French Silk(86)

He clinked his glass with hers. "And you'd be right."

To their disappointment, he excused himself and worked his way toward Yasmine, who was standing at one of the windows, staring out across the veranda to the lawn, where the shadows were long and deep. "Nice place."

He got the full drop-dead treatment from her tiger eyes. "If you're that trite with a jury, it's a wonder you ever win any cases, Mr. Cassidy."

"I was only trying to make polite conversation."

"Spare me."

He sipped his scotch. "Are those bad vibes I get from you intentional?"

"I don't like cops."

He ground his jaw and succinctly repeated, "I'm not a cop."

"Same as."

She was an incredibly gorgeous woman. Even standing this close, he couldn't find a flaw in either her face or her form, and continuing to look for one would be an endless pleasure. But he didn't like her. She had an attitude, the kind of arrogance that couldn't be punctured with threats, cajolery, or flattery, the kind he hated to cross-examine on the witness stand. If she chose to lie, dynamite wouldn't shake the truth out of her.

Using the kind of language he knew would draw a response, he asked, "What burr got up your ass?"

"You, for one. Why don't you lay off Claire?"

"Because she may have killed a man."

"Yeah, right. And I'm one of the Seven Dwarfs."

"You don't think she did it?"

Yasmine made a scoffing sound.

"Then that brings me to you. You had just as much motivation as she. Maybe I'm not here to watch Claire at all. Maybe I'm here to keep an eye on you."

Her beautiful lips broke into a wide smile. Propping one band on her hip, she thrust out her chest and tossed her head like a proud filly. "Well, here I am, sugar. Look your fill."

He chuckled. "You differ from Claire there. She wants me to keep blinders on."

"I don't care if you look till your eyeballs bleed, I just don't want you lurking around bothering Claire. You get on her nerves."

"Did she tell you that?"

"She didn't have to. I know her. Besides her mother, the thing she loves best is French Silk. She's a perfectionist. These shooting sessions are tense and tiresome enough without her getting into a tizzy on account of you."

"Claire doesn't seem to me the kind of woman who gets into tizzies."

"You don't know her the way I do. She never loses her cool. But she simmers, and the coals burn hot until—" She stopped.

He raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Well? Until what?"

"Never mind."

"What was said during your summit conference this afternoon? Did you have words over your remark about Jackson Wilde?"

"Wouldn't you love to know?"

"Yes, I would."

"Go f*ck yourself, Cassidy."

He saluted her with his highball glass. "Spoken like you mean it."

"Count on it, sugar. Right now the whole male population is on my shit list."

"Oh? What'd we do?"

"You drew breath." Having said that, she tossed back the remainder of her wine.

"Dinner!" Grace Monteith rang a little bell as she slid open the doors to the dining room.

Cassidy had arranged it so that he was seated across the table from Claire. Although the models were young and lovely and would have made any setting a visual feast, they seemed insubstantial when compared to Claire Laurent—the difference between grape Kool-Aid and the hearty burgundy that Agnes Monteith was pouring into his wineglass.

As he ate his plate of pot roast and vegetables, he assessed his dinner companions, wondering who among them had taken his pen. He was convinced that it had been stolen, probably out of sheer meanness.

Among the three stylists, none looked sneaky enough to pilfer an engraved fountain pen. The models? They'd all been busy that afternoon. It was unlikely that one had had time to rifle through his pockets. And why would one want to?

He had ample opportunity to observe everyone without drawing notice, because Leon dominated the conversation, while his assistant ate neatly and silently at his side.

"I love the old seesaw on the west lawn," Leon said while slathering butter on a yeast roll. "We must do something on the seesaw."

"How about leggings?" Claire suggested.

"Tremendous," Leon gushed. "So good for straddling. The seesaw, that is." He giggled, then sobered while chewing industriously. "Although, I love the idea of contrasting something silk against those rough, rotting boards. Hmm. I'll think about it. While exploring, did anyone else run across that outdoor shower?"

"That was installed for field hands to use after they came in from picking cotton," Grace supplied as she passed around dessert.

"I've got dibs on a shot using that shower," Yasmine announced. "But my idea's a secret."

"I gotta smoke," Rue said, leaving the table to go out onto the veranda. "You girls had better stop stuffing in this rich food or your guts will be poking out tomorrow." No one paid her any attention.

"First thing in the morning," Leon said, "I want the model who's going to wear that long, sheer nightgown—"