"Exactly. The only thing that file proves is that I had thoroughly researched my opponent so I'd know what I was going up against if and when the time came."

"Why didn't you show me your collection of clippings and explain this the other night?"

"I had already thrown it away."

"You could have mentioned it."

"I could have, yes. But you're under pressure from city hall to bring in a viable suspect. Wilde's followers are demanding a culprit to bring to trial. I didn't want to be your scapegoat, even temporarily. If all you'd done was taken me downtown for formal questioning, it could have adversely affected my business and family."

"I still might do that."

"You'd be wasting your time. I've told you everything I know."

He regarded her closely. "So that red ink mark underlining the date that Wilde would appear in New Orleans was merely coincidence."

Color and heat rushed to her face again. "I remember underlining that, yes. I can't explain why I did. I was holding a red pen while I was reading the article," she said with a shrug. "It was reflexive."

He'd eaten quickly and cleaned his plate. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and laid it next to his plate. "On the surface, that all sounds so damn reasonable. It's almost too reasonable an explanation, Ms. Laurent. It's as though you rehearsed what to say just in case that folder turned up to haunt you."

"Would you care to have some coffee with your delusions?"

His lips tilted into a half-smile. "No, thanks." She carried their plates from the table into the kitchen. "I thought Harry would do that for you," he said conversationally, following her as far as the bar that divided the two rooms.

"Ordinarily she would. She took Mama out this afternoon."

"How convenient."

"What do you mean? What do my mother's outings have to do with you?"

"I needed her corroboration on where you were the night Jackson Wilde was killed."

Claire drew a quick breath. "I won't have my mother interrogated, Mr. Cassidy. Understand that and spare yourself the time and effort. Mama wouldn't remember the events of this morning, much less what happened a few weeks ago. If pinned down, she couldn't possibly give you a credible answer, and any attempts to force one out of her would only cause her distress, which I won't allow."

"You can't expect Glenn and me to take your flimsy answer to that all-important question as a concrete alibi."

"You've got no choice," she replied, shuddering at the mention of the detective's name. "You'll have to take my word for it. I was at home that night."

"You didn't go out at all?"

The hard glint in his eyes caused her to hedge. Nervously, she pushed back her bangs. "Perhaps I did. It would have been a brief errand, because I can't leave Mama alone for extended periods of time, especially at night. Frankly, Mr. Cassidy, I don't remember. The date held no significance for me."

He gave her an extended stare, then asked, "Where's Yasmine?"

"She went back to New York yesterday."

As she had known would happen, the morning following their spat, Yasmine had been contrite and apologetic. They'd hugged, made up, and worked hard to finalize the layout for the next catalog. Yasmine had dashed to her bedroom to answer her telephone several times. Twice before returning to New York she had spent the night out, returning the following morning looking depressed and dispirited. But Yasmine's affair with her married lover was her business. She would have to deal with it.

Claire had enough problems of her own, all of them sparked by the man who kept staring at her in the same penetrating way as the Human Resources personnel once had, as though she were a case study and they were looking for irregularities in personality or behavior.

"What's this?" He gestured toward a framed item on the kitchen wall.

"That's Aunt Laurel's recipe for French Silk." Cassidy angled his head quizzically. "I'd had trouble coming up with a name for the lingerie," she explained, smiling at the memory. "Yasmine and I had deliberated over it for months and couldn't agree on anything. One cold afternoon, I got in the mood for chocolate pie and began thumbing through Aunt Laurel's recipe box. 'French Silk', " she said, pointing out the name written in a spidery cursive. "That was it. I knew it the minute I saw it. Aunt Laurel was so pleased when I told her I was naming my company after her recipe. It made her feel a part, as if she'd contributed to it." Her expression turned wistful. "She died only a few weeks after that."

Leaning nearer the frame, Cassidy read the ruled card. "'Gradually cream sugar into the mixture of butter and melted chocolate, add vanilla, beating constantly on low.' Sounds delicious."

"It is. It's rich and sensual and feels on your tongue the way I want my lingerie to feel against bare skin. The very name implies self-indulgence."

When she stopped talking, Claire realized how still they had become, how close, how soundless. He was looking at her mouth, then into her eyes, and if his hearing was as keen as his eyesight, he could hear her heartbeat.

He cleared his throat and put space between them, as though he too had found the long silence uncomfortable. "That's all interesting, but back to the reason I'm here. Your only beef with Jackson Wilde was this First Amendment issue, right?"

"That's right."

"Nothing else?"

"What are you driving at, Mr. Cassidy? Is your method of investigation to shoot in the dark until you hit something? That's not a very economical way to spend the taxpayers' money. Your time would be much better spent hunting down the actual murderer. And my time would be-"

"Are you and Yasmine lovers?"

The question was as unexpected as a falling star and rushed at her with about as much impetus. She stared at him, aghast, her lips parted, her eyes wide. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

"Well, are you?" When she began to laugh, his expression grew darker. "Wilde also stirred up a lot of homophobia in this country. The gay activist groups were on his ass about several issues."

"I see. You figured that he was my enemy on two accounts?" she asked with amusement. "Honestly, I'm not laughing at you, Mr. Cassidy. I'm only imagining how Yasmine would react to your question. Don't you read the tabloids? She's had scores of lovers over the years, all men, and has diligently cultivated a reputation as a femme fatale."

"That could be a pose."

"She'd be crushed to hear you say that. Even if you believed I'm inclined toward lesbianism, how could you possibly think that Yasmine is anything but heterosexual?"

"Because this setup is a little out of kilter, that's why."

"Setup?"

"Your business here."

"How so?" Claire asked, genuinely curious.

"I've been here twice and have yet to see a man. I know cutthroats on death row who would run from that amazon you've got guarding the door downstairs. Every employee I've seen is female, from those folding tissue paper into boxes, to those driving the forklifts. What have you got against men?"

"Nothing."

"Are you married?"

"No."

"Ever been?"

"No."

"Engaged?"

She hesitated. "No."

He raised his index finger as though to snag the lie on the tip of it. "Try again."

Claire felt her temper ignite like kindling. "Have you been prying, Mr. Cassidy?"

"I've been doing my job. Tell me about your relationship with David Allen."

"Damn you! Did you bother him?"

"I didn't have to, but I will if you don't start talking."

Claire was seething, but he'd won the contest of wills. "It was a long time ago," she said curtly. "Before French Silk. He wanted to marry me."

"What happened?"

She started to tell him that it was none of his damn business, then thought better of it. Any hostility on her part would only make matters worse. Yasmine, who had more experience handling men, had doubted that Cassidy would take any crap from a woman. Claire thought she was probably right. Besides, this wasn't really dangerous territory. They could traverse it without mishap.

"David expected me to commit Mama to an institution," she said softly, lowering her eyes. "I wouldn't hear of it. He issued an ultimatum, so I returned his engagement ring."

"You didn't love him as much as you love your mother?"

"Obviously not."

"No serious affairs since then?"

"Don't you know?"

"Not yet. I can keep digging, or you can spare me the manpower and yourself the embarrassment and just tell me."

"Is my personal life pertinent to your investigation?"

"Maybe. Let's go with it and see where it leads." He sat on a barstool and folded his arms.

Demonstrating her dislike for the topic, she finally said, "I've had a couple of emotional entanglements, but nothing really serious since my breakup with David. Does that satisfy you?"

"For the time being." He turned away and for several moments dallied with the clippings scattered across the bar. "Where's your father, Ms. Laurent?"

Claire shifted her weight. "I told you before. He died shortly after I was born."

"You don't remember him?"

"No. I was too young."

"What'd he die of?"

"Heart attack. I believe."

Watching her, he eased off the barstool and advanced on her slowly, until he was standing inches from her and she had to tilt her head back in order to look into his incisive eyes.

"You're lying to me again. On your birth certificate there's a big fat question mark in the space for the father's name."

"You son of a bitch." She drew her hand back to slap him, but he caught her wrist, stopping her hand inches from his cheek. Tears of rage and frustration formed in her eyes. "You have no excuse for delving into my private life."

"A corpse with three bullet wounds gives me a damn good excuse."

Claire wrenched her wrist from his grip, then drew her crossed arms close to her body and hugged her elbows. "Well, since you're so smart, Mr. Cassidy, what else did you learn on your nasty little fact-finding mission?"

"The Laurents, your grandparents, were the creme de la creme of New Orleans society, an old family with lots of old money. The apple of their eye was their only child, Mary Catherine. She attended the finest parochial schools and was being groomed to assume her place in society.

"But following one of those cotillions she mentioned to me the other day, she was seduced by one of the rich young gentlemen in attendance. She became pregnant. When she acknowledged her condition and told her parents, she refused to name her partner. Unfortunately, he never came forward to claim responsibility for the child she was carrying. Her parents did what they believed was justified-they disowned and disinherited her. Only her aunt Laurel, her father's maiden sister, took her in.

"The scandal knocked society on its proper ass and took its toll on the family. Within two years Mary Catherine's parents were dead, shamed to death some said. Before he died, her father altered his will and left his considerable estate to the Church."

"Which also treated my mother like an outcast even while espousing mercy, grace, and forgiveness," Claire added.

"But they obviously allowed her illegitimate daughter to attend catechism school."

"No, Mr. Cassidy. I learned Christianity from Aunt Laurel. She was a dotty old maid. Most people considered her life pointless. But she loved my mother and me unconditionally. During Mama's spells, it was Aunt Laurel who reassured me during thunderstorms, nursed me when I was sick, and helped me through the trials and tribulations of childhood. She was the only person I ever knew who actually lived Christianity the way Jesus intended it to be. She didn't preach. She exemplified."

"But my account of your mother's history is accurate?"

"Very. Her cousin Charles was thorough to the nth degree."

"How do you know my information came from him?"

"Because he's the only one left from that branch of the Laurents."

"Do you have contact with him?"

She laughed bitterly. "No, Thank God. Never. He's as stiff-necked and pompous as the rest of them. From what Aunt Laurel told me about them, I'm not surprised that they banished my mother when she needed them most."

"She was just a kid."

"Seventeen." She cocked her head to one side. "You're slipping, Mr. Cassidy. You sound almost sympathetic."

"It was the early sixties, for Christ's sake."

"Actually the late fifties. Eisenhower was still president. America hadn't lost its innocence. Proper young ladies didn't have erogenous zones."

Cassidy shook his head with misapprehension. "But even then, families didn't disown their daughters for getting pregnant."

"The Laurents did. My grandparents never spoke to my mother again. As far as they were concerned, she ceased to exist and so did I."

"She never disclosed who your father was?"

"No."