French Silk(89)
As he sipped vending-machine coffee and waited for information on her condition, Josh tried to assimilate his feelings. Only a few days ago, he'd been angry enough with Ariel to try to kill her. Now, he feared she might not survive. What if she was no longer capable of ramrodding the ministry? What if it dissolved? What would he do with the rest of his life?
He supposed he could get a job with a dance band and be condemned for life to playing at bar mitzvahs and VFW dances. He could go on the lounge circuit and make the rounds of the Holiday Inns. On that dismal thought, he pushed his fingers through his hair and bent his head over his knees in a posture of prayer. "Christ."
He hated the circus the ministry had become, but he sure as hell liked the public exposure it provided him. Ariel was right about that. Even though he despised the hypocrisy of the ministry, it had given him an opportunity to play piano almost nightly. It was steady employment, and to a musician that was a luxury. His audience was loyal and generous. Playing for them, hearing their applause, had given him a self-confidence that he hadn't found anywhere else. He thrived on that approval, even if it was token. Without it, he would die. Or wish to.
What would he do if his showcase collapsed along with Ariel?
"Mr. Wilde?"
"Yes?" The doctor was young and attractive and looked like she should be teaching kindergarten students rather than working the emergency room of a large city hospital. "How is she? Is she going to be all right?"
"Mrs. Wilde was beginning to develop an eating disorder called bulimia, but I think we've caught it in time. She seems to have been in good health before she began the binge/vomit cycle. With counseling and a proper diet, the trend can be reversed. I don't believe it'll permanently damage her health or that of the baby."
Josh went very still and stared at her blankly. "Baby?"
"That's right," the doctor said with a smile. "Your stepmother is pregnant."
* * *
Claire Louise Laurent had never experienced jealousy. During her childhood there had never been anything or anyone to make her feel jealous. She'd had no rivals for her mother's love and attention.
She had a healthy self-esteem, which was miraculous considering her unorthodox childhood. She had always been satisfied with her persona and never wished to be someone else. She competed only with herself, always striving for self-improvement without measuring her appearance, possessions, or accomplishments against those of others.
So when this emotion crept up and encompassed her like a fog, she was shocked and shamed by it. Especially since the object of her jealousy was Yasmine.
"This is positively marvelous." Leon breathed the words reverently as though, through his viewfinder, he were witness to a holy miracle. "You're the absolute best, darling. Always were. There'll never be another Yasmine."
"You got it, sugar." She spoke to him over her shoulder while sassily wagging her rear.
The clouds that had threatened rain the day before had disappeared, and, while dark thunderheads were still silhouetted against the horizon, the sun was currently beating down on Rosesharon and the crew collected around the outdoor shower. The temperature was in the high eighties with a humidity to match. Claire blamed her foul mood on the unrelenting, muggy heat, but knew that wasn't the real cause.
Yasmine had kept her brainstorm a secret up to the hour they were ready to shoot. "I want to wear these." She had produced a pair of white, sheer cotton pajamas.
"I wondered what had happened to those," Claire remarked.
"I had them hidden." The two-piece set of white boxers and top didn't look like an item that Yasmine would ordinarily choose. She preferred to model the glamorous garments.
"Aren't they sort of plain for you?"
"Not the way I'm going to use them," Yasmine purred, flashing a wicked grin.
"How's that?"
"Meet me at that old outdoor shower and I'll show you."
Well, her secret is out now, Claire thought sourly as she watched Yasmine strike a series of poses while Leon clicked off picture after picture, keeping his assistant juggling cameras, lenses, and lights.
Yasmine had discarded the pajama top altogether and rolled up the legs of the boxers until they fit tightly around her upper thighs at the crotch. She struck her first pose standing beneath the shower head with her back to the camera. Then she turned on the spout. Water sparkled on her mane of black hair. It glistened on her arms, which she used as gracefully as a ballerina to strike one stunning pose after another. Water trickled down her smooth back in silky rivulets. By now the boxer shorts were soaked and clinging to her taut buttocks. The fabric was plastered to hollows and curves that were sleek, sinuous, and sexy. She was in full command of her body. It was the machine she worked with and was conditioned to perform with optimum precision.
Claire wanted to protest the overt sexiness of the shots, as she had done about the model's prominent nipples the day before. But her motives for wanting to start an argument were different. The fact was, Yasmine looked like a work of art. Such perfection of form could never be labeled obscene. The image she created was erotic, yes, but not pornographic. It was a celebration of human sensuality, not propaganda for moral decay. And since a close-up of the pajamas would be shown in a small box photo beside the large one, Claire couldn't complain that the item would be misrepresented in the catalog.