French Silk(51)

"Is it wrong, Claire? The only reason you went to the Fairmont that night was to pick up your mother?"

"Just like tonight."

"While you were there, you didn't have your old pal Andre Philippi sneak you into Wilde's suite?"

"Would Wilde have lain there nude and calmly talked to me, a total stranger?"

"How did you know he was lying down nude?"

"Because it's been in the newspaper every day for a month that he was found nude in bed. Besides, even if I had been determined to kill Jackson Wilde, do you think I would have involved someone else?"

"Dammit, I don't know!" he shouted.

His agitation plain, he hung his head between his shoulders. He was so close that she could smell the rain in his hair and on his skin. Even in the darkness she could see the growth pattern of the hair on the crown of his head. If she had turned her head the slightest degree, her lips would have brushed the temple where a vein ticked with frustration.

Eventually he raised his head and looked searchingly into her eyes. "It's so damned neat. You had motivation. You had opportunity. You even had an insider who could help you carry it off. Claire, you've got to admit that from where I stand you look guilty as hell."

"Then why the long face? Isn't this what you wanted? I thought you'd be pleased to finally nail a suspect. What's wrong?"

With slow, deliberate movements, he placed his hands on her shoulders and pulled her up to stand dangerously close to him. "What's wrong? I think I've found the killer." He slid his fingers up through her hair and encircled her head. "But I didn't want it to be you."

Then suddenly his lips were pressed firmly against hers. Before Claire could recover from her initial shock, he tilted his head and deepened the kiss. An involuntary sound escaped her when his tongue separated her lips. It brought with it the taste and texture of a man, a delicious blend of cognac and brawn. Angry and aroused, he kissed her masterfully, brooking no resistance, although at first she was too dumbfounded to stop him and within seconds was too caught up in the kiss to try.

He raised his head only long enough to switch angles and slide his hands from her head to her waist, pulling her against him. He was hard. Desire, like the petals of a spring blossom, opened in her midsection. She moved against him.

"Oh, Christ," he muttered and buried his face in her neck. Deftly he undid the buttons of her blouse. He unfastened the clasp of her bra and slid his hands into the loose cups. His palms skimmed over her first, then his hands caressed her.

His kiss turned wilder, hungrier. Claire clutched handfuls of his shirt, because to let go would mean to topple backward, not only because he was bending her back at such a dramatic angle but because her equilibrium was suffering the effects of his kiss, his touch.

His lips tugged at hers while his tongue plumbed her mouth again and again as though searching for the answers he craved. Their bodies were combustible, each as hot as the other. Within his stroking hands her breasts were full and flushed, their centers raised and responsive.

The intensity of the embrace was frightening. Claire's fiery response scared her. She imagined her control disintegrating, like dry kindling being rapidly consumed by a greedy flame. Soon she would have no control left, and that was the most terrifying prospect of all. All her life people in authority had been trying to tell her what was best for her. She was conditioned to resist.

"Stop!" She averted her head and pushed his hands away. "It was a good try, but you won't get a confession out of me this way."

He released her immediately and stepped back. He clenched his fists at his sides. His breathing was labored, his voice raspy and uneven. "You know damn well that's not why I kissed you."

"Isn't it?" she shot back defiantly.

He turned and stomped away, snatched his trench coat off the coat tree, and yanked open the door. Light from the corridor spilled in, silhouetting him in a bright wedge of it.

For several moments they stared at each other across the gloom, then he stepped through the door and slammed it behind him.

Claire collapsed onto the sofa arm. Covering her face with her hands, she moaned with a repentant attitude that would have made Sister Anne Elizabeth proud. "Oh, God, no. No." Willingly, ecstatically, she had kissed the man who could, and probably would, condemn her to prison for the rest of her life.

* * *

She answered the door wearing a roomy T-shirt over patterned leggings. "Cassidy," she said with no little surprise. "Did you lock yourself out?" She glanced across the walkway that separated their condos, looking for a clue as to why he'd shown up on her doorstep at that hour of the night.

"No. I saw your lights were still on," he remarked, as though that explained everything.

"Come in." Patty-Penny-Peggy moved aside, and he stepped into a living area much like his own, except much better decorated and far neater. "Rough night weather-wise," she said, indicating his trench coat.

"The worst of it is over, I think."

"Sit down. Would you like a drink?"

"No, thanks."

"Oh." She flashed a quick, puzzled smile. "I'd offer you some grass, but I guess that wouldn't be too cool, huh?"

"No."

"Are you hungry? Have you had dinner?"

"I don't remember," he said honestly. "I don't think so, but I'm not hungry."