Free French Silk by Sandra Brown Page B

deep purple to shimmering gold. "Great view."

    "Thank you."

    She'd guaranteed retaining the coveted view by purchasing the property that extended from her corner to the levee and turning it into a parking lot. It was profitable, and it was a safeguard against her view being blocked by a high-rise hotel or shopping center. The land had appreciated a thousand times over since she had bought it, but she wouldn't part with it for any price.

    "I'll show you out."

    She preceded him out the door, past the glitzy reception desk, and into the elevator. Once they were on their way down, he asked, "What's on the third floor?"

    "My apartment."

    "Not many people hold to that quaint custom, living above their place of business."

    "They do in the Vieux Carré."

    "Spoken like someone who knows."

    "I was born here and have never lived anywhere else. I even went to college here, commuting every day by trolley to Tulane."

    "Happy childhood?"

    "Very."

    "No major upheavals or crises?"

    "None."

    "Not even with your mother?"

    Claire shrugged. "Because I never knew her to be any other way, I adapted to her illness as any child with a handicapped parent does."

    "What about your father?"

    "He died when I was a baby. Mama never remarried. We lived with her aunt Laurel. Shortly after she died, we moved here."

    "Hmm. Your mother still lives with you?"

    "That's right."

    "No one else?"

    "Yasmine, when she's in town."

    "Who's Harry?"

    "Miss Harriett York, our housekeeper and mother's nurse. She doesn't sleep over unless I go out of town."

    "How often is that?"

    "Twice a year I travel to Europe and the Orient to buy fabrics. I'm also required to make several trips a year to New York."

    "How often does Yasmine come to New Orleans?"

    "That depends."

    "On what?"

    "Several things."

    "Like?"

    "Like where we are on the next catalog." There was no need to inform him that Yasmine's trips to New Orleans had recently become more frequent or why. Volunteering information to him would be foolhardy. As a child Claire had learned not to trust authority figures. They could turn information against you whenever it better served the bureaucracy. For all his manly hands and vertical dimple, Mr. Cassidy was a bureaucrat.

    "Is there anything else, Mr. Cassidy?"

    "Lots. What's Yasmine doing in New Orleans this time?" Claire released a sigh of resignation. "We're consulting on the next catalog. She's developed the concept and has already picked a location for the shoot. Together we're deciding which items to feature and which models to use."

    "What about the rest of the time? When she's not in New Orleans."

    "She lives in New York."

    "Modeling?"

    "Until last year, she bad an exclusive contract with a cosmetics company. She was bored with it, so now the only modeling she does is for the French Silk catalog. Between her responsibilities here and keeping track of her investments, she stays very busy."

    Claire was relieved when they reached the first floor. The ride had never seemed so lengthy, the elevator so small and confining. His penetrating gaze made her want to pull a protective cloak around herself.

    He slid open the heavy doors. She muttered a hasty thank-you and stepped into the cavernous warehouse. It was silent, still, and dark now. The fans in the windows stood motionless. The warehouse had acted as a combustion chamber, storing the oppressive heat all afternoon until it now seemed to have texture. It not only settled against the skin but seeped into it and stifled the lungs.

    Only strategically placed security lights had been left on. They formed pools of light on the smooth, shiny concrete floor. Claire didn't pause in those circular islands of light. They reminded her of prison movies, of sinister searchlights seeking out doomed escapees.

    She unbolted the main door and held it open for her unwelcome visitor. "Goodbye, Mr. Cassidy."

    "Are you eager to get rid of me, Ms. Laurent?"

    Claire could have kicked herself for being so