French Silk(59)

While Cassidy stared at her, his optimism took a brutal beating. "I didn't," be said quietly. "Lucky guess."

Claire sank down onto the end of an upholstered chaise. After a moment she glared up at him. "Very clever."

"Don't bother lying. I've got the records. Your name would have popped up sooner or later and all the data will be there. So tell me the truth, okay? How much did you give him and for God's sake why?"

"About six months ago, I sent in a contribution check for fifty dollars."

"Why?"

"I had watched his program. Anyone sending in a minimum offering of fifty dollars was entitled to receive three books of prayers, devotionals, inspirational anecdotes, that sort of thing. They were represented as hardbound volumes, with gilt lettering and such. If the books arrived and weren't all they were cracked up to be, I was hoping to accuse him of mail fraud or whatever the appropriate charge would be."

"How were the books?"

"Exactly as advertised." She left the chaise and moved to the built-in shelves, returning with the three volumes, which she handed to Cassidy for inspection. "He was too smart not to deliver what he had promised. At least something tangible like books." She spread her arms wide. "That's all there was to it. I swear. It was a test, and he passed. I'd forgotten about it."

Cassidy didn't detect a sign of deceit either in her expression or her straightforward gaze. He wanted badly to believe her. But there was that other matter she still had to clarify. He said, "Gloria Jean Reynolds."

Claire's reaction was visible and quick, a blend of puzzlement and astonishment. "What about her?"

"She made a contribution, too. Considerably more than yours. A thousand dollars."

"What?" The question escaped her on a gust of breath. "Yasmine contributed a thousand dollars to Jackson Wilde's ministry? Why?"

"That's what I intend to find out."





* * *



Chapter 11

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When a knock sounded on Congressman Alister Petrie's office door, he tossed down his pen and frowned. He had specifically asked not to be disturbed.

"I'm sorry, Congressman," his secretary said hurriedly when she poked her head through the door. "There's someone here to see you. I know you requested that no calls be put through, but I thought you'd want me to make an exception."

She was usually so mousy and reserved that her excitement got his attention immediately. Her lined face was flushed and there was an unusual twinkle in her colorless eyes. Whoever was paying him this unexpected Tuesday-afternoon visit must be damned important.

He stood and adjusted his necktie. "I trust your discretion, Ms. Baines. If it's someone I should see, then by all means show him in."

She ducked out of sight. Mister almost peed in his pants when Yasmine appeared in the open doorway. Like an idiot, he cut a guilty glance toward the sterling silver frame holding the photograph of Belle and the children in the place of honor on his desk.

Thankfully, Ms. Baines, who stumbled in behind Yasmine, was too star-struck to notice his guilty reaction. She was yammering about how surprised she'd been when the famous fashion model—her personal favorite for years—had strolled into the office and asked for an audience with Congressman Petrie.

Alister, partially recovered from his initial shock, plastered on the smile that had helped him win his first congressional seat. "This is indeed an honor, Miss…"

"Just Yasmine, Congressman Petrie. It's a rare privilege to see you, too."

It sounded like a cordial greeting, but it blared its double meaning to Alister, especially with the emphasis she placed on the words rare and see. There was a sly glint in her spectacular eyes as he rounded his desk and approached her. If his gait appeared rubbery to Ms. Baines, he hoped she attributed it to his meeting a star and not to his confronting a mistress obviously up to mischief.

Yasmine was wearing a white dress made of some soft, clinging fabric that hugged her body. The vee where it overlapped across her chest was filled with gold chains of varied designs. Her trademark bangles encircled both wrists. Gold spheres the size of golf balls dangled from her ears. A leopard-print scarf as large as a tablecloth draped one shoulder and extended to the hem of her dress in both front and back.

She looked fabulous and she knew it. As cool and haughty as a temple priestess, she stood her ground and let him come to her, which he did, hand extended like a penitent. The bitch.

He clasped her hand. In high heels she was a couple of inches taller than he. He resented having to look up, even slightly, to meet her eye to eye.

"I'd love to flatter myself and think this is a social call." She laughed, tossing her ebony mane. "I heard one of your campaign speeches last week. I liked what you had to say and decided to contribute to your campaign. We need more men like you in Congress."

"Thank you. I'm … speechless," he stammered, grinning disarmingly for the sake of his still-gaping secretary.

"May I?" Without waiting for permission, Yasmine moved to a maroon leather seating ensemble that Belle had given him for his last birthday.

"Of course, Yasmine, sit down. Ms. Baines, you'll excuse us please?"

"Certainly. Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Tea?"