Forbidden Fruit (30 page)

“Just try it, Detective.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Don't…tempt me.”

He turned and started to walk away, then as if thinking better of it, stopped and faced her once more. He stared at her a long moment, then smiled. “Why, Glory, you've become the woman your mother always wanted you to be. She must be very proud.”

His words affected her like a blow. She caught her breath but held her ground, fighting to keep him from knowing how much that comment hurt. Even as she opened her mouth to deliver a stinging retort, he turned and walked away.

B
y 9:00 a.m., Glory had talked to a reporter from every publication or news department in the South. Or so it seemed. She had also talked to two agitated corporate-meeting planners, managing to convince one not to pull their fall seminar from the St. Charles and persuading the other to at least reconsider their decision to do so. She had been forced to sway them with the offer of additional discount incentives on rooms and banquet facilities. Discounts the hotel could ill afford.

She released a deep breath, exhausted but relieved that the worst was over, though she had no illusions: what she and the PR firm had accomplished was the equivalent of putting a Band Aid on a hemorrhage.

The St. Charles was in trouble.

She sank back in her desk chair, the one that had been her father's, leaned her head against the rest and closed her eyes. Soon, she would have to make some tough decisions concerning the hotel. Decisions she dreaded making, ones her father would not have liked and her mother would fight tooth and nail.

But something had to give. If she didn't get occupancy—and profits—up, hotel services and staff would have to be cut. That would lead to another decline in occupancy, another reduction of room rate. Soon, maintenance of the facility would begin to suffer, then the hotel would slide into disrepair. And on and on in a nightmarish domino effect.

She couldn't let that happen. She wouldn't.

Glory made a sound of frustration and stood. She crossed to the picture window and looked down at St. Charles Avenue. The squad cars were gone, the news vans, the curious. Business as usual. For her. The hotel. For New Orleans.

Business as usual.
Glory reached out and touched the glass, its smooth surface cool and unbending beneath her fingers. But today didn't feel like business as usual. This day felt new, different. She felt different.

Santos.

Seeing him had unnerved her badly, more than anything in a long time. She should have been prepared: ten years had passed, she was an adult now, a professional woman with the responsibility of running a one-hundred-and-twenty-five room hotel. Even so, the contempt in his eyes and voice had cut through the years, through the protective wall she had built around herself; it had cut through all her defenses. The contempt in his eyes had hurt.

“Why, Glory, you've become the woman your mother always wanted you to be.”

Glory glanced down at her hands and realized they were trembling. She quickly balled them into fists, swearing softly as she did. Had she become the woman her mother had always wanted her to be?

Yes. And no.

Glory tilted up her chin, hating the defensiveness of the movement, but unable to stop herself. He had said it with such scorn. How dare he? What was wrong with the woman she had become? She was a leader in the community, a prominent businesswoman. No, she didn't lead with her heart any longer. Yes, she kept a tight rein on her emotions. So what if when she chose to date, she chose the right kind of man. No more bad boys for her, no more fireworks. No more useless, destructive defiance.

None of her choices were wrong, they weren't to be scoffed at. She was being a grown-up. A responsible adult. Could he claim the same? Running around the streets with a gun, playing cops and robbers, playing the macho supercop. She had heard he was a hothead, had heard that his bad-boy attitude had, on several occasions, gotten him in trouble with his higher-ups.

He had remained true to his dreams, to the person he had always been. Could she claim the same?

Her thoughts grated, and she made a sound of disdain. A case of arrested adolescence, in her opinion. Even if he was one of the most highly decorated officers on the force, she was certainly better off without him.

Sure she was.

Glory turned away from the window and returned to her chair. So what if she had never forgotten him? So what if she had never forgotten the way she had felt in his arms, whole, complete, and completely happy? So what if nothing in her life—before or since—had felt so right?

As an adult, she understood that those feelings had been no more than a childish illusion. She understood that just because something felt right didn't mean it was right.

She had learned that lesson. She had paid a terrible price for it. A lesson she would never forget, a price she would never forgive herself for.

She missed her father still, keenly. It was as if she had a gaping hole inside her, a hole nothing could fill, no amount of food or drink, no amount of tears or laughter or work. She had tried them all.

Glory passed a hand over her face, acknowledging physical and emotional exhaustion. She would feel better after some sleep, she told herself, gazing out at the bright May day. Or a meal. She hadn't eaten, she realized, glancing at her watch. She'd had at least a half-dozen cups of coffee, but no food. No wonder she felt so melancholy and on edge.

“Glory Alexandra, why wasn't I called?”

Her mother's voice affected her like nails on a chalkboard. Glory stiffened, turned and faced Hope. She stood in the doorway, the picture of the fashionable uptown matron. Behind her, Glory's secretary lifted her hands up in apology. No matter how often Glory asked, her mother refused to either knock or be announced.

“Hello, Mother. Come right in.”

“I repeat,” Hope said, striding across the dove gray carpeting, “why wasn't I called?”

“You're referring to—”

“That unfortunate police matter, of course.” The older woman shuddered and sat down. “It's positively ghastly. Dumping that girl
here.
Really.”

Her mother's prejudice raised Glory's hackles. She leaned back in the chair, liking the feel of it around her, feeling ridiculously, childishly safe in it. “That poor girl was one of God's children, same as you and I. My heart goes out to her and her family.”

For a moment, her mother said nothing, then she made a fluttering motion with her right hand. “Of course. The poor thing certainly didn't deserve to die. But to dump her
here?
Awful, just awful.”

Glory gave up. It never did any good to argue with her mother; she would never see the world as Glory did. Instead, she met her mother's gaze evenly and directed the conversation back to the woman's original question. “I saw no reason to call you, Mother. There was nothing you could do and it was the middle of the night.”

Her mother leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “Not only am I half owner of the hotel, but need I remind you, it was
my
family money,
my
inheritance, that bailed out Philip and the hotel from certain financial ruin. We could have lost the St. Charles then, but we didn't.” She pressed a fist to her chest. “Because of me. I repeat, I should have been called.”

When Glory had taken over five years ago, she had discovered a discrepancy in the books—loans that had been paid off, debt that had disappeared as if by magic. Her mother had explained, but ever since, any time they disagreed about the hotel, her mother had thrown the fact in Glory's face. She was tired of it.

Angry, Glory placed her palms on the desk and stood. “And I run the hotel, Mother. If you'd like to take over that job, we'll talk. Until then, I stand by my decision. There was no reason for you to be here, there still isn't. Everything's been handled.”

Her secretary buzzed. A reporter from the
Times Picayune
was calling for a quote. Glory excused herself and took the call, watching as her mother stood, crossed to the desk and picked up one of the framed photos that decorated its top. She chose one of Glory's father, taken for publicity reasons shortly before his death. A lump formed in Glory's throat as her mother lightly, lovingly touched the glass.

After Philip's death, men, many men, had called on her mother. She had turned them all away. She had told Glory that no one could take the place of her sweet Philip. For a long time, Glory had wished that her mother would relent; her loneliness only accentuated Glory's feelings of guilt.

Finally, Glory had come to accept that her mother would never date, never marry again. But acceptance hadn't eased her burden of guilt, it had only made it a permanent weight around her neck.

Swallowing hard, Glory returned her attention to the reporter. “Yes, that's right. You can quote me on that. If you need any additional information, please don't hesitate to call.”

A moment later, she hung up the phone. As she did, her mother carefully set the photograph back in its place, then returned her gaze to Glory's. “I suppose you saw…
him
last night.”

Glory's heart began to thud; her mouth went dry. “If you mean Santos, yes, I saw him. He's working this case.”

“I'd heard that.” Hope smiled thinly. “I'd heard he'd become a…policeman.”

She drawled the word as if becoming a cop was the equivalent of falling into a bucket of slop. Glory felt her cheeks heat, and she jumped to his defense. “He's a very good detective, I hear. One of the N.O.P.D.'s best, as a matter of fact. I'm glad he's on our side.” She glanced at her watch. “If there's nothing else, Mother, some matters need my attention.”

“Of course. You're very busy.” Hope crossed to the office door, then turned back. “Oh, there is one other thing. I'm giving a small dinner party Saturday night. The Renaissance Room, eight o'clock. Why don't you bring that nice plastic surgeon you were seeing. What was his name?”

“William,” Glory answered, then shook her head. “Mother, how small a dinner?”

“Only twenty.” She made a fluttering motion with her right hand. “But don't you worry about a thing, I already made arrangements with both the restaurant manager and the chef. Everything's set. All you have to do is show up.”

And pay for it.
Glory made a sound of frustration. “We've talked about this. You can't continue entertaining this way. You can't continue to give away rooms and food and services. The hotel can no longer support that kind of life-style.”

“I'll do as I please, Glory Alexandra,” her mother said softly, her tone measured. “It's my hotel.”

“You don't understand, if you continue to—”

“I understand very well. But why have the bother of the hotel, if we can't enjoy its advantages?”

Glory shook her head. “The hotel is our business. It's how we support ourselves. But it's more than that, too. It's—”

“What is it?” Hope mocked. “Your heritage? A part of the family? Please. Without the freebies, it would be nothing more than a boulder around our necks.”

“A boulder around our necks?” Glory repeated, stunned. “If you feel that way about the hotel, why did you save it? Why did you use your family money to hold on to it?”

“Because your father was going to sell our personal assets to bail it out. He was going to mortgage our home, sell the summer place, my jewelry, the Rolls. That was unacceptable.”

Hope shook her head, her expression disgusted. “People would have talked. They would have laughed at us behind our backs. I couldn't have that.”

Glory digested what her mother had just told her. Her father had loved the hotel beyond measure; he had passed that love on to his daughter. But her mother felt none of that affection for the place. She talked as if she hated it.

“What about now, Mother?” Glory asked. “What if there was talk now?”

Hope met her daughter's eyes. They were clear, determined and so very cold that Glory shuddered.

“I would do whatever necessary to stop the talk. Of course.”

Without another word, she left the office. Glory watched her go, her last words, the meaning behind them ringing in her ears.

L
iz lay in the center of her rumpled bed, staring up at the ceiling, her thoughts a disturbing jumble. Santos had left hours ago, before dawn; even so, she hadn't slept a wink since.

Right now he could be talking to Glory, looking into her eyes. Remembering. Beginning to want her all over again.

Her head filled with images, ones from her memory, of Santos and Glory together, of the passionate way they had looked at each other, the hungry way they had touched each other. It filled, too, with images from her taunting, cruel imagination, of Santos and Glory together now, two consenting adults who knew exactly what they wanted and how to please each other.

Liz moaned and pulled the pillow, his pillow, over her face, cursing herself for her insecurities, her traitorous thoughts. He wouldn't want Glory again, she told herself. He wouldn't. He hated Glory as much as she did; he had told her so.

Liz breathed deeply. The pillow smelled of Santos. She buried her face deeper into it, growing drunk on the scent.

She loved him so much.

He didn't love her back.

Moaning again, Liz sat up, bringing the pillow with her. Not yet, anyway. He liked her—a lot, he had told her. He enjoyed her company, their lovemaking. But he had no desire for permanence. No desire for love or the kind of commitment that comes with it.

Liz knew he was being honest with her. She felt the distance he put between them, she felt the walls he erected around himself. There were parts of him he didn't share. That he would not share. His feelings. His hopes and dreams. His heart.

She blamed Glory. For just as Glory had stolen Liz's future, she had stolen Santos's ability to love and trust. She had stolen his heart.

Liz curled her fingers into the feather pillow, hugging it to her. They had been lovers for nearly two months. Since their third date. She had initiated their lovemaking, shamelessly, wantonly. But she had wanted him so badly; she hadn't been able to bear the thought of waiting. It seemed as if she had already waited forever.

Because she had loved him forever.

She drew her knees to her chest. He needed time, she told herself. In time, he would realize how good they were together, how good they were for each other.

If Glory didn't steal him from her first.

Liz pressed her face to her drawn-up knees. She thought back two hours ago, trying to recall Santos's exact reaction to the news that he would be paying a visit to the St. Charles Hotel. She struggled to remember each word they had exchanged, every nuance of his expression. He had gotten a call from headquarters about the murder. The phone hadn't awakened her, but suddenly she had realized he wasn't beside her.

She remembered opening her eyes and seeing him tugging on his jeans. His expression had been tight, angry. She remembered a shiver of apprehension had moved over her. “Santos?” she had asked. “What's happened?”

He'd met her eyes, then looked away. “I've got to go.” He sat on the edge of the bed and put on his shoes. “They found another body.”

She sat up and pushed the hair out of her eyes. “The Snow White Killer?”

“The very one.”

She stroked his thigh. “I'm sorry.”

“Me, too.” He opened his mouth as if to say more, then closed it. He stood, retrieved his shoulder holster and slipped it on.

“I'll get you some coffee.”

“There's no time.” He bent and kissed her. “Go back to sleep.”

“Are you coming back?” she asked sleepily, lying back down and curling up with his pillow.

He shook his head. “I'll stop at the restaurant later.”

She nodded, a lump in her throat. She loved him so much that watching him leave hurt, physically hurt. “Wait!” He stopped in the doorway and looked back at her. “This time, where did he…leave the body?”

Santos had hesitated for one long, damning moment, as if he hadn't wanted to tell her, as if he had wanted to hide the truth from her. And in that moment, Liz had known—Santos still had feelings for Glory.

Now, Liz jumped out of bed, too agitated to remain still another moment. If she didn't throw herself into some sort of task or activity, her thoughts would drive her crazy.

Although she had originally planned to let Darryl, her bartender/assistant manager, open up, she would head down to the restaurant. Santos would stop by later, and when she looked into his eyes, she would see that everything was going to be all right.

Sure she would. With that thought fixed firmly in her mind, she went to shower.

 

It was nearly three o'clock before Santos made it by The Garden of Earthly Delights. By that time, Liz's mood had progressed from agitated to despondent. Her fears, her insecurities, had eaten at her all day. She had been unable to halt her runaway thoughts, to dim the images in her head.

If only Santos loved her. If only she didn't know how much Santos and Glory had once loved each other.

“Hey there.” Santos came up behind her and looped his arms around her. “Boy, are you a sight for sore eyes.”

Liz ducked out of the circle of his arms. “Am I?”

He frowned. “I wouldn't have said it if it weren't true.”

“Of course you wouldn't, not an upstanding guy like you. Not Mr. Honesty.” She was so angry she was shaking. Angry at him. At Glory. At herself for not being able to control her feelings.

He placed his hands on his hips. “What's the problem, Liz?”

“No problem.” She lifted a shoulder in feigned indifference. “Glad you found the time in your busy day to stop by.”

“So that's it.” He narrowed his eyes. “I'm on a case, you know what that means.”

“But this case is different, isn't it? This particular victim was different.” She folded her arms across her chest. Even as she said the words, she wished she could call them back. She sounded jealous, she sounded whiny and clingy. And she wasn't normally that way; she hated it.

And Santos wasn't the kind of man who could take that kind of woman. He needed space, freedom. She could almost see him withdrawing from her.

“Look, Liz—” he dragged a hand through his hair, making a sound of frustration “—I've been up most of the night. I'm tired, I'm hungry and I'm pissed off. So say what you mean, because frankly, I'm not in the mood for childish innuendos.”

Liz hiked up her chin. “You saw her, didn't you?”

“If you mean Glory, yes, I saw the high queen of the St. Charles and I didn't particularly enjoy it.”

“Are you sure? I mean…” Liz blinked against tears, feeling like a total jerk.

“Don't do this, Liz.” He took a step toward her and cupped her face in his hands. “Just let us be…here and now. The way we are. Let the past go.”

“I want to, I do.” She drew in a shuddering breath. “But I can't seem to stop myself. I keep remembering how it was…between you two. And I know how she is. Selfish. Self-centered. She wouldn't think twice about—” Liz shook her head. “I hate her so much. She stole my future from me, and she didn't even care that she had done it. If not for her, who knows what I would have done or become.”

“You own your own business. You've done so well.” Santos searched her gaze. “Don't you like what you're doing, Liz?”

She struggled to find the right words. “I do like it. And I feel…good about it. But I had such dreams, Santos. Such big dreams.” Tears welled in her eyes, and she fought their spilling over. “I was going to do something important with my life. I was going to be a scientist or a surgeon. Or I was going to invent something that would change people's lives…maybe even the world.”

“But you are,” he said softly. “With this place, your food. You're making people healthier.”

She shook her head, not buying his comment, focusing instead on her anger. “That's not the point. She didn't care what I lost. All she cared about was herself. All she could think about was herself.

“I thought she was my friend,” Liz said, hearing the bitterness in her own voice and wishing she didn't. “I would have done…anything for her, Santos. Of course, I believed she felt the same way, I believed she would go to the same lengths for me. She told me she would. She lied.”

Liz covered his hands with hers. “You see why I don't trust her?”

Santos bent his head to hers. “Yes, I understand. She hurt me, too. She betrayed me, too. But…it's me you have to trust. I'm not interested in Glory St. Germaine. What I thought we felt for each other all those years ago was a lie. She was not the person I thought she was.”

“But your memories—”

“Are all bad.” He looked deeply into her eyes. “She's not going to come between us. And she's not going to stop me from loving you.”

She searched his gaze, aching. “Only you can stop you from loving me, is that it?”

He hesitated. “I'm sorry, Liz. I didn't mean that the way it sounded.”

“Yes, you did.” She swung away from him. “I need to get back to work.”

He caught her arm. “Let's not fight. Don't let her come between us. We have something good here. Something really good. Let's not…blow it.”

Something good. But not great.
Tears flooded her eyes. “I don't want to blow it. I don't want to lose you.”

He bent to kiss her. “I've got to go.”

She curled her fingers into his lapels. “Stay and eat.” She smiled. “I added cow to the menu, just for you.”

He returned her smile. “I want to, but I can't.”

“Will I see you later?”

“I'll try.”

He was already moving away from her, feeling trapped. She saw it in his eyes, in the slight tightening of his mouth. She cursed her insecurities, cursed Glory St. Germaine and the number she had done on Santos all those years ago. “Call me. Let me know.”

“I will.” He kissed her again and walked away.

She watched him go, feeling as if she had lost him for good. Vowing to herself that it wasn't true, she went back to work.