Disregarding her hesitancy, he scooped her hips in his hands and lifted her against his open mouth. His tongue investigated her sweet, wet center. He flicked it lazily, delved deeply. He nuzzled her affectionately, then kissed her intently, as though sucking the nectar from a piece of luscious fruit. With the tip of his tongue he reawakened that tiny seed of femininity.

The pleasure built until it was unendurable. "Please," she gasped.

He knelt between her thighs and thrust himself into her. His breathing was labored and hot against her neck. She heard him groan, "Oh, Christ. Christ." Then he began to move, stretching and stroking her until she became oblivious to everything except him.

The skin on his back was damp. His muscles rippled beneath her hands. She slid them inside his jeans and cupped his buttocks, drawing him deeper into her. He murmured with pleasure. They kissed. His lips tasted musky and forbidden. She licked them delicately, then greedily.

He gathered the fullness of her breast in his palm and brushed his thumb across the raised center, then lightly roiled it between his fingers. Claire's back arched off the mattress. She caught her breath sharply and spoke his name. The first climax had been only a harbinger. This time when she came she felt like part of a fireworks display. She was showered with fiery sparks and fell through space for what seemed eternity before the final glimmer was extinguished.

Moments later, Cassidy allowed himself to come. He embraced her tightly and filled her ear with erotic messages as she felt his warm, surging release deep inside her.

Replete, they rested, his head lying on the slopes of her breasts, her legs folded around him. Eventually he sat up and peeled off his jeans, then lay back down and gathered her close. Claire snuggled against his naked body.

The storm had passed, but it continued to rain. The distant thunder reminded her of the night Cassidy had first kissed her, the night they had gone to the Ponchartrain Hotel to pick up Mary Catherine.

With a shudder, Claire pushed away the thought. She didn't want to remember who they were and the opposing roles they were playing in a real-life drama.

Feeling her shudder, he tenderly kissed her temple. "What?"

"Nothing."

"Something."

She sighed, a smile playing about her lips. "That was the dirtiest sex I've ever had."

A chuckle started deep inside his chest, just below her ear. "Good."

She strummed his ribs, excited by the sensations conducted through her fingertips. "Cassidy?"

"Hmm?"

"What will happen tomorrow?"

He rolled her onto her back and leaned above her, laying his finger lengthwise against her lips. "If we talk about that, I'll have to leave. Is that what you want?" He stroked her lips, then kissed her, deeply, wetly, intimately, giving her his tongue. He nudged apart her thighs and moved against her suggestively. He was already hard again.

She sighed. "No. Don't leave."

Chapter 19.

*Andre Philippi was beside himself with excitement. Yasmine was in his hotel again. Yasmine! The most exquisite creature in the world.

He was taking a routine stroll through the lobby when he saw her come in. Even though the sun had already set, she was wearing opaque, wrap-around sunglasses. Obviously she didn't want to be recognized. If he weren't so familiar with her face, she might have escaped even his notice. But he spent more time staring into close-up photographs of her than he spent looking at himself in the mirror. Her face was better known to him than his own.

Her gait was purposeful as she strode toward the bank of elevators. One was standing open. Andre rushed to join her inside it before it began its ascent. "Yasmine. Welcome." He executed a quick bow.

"Hello, Andre." She smiled and removed her sunglasses, slipping them into her large shoulder bag. "How are you? It's been ages since I've seen you."

Claire had introduced them several years ago at a small dinner party she had hosted. They had since been together on numerous occasions. However, it never failed to thrill and flatter Andre that she regarded him as a friend.

"I've been well. And you?"

"Can't complain." Her smile seemed to congeal around her words, as though they might not be wholly sincere.

"Are you in town to work on the catalog?"

"We're shooting pictures for the spring issue over in Mississippi. I just came back for the evening."

He never questioned a guest's reason for being in his hotel. That would have been a breach of his policy, which guaranteed absolute privacy above all else. "How is Claire?"

"Frankly, she was in a snit when I left her this afternoon," Yasmine replied.

"Oh, dear. Did Mary Catherine-"

"No, it had nothing to do with her mother."

He waited politely, hoping that Yasmine would expound upon their mutual friend's distress without his having to ask.

Yasmine rewarded his discretion. "I guess the pressure of the job got to her today. You know Claire. She never blows her top, which is the healthy way to get mad. She just simmers quietly and makes everybody around her feel like shit."

Sensing that there had been conflict between the two women he liked and admired so well, Andre responded diplomatically. "I'm confident that the catalog will be well worth the effort you've put into it."

"Yeah, I guess." Her lack of enthusiasm was evident. "Isn't the creative aspect of the catalog always anxiety producing?" he inquired politely.

"This time more than usual."

"Why so?"

"Cassidy."

Andre blanched. "You mean he's there?"

"Yep. He followed Claire to Rosesharon and has practically become a permanent fixture on the sets."

He nervously wet his lips. "Why in heaven's name is he hounding her like that?"

The elevator had reached the designated floor. Andre stepped out with Yasmine, and they began walking together down the hotel corridor.

"He still suspects her of Wilde's murder."

"But that's preposterous!" Andre stumbled, as though his heart had dropped all the way to the floor and tripped him. "Oh dear. This is terrible. And it's all my fault." Perspiration broke out across his forehead. From his breast pocket he removed an immaculate linen handkerchief and blotted at the beads of sweat. "If I hadn't fallen for his trick and identified Claire as the caller on that recording-"

"Whoa!" Yasmine laid a commiserating hand on his shoulder. "Claire told me how upset you were when that happened. Listen, Cassidy is one smart cookie. One way or another, he would have found out that Claire was here at the Fairmont the night Jackson Wilde was shot. You didn't reveal anything that he wouldn't have discovered sooner or later."

She lowered her voice to a confidential pitch. "If you want to know what I think, I think Cassidy's more interested in proving Claire innocent than guilty."

"Which, of course, she is," Andre hastened to say. "Claire was here that night to pick up Mary Catherine, nothing more. I would swear to that in court. I would do anything to protect a friend."

"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 motherfucker." Yasmine lambasted Alister Petrie with a litany of obscenities.

"Charming language, Yasmine."

"Shut your lying mouth, you son of a fucking 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 fuckin' 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.

She buttoned it haphazardly and shoved it back into her waistband as she rode the elevator down to the street level. She also replaced her sunglasses. As she moved through the Fairmont's lobby she kept her head down. She spotted Andre from the corner of her eye, but didn't slow down or encourage him to approach her as she left the building. She retrieved Claire's rented van from the parking garage and headed across Canal Street.

It was a mild evening. Many were getting a head start on the weekend. The streets of the French Quarter were crowded with tourists who tied up motor traffic and jammed the narrow sidewalks. Yasmine had difficulty finding a parking place and finally left the van in a tow-away zone. She still had to walk several blocks down Rue Dumaine to reach her destination. She made eye contact with no one and drew as little attention to herself as possible.

The place was still open, but if she hadn't known it was there, she would never have noticed it. Several shoppers were browsing among the shelves of herbs that would find their way into gris-gris and potions.

"I'd like to see the priestess," Yasmine said, speaking softly to the attendant, who was smoking a joint. The aged hippie withdrew, then returned a moment later to signal Yasmine to follow her.

The Altar Room was separated from the shop by a dusty maroon velvet curtain. The walls were decorated with African masks and metal carvings, called veve, which evoked powerful spirits. A large wooden cross stood in one corner, but it wasn't a traditional crucifix. Curled around the center post was Damballah, the snake, the most powerful spirit. Residing in a wire cage in the opposite corner was a python, representative of Damballah. The snake was used in the voodoo rituals conducted in the swamps outside the city. On the altar itself were statues of Christian saints, photographs of people who claimed to have been blessed by the spirits, flickering candles, burning sticks of incense, and ju-ju, the bones and skulls of animals.

The priestess was seated in the queen's chair adjacent to the altar. She was immense, her enormous breasts overlapping a belly comprised of several rolls of fat. Her large head was wrapped in a turban. Dozens of gold chains were suspended from her short, thick neck. On at least half of them were dangling charms, lockets, and other amulets. Her hands were as large as baseball gloves. Several rings glittered on each finger. She raised one of her giant hands and motioned Yasmine forward.

The priestess was Haitian, as black as ebony. Her wide, round face was oily and shiny with sweat. In a trancelike state, she observed her visitor through heavy-lidded, slumberous eyes that were as small and brilliant as onyx buttons.

Yasmine addressed her with more reverence than a devout Catholic would address a cardinal. "I need your help." The dense smoke from the incense was intoxicating. Yasmine felt light-headed, but she always did whenever she visited this underworld of black magic. Dark powers seemed to emanate from the priestess, from her paraphernalia, from the murky shadows of every corner.

In a flat, monotonic voice, Yasmine told the priestess about her lover. "He's lied to me many times. He's an evil man. He must be punished."

The priestess nodded sagely. "Do you have something of his?"

"Yes."