Forbidden Fruit (16 page)

“Philip?” she murmured, her voice low, breathy. “Look at me.”

He recognized that tone from many times before. It called sharply, and hotly, to his memory. She only called his name that way when she wanted something. He looked at her, anyway. He couldn't stop himself.

She eased her robe slowly from her shoulders; it floated to the floor. Her translucent gown left nothing of her body to his imagination—her full breasts and dark nipples, the pinch of her tiny waist, the tempting curve of her hips, the black triangle of her sex.

His mouth turned to ash, his heart to a drum.

“Come here.”

He did and she leaned fully against him. She ran her hands up to his shoulders and lightly stroked. Through her gown he felt the pillows of her breasts, the vee of her sex. He felt her heat, her promise.

As with a will of their own, his arms went around her, his hands to her buttocks. Instantly aroused, he curled his fingers into her firm flesh, pulling her to him, pressing her against his erection.

She made the small, throaty sound that drove him crazy, the sound he heard in both his dreams and nightmares. He wanted her to make the sound again, deeper and louder. For him. Because of him.

She stood on tiptoe and ground her pelvis against his. “But we do have another choice,” she whispered against his ear. She slid her tongue around its curve, then dipped it inside. He shuddered.

“Take this venture capitalist up on his offer.”

Her words penetrated his fog of desire, but didn't dim it. “No” sprang to his lips but not past them. If he uttered the word, she would turn cold and unforgiving; she would retreat. He swallowed the word even though he despised himself for it.

“You would still own half.” She eased her hand between them and found his erection. She curved her hand around it, squeezing and stroking in the way that had always stolen both his senses and free will.

“It wouldn't be so bad.” She found his mouth and kissed him, deeply, wetly, rhythmically making promises with her tongue. She closed her teeth over his bottom lip, then pulled slowly away. “What can I do to convince you?”

He caught his breath. Even though he knew she was manipulating him, he wanted her now, on the cypress desk. He wanted to give in to her so he could sink into her.

She lowered his zipper and slipped her hand inside his trousers. He shuddered as she circled him. If he did as she wished, she would let him have everything, in any way he wanted. And not just once, or tonight. But again and again, days would become weeks, maybe even months.

He arched his back and let his head fall backward, his face to the ceiling. He closed his eyes. It would just end, when she decided she was no longer indebted to him. The ending would be agony; but until then, he would know complete bliss.

He hated her almost as much as he wanted her.

He hated himself more.

Still, like some sort of a junkie, he couldn't deny himself her. She worked her fingers over his flesh. “We could say you were tired of the day-to-day grind,” she continued softly, sinking to her knees. “That you had no son to one day take over, so you decided to ease your burden of responsibility.”

He felt her breath against him. He groaned and dropped his hands to her black halo of hair. “It's so perfect, don't you see? We could be together like this…all the time.”

“Yes,” he muttered, arching his back, desperate for the feel of her mouth. Again her breath stirred against him, closer, hotter; he tightened his fingers in her hair, trembling with need.

“Say it again, my darling,” she said. “Tell me what I want to hear, so we can be happy.”

He heard a quiver of satisfaction in her voice, the self-satisfied edge of triumph. He opened his eyes and looked down at her. As she swallowed him, she lifted her gaze to his.

And he saw clear to her soul. And what he saw terrified him. Something great and dark and without decency.

The breath left his body. He sprang away from her, chilled to his core.

“Philip…my darling. What's wrong?”

He turned his back to her, cursing his weakness, sickened at what he had become. Sickened to realize he had almost given in to her.

“Philip?” she whispered. “What did I do?”

He stiffened at the sweet plea in her voice, the quiver of hurt. It called to his memory, bringing back times between them that had been warm and wonderful, reminding him of the girl she had once been and of how much he had loved her.

Once upon a time, he would have slain dragons for her.

“Philip,” she whispered again. “Please, look at me.”

He didn't; he couldn't. If he did, his resolve would be lost. He yanked up his zipper and started for the study door. When he reached it, he stopped but didn't look back. “The St. Charles has been in the St. Germaine family for almost a hundred years. I don't care what it takes or what I have to do, I won't give up ownership of even one brick. Don't ask me to again.”

H
ope paced her bedroom, her heart fast, her palms damp. The Darkness had come for her again, the challenge issued, the gauntlet thrown down. How it laughed at her. How it taunted her arrogance. She had thought herself impervious to its tricks.

So, it had gotten to Philip instead. And through Philip, it had another chance at her.

Hope wrung her hands as she paced, twisting her fingers together, growing more agitated by the moment. How could she not have seen it happening? How could she not have anticipated such an attack? Weak, malleable Philip. He was the perfect target.

In the week since Philip's revelation in the library, she had made some discreet calls: their banker and corporate accountant, a friend in commercial real estate. Everything Philip had told her was true: he had dug them a deep financial hole, one they now couldn't climb out of.

Stupid. She had been so stupid. And trusting. In this one area of their lives, she had never interfered, had never asked questions. That night in the library, she had tried to show him the way, had tried to lead him down the right path. But she had been too late.

Philip had turned away from her; he had left her on her knees, The Beast's laughter ringing in her ears.

Hope stopped pacing, a shudder of apprehension moving over her. She brought her shaking hands to her face. She couldn't lose control now; she couldn't weaken. She had to find a way to fix this situation. She had worked too hard and too long to have it all wrested from her now. And, it would be. One hint of their financial woes, one hint of how badly Philip had screwed up, and she would find herself suddenly on the outside of New Orleans's most powerful inner circle.

She could hear the speculation now, the whispered jeers. The A-list invitations would stop coming. Board positions would suddenly be filled by others whose coffers had not been depleted by ineptitude; doors would close, backs would turn.

She would be on the outside looking in, shunned, just as she had been all those years ago.

A cry escaped her lips.
She had been on the outside once; she would never be again.

No matter what she had to do.

Beyond the French doors, the wind howled. Hope crossed to them. They led to a small balcony that overlooked the back garden and swimming pool. She threw open the doors and stepped out into the black October night.

The cold hit her first, then the wind. She lifted her face to the sky. A storm was brewing. The tops of the oak trees bent under the force of the wind; the clouds rushed across the black sky, alternately obliterating and revealing the moon's light.

Hope crossed to the edge of the balcony. She gripped the railing and leaned out. The wind caught her hair and tore it free of its pins; it whipped at her silk gown and robe causing it to alternately billow out around her and plaster to her form.

She leaned farther out, not stopping until she grew light-headed and weak-kneed. The swimming pool jumped up and reached for her; The Darkness inside her took flight. It soared, dragging her in tow, rushing through the treetops and past the moon. Branches tore at her skin and gown; a bird screamed in her ear, its huge, beating wings narrowly missing her eyes.

And then she saw her mother. She took shape out of the clouds, swirling up like oily, black smoke, black surrounded by gold. The clouds parted, momentarily revealing the moon. The gold gleamed in that moment of light, winking at her.

Hope gazed at the beckoning image in both fascination and horror. If she reached for it, the gold would be hers. But so would The Darkness.

Hope crashed back to her balcony, to her bedroom and reality with a gasp. Fear choked her. She hung halfway over her balcony railing, so cold she could no longer feel her extremities. What if she had let go? What if she had reached out, as she had been beckoned to do?

She would have been killed.

Heart thundering, she ever so slowly righted herself. One by one, she coaxed her fingers free of the railing, then backed away.

Once inside her bedroom, she slammed the doors shut behind her, locked them, then sank to the floor, too weak to do more. She drew her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms tightly around them. She pressed her face to her knees, shaking uncontrollably.

As the minutes passed, her trembling eased, her flesh warmed. She squeezed her eyes shut, her head filling with the image of swirling black surrounded by gold. Hope breathed deeply through her nose, her fear and agitation evaporating, replaced by absolute calm. And clarity. She saw what she needed to do; the answer had been before her all along.

Her mother would give her the money she needed. Though tainted by sin, the money belonged to Hope; it was her legacy, her heritage. As was The Darkness. She would swallow her hatred and pride and go to her mother.

She would never be on the outside again. No matter what she had to do.

Hope stood and crossed to the phone. She had made it her business to keep track of Lily Pierron. She knew that she and a young male companion had moved to the city five months ago; she knew they had taken an apartment in the French Quarter.

Hope found the number; she made the call. Her mother answered. Hope managed to achieve the right note of desperation and childish deference, playing off her mother's breathless surprise. Hope made Lily vague promises: about agreeing to see her once this mess was settled, about repaying the loan, the proof of that being the promissory notes she would give her mother in exchange for the money.

As Hope had known she would, her mother agreed to give her everything she needed, although she had warned that it would take some time for her to get all five hundred thousand. She would have to liquidate almost all her assets; she would be left with little more than the River Road house and enough to live on.

Smiling, Hope set the receiver back in its cradle. On Tuesday, her mother's boy would deliver the first third of the money to her at the hotel. Lily had promised to keep the contents of the delivery and Hope's identity a secret, even from him. The hotel would be secure, their home and collectibles, her position in society. And Philip would be forever grateful. He would be in her debt.

Hope tipped back her head and laughed. Once again, she had beaten The Darkness.

S
antos stood just inside the lobby of the St. Charles Hotel. He swept his gaze over the interior, acknowledging awe, acknowledging that this was the most beautiful place he had ever seen. Not in the overblown way of Lily's house on River Road, nor in the crumbling way of the French Quarter. No, the St. Charles possessed an understated beauty, classy and dignified. The wood gleamed, the brass shone and the service people spoke in hushed, almost reverent tones. It all reeked of not only money, but of breeding and heritage, as well.

Things someone like him knew nothing about.

Santos started across the lobby, his gaze drawn to the people who moved around and past him, to the women having high tea on the lobby terrace, to the ones following a bellman, loaded down with shopping bags from Saks Fifth Avenue, Lord & Taylor, and Adler's.

He shook his head. These people sparkled almost as brightly as the hotel's lead-glass windows and doors—the women at their throats, ears and fingers; the men at their wrists and cuffs. And they were all so flawlessly put together, from the tops of their heads to the tips of their fingers and toes, completely coordinated, unrumpled and unfrayed.

This was what it was to have real wealth, he thought. The kind of wealth that wrought power. People like these, he knew, had no use for someone like him. He didn't belong here. Not a young man of such questionable ethnic mix. Not a half-breed, French Quarter–whore's kid whose biggest claim to fame was getting his high school diploma by the skin of his teeth. And from a
public
high school at that. He had heard that fact relayed to him in the doorman's terse, “Can I help you?” He had seen it in the concierge's suspicious gaze, in the way the hotel patrons gave him wide berth—as if he might somehow taint them.

He wondered if they would have a little more respect once he was a cop. Santos shook his head, amused. No, they would probably just fake it.

He shook his head again. They needn't guard their precious world so fearfully—he had no desire to be a part of it, wanted no piece of these pretty, plastic, too-white people with their unholy fears and their unfounded prejudices.

He reached the elevators, pressed the button to summon one, his thoughts turning to Lily. She belonged here no more than he did, though from things that she had said he knew that these privileged people were the ones who had been her patrons.

What business could Lily have with this Mrs. St. Germaine? He drew his eyebrows together and brought a hand to the chest pocket of his chambray shirt and the envelope tucked inside. She had given it to him that morning and instructed him to deliver it here, to a Mrs. Hope St. Germaine. He was to deliver it directly to the woman, putting it in her hands himself.

Could Lily have known the woman from her working days? Maybe she had been one of Lily's girls, though he thought that unlikely. From what Lily had told him, the two groups fraternized for profit and pleasure, but never mixed. In all her years, not one of her girls had been “rescued” from the life by a smitten trick. Some had left the business and made new, respectable lives for themselves elsewhere, but that particular Cinderella story was just that—a story.

So, who was this woman? When he had questioned Lily, she had said the envelope contained personal correspondence; she had said the woman was an old acquaintance. No big deal.

Right. Santos narrowed his eyes in thought. Lily had been as nervous as a cat, as giddy as a schoolgirl. She had been flushed and had kept wringing her hands, as with a combination of excitement and agitation. When he had commented on her behavior, she had assured him he was imagining things—even though he had never seen her act that way before.

Something was definitely up.

An elevator arrived and Santos stepped onto it. He pressed for the third floor, and the doors began to shut.

“Wait! Hold the elevator!”

Santos caught the doors. They creaked back open and a girl darted in. She pushed her dark hair away from her face and laughed up at him. “Thanks. These things are just ancient, I would have been waiting forever for another.”

He returned her smile, acknowledging that she was probably the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. And, judging by her girls'-school uniform, too young for him. “No problem. Floor?”

“Six.” She tipped her head to the side, unabashedly studying him, not hiding her interest. “I just hate waiting, don't you?”

A smile tugged at his mouth. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On what I'm waiting for.”

She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Oh, you're one of those.”

He arched an eyebrow, amused at her obvious flirting but willing to play along. “Those? And who might they be?”

She smoothed a hand over the hip of her tartan-plaid skirt. “One of those who believe that the best things in life are worth waiting for.”

“And you're not?”

“Nope.” She lifted a shoulder in a breezy shrug. “Who wants to wait? When I see something I want, I go for it.”

He laughed. He knew exactly who this girl was—spoiled, cocky, full of herself; he recognized her from all the girls like her he had known at Vacherie High. She intrigued him, anyway. “That seems like a mighty immediate way to live.”

She gazed up at him through lowered lashes. “And you think that's bad.”

“I didn't say that.”

“No, I guess you didn't.” Her lips lifted. “What's your name?”

“Santos.” He leaned against the elevator's back wall, deliberately not asking hers. But instead of pouting, as he had expected her to do, she narrowed her eyes slightly, as with challenge.

“Santos,” she repeated. “That's a different kind of name.”

“I'm a different kind of guy.”

She opened her mouth as if to say more; the elevator shuddered to a halt, interrupting her. “This is my floor.” He pushed away from the wall, crossed to the open doors and stepped into the hallway. “It's been real.”

He started off, stopping when she called his name. He looked back at her. She leaned out of the elevator, holding the doors open with her right shoulder. “My name's Glory.”

“Glory,” he repeated, his lips lifting. “Now, that's a different kind of name.”

“Yeah, well, I'm a different kind of girl.” She smiled. “See you around, Santos.”

Without waiting for a response, she ducked back into the elevator; the doors slid shut. Santos laughed to himself and shook his head. Whoever she was, she was a real firecracker. He would bet she gave her parents fits. Which was probably a big part of her program, anyway.

He should know, he had experience with her type. Lots of it. Girls like Glory always wanted the same thing from him—an adventure, a defiant little walk on the wild side, a way to rebel against their parents.

The whole setup suited him just fine. They used him; he used them back. Everybody was happy. He had no place in his life for silly, spoiled little girls.

Santos took Lily's envelope from his pocket. He checked the number on its front, tucked it back into his pocket and started down the hallway to his right. Several doors down, he found the office and stepped inside. A secretary sat at a big desk that faced the door, her head bent over a typewriter.

He cleared his throat. She lifted her head and moved her gaze over him, her expression suspicious. “Can I help you?” she asked coolly.

“I'm here to see Hope St. Germaine.”

“Are you expected?”

“I have a delivery.” He took the envelope from his pocket.

She held out her hand. “I'll see that she gets it.”

“Sorry. I have to put it directly into her hands. If she's not here, I'll wait.”

The woman made a sound of irritation. “Your name?”

“Victor Santos.”

“One moment.” The woman stood and crossed to one of the two sets of doors that flanked either side of the richly appointed office. She knocked, then slipped inside, careful to shut the door behind her.

A moment later, the secretary reappeared. She motioned Santos into the office. “Mrs. St. Germaine will see you now.”

He nodded and followed her direction. The office was large and impressively outfitted. A picture window that looked out over St. Charles Avenue and the streetcar line dominated the far wall. A woman stood before it, her back to him. When the secretary exited the office, closing the doors behind her, the woman turned.

Santos's first reaction to the woman was dislike. He bristled with it, and at the way she looked at him—with blatant distaste, as if he had crawled out from under a rock or someplace equally dark and slimy.

She started toward him, and he cocked his head slightly, studying her. Although she wasn't an unattractive woman, there was something cold about her, cold and unforgiving.

He narrowed his eyes. This woman's nose was so high in the air, it scraped the ceiling.

“Hope St. Germaine?” he asked when she stopped before him.

“Yes.” She held out her hand. “You have something for me?”

He handed her the envelope. She took it, then snatched her hand away as if she feared he would contaminate her. He stiffened, offended. “I was told you would have something for me.”

Without acknowledging him, she returned to her desk. There, she took a letter opener, sliced open Lily's envelope and checked its contents. As if satisfied with what she found there, she opened a desk drawer and took out another envelope.

She met his gaze and held it out, expecting him to retrieve it, like a dog.

Santos gritted his teeth. He would be damned if he would play step-and-fetch for her or any other diamond-bedecked, society pit bull. He folded his arms across his chest and waited.

Several seconds ticked past. A flush crept over the woman's high, sharp cheekbones, and with a sound of irritation, she came around the desk and strode toward him.

He smiled slightly at having bested her. He couldn't remember ever having disliked anyone as much as he disliked this woman.

She held out the envelope, marked with Lily's name. “Take it and go.”

He didn't move. He lifted his gaze from the envelope and met hers, square-on and unflinching. Hers grew hot with anger. This woman thought she could eat him up and spit him out, she thought she was so much better, so much more important than he was. Well, that may be, but he had a clue for her—he wouldn't be treated like a servant, by her or anybody else. Not even for Lily.

“Take it now,” she said again, this time with barely veiled contempt. “Or you'll leave without it.”

Santos did as she asked, but without hurry. After he had tucked it into his breast pocket, he shot her a cocky grin. “Thanks, babe. I hate to disappoint, but I've got to go.”

She made a small sound of shock, of outrage; her face mottled with fury.

Without waiting for another response, he turned and left the office, aware of the secretary's hostile gaze as he passed through the reception area. Once in the hall, he went in search of the stairs, choosing them over the elevator. He jogged down the three flights and made it to the first floor and across the lobby in a matter of minutes, anxious to leave this oh-so-upper-crust, white-bread hell behind.

Santos pushed through the massive lead-glass doors and stepped outside. Sunlight spilled over him, warm for a late-October afternoon. He breathed deeply, letting the beauty of the day cleanse away some of his anger, his distaste and frustration. Although he had left with the upper hand, his meeting with Hope St. Germaine had left a bitter taste in his mouth. She, this place, represented all that was wrong with this city and the entire system of haves and have nots, the worth its and the not-worth-a-shits. It was that system, that fucked-up attitude, that had allowed his mother's murder to go unpunished.

He started across the street, heading toward the streetcar stop. Where had Lily met this cold, arrogant woman? he wondered. And what business did Lily have with her? What kind of “correspondence” that couldn't be handled by phone?

He narrowed his eyes in thought. He had found something familiar about Hope St. Germaine, something that nagged at his memory. He was certain, however, that they had never met. He would have remembered her. Oh, yes, some things were so unpleasant they could never be forgotten.

“Santos!”

He stopped and swung in the direction his name had come. A cherry-red Fiat convertible sat idling at the curb kitty-corner to him, top down, the firecracker from the elevator behind the wheel.

She smiled and waved him over. “Want to go for a ride?”

She was too young and too spoiled for him.

But he was only going for a ride.

Santos sauntered across the street, aware of the doorman's glare. The valet, he noticed, looked none too happy, either.

He stopped beside the car and ran a hand along the front quarter panel. “Nice wheels. Sure you can handle this machine?”