French Silk(87)

"Felicia," Yasmine told him.

"Felicia dear, you get first call tomorrow."

"Shit," Felicia muttered into her caramel custard.

"I want the morning sunlight backlighting her." Leon held his hands in front of his face and formed right angles with his thumbs as though looking through a frame. "We might get lucky and have natural dew. If not, this dear lady has offered to turn on the sprinkler for us." As Agnes poured him a cup of coffee, he caught her hand and kissed the back of it. "Either way, the grass will be wet and sparkly. I see it absolutely glistening. I want the hem of the nightgown to be damp and trailing. Maybe falling off one shoulder. A peek of booby."

"Kurt could be lounging in the background," Yasmine suggested. "Like on the veranda, with his hair down and wearing only a pair of pajama bottoms."

"I love it," Leon squealed. "Don't shave in the morning, Kurt. I just adore those shots that suggest postcoital scenes. Oh, my dear Agnes, your cheeks are positively fiery. Forgive me for being so blunt. Do you think I'm terribly naughty?"

Cassidy, rolling his eyes at the affectation, happened to glance at Claire. She was suppressing her laughter. They exchanged a smile. Even among so many people, it was a private moment.

He immediately squelched the tenderness welling through his midsection. If Claire weren't his prime suspect, he'd be trying his damnedest to get her into his bed. He knew it. So did Crowder. So, probably, did she. Hell, he'd told her as much.

No more private moments, he sternly told himself. Not even shared looks across the dinner table.

The Monteiths encouraged them to take their coffee into the double parlors or out onto the veranda, where it was cooler since the sun had set.

Cassidy followed Claire. She paused at the staircase to speak to Mary Catherine and Harry, who were ready to retire to their room. "I'll be up to say good night when you're tucked in," Claire promised.

"Good night, Mr. Cassidy."

"Good night, Miss Laurent, Miss York."

Smiling sweetly, Mary Catherine turned to go upstairs.

Cassidy held the front door open for Claire and they strolled across the deep porch to the railing. Claire sat down on it and sipped the fragrant coffee. "Well, what do you think of us?"

"Interesting," he said.

"How diplomatic."

He wondered if he should alert her that one among her associates was a thief but decided against it. One allegation at a time. He'd already informally accused her of murder.

"You're staring, Cassidy," she said quietly.

"I'm thinking about something Glenn said last night." He noticed Claire's shudder at the mention of the detective's name, but he forged ahead. "It had crossed his mind that maybe Yasmine was Jackson Wilde's lover."

"What!" Her cup clattered against the saucer. She set them on the railing. "Your friend is losing touch with reality, Cassidy. If you're thinking along the same lines, so are you."

"It's not so farfetched."

She gazed up at him with incredulity. "Do you ever think before you spout this nonsense? Listen to what you're saying."

Now that he had spoken the theory aloud, it did sound ridiculous, but he pursued it so he could assure Glenn that he'd done so. Besides, you never knew where a blind alley might lead.

"Yasmine has men in general on her shit list. She told me so herself."

"So that makes Jackson Wilde her lover?" she said. "He was Yasmine's enemy as much as he was mine."

"On the surface."

"You think they were carrying on in secret?"

"Possibly."

"Ludicrous. Anyway, she was in New York the night he was killed."

"You're sure?"

"I picked her up the following morning at the airport."

"Could be she was acting out a charade."

"You're grasping at straws, Cassidy."

"Does she have a current lover?"

"I don't see what—"

"Does she?"

"Yes," Claire snapped.

"Who? What's his name?"

"I don't know."

"Bullshit!"

"I swear I don't!"

He looked at her hard and decided that she was telling the truth. "Why the secrecy? Is he married?"

"All I know is that she's devoted to him," she said evasively. "So that shoots your harebrained theory about her and Jackson Wilde all to hell. They never even met."

"You're sure about that, too?"

"Absolutely. She would have told me."

"Right. She doesn't lie and keep secrets, like you." He stepped closer to her. "Maybe you had a thing going with Wilde." The features of her face became taut with anger. She tried to stand, but he placed his hand on her shoulder and pushed her back to the railing. "A well-publicized skirmish would be mutually satisfying for him and you. Maybe you got together and cooked up this little scam."

"Who thought of this, you or Detective Glenn?"

Ignoring her question, he pressed on. "You gave Wilde a cause to crusade against, a cause that created a groundswell across the nation and made him a celebrity preacher."