Forbidden Fruit (17 page)

She tipped her face up to his and he saw himself reflected in her sunglasses. “Why don't you find out. Hop in.”

“Why not?” Santos went around to the other side of the car, opened the passenger door and slid into the vehicle. He jerked his head in the direction of the valet and doorman. “What's with the bodyguards?”

“They're just overprotective.” She waved at the men, then peeled out, burning rubber as she did. “You know how it is.”

“Yeah, right,” Santos drawled as he fastened his seat belt. “I know just how it is. You want to tell me where we're going?”

“Nope.” She laughed. “I think I'd rather surprise you.”

She darted into traffic, cutting off a Lincoln. The driver blew his horn. She laughed again, flipping off the other driver. Santos shook his head and settled back in his seat. No doubt about it, he was in for one hell of a wild ride.

They rode in silence for several blocks. She maneuvered the tiny automobile expertly in and out of traffic, then hopped onto the interstate, heading west.

Santos looked her way. “A birthday present?” he asked, shouting to be heard over the roar of the engine and rush of the wind.

“What?”

“The car. Your sixteenth, I'd guess.”

She looked over at him and made a face. “You make it sound like a crime.”

“Do I?” He started to say that he hadn't meant to, then swallowed the words. They would have been a lie.

“What were you doing at the hotel?” she asked. “I haven't seen you around there before.”

“Delivering something for a friend.”

“It's mine, you know. Or will be someday.”

“The hotel?” he asked, incredulous. She nodded and he shook his head. This girl had just gone from rich to ridiculous. “And they only bought you a Fiat? I'd be pissed. You should have gotten a Porsche.”

She tipped her head back and laughed. “We're not
that
rich.”

He pushed his hair out of his eyes. “Oh sure. You're just a certified, card-carrying member of the lucky-sperm club.”

“Lucky-sperm club?” she repeated, laughing. “You're funny.”

“That's me. A laugh riot.”

She missed his sarcasm. “But we're really not that rich, you know.” She looked at him, her expression earnest. “There're lots of girls at A.I.C. whose families have lots more money.”

The car up ahead braked. He motioned toward it. “Maybe you want to keep your eyes on the road.”

She hit the accelerator and roared past the slowing car, then glanced at him once more. “Why? I'd rather keep my eyes on you.”

He shook his head, a smile tugging at his mouth. She was narrow and naive in her view of the world and, no doubt, deeply prejudiced by her privileged existence. But she was also unabashedly sassy, wild and sexy as hell.

He couldn't help enjoying her and her game, though he knew her flirtation with him went no deeper than rebellion. He liked her forthright approach; she didn't demur about her game playing, she didn't pretend it didn't exist or make any bones about what she was after.

“You're trying too hard, doll. And I'd really like to get wherever we're going alive.”

He expected her to pout or feign hurt, instead she laughed again. “Is that so?” She exited the highway, taking the ramp at breakneck speed. “What exactly am I trying too hard to do?”

“Prove to me what a big, bad girl you are. Give me a scare. I don't impress easily. And I don't scare. You can give it a rest anytime.”

She shook her head, her dark hair streaming behind her. “Oh, goody. I just love a challenge.”

Santos laughed and leaned his head against the seat back. He closed his eyes, enjoying the sting of the wind, the hum of the engine. After a moment, he cracked open his eyes and studied her while she drove. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips tipped up in a hint of a smile, and although hidden by sunglasses, he would bet her glorious blue eyes were sparkling with excitement.

He lowered his gaze, taking in the plaid skirt and white blouse, her school's name embroidered on its front pocket. The blouse pulled slightly across her breasts as if she had recently grown. His body stirred, and he shut his eyes, swearing silently. Jesus, she was only sixteen. San Quentin Quail. An Angola angel. Sassy-mouthed jailbait encased in the body of a twenty-year-old.

He was not about to get burned by this little firecracker. Or any other, for that matter.

She glanced at him. “You were looking at me.”

It wasn't a question. And he wasn't embarrassed to admit it. “Yes.”

She slowed the car and turned onto Lakeshore Drive. “Why? What were you thinking?”

“I was wondering if your parents are able to sleep nights?”

For a moment she said nothing, and he thought his question had unnerved her. “As far as I know,” she said finally, her light tone sounding forced. She angled into a parking space, cut off the engine, then turned toward him. “Why shouldn't they?”

“If you were my kid, I wouldn't be able to.”

“You make me sound like a baby. I'm not.”

“All grown up at sixteen?”

“I think so.” Color bloomed in her cheeks, and she tipped up her chin. “Weren't you? Grown up at sixteen?”

Santos thought of his mother's murder, of the series of foster homes, of the ride he had hitched in an attempt to flee the system. He had lived a lifetime by age sixteen; this pampered princess had probably never even faced one moment of discomfort, let alone horror.

“Apples and oranges, babe.”

She searched his expression. “You don't like me very much, do you?”

“I don't know you, Glory.”

“No, you don't.”

She looked away, but not before he saw something in her expression at odds with the girl she purported to be, something soft and scared. Something vulnerable. He thought that maybe he had been wrong, maybe she had known her own version of horror.

He didn't like the thought and opened the car door. “What do you say we take a walk?”

She nodded and they alighted the vehicle. For several minutes, they strolled silently along the seawall. Sailboats dotted Lake Pontchartrain's rippled surface; gulls circled overhead. A car passed, music spilling from its open windows; from the playground across the street came the sound of children's laughter.

As they walked, their arms or hands brushed every so often, occasionally she touched his hand or arm to point something out. With each innocent or accidental touch his awareness of her grew, until he found himself aroused to the point of distraction.

Santos reminded himself that he was in control. He could stop—or start—this anytime he chose. She was a sassy little flirt, and nothing more. He would do well to remind himself of that.

“I've always loved it here,” Glory murmured, breathing deeply. “It's always seemed more like a world away from uptown than just a drive across the city. I remember the first time my father brought me out here. I thought we were on vacation.”

She dragged her hands through her hair, combing it with her fingers. “It was a Sunday, and Mother had one of her headaches. Daddy and I left for mass, but we came here instead. She was furious when she found out.”

“Because you cut church?”

“She takes mass very seriously.”

He drew his eyebrows together, studying her profile. “You sound like you don't like her too much.”

“Mother?” Glory made a face. “I think it's more the other way around. Hope St. Germaine is a hard woman to please.”

The ice queen was this girl's mother?
In one way he found it hard to believe. But in another it made absolute sense.

They neared what had been the sight of Pontchartrain Beach, an amusement park built on a point of land between Lakeshore Drive and the water's edge. The park had fallen victim to the times, to people's fears and a too rapidly changing world.

“Did you ever go to The Beach?” she asked, referring to the amusement park the way the locals always had.

“Once. My mother brought me out. We rode all the rides and had a picnic. I think I was ten. It was the best time I ever had.” The memory made him smile. It made him hurt, too.

He frowned, annoyed with himself for sharing that with her. Annoyed with himself for remembering. “We should start back.”

He turned to go; she caught his arm, stopping him. She lifted her face provocatively to his, once more the outrageous, reckless flirt. “Can I ask you a question, Santos?”

He met her eyes, comfortable with this familiar territory. A moment ago had been too personal. He didn't want to know anything but the superficial about her; he wanted her to know only the same about him. Nothing real, nothing close. Just some nice, safe game playing. Just the way he liked it. Nobody got hurt, and everybody was happy.

“It's a free country.”

“When you see something you want, what do you do?”

He knew exactly where this was going. He smiled, and slowly, deliberately moved his gaze over her. When he finally met her eyes once more, he arched an eyebrow. “As opposed to just going for it?”

“Uh-huh.”

He leaned his head down to hers, not stopping until their faces were so close he could feel her breath against his cheek. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I weigh the consequences of having it. That's what grown-ups do, Glory.”

She laid her hands on his chest. “I'm a grown-up.”

“I don't think so.”

He made a move to straighten and she curled her fingers into his chambray shirt. “I could prove it.”

Arousal kicked him squarely in the gut. He ignored it. “What do you want from me, Glory St. Germaine?”

She batted her eyelashes and leaned toward him. “What do you think?”

He touched her flushed cheek. “I think,” he murmured, his voice deliberately husky, “that I'm too old for you. I think you should run home to your mama.”

Challenge lit her eyes. “Really? Too old?”

“Uh-huh. Too old. Too experienced. You're way out of your league here, little girl.”

“Try me.” She splayed her hands on his chest and leaned toward him. “Try me,” she said again, lifting her face to his. “I dare you to kiss me.”

Santos hesitated, but only a moment. He lowered his head and took her mouth, sweet, hot, already parted. He kissed her as a man kissed, taking, plundering, leaving no doubt what a man wanted from a woman.

She made a small, helpless sound deep in her throat. Her hands flexed against his chest, alternately pushing him away and pulling him closer. He deepened the kiss even more, exploring her mouth with his tongue, leaving no questions or secrets between them.

He slid his hands down her back and cupping her, pulled her more tightly to him. He moved his hips against hers, knowing she could feel his erection, that she would know exactly how aroused he was. And how far she had pushed him.

He drew away. She gazed up at him, her lips still parted, her expression dazed. Stunned. She had never been kissed like that before, he knew. He had given this cocky girl-woman much more than she had bargained for.

Santos laughed softly and dragged his thumb across her bottom lip, moist and swollen from his kiss. “See, little girl. I told you I was too old for you.”

He started to turn away from her. She caught his arm, stopping him. He looked at her, surprised.

“No,” she said, her voice shaking slightly. “I told you.”

She stood on tiptoe and kissed him. As hard, as deeply as he had kissed her a moment before. She threw her whole self into it, probing his mouth with her tongue, pressing herself against him.

Even as he told himself not to, Santos reacted to her kiss, responded to the feel of her exquisite mouth and body against his. Even as he reminded himself to stay in control, it careened out of his reach.

She aroused him to a fever pitch, in a way, and to an extent, no girl had before, not so easily. She set him on fire, made him forget what was right and wrong, smart and not. And all it had taken was her naively hungry kiss and the feel of her lush body straining against his.

She took his breath away.

The truth of that snaked its way through his fog of desire, and he set her roughly away from him. He had set out to prove a point to her; it was he who had been proven to. And though she would never know how much she had shaken him, he didn't like it, not one bit.

“This is over,” he said, his voice thick. “It's been fun, babe, but it's time to go home.”

She stared blankly at him, then blinked as if suddenly comprehending what he had said. “Will I see you again?”

“No.”

He started to turn away once again; she caught his arm, stopping him. He met her eyes. “You're scared,” she said, searching his gaze. She shook her head, slightly, as with surprise. “You're running away.”