Mary Catherine launched into a lengthy description of her activities. Claire found it difficult to concentrate on what her mother was saying. She made appropriate remarks in all the right places, but her mind was on the police search of her private property. God only knew what her employees would think. Later, she would call and assure them that the search was nothing to be alarmed about.

She executed her duties that afternoon, but her mind kept returning to the strangers in uniform who were pawing through her, Yasmine's, and Mary Catherine's bureau drawers, rifling through their official papers, rummaging through their closets, and manhandling their personal things.

She would never forgive Cassidy for this.

"Honey, do you know where my gold cuff links are?"

Alister Petrie emerged from his dressing area with his shirt-tails flapping. He and Belie were due at a campaign fund-raising dinner party in half an hour. They were running late. He'd arrived home from his afternoon campaign speech with barely enough time to shower and change before charging out again to face another crowd of potential contributors and voters.

"They're here on my dresser."

Belle was seated on the tufted velvet stool in front of her dressing table, pulling a hairbrush through her blond page boy. It was the same page boy she'd worn since high school and was kept silky and sleek by expensive hot-oil treatments and monthly trims.

"Did you have a chance to catch me on the tube?" he asked as he approached her, buttoning his shirt.

"No, darling. I was busy getting ready for tonight. I'm sure you were a smashing success."

He reached around her for the cufflinks. "Two TV stations..." He yanked his hand back as though it had been bitten by a cobra.

His cuff links were nestled in a tiny heap of lace that he immediately recognized. His stomach quickened. For several unendurable moments he was afraid he was going to be sick all over Belle's jars of beauty creams and bottles of perfume.

His eyes connected with hers in the mirror. Very coolly, she finished clipping on a pair of diamond earrings. "I found those in the pocket of a suit jacket I sent out to be dry cleaned. It's a wifely little habit of mine to check your pockets before sending things out. You should have known that and been more careful."

"Belle, I-"

"You what, Alister?" She swiveled around on the stool and gazed up at him with an expression too sweet to be sincere. "You've taken to wearing women's underwear?" She picked up the strands of elasticized lace that supported the small triangle. "What's the term for that predilection? Cross-dressing?"

Now that he had recovered from the initial shock of seeing Yasmine's g-string panties on his wife's dressing table, he started to get angry. Other men had affairs and never had to account for them. Why was he always having to play the penitent?

"Don't talk down to me, Belle."

"Well then," she said, snapping the elastic like a slingshot before letting the garment drop back onto the vanity, "the only other conclusion I can draw is that you're having an extramarital affair."

She stood up and brushed him aside. Of all her affectations, this haughty act grated on his nerves the most. With a few practiced gestures and calculated words, she could make him feel gauche and stupid and small.

He was a United States congressman, by God! No one, not even his wife, was going to humiliate him. He would never confess to having a mistress, much less beg forgiveness.

Belle withdrew a fluid chiffon dress from her closet and stepped into it, working it up and over her willowy hips. "Do me up," she said after pushing her arms through the sequined sleeves.

After he zipped the dress, she turned to face him. "I'm not stupid enough to think you're faithful tome. Of course you've had other women. You have one now and you'll have others. That's not the issue."

"Then why bring it up?" he asked belligerently. She could have discreetly disposed of the panties and avoided this ugly scene. He took heat all day from a dozen different sources. He didn't need to catch shit at home, too.

"I brought it up to point out your appalling stupidity." Alister saw red. "Now just a goddamn minute. I-" She held up both hands. "Spare me your righteous indignation, Mister. You can't afford it. Listen to me and heed what I say."

Her eyes narrowed. "If I found out that you're unfaithful to your wedding vows, others will find out. You've been incredibly stupid and alarmingly careless. Sooner or later the odds will catch up with you, just as I did."

"Throughout the campaign you've wooed the public well. You've cultivated a strong, solid constituency." She paused to draw a breath. "How do you think the Bible thumpers, like Jackson Wilde's followers, would regard you if it was revealed that you're an adulterer? Even dead, Wilde is a hot item. We can still use his influence. You've been vocal in your criticism of local law enforcement for failing to find his murderer. But it could all be for nothing if your Christian image was exposed as fraudulent. Are you willing to sacrifice thousands of votes for a few hours of..." She flipped her hand out, indicating the panties on the vanity.

"Fucking. It's called fucking, Belle." He took delight in the sudden blanching of her face and the stiffening of her spine. "And if you weren't so prissy in bed, I wouldn't-"

"Don't." She aimed her index finger at the center of his chest. "Don't turn the blame for this on me. This is your mistake, Mister. And I'm informing you now that I won't suffer the consequences of it. I like being Mrs. Mister Petrie, the congressman's wife. That's what I intend to continue being.

"But if you get caught, if you're exposed as a cheating, lying husband, don't expect me to attest to what a wonderful, loving husband and father you are. I won't be made to look a fool.

"Furthermore," she continued, lowering her voice to a more confidential pitch, "you know what it'll mean if I withdraw my financial support from your campaign." Alister felt the blood draining from his face. Belle smiled. "No one knows-yet-that were it not for my legacy, you wouldn't have won your first congressional seat. And without my contributions, you won't win this one. Think about that. The next time you get the urge to fuck-as you so charmingly phrase it-exercise your marital rights."

She tapped the front of his starched shirt with her well-manicured nail. "Making me unhappy would be extremely ill advised, Mister. End the affair. Immediately."

She came up on tiptoe and gave his lips a soft kiss. "You'd better finish dressing or we'll be late. Be sure to allow a few minutes to say good night to the children." At the bedroom door she paused and nodded toward the vanity. "And kindly dispose of those, so I never have to look at them again."

Mister was simmering, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. On the surface they had a perfect marriage. As long as things went Belle's way, life was harmonious. But he suffered no delusions about her. She looked as fragile as a greenhouse orchid. But if crossed, she could be as vicious as a vampire bat.

She was too self-contained to enjoy good, earthy sex. She liked things neat and tidy, organized, well planned, and controlled. It wasn't that he had a lover that had upset her. In truth, she was probably relieved that she didn't have to be inconvenienced so often. What had angered her was the timing of the affair and his failure to conceal it. Belle wasn't running the show. That's what had her pissed.

He approached the dressing table and picked up the lace panties. Too many times his affair with Yasmine had separated him from his better judgment. He shuddered to think of some smart-ass reporter getting wind of his affair with the famous black model. But what was he supposed to do, survive only on the sterile, uninspired sex of his marriage bed? Go completely underground until after the election? It was impossible to keep a low profile during a political campaign. He was like a lightning rod for attracting attention, and he needed that constant public exposure to win voters.

The two interests were incompatible. Something had to give. He couldn't have everything.

As he fingered the lace and thought back to that bizarre afternoon in his Washington office, a smile slowly lifted his lips and he chuckled. "Who says?"

The diner was as gloomy as Cassidy's mood. It was one of those family-owned joints that offered cops a discount in return for meager protection and lousy tips. Detective Glenn had suggested it. It was his kind of place-grimy and depressing. Cassidy wished he were anywhere else, discussing any other topic than the one that had occupied them through uninspired burgers, greasy fries, soggy coconut pie, and countless cups of oily coffee.

"You know, I've been thinking," Glenn said as he lit the next in an endless chain of cigarettes. "Could be one of these gals had a thing going with Wilde. A thing of a romantic nature. Did you ever think of that?"

"No," Cassidy said, offended at hearing Claire referred to as a gal. "Whatever made you think that?"

"That Yasmine's a hot number with a string of boyfriends a mile long. Who's she seeing now? Hasn't been a romance reported in over a year. Strange, huh?"

"You think she was seeing Wilde?"

Glenn shrugged. "Maybe those offerings she gave him were payment of a different sort."

"You've had too much nicotine," Cassidy said sourly, fanning the polluted air in front of his face.

"Well, after what we found today, I'd believe just about anything about her." He whistled. "Pretty weird shit."

Cassidy said nothing, but continued to fiddle with the broken napkin dispenser at the end of the booth.

"And the Laurent broad didn't come off smelling like a rose, either, did she?"

"No," Cassidy replied quietly. "She didn't. But what we found still doesn't prove anything."

"No, but it's getting closer." Glenn slurped his coffee. "What'd Crowder think? You told him, didn't you?"

"Yeah, I reported back."

"And?"

"He said for us to take the ball and run with it," Cassidy mumbled reluctantly.

"So..."

Cassidy raised his head and looked at the detective across the chipped table. "So?"

"So are you going to sit there looking like you've lost your last friend, or are you going to get your head on straight, your dick under control, your ass in gear, and run with it?"

Chapter 16.

*Rain threatened at Rosesharon. The high humidity took its toll on those unaccustomed to it, and tempers were short. During the morning, the clouds became more opaque and the atmosphere grew more sultry. The models who weren't needed retired to their rooms to rest in air-conditioned comfort. Since the weather was too unstable for outdoor shooting, they decided to do some interior shots utilizing the vanity table in Claire and Yasmine's bedroom.

Per Rue's suggestion, Dana was modeling the backless bra. With it she wore ivory satin tap pants, thigh-high hosiery, and ivory satin high heels. Claire had asked the Monteiths where in the nearest town she might locate a wedding gown to borrow.

"Why, we have one!" they exclaimed in unison.

Their niece had used Rosesharon for her wedding several months earlier, and the gown was still stored in their attic. They assured Claire that their niece would be flattered to have it used in the French Silk catalog. It was brought down and removed from its protective hanging bag. Luckily it wasn't stark white, so it matched the color of the sample lingerie. Rue steamed out the wrinkles, muttering all the while. "Just what we needed. More goddamn humidity."

Now the bridal gown was hanging beside the vanity table, suggesting that Dana was a bride preparing for the ceremony. The vanity had been repositioned so that the three-way mirror reflected the French doors opening onto the balcony. It would be a tricky shot to get without Leon and all his lighting equipment being reflected as well.

"I want Dana holding up her hair," Yasmine said, "so that we get a full view of the bra's construction."

The makeup artist wasn't finished with Dana's body makeup, so Yasmine asked Claire to sit on the stool while they calculated the position of the lighting in conjunction with the mirrors and camera angles.

Claire sat and faced the mirror. "I hardly look like a bride," she said, critically assessing her reflection. Her linen shirt had wilted, and she had sweated off most of her makeup. "Maybe the bride of Frankenstein."

"Lift your hair off your neck," Yasmine told her.

"Gladly." She swept her hair into a double fist, lifting it to the top of her head and keeping her elbows parallel with her shoulders.

Her eyes caught movement at the French doors. Cassidy parted the sheer curtains and stepped into the room. He drew up short. Their eyes met in the mirror.

"Perfect, Claire!" Yasmine cried. "That's perfect. That's exactly the expression I want! Did you see that, Dana? Surprised. Expectant. A little breathless." But when she looked over her shoulder and saw that Cassidy was the cause of Claire's flustered expression, her enthusiasm quickly cooled. "What are you doing here?" she asked, obviously displeased. She turned back to Claire. "Did you invite him?"

"No," she answered, her eyes fixed on the A.D.A.

Leon left the lighting to his assistant and sidled up to Cassidy, laying a hand on his arm. "And who are you?"

"He's a cop from New Orleans," Yasmine replied.

Cassidy smiled affably but gently disengaged his arm from Leon's clutches. "I'm not a cop."

Claire stood and motioned the model into place. "We need to get this shot. Everybody ready?"

Dana took her place on the vanity stool. Rue and the other stylists fussed around her. Yasmine went back to consulting with Leon about ways to vary the shot.

Claire, trying to hide her anger, drew Cassidy to a corner of the room. "What are you trying to pull, coming here?"

"I didn't know I was going to be on center stage when I came through the ... uh ... the curtains." He was momentarily distracted by Dana, who looked resplendently bridal and mouthwateringly sexy in the golden light Leon was shining on her.

"Our photography sessions are strictly off-limits to visitors," Claire said stiffly, noticing the direction of his gaze. "Parents, boyfriends, even spouses are prohibited. The restriction is enforced to protect the privacy of the models and the creative impulses of everyone else involved."

"Sorry, you'll have to make an exception this time."

"Or what?"

"Or I'll get a court order."

"Another search? Shall I tell my crew to expect a shakedown?"

He frowned and gave her a retiring look.

"How did you know where we were going to be?" she asked crossly.

"I have a whole platoon of investigators at my disposal. Finding you was a snap."

"I'm surprised the Monteiths let you in. I thought the house was closed to all but guests."

"I am a guest."

"What?" she exclaimed. When she realized she'd drawn attention to them, she lowered her voice, but still it conveyed her anger. "We were to be the only ones here. I specified that when I made the reservations."

"The Monteiths had one extra room. My credentials persuaded them into letting me have it."

"I don't want you here, Cassidy."

"No, I'm sure you don't. Especially since I've come with bad news."

She folded her arms across her middle. "That's all you've ever brought me. Well, what is it? Let's get it over with."

He glanced over his shoulder. The others were busy or pretending to be. Like Claire, he must have felt inhibited by them. He drew her out into the hallway for more privacy.

Staring down at the patterned rug, he whispered her name with what sounded like regret, then raised his head and looked at her. "Did you know she practices voodoo?"