive, she had barricaded herself inside a dream world. Her delusions were rose-colored but as protective as iron gates. They had guarded her against heartache and scorn for three decades. It was unfair that her misfortunes should be exposed for strangers to scrutinize again.

He had reached the door. His right hand was on the knob. Claire knew she was about to test the limits of his patience, but she couldn't help herself. She charged him, taunting, "You're bluffing."

He came around quickly. "You told me that you'd never met Jackson Wilde." He raised his free hand and crushed a handful of her hair in his fist, tugging her head back. Lowering his face close to hers, he spoke rapidly and softly, with emphasis and urgency.

"You didn't spend a 'quiet evening at home' the night he was killed. I got several videotapes from the local cable company, which had been hired to document Wilde's New Orleans crusade. One of the tapes was a recording of the last service he conducted. It was recorded in its entirety.

"When Wilde extended an invitation at the conclusion of the service, hundreds of people flocked to the podium from every tier of the Superdome. Among the first to reach him was a young woman who clasped his hand and spoke to him face to face."

He stared at her hard, as if to imprint the image of her face on his brain. Then he released her hair and opened the door, adding as he went out, "It was you, Claire."



When his telephone rang, Andre Philippi jumped guiltily and slammed shut his desk drawer. The bell was like a conscience, reminding him that he was gazing at his beloved's photograph on company time.

He answered the telephone and, with crisp and businesslike enunciation, identified himself. "How may I help you?"

"Bonsoir, Andre."

"Bonsoir," he replied in a warmer tone, instantly recognizing the caller, although the voice was soft and muffled. "How are you?"

"Still shaken by what happened week before last."

Andre's small mouth formed a moue of sympathy. "It was a ghastly night."

"I called to thank you again for your discretion."

"I assure you, no thanks are necessary. I felt no obligation to the police. They herded my guests together like cattle and questioned them like criminals."