French Silk(97)

"Your friends count on that."

Andre found that statement cryptic and unsettling. He wanted to reemphasize his belief in Claire's innocence, but Yasmine began moving away. "I'll look forward to a longer visit soon, Andre."

He reached for her hand, bowed over it, and kissed the back of it. "Au revoir, Yasmine. Your incandescent beauty lends light to everyone around you."

The smile that had made her famous broke across her face. "Why you little stinker! You're a poet!"

"I confess," he admitted sheepishly. She would never know about the hours he had spent composing odes to her beauty and charm.

She laid her palm against his cheek. "You're a real gentleman, Andre. Why can't all men be as kind and considerate and loyal as you?" Her smile became sad. She withdrew her hand, then turned and walked away from him. He didn't follow her. That would have been improper. But he waited until she was admitted into a room after knocking and speaking her name softly.

Andre didn't envy the man waiting for her on the other side of the door. His love for Yasmine wasn't sexual. Its origins were in his soul and it resided on a much higher plane than the physical realm. With all his heart, he wanted her to experience love and happiness in all their various forms and from whatever sources they could be derived.

He practically floated back to the elevator in a state of euphoria. Yasmine had touched his cheek with affection. Her hand had felt smooth and cool, like his maman's caress when he was a boy. There had also been something in her eyes that had reminded him of his mother—a familiar poignancy that he remembered only too well. But he put that thought aside and didn't let it compromise the bubbling joy of the moment.



"You cocksucking bastard. You motherf*cker." Yasmine lambasted Alister Petrie with a litany of obscenities.

"Charming language, Yasmine."

"Shut your lying mouth, you son of a f*cking bitch."

Fury radiated from her like the red waves from a space heater. Her body was taut and bristling with rage. It burned in the depths of her eyes. "You never intended to leave your wife, did you?"

"Yasmine, I—"

"Did you?"

"During an election year, it would be political suicide. But that doesn't mean—"

"You goddamn liar. You slimy, stinking piece of rat shit. I could kill you."

"For God's sake." He ran his fingers through his hair. It was still tousled from their coupling, which had been almost as ferocious as their argument. They'd heaved and bucked and clutched and wrestled as if it were a contest rather than an act of love.

"You're overreacting," he said in a calming tone, trying to prevent another outburst of her violent shrieks. "This is only a temporary separation, Yasmine. It would be best—"

"Best for you."

"Best for both of us if we cooled it for a while, at least until after the election. I'm not breaking off the affair permanently. Jesus, do you think I want that? I don't. You're my life."

"Bullshit."

"I swear to you that once the election is over, I'll—"

"You'll what? You'll bless me with a few measly yours of screwing every week or so? For how long? For life? Fuck you, Congressman. I'm not putting up with that shit.

"I don't expect you to be happy about it. God, I'd be crushed if you were." He spread open his arms in a gesture of appeal. "What I do expect is a little understanding. My schedule is a nightmare, Yasmine. I'm under constant pressure."

"Sugar, you don't know pressure." Her voice thrummed with foreboding. "When I get finished with you, your skinny ass won't be worth shit in this state or any other. Your little nigger gal is through f*ckin' around with you. The party is over, sugar. Now you gotta pay."

She headed for the door. He rushed after her. "Wait, Yasmine! Let me explain. You're not being reasonable." He caught her shoulders and turned her around. "Please." His voice cracked on a near sob. "Please."

She made no further attempt to leave, but her eyes continued to smolder like live coals. Alister gulped oxygen and blinked rapidly, looking like a desperate man about to plead for a stay of execution.

"Yasmine, darling," he began haltingly, "you've got to cut me some slack. Promise me that you won't take this to the media."

The words went through her like lances, opening up pockets of pain and outrage. "You don't give a shit about how I feel, do you? You're only thinking of yourself and your bloody campaign!"

"I didn't mean that. I—"

Issuing a savage cry, she lashed out, scraping her fingernails down his cheek and drawing blood from four long gashes. With the other hand, she ripped out several strands of his hair.

For a moment, Alister was too stunned to move. Then the pain struck him and he cried out, raising his hand to his cheek.

"You're crazy!" he shouted when his hand came away dripping blood. "You're a frigging lunatic."

Yasmine allowed herself several seconds to revel in his astonishment and agony, then she stormed from the room. On the way to the elevator, she encountered a man and a woman in the hotel corridor. They stared at her and gave her a wide berth. She realized then that tears were streaming from her eyes and that her blouse was flapping open.