French Silk(44)

Sitting at her drawing board, Claire rested her forehead in her hand and massaged her temples. She was both concerned and irritated. The only thing to be had from this love affair was a broken heart. Yasmine should be smart enough to see that. She should cut her losses now and stop making a fool of herself. But she wouldn't welcome hearing that or any other unsolicited advice.

"I'm sorry, Yasmine," Claire said, meaning it. "I know you're hurting, and I hate that. I want to see you happy. I only wish there were something I could do."

"You're doing it. You're listening." She sniffed. "Listen, enough of that. I got with Leon and finalized the schedule for the shoot next week. Ready to take it all down?"

Claire reached for a pad and pencil. "Ready. Oh, wait," she said impatiently when she heard the call-waiting beep. "There's the other line. Just a sec." She depressed the button and said hello. Seconds later, she clicked back to Yasmine. "I've got to go. It's Mama."

Yasmine knew better than to prolong the conversation. "Tomorrow," she said quickly and hung up.

Claire dashed from her office and chose the stairs in favor of the elevator. She'd been in the apartment less than a minute before running down the two flights to the ground level. As she raced across the darkened warehouse, she pushed her arms through the sleeves of a glossy black vinyl raincoat and pulled the matching hat over her hair.

Since the bolts had already been unlocked and the alarm system disengaged, she flung open the door—and came face to face with Cassidy.

His head was bent against the downpour, which had already plastered his hair to his head. The collar of his trench coat had been flipped up; his shoulders were hunched inside. He was reaching for the bell. When they saw each other, one was as surprised as the other.

"What do you want?" Claire asked.

"I have to see you."

"Not now." She set the alarm, pulled the door closed, and locked it behind her. Sidestepping Cassidy, she dashed through the rain toward the rear of the building. Her upper arm was manacled by his hand, and she was brought up short. "Let me go," she cried, struggling to release her arm. "I've got to go."

"Where?"

"On an errand."

"Now?"

"Now."

"I'll drive you."

"No!"

"Where are you going?"

"Please, don't bully me now. Just let me go."

"Not a chance. Not without some kind of explanation." A lightning bolt briefly illuminated his strong features and the resolution carved on them. He wasn't going to take no for an answer, and they were wasting time. "All right, you can drive me."

Still with a firm grip on her arm, he wheeled her around. His sedan was parked in a loading zone at the curb. After depositing her in the passenger seat, he jogged around the hood and got in. Rain dripped from his nose and chin as he started the engine. "Where to?"

"The Ponchartrain Hotel."





* * *



Chapter 9

? ^ ?

"It's on St. Charles Avenue," she told him.

"I know where it is," he said. "Why the hell are you in such a mad dash to get there?"

"Please, Mr. Cassidy, can we hurry?"

Without further comment, he pulled the car away from the curb and turned onto Conti Street. The French Quarter was quiet tonight. The few pedestrians who were out battled with umbrellas as they moved along the narrow sidewalks. The neon signs advertising exotic drinks and aperitifs, filé gumbo and crawfish étouffée, topless dancers and jazz were blurred at the edges by the rainfall.

When Cassidy stopped at an intersection to wait for crossing traffic, he turned his head and looked hard at Claire. She felt his stare like a stroke of his hand across her cheek and could almost feel again his fist closing around her hair. She hadn't expected him to touch her at all, but particularly not like that.

It had astonished her even more than his calling her by her first name, more than his knowing that she had attended Jackson Wilde's last crusade. Almost a week had passed since then. Wilde had been buried in Tennessee. Claire had had no more contact with either the police or the D.A.'s office and had hoped that Cassidy had redirected his investigation away from her. Evidently that had been too much to hope for.

Now, unable to avoid him, she turned her head and met his penetrating stare. "Thank you for driving me."

"Don't thank me. You'll pay for the ride."

"Ah. Men always exact a fee from women, don't they? There's no such thing as a favor without strings attached."

"Don't flatter yourself, Ms. Laurent."

"I'm not. Isn't it the consensus among men that every woman is beautiful at two A.M.?"

"Sexism in reverse. You have a very low opinion of men."

"You'd decided that before our last meeting. Haven't we exhausted that topic?"

"Look," he said angrily, "I don't want anything from you except answers. Straight, no-bullshit answers."

"That shouldn't be too difficult. What do you want to know?"

"Why you lied to me. No, wait. I'll have to be more specific, won't I? I want to know why you lied to me about meeting Jackson Wilde. You not only met him, you met him eyeball to eyeball. You shook hands with him."