French Silk(75)

"I suppose she is happy," he said. "She doesn't have the same passions that I do. That we do. Since I stopped making love with her, she doesn't even miss it. All she ever wanted was a successful husband and beautiful children. She's got that. She doesn't know what real passion is. God," he moaned. "There's no comparison between you, Yasmine. You've got to know that."

"No, there's no comparison. She's got you and I don't."

"I reside with her," he said evenly. "She doesn't have my heart. It's not her I think about every hour of the day. I want to be with you right now."

"I'll meet you," she offered eagerly.

"I can't. We're involved in this wedding shit for the rest of the evening. Following the reception, there's an after-party and an even more intimate gathering after that. It's essential that I mingle with these people. They're influential. Three-fourths of the money in Louisiana is represented here tonight. I only sneaked away long enough to order the rose for you and to call."

"I'm leaving tomorrow, Alister," she said, trying to keep the whine out of her voice. "I'll be in Mississippi for at least a week."

After a slight pause he said, "Next Thursday night. Can you make a round trip to New Orleans?"

"Yes. Rosesharon is only a two-hour drive from here. It'll be a long night for me, but I've got to see you."

"Thursday then."

After finalizing their plans, Yasmine said breathlessly, "I can't wait."

"Neither can I, but right now I've got to go. Belle will start missing me. This call was supposed to be a quick business call."

"I love you, Alister."

"Oops, there she is. She's signaling for me to rejoin the party. See you next Thursday."

He didn't even say goodbye before hanging up. Dejectedly Yasmine replaced the telephone. For a long while she sat on the edge of her bed, staring vacantly, immobilized by despair. Never in her life had she felt more blue. Even the rose could no longer cheer her. She'd hugged it so tightly, it was already beginning to wilt.

She finally mustered enough energy to move to her dresser, where she gazed at her reflection in the mirror. Even the crying hadn't marred the perfection of her face. She studied her image objectively, then asked, "Why the hell are you putting yourself through this, you dumb bitch?"

It wasn't fair. Alister was at a party, laughing, drinking champagne, dancing, surrounded by people who thought he was bloody marvelous. Here she was: Yasmine, goddess of fashion runways and magazine covers, weeping alone. "What's wrong with this picture?" she asked her reflection.

Men were bastards. All men. From the abusive father who had deserted her mother when Yasmine was still in diapers, to her current lover, they were sorry, low-down, scummy sons of bitches who rarely had to account for their actions. Seldom did one get his just desserts.

Of course there were exceptions. Once in a blue moon one got the punishment he richly deserved. Like Jackson Wilde.

* * *

Claire was clearing away the dinner dishes when she heard Mary Catherine cry out. Dropping the sponge into the sink, Claire ran from the kitchen into the living room. Mary Catherine was sitting in an easy chair reading the evening edition of the Times Picayune. All the color had drained from her face. Her hands were trembling.

"Mama!" Claire cried in alarm. "What is it?" She rushed to Mary Catherine and caught the newspaper as it slipped from her lifeless fingers. "My God," Claire whispered after reading only a few paragraphs of the front-page story. She lowered herself onto the arm of her mother's chair.

"Does Mr. Cassidy think you killed Reverend Wilde, Claire?"

"He's only doing his job, Mama."

"Did he kiss you?"

"What does it matter?" Claire asked bitterly. "It's been reported that he did."

Mary Catherine covered her face with her hands. "This is all my fault. My sins are reflecting on you. If I hadn't sinned—"

"Mama, stop that!" Claire drew her mother's hands away from her ravaged face. "You were young. You fell in love and gave of yourself. You weren't the sinner. You were sinned against."

"But it says in the newspaper that because of your upbringing you would try seducing the prosecutor to stay out of trouble. Oh, Claire, I'm sorry. I never wanted anyone to judge you by what I did."

"This," Claire said, flicking her hand at the newspaper, "is the handiwork of a wicked, vicious, spiteful woman. Ariel Wilde is trying to make me look guilty in order to turn the attention away from herself. Mrs. Wilde doesn't know you or me. What difference does it make what she thinks of us? Let her believe what she wants to."

"But other people, Mr. Cassidy…" Her face reflected her torment. In a fast, hushed voice she whispered, "If only he'd come for me as he said he would. I was there, on time, with my things. I'm sure it was today he said we were to meet. But he wasn't there and—"

"Listen, Mama." Claire hastily hunkered down in front of the chair and clasped Mary Catherine's hands. "I just had a wonderful idea. Why don't you come to Mississippi with us tomorrow?"

"Mississippi?"

"Yes. For a vacation. Wouldn't you enjoy a few days away?" Mary Catherine's troubled face began to relax. Claire pressed her point. "Harry can come along to keep you company while I'm working. Please come. I want you there with me."