"That's the general idea."

"You can go straight to hell."

With her succinct words still electrifying the space between them, the double doors opened behind Cassidy. He whipped his head around, almost expecting Tugboat Annie to come barging in with a bent to forcibly evict him from the premises.

The woman who came in looked too delicate to bend the wings of a butterfly. "Oh, my goodness!" she exclaimed when she saw Cassidy. Flattening her hand against her chest, she said, "I didn't know we had a caller. Claire dear, you should have told me I'd be receiving this afternoon. I would have changed into something more appropriate."

Composing herself, Claire moved to the other woman and took her arm. "You look as lovely as always, Mama. Come meet our guest."

As he watched them approach, Cassidy wished to hell he had control of this situation. He'd lost it when the amazon downstairs had let him in, and he'd never fully regained it. The tenuous hold he'd been grappling for had slipped away with the appearance of the woman at Claire's side.

"Mama, this is Mr. Cassidy. He's ... he's here on a business matter. Mr. Cassidy, this is my mother, Mary Catherine Laurent."

"Mrs. Laurent," he said. Demurely she extended her hand. He had an insane impulse to bend at the waist and kiss it, for that seemed to be what she expected. Instead he gave her fingers a light squeeze and released them.

Soft brown hair waved away from her smooth, youthful face. As she looked up at him, she tilted her head to one side. "You're the spit and image of your daddy, Mr. Cassidy. I remember when he attended the cotillions in his dress uniform. My goodness, we girls swooned over him."

She laid her fingers against her cheek as though trying to stave off a blush. "He knew he was good-looking and shamelessly broke all our hearts. He was quite a rascal until he met your mama that summer she came visiting from Biloxi. The first time he saw her she was wearing an apricot organza dress and had a white camellia pinned in her hair. He was instantly smitten. They made such a lovely couple. When they danced together, they seemed to scatter fairy dust."

Baffled, Cassidy looked to Claire for help. She was smiling as though what her mother had said made perfect sense. "Sit down, Mama. Would you like some sherry?"

Cassidy caught a whiff of Mary Catherine Laurent's rose perfume as she sat on the chair next to his and decorously pulled her skirt over her knees.

"Since it's coming up on five o'clock, I suppose I could indulge in a sherry. Mr. Cassidy, you'll join me, won't you? It's quite improper for a lady to drink alone."

Sherry? He'd never tasted the stuff and didn't care if he ever did. What he could use right now was a solid belt or two of straight Chivas. But Mary Catherine's inquiring smile was too much for even a jaded prosecutor like him to resist. God forbid that he'd ever have to put her on the witness stand. One smile from her and a jury would be convinced that the moon was made of Philadelphia cream cheese if she said it was.

"I'd love some," he heard himself say. He cast a smile toward Claire; she didn't return it. Her expression was a frosty contrast to her warm coloring, made even rosier by the hues cast by the late-afternoon sun.

"Tell me all about the naval academy, Mr. Cassidy," Mary Catherine said. "I was so proud for your parents when you received the appointment."

With the help of a basketball scholarship, Cassidy had attended junior college in his small hometown in Kentucky before laying out a year to work and raise enough money to attend a university. He sure as hell had never been a candidate for a military academy. A voluntary stint in the post-Vietnam army had helped him finance law school after his discharge.

"It was everything I'd hoped it would be," he told Mary Catherine as he accepted the glass of sherry she had poured for him from one of the glittering crystal decanters.

"Claire, would you care for some?" Mary Catherine lifted a glass toward her daughter.

"No, thank you, Mama. I've still got work to do."

Mary Catherine shook her head sorrowfully and said to Cassidy, "She works all the time. Way too much for a young lady, if you ask me. But she's very talented."

"So I see." He had already noted the framed designs hanging on the walls.

"I tried to teach her knitting and crochet," the older woman said, pointing to the basket now at her feet, "but Claire Louise's only interest was in making clothes. She started out with paper dolls. When the wardrobes in the books ran out, she would draw, color, and cut her own."

The woman smiled fondly at her daughter. "The fashions she designed were much prettier than the ones in the books. She went from paper dolls to sewing. What year did you ask for a sewing machine for Christmas?"

"I was twelve, I believe," she replied tightly. Cassidy could tell she didn't like being discussed in front of him.

"Twelve!" Mary Catherine exclaimed. "And from the day she got it, she spent all her spare time sewing, making garments from patterns she bought or those she designed herself. She's always been so clever with cloth and thread."

Her cheeks blushed and she ducked her head coyly. "Of course, I don't approve of some of the things Claire makes now. There's so little to them. But I suppose I'm old-fashioned. Young women are no longer taught to be modest, as my generation was." She took a sip of sherry, then gazed at him with interest. "Tell me, Mr. Cassidy, did your uncle Clive ever strike oil in Alaska? Such an unpleasant and risky business, petroleum."

Before he could answer the question about his nonexistent uncle Clive, the door behind them opened again. This time it was accompanied by a rush of air, as though it had been thrust open from the other side. He was so startled by the appearance of the woman who entered that he shot to his feet, almost spilling his sherry.

"Thank God!" she exclaimed when she spotted Mary Catherine. "I was afraid she'd sneaked out again."

The new arrival was at least six feet tall, with limbs as long and graceful as a gazelle. Her spectacular body was wrapped in a short, white terrycloth kimono that skimmed the middle of her thighs. Another towel had been wrapped like a turban around her head. Even without makeup her face was captivating-widely spaced agate eyes; a small, straight nose; full lips; a square jaw and a well-defined chin; high, prominent cheekbones. The haughty carriage of African royalty was in her walk as she came farther into the room.

"Sorry, Claire. I let Harry go early and decided to take a quick shower. When I came out, Mary Catherine had vanished. Everyone else has gone home for the day. Christ, I thought I'd really goofed this time."

"Everything's fine, Yasmine."

"Who's he?" She turned to Cassidy with frank curiosity. Claire made rudimentary introductions. He shook a hand as long as his, but much more slender. Even up close, her skin was flawless, seemingly poreless, the color of heavily creamed coffee. It was dappled with beads of water, indicating that she hadn't even taken the time to dry off. The robe was undoubtedly all she had on, but she exhibited no modesty at all as she broke a dazzlingly white smile for him.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Cassidy."

"The same. I've admired your work."

"Thanks." She looked to Claire for clarification, then back at Cassidy. "Am I supposed to know who you are and why you're here?"

"No."

A short, awkward silence ensued. Finally Claire ended it. "Yasmine, would you please take Mama back upstairs? She can take her sherry with her. I'll be up for dinner as soon as I conclude my business with Mr. Cassidy."

Yasmine looked at her friend quizzically, but Claire's expression remained impassive. "Come on, Mary Catherine," she said. "Claire has business to attend to."

Mary Catherine didn't argue with the plan. She rose and extended Cassidy her hand again. This time he figured what the hell, and raised the back of it to his lips. She simpered and smiled and asked him please to extend her regards to his family. Then, trailing the mingled scents of roses and sherry, she drifted out of the room on the arm of the stupefying Yasmine.

As soon as the door closed behind them, he turned to Claire. "I'm sorry. That can be tough. My father was afflicted with Alzheimer's for several years before he died."

"My mother doesn't have Alzheimer's, Mr. Cassidy. It's just that she often confuses the present with the past. Sometimes she believes people to be someone else, someone she knew before."

"Before what?"

"Before she became the way she is," she replied stonily. "She is what some would call off her rocker, daft, batty, one brick shy of a load. I'm sure you've heard all the cruel terms. I know I have. Many times. You see, she's been like this all my life. And, although I appreciate your treating her kindly, I don't intend to discuss her mental illness with you. In fact, I don't intend to discuss anything with you."

She stood, signaling that as far as she was concerned their meeting was concluded. "I didn't know Jackson Wilde, Mr. Cassidy. If that's what you came here to learn, now you know. I'll show you to the door."

As she stalked past him, he caught her upper arm and brought her up short. "You don't get it yet, do you? Or if you do, you're too smart to let it show."

"Let go of my arm."

The fabric of her sleeve was so soft and crushable, his fingers seemed to have melted it until he was touching her skin. His knuckles were embedded in the giving fullness of her breast. Slowly, and with a shocking amount of regret, he relaxed his fingers and released her.

"What am I supposed to 'get,' Mr. Cassidy?"

"That I didn't come here for chitchat and sherry."

"No?"

"No. I came to formally question you in connection with the homicide of Jackson Wilde."

She drew in a sharp, sudden breath and shivered reflexively. "That's ridiculous."

"Not when you consider all that you stood to lose if his plans for your business had been realized."

"It never would have happened."

"Maybe you wanted to make damn certain it didn't."

She ran her hand through her hair and visibly composed herself, unwrinkling the lines of consternation in her forehead. When she again looked up at him, her features were as smooth as a porcelain doll's.

"Mr. Cassidy, as I've already told you, I never met Reverend Wilde. I never corresponded with him directly. Nor did we ever speak by telephone, although I was contacted by personnel within his ministry, challenging me to publicly debate him, which I repeatedly declined to do. I had nothing whatsoever to do with him. I certainly didn't kill him."

"He placed your business in jeopardy."

"He entertained the delusions of a fanatic," she cried, her composure slipping a notch. "Do you honestly believe that he could have toppled the Playboy empire?"

"But you're much smaller game."

"Granted. So what?"

"So you're also headquartered right here in New Orleans. Maybe when he brought his crusade to town, you seized the opportunity to shut him up forever."

Complacently, she folded her arms across her stomach. "That would have been rather obvious, wouldn't it? You might believe me to be capable of committing murder, Mr. Cassidy, but please, never underestimate my intelligence."

"No," he said softly, as he peered into the depths of her amber eyes. "You can be sure I won't."

His stare lasted a few heartbeats too many, switching from accusatory to something closer to interest. Cassidy became profoundly uncomfortable with it. She, however, was the one to break it. "It's obvious that you don't have any physical evidence linking me to this crime."

"How do you know?"

"Because none exists. I wasn't there." She raised her chin. "You came here because you're grasping at straws, scavenging for a case because neither your office nor the police have arrested a suspect and the murder is now over seventy-two hours old. The widow is accusing the local authorities of laziness, incompetence, and indifference. You're taking a beating from the media, and Wilde's followers are demanding swift and sure justice.

"In short, Mr. Cassidy, you need a scapegoat." She paused to draw a breath. "I'm sympathetic to your problem, but my sympathies don't extend to having my character insulted and my privacy violated. Please leave."

Cassidy was impressed by the effectiveness and accuracy of her speech. It was true that Crowder was getting nervous over the sticky situation created by the Wilde murder. The press coverage of the police investigation was becoming more sly and sarcastic with each report.

Ariel Wilde and the late evangelist's entourage were growing increasingly vocal in their criticism of everyone from the honorable mayor to the lowliest cop on the beat. The widow wanted to take Wilde's body to Tennessee for burial, but the police were reluctant to release it, hoping that, in spite of Elvie Dupuis's thorough autopsy, they might find a previously overlooked clue. The whole situation, just as Crowder had forecast, had grown nasty, a three-ring circus run amok.

Claire Laurent was correct on all accounts. The sad fact was that Cassidy didn't have a shred of evidence that could tie her or anyone else to the murder scene. On the other hand, since entering this room he'd felt that she was withholding something. She'd been inordinately polite, but gut instinct told him she didn't want him here.

When he had been a defense attorney, that same gut instinct had always told him when his client was guilty despite his avowals of innocence. It was the sixth sense that let him know when a witness was lying through his teeth. It was the gut quiver of either victory or defeat that he felt just before a verdict was read. That instinct was rarely wrong. He trusted and relied on it.

He knew there was more to Claire Laurent than what one saw on the surface. Her eyes might be windows to her soul, but the shutters were closed. Only occasionally did one catch a glimpse of the woman living behind them. She was more than a savvy businesswoman and devoted daughter, more than a mess of sexy hair, more than a mouth that made him glad some laws were unenforceable. There were elements to her that she kept carefully concealed. Why?

Cassidy resolved to dig until he knew. "Before I go-"

"Yes, Mr. Cassidy?"

"I want to see a copy of your catalog."

Chapter 4.

*Claire was surprised by the request. "Why?"

"I tried buying one at several newsstands and couldn't find it."

"The catalog isn't sold at retail stores. It's mailed to subscribers only."

"What's in it that had Reverend Wilde so hot and bothered?"

"You should have asked him."

"Well, since he's unavailable for comment," he said dryly, "I'd like to see it for myself."

She had thought that once the media stopped hounding her for a statement, her worries regarding the murder would be over. Never had she expected a visit from an assistant D.A., although she congratulated herself on handling the situation well so far. But now she desperately wanted him to leave so that she could collect her thoughts. Conversely, she didn't want to appear hostile or, more to the point, as though she had something to hide. He had only asked to see the catalog, after all. As long as his questions didn't become too personal, she felt there was no danger in humoring him.

"By all means, Mr. Cassidy. Sit down." She handed him the latest quarterly issue of French Silk's catalog. To avoid looking nervously at him, she gazed through the windows. The sky was streaked with the brilliant colors of sunset. The river had turned the color of molten brass. "It's officially the cocktail hour. Would you care for a drink now?"

"Does it have to be sherry?" he asked.

"Wine or something stronger?"

"Scotch, if you have it."

"Rocks, water, or soda?"

"Rocks."

She prepared his drink and poured herself a glass of blush wine. When she returned to the divan, he was thumbing through the catalog. He let it fall open across his lap, blinked, and yanked his head back as though he'd been clipped on the chin. He released a stunned breath. "Wow!"

Looking at the page upside down, Claire remarked on his assessment. "We try to appeal to feminine fantasies."

With his eyes still fixed on the glossy pages, he smiled with self-derision. "Well, I'm sure as hell not feminine, but I'm close to fantasizing. Forgive me for noticing that this model's practically naked."