French Silk(58)

As gorgeous as it was, it was a room inhabited and used by a real person—a real woman. A peach-colored slip hung from a porcelain hook mounted on the back of the door. On the white marble vanity was a wide array of perfume bottles. A fluffy white lambswool puff hadn't been replaced in the glass container of body powder, and its silver lid was askew. A strand of pearls spilled out of a satin jewelry box. Two cosmetic brushes, a tube of lipstick, and a pair of gold earrings hadn't been put away. And the bubble-blowing necklace was also there.

Everything personified Claire Laurent. Beautiful. Classy. Elegant. Sensual. Cassidy was enchanted by the saturation of femininity. Like a kid in a toy store, he wanted to touch and examine everything.

"I think I've got some peroxide in here." A spring-loaded latch came open when she depressed a seam in the mirrored wall. A section swung out, revealing a medicine cabinet. "Sit down."

His choices were a vanity stool with a white velvet cushion, the commode, or the bidet. The vanity stool didn't look solid enough to support him. The bidet was out of the question. He sat down on the commode lid.

Claire approached him with a snowy washcloth, which she had moistened beneath the gold faucet. "You'll ruin that," he said, yanking back his head. "The bloodstain might never wash out."

She gave him a strange look. "Things are dispensable, Mr. Cassidy. People aren't."

The cut was on the ridge of his cheekbone. He winced when she applied the cold, wet cloth to it. "Why don't you drop the 'mister'? Call me Cassidy."

"What's your first name?"

"Robert."

"That's a respectable name." She dabbed the cut with the cloth, then tossed it into the basin and took a cotton ball from a crystal canister and soaked it with peroxide. "This might sting."

He gritted his teeth as she swabbed the cut, but it was only mildly uncomfortable. "Too Celtic."

"And 'Cassidy' isn't?"

"I didn't want to be Bob or Bobby. Since high school, it's been Cassidy."

She removed the cotton ball and took a Band-Aid from a metal box in the medicine cabinet. He watched her hands as she peeled open the sterile wrapper and protective tapes, but he looked directly at her as she pressed the bandage over the wound.

Her breath was on his face. He caught a whiff of her perfume, which emanated from the cleft between her breasts—breasts that he had touched. Her blouse gaped open slightly as she leaned forward, and it took tremendous self-discipline not to peek.

"There. That should do." She touched his cheek; her fingertips were cool. She turned away to replace the items she'd taken from the medicine cabinet.

This was crazy. This was nuts. He would f*ck up big time if he let this get out of hand, but, Jesus…

He reached out and bracketed her waist with his hands, turning her around to face him again. "Claire?"

She drew her hands back as though to keep from laying them on his shoulders. "You'd better soak that shirt in cold water or the bloodstain will set."

"Claire?"

Involuntarily it seemed, her eyes moved up from the bloodstain on his shirt to connect with his. "I don't want to talk about it," she said in that husky whisper that echoed in his dreams every night.

"Don't misunderstand, Claire. It's not my standard operating procedure when questioning a female suspect to kiss her."

"No?"

"No. I think you know that."

His gaze moved over her, taking in her lovely face, her smooth throat, the breasts that enticed him, the narrow waist and gentle flare of her hips. Acting instinctively, his hand moved from her waist to splay open over her abdomen. It wasn't an intimate caress. Not really. There were probably three layers of clothing between her skin and the palm of his hand. But it felt intimate in the utter quiet of this most private room of hers.

He felt overwhelmed by the wrongness of it.

She was his prime suspect. It was his job to pursue criminals and bring them to justice. His career hinged on this case. It would either make him a shoo-in candidate for the district attorney's job or forever keep him rooted in the ranks of assistants. He would either earn position and power or remain just another prosecutor trying to trip up drug dealers on tax evasions. He would either be able to redeem himself or forever be condemned for that one major mistake that marred his soul like a dark blot.

Now, here he was, on the verge of committing another grievous blunder. He couldn't let it happen. He wouldn't be derelict in his duty again.

He lowered his hands. Claire backed up as far as the dressing table. "I don't think you should touch me like that anymore. It could cost you your case. Because if I was ever indicted, Cassidy, I'd make sure everybody knew about your conflict of interests."

"And I'd deny it," he stated without hesitation. "It would be your word against mine, Claire. No witnesses."

"Sort of like the Wilde murder. I can't prove that you kissed me. And you can't prove that I killed Jackson Wilde. So why don't we call it even and drop the whole thing before my life is disrupted even more?"

She turned and left the room. He followed her into the bedroom, where she had almost reached the door when he posed a question: "Why did you contribute to Jackson Wilde's ministry?"

She stopped dead in her tracks. Turning to face him, she suddenly grew pale and nervously wet her lips. "How did you know about that?"