French Silk(85)

"They've matched the carpeting in my car to fibers found in Wilde's hotel room."

Yasmine looked surprised. "Since when?"

"Since they got a warrant to search French Silk."

"What!"

"Yes. They found some nasty voodoo stuff in your room, Yasmine, including a doll that looks like Wilde."

"That was a joke!"

"That's what I told Cassidy. He didn't think it was funny."

"Come to think of it, I didn't see him crack a smile all afternoon."

"He believes that I was in Jackson Wilde's hotel suite the night he died. Those carpet fibers place me there."

"How many cars with carpet exactly like yours are in Orleans Parish? Dozens, if not hundreds, right?"

"I'm sure that's the only reason why Cassidy didn't arrest me this afternoon," Claire told her. "He said a good defense attorney would have statistics about all those Chrysler products and how many potential murderers that adds up to." She walked toward the balcony doors. "I'm afraid, Yasmine."

"Balls. You've never been afraid of anything. Not in the time I've known you."

"I am now."

"Of Cassidy?"

"He's part of it. Mostly I'm afraid of not having control over this situation. That's the scariest feeling there is—that you've lost control of your destiny."

"Relax, Claire. Cassidy's not going to put you in jail."

"Oh yes he will," she said with a mirthless laugh. "When he believes he's got enough evidence to get a grand-jury indictment, he'll have me arrested."

"Before or after he f*cks you?" Claire looked at Yasmine with stunned surprise. Yasmine shrugged. "The man wants you so bad he's in pain. At any given moment, he looks ready to pounce."

"And read me my rights."

"Uh-uh," Yasmine said, shaking her head. "He wants you on your back, or whatever, moving with him." Before Claire could offer an argument, she continued, "Look, I had my first man when I was thirteen. When you start that early, you develop a sixth sense about these things. I can smell when a man wants it. I know when a woman is ready to give it to him. And you're both ripe to bursting. He walks into a room, and your aura goes neon … and vice versa. The sex vibes are so thick, they pollute the air."

"Cassidy bid for the Wilde murder case. He was assigned to it because he's good. A conviction will make him a strong contender for the D.A.'s office. The vibes you sensed coming from him are animosity, not lust," Claire argued. "He's irritated with me for not making his job easier. As soon as he turns up something that places me in that room with Jackson Wilde, he'll do everything within his power to prove me guilty."

"But we know you're not, don't we?"

For several seconds they held each other's stare across the room. Inside Claire's head, her heartbeat was as loud as a pile driver. She felt dizzy.

Finally she said, "I'll draft a check for one-fourth of your shares. That'll give you some ready cash, but you'll still retain a partnership in French Silk. If it becomes feasible, you can buy the stock back for the amount I paid."

"Thanks," Yasmine said, unsmiling.

"Thank me by not going behind my back again."

* * *

His fountain pen was missing.

When he put on his jacket for dinner, Cassidy noticed that the gold engraved pen—a gift from his parents upon his graduation from law school—was missing. He kept it in the left breast pocket of his coat and was rarely without it.

He searched the top of the bureau in his bedroom, thinking he might have overlooked the pen lying among the loose change and other pocket accessories. But it wasn't there. He searched through the pockets of his other jackets, to no avail. He was positive he hadn't left it anywhere. He never loaned it and conscientiously returned it to his pocket after each use.

He mentally retraced every place the jacket had been since he had put it on that morning. Because of the stifling, unseasonable heat, he'd left it hanging on a coat tree in the foyer when he went for a walk around the grounds of Rosesharon shortly after lunch.

Had someone stolen his pen? Why? Among the people at Rosesharon, he couldn't think of one who was likely to rifle through another person's pockets in search of treasure. The staff? He couldn't imagine the Monteiths tolerating thievery among their employees, all of whom seemed dedicated to their guests' comfort and contentment.

The pen was only moderately valuable, but he deeply regretted the loss for sentimental reasons. As he descended the staircase to join Claire's group for dinner, he was as upset as he was befuddled.

Two of the models were loitering at the mini wet bar, a twentieth-century addition to the original house. He squeezed between them to pour himself a Chivas on the rocks. "Don't forget to mark it down," the stunning brunette said.

"No, I won't."

"Are you an honest cop or a dirty cop?" her leggy blond companion asked teasingly.

"I'm not a cop." He smiled engagingly.

"Hmm," she hummed skeptically, while tapping her front tooth with her fingernail. Then she pulled her finger through her glossy, pouty lips. "I'd bet you could get dirty."