French Silk(68)

His eyes scanned her face. "Yes, Claire. Characteristically creative."

She took a sip of cold coffee, willing her hand not to tremble and reveal her nervousness. "How did I know that Wilde would come into the suite alone? Or did I intend to kill Mrs. Wilde, if necessary?"

"That gave me trouble, too. Until Josh and Ariel Wilde told me that they 'rehearsed' every night. Andre could have told you what their routine was. You betted on Jackson going to bed alone."

"Wilde didn't like what I printed in my magazine so he lambasted me from his pulpit. I didn't like what he preached, so I killed him. In effect, what you're saying is that I'm less tolerant and more radical than Jackson Wilde was. You're placing me on the level of the crazies who've been calling and threatening my life."

Cassidy reacted like he'd been goosed. "You've had callers threatening your life? You didn't tell me that."

She hadn't intended to and could have bitten her tongue. "Life threats over the telephone aren't to be taken seriously."

He appeared to disagree. His eyes swept the area as though an assassin might be lurking in the shadows. "We've been here at least half an hour," he said, coming to his feet. "Let's go." He held her chair for her, then struck off down the sidewalk at a fast clip, but stopped when he realized she wasn't beside him. "What?" he called over his shoulder.

"I made one more stop before going home that night. Out there," she said, nodding toward the river.

He returned to her side. "Lead the way." They crossed the military memorial that connected with the paved part of the levee called the Moonwalk. Below them, the river's current gently lapped at the crushed rocks, although at present there wasn't any traffic on the river. The lights from the opposite bank twinkled on the water, which smelled, not unpleasantly, of brine and petroleum and mud. There was a humid breeze, and Claire liked the feel of it in her hair and on her skin. It was soft and gentle, everything that was good about the South.

The Moonwalk was a favorite spot among tourists with cameras, panhandlers, whores, drunks, and lovers. Tonight only a few other pedestrians were taking advantage of the view. When they walked past a couple necking on a park bench, Cassidy's expression turned irascible. "Why don't you give me a break and confess."

"Even if I didn't do it?"

"Please, no. We get plenty of those as it is. Four crazies have already taken credit for offing Wilde."

"Your attitude is certainly cavalier."

"These four guys are chronic confessors.," he said dismissively. "We routinely check them out, but none of them was near the Fairmont that night." They reached a tacit agreement to pause and gaze out across the river. After a moment he turned to her. Without prefacing it in any way, he said, "There's a records clerk in the courthouse. Night before last, she invited me over to her house for an evening of spaghetti and sex."

He looked at her pointedly, awaiting a response. At last she said, "She certainly didn't mince words."

"Well, the sex part was implied."

"I see. Did you go?"

"Yes."

"Oh. How was it?"

"Terrific. It was smothered in red clam sauce."

At first taken aback, she then realized that he was attempting a joke. She tried to laugh but discovered she couldn't be blasé about his sleeping with another woman.

"The spaghetti was sensational," he said. "But the sex was only so-so."

"How disappointed you must have been," Claire said tightly.

He shrugged. "And a few nights before that, I slept with my neighbor. It was raunchy, and I'm not even sure what her name is."

Claire's temper snapped. "Are you trying to impress me with your sexual exploits? I'm not a priest. I didn't ask for a confession."

"I just thought you might want to know."

"Well, I don't. Why would I?"

He roughly pulled her against him and held her head between his palms. "Because we're in deep shit here, and you know it as well as I do."

Then he kissed her.





* * *



Chapter 13

? ^ ?

Kissing Claire was better than f*cking a dozen other women. Her mouth was warm and sweet and snug and he wanted to continue making love to it with his tongue for a thousand years. But he couldn't, so he released her and stepped back.

There was a slight catch in her breath, and her lips were damp and parted, but otherwise her features were composed. She was masterful at concealing her emotions. No doubt she'd developed that trait by having to grow up early. She'd had to deal with adult problems and make adult decisions at an age when most girls were playing with dolls and holding tea parties for teddy bears and imaginary friends.

But, dammit, he'd hoped to provoke more of a response than that unflickering stare. He'd flaunted two lovers, then kissed her intimately. Why didn't she curse him, slap him, go for his eyes with her fingernails?

He'd slept with the clerk for the same reason he'd beaten a path to his neighbor's front door—to seek relief from sexual frustration. Both attempts to get Claire out of his system had failed. While the clerk had been almost pathetically eager to share herself with him, he hadn't found her nakedness as sexy as his fantasies of Claire, unclothed and giving. He'd performed as expected, but only physically. His mind had been elsewhere.