Forbidden Fruit (36 page)

“It's not like that, Liz.”
But it was, dammit.

She met his eyes. “Tell the truth, Santos. Do I have a reason to be jealous or suspicious?”

“No,” he said quickly, too quickly, shaking his head. “You don't.”

“Your words tell me one thing, your eyes another.” She held up a hand to stave off his denials. “I love you, Santos. You know that. And I don't want to lose you. But I—” She drew in a deep breath, as if fortifying herself for what she was about to say next. “But I don't want to go on this way.”

The blood began to thrum in his head. “What are you saying?”

“I want a commitment from you. I want to know you're mine. I want to know we have a future together.” She took a step toward him. “I want kids someday. I want a family. And I want it with you.”

He swallowed hard. A part of him wanted to take her up on her offer, to promise things he had no business promising her. Because he liked her and enjoyed her company. Because he thought she was smart and nice and pretty.

But what he felt wasn't love. And it wasn't enough.

He didn't want to hurt her.

Santos cleared his throat. “I don't know what I want. And I'm not sure what you're…wanting is it.”

Her eyes filled, but to her credit, she didn't allow the tears to fall. “You need to decide. Not right now, I know this is a hard time for you. But I need you to think about this, about us. I think we're good together and good for each other.”

She took a step closer, laid her hands on his chest and tipped her face up to his. “I think we could be happy, that we could make a good life for ourselves. Together. And it doesn't have to happen right away, I just have to know that it's out there.

“I love you,” she said again, bringing one of her hands to his face and stroking softly. “I know your feelings don't run as deep, but I think they could. If you would let them. Let yourself love me, Santos. I promise I won't hurt you. I'll always be there for you. We could have a good life together. We could be a…happy family.”

A happy family. What he had always wanted.

So why wasn't he jumping at her offer?

He covered her hand with his own. “I want to tell you everything you want to hear,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “But I can't. Not right now.”

“I understand. But I can't go on this way. I can't go on not knowing. Hanging on by hoping.” Her voiced cracked, and she cleared it. “The ball's in your court, Detective.”

He searched her gaze, then nodded. “All right, Liz. I'll think about it.”

She stood on tiptoe, pressed her mouth to his, then turned and walked away.

For long moments, Santos stared after her, thinking not about what Liz had said, but about Glory. And about how it had felt to be in love.

Frowning, he returned to Lily's room. Glory stood at the room's one window, gazing out. Though she didn't turn toward him, he saw from her profile that she was pale and shaken. He shifted his gaze to Lily and saw that she was asleep.

“How long was she awake?” he asked.

“Only a few minutes,” Glory said softly, not taking her gaze from the window. “She asked for you. I told her you'd be right back.”

“Thank you.”

“Santos, I—” She glanced at him, then away. “I'm sorry about…just now. I didn't mean to, you know, to intrude.”

“I know. Forget about it.”

Silence ensued again. She cleared her throat. “So, you and Liz are dating.”

He cocked his head, studying her, wondering what she was thinking, wondering if she thought it as odd as he did, the way their triangle had changed in the ten years since they had all been together. “We're seeing each other. Yes.”

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “She looks good. She's…grown-up now.”

He stiffened, suddenly angry. “We all are.”

She turned her gaze to his. He saw that her eyes were sparkling with tears. “I didn't mean to hurt her. I didn't mean to hurt…anyone.”

He looked at her a moment, torn between his anger and his response to the regret in her eyes. The vulnerability.

An illusion, he reminded himself. There was nothing soft, nothing vulnerable about Glory St. Germaine. “I'm sure you didn't,” he said tightly. “But that doesn't change the fact that you did hurt…people.”

She inched her chin up a fraction. “Like you?”

“Yeah, like me.” He fisted his fingers, his anger taking him like a swift punch to the gut. He crossed to stand directly before her, forcing her to tip her head back to meet his eyes. “Is that what you wanted to hear? That you hurt me? That you broke my heart? Does that make you feel good, Glory? Does it make you feel powerful?”

“No,” she managed to say, her voice small and tight. “It makes me feel like shit.”

“Good.”

He made a move to turn away from her; she caught his arm. He felt her tremble. “I lost things, too. I paid a price you couldn't…imagine.”

He shook off her hand. “Still playing the poor little rich girl, I see. My heart bleeds, it really does.”

She stared at him, her expression hardening. “You are such a bastard.”

“So I've been told.” He crossed to the door, pausing when he reached it and looking back at her. “You know, Glory, I'm certain I
could
imagine the price you paid. Because I paid, too.”

O
nce again, the birds awakened Lily, their sweet song beckoning her to arise and fly with them. Lily opened her eyes. And smiled. Her beloved Glory had fallen asleep in the chair by her bed; the nightstand lamp cast a soft, warm glow over her lovely face. The last two weeks, getting to know her granddaughter, had been the most perfect of her life. She wished her daughter could have found it in her heart to forgive her, but she understood why she could not.

Lily moved her gaze over Glory, realizing that she didn't fear death. Her life had been more complete than many lives, and because of Santos, and now Glory, she had known love.

She was old enough to understand that nothing else mattered.

This time, the pain was sudden and unbearably sharp. She gasped and clutched at her chest, unable to do more, so great was her pain.

But then, mercifully, it was gone. It exited her as quickly and as unexpectedly as it had come, leaving her feeling weightless and young. So very, very young. Lily laughed, the sound girlish and bright. She recalled feeling and sounding this way before, but such a long time ago she couldn't recall exactly when or where.

The birds would not be ignored. Their song increased in volume until it drowned out all else, even the sound of her own thoughts. Lily realized then what had happened. She was gone now. Her life had ended—and yet it had just begun.

She left her body behind, without regrets.
There were no regrets here,
she realized.
No fear or pain, no sadness. Only love.
She had always wondered what it would be like to soar with the birds, to touch the heavens and kiss the sun. She laughed again, happy. Happier, more at peace, than she had thought it possible to be.

She had to say goodbye.

Lily reached out to Glory, covering Glory's hand with her own, curling her fingers around it, wanting to hold on forever, but understanding that she had to go. Glory stirred and smiled, though she didn't awaken.

I love you. Be happy.

Night ended and day began, light spilled in the windows, filling the room with a glow so bright it hurt to look into it. A glow as bright, as brilliant as the sun.

And the birds called sweetly. Insistently.

Not yet. She had to say goodbye to Santos.

She found him, then held him, though she didn't know how. She'd only had to think of him to be by his side, although she knew that it would not always be so.

In life, she had hated goodbyes. In life, goodbyes had always meant being left behind, being rejected. But this goodbye was sweet—sweeter than anything she had ever experienced, full of promise, full of forever.

Don't cry. Don't be sad.

It's good. It's very good.

Smiling, Lily released Santos and turned to the light. As the birds called her name, she let it take her.

T
he funeral was sparsely attended by only Glory and Santos, Liz, Jackson and a handful of Lily's neighbors. Glory had begged her mother to come, but Hope had refused. Glory had accepted her decision, though it had hurt her. She wished that her mother could find it in her heart to forgive Lily.

That she couldn't, troubled Glory. What could Glory think when she saw something so fundamentally missing in her mother's character?

Glory made it through the service dry-eyed, but only because she had already cried a river of tears. She felt so wrung-out, so wasted, she feared she wouldn't have enough energy to pick up and go on with the next day, let alone the rest of her life.

Wearily, she brought a hand to her forehead. The days and hours since she had awakened to find Lily gone, had passed in a painful blur. She and Santos had both set about making arrangements, Santos more than she because he had been a real part of Lily's life.

He had been given that opportunity. She hadn't.

Tears pricked at the back of Glory's eyes, then formed a lump in her throat, choking her. She fought both back, her control near the snapping point. She missed Lily. In the short time they had been together, her grandmother had become an important part of her life. Her passing had left a huge whole in its place.

Glory dropped her hand to her side, helpless to stop her feelings of loss, helpless to stop the memories that battered her. Memories of her father's death, his funeral, of the way she had felt as she stood beside her mother at the grave side, the priest's words echoing through her. In many ways, she felt the same at Lily's passing as she had at her father's—bereft, abandoned, completely alone.

Perhaps because Lily, like her father, had loved her without conditions.

Glory sighed and glanced at Santos. He, too, had survived the service without an outward sign of grief, though his grim, tight expression told her what he was thinking and feeling. Her heart went out to him; she understood.

They had both loved Lily.

Santos had invited everyone to the apartment after the service; Liz had supplied the food and drink, and Glory knew how grateful Santos had been to have that detail taken care of. During the service, Liz had stayed by Santos's side, possessively clinging to his arm. And although Liz hadn't once met her eyes, Glory sensed that Liz was aware of every move she made; she felt the distrust and dislike that emanated from her in almost palpable waves.

Glory looked at Liz for a moment, regret mixing with her grief, longing with her loneliness. If onlys clawing at her.

One by one, people began to depart. Liz because the restaurant had called with an emergency; Jackson because he was always needed at headquarters; the neighbors, finally, because it was time.

Exhausted and near tears, Glory began picking up plates and cups, began stacking them in the sink, readying them for washing.

“Leave it,” Santos said tightly, from behind her. “I'll take care of it all later.”

She glanced over her shoulder at him. He stood in the kitchen doorway, his expression thunderous. “I don't mind.”

“I do.” He folded his arms across his chest and glared at her. “Leave it. I don't need your help.”

His words hurt more than they should have. “It's no bother. I want to help.”

He strode across the room, stopping before her, pinning her with his furious gaze. “Why, Glory? Why do you want to help?”

“Why?” she repeated helplessly. “Because I loved her.”

For a moment, he said nothing. He stood stiffly before her, shifting his eyes to a point somewhere over her shoulder, clenching and unclenching his hands at his sides. Finally, again, he met her eyes. The open animosity in them took her breath.

“And just what the fuck does loving Lily have to do with helping me clean the kitchen? You didn't live here. You hardly knew her.”

His words hit home; they cut her wide and left her gasping. She lifted her chin, though it trembled. “I just thought…she became a part of my life, an important part, so quickly. I wanted to do…something. I needed to somehow…”

She let her words, the thought, trail off. He didn't understand. Because he didn't want to, because he didn't care about her feelings. He had contacted her for Lily's benefit, not for hers. She had served her purpose; he wanted her out of his life now.

She fought back a cry of despair. What had she expected? That they would turn to each other in their grief? That he would be there for her, to help shore her up, to understand? That he would want her to be there for him in those same ways?

A hysterical laugh bubbled to her lips. And why? Just because their relationship had become somewhat amiable? Or because they had been civil to each other, and only for Lily's sake, at that?

She was such an idiot. Such a naive fool.

“You didn't answer my question, Glory.” He took another step toward her, crowding her—with his body and his strength, with the awesome anger radiating from him. “What does loving Lily have to do with helping me? Did you think doing a few dishes would bring you closer to her? That it would erase some of your guilt?”

“Fine,” she said, sounding beaten even to her own ears. “If you want to clean up this mess yourself, have at it.”

She turned off the water and dried her hands, then pushed past him to exit the kitchen. He followed her, grabbing her arm when she reached the doorway. “Dammit, Glory. I want an answer.”

She met his eyes, feeling nearly light-headed with grief and exhaustion. “No, you don't. You want a fight. And I'm not going to dishonor Lily by doing that. Let me pass.”

He tightened his fingers instead. “You can't make up for Lily's pain and suffering, Glory. You can't take back all those lonely years. It's too late. You're too late.”

She caught her breath, knowing what he said was true, acknowledging that, in a way, he had read her mind. She wanted desperately to make up for those lost years, to have them back. And she didn't need him to point out to her that she wanted the impossible.

She wrenched her arm free. “I have nothing to feel guilty about. And don't you dare try to make it sound as if I do. That was my mother's sin, not mine. I would never have done to Lily what my—”

“Your mother's sin? Are you so sure?” He narrowed his eyes. “Are you so sure you're not just like her?”

Rage exploded inside her. Her fists flew to his chest. “You bastard! I never knew I had a grandmother! I was lied to. I was cheated out of knowing her. You can't imagine how much that hurts! You can't imagine what I feel now, having lost—”

Glory bit back the words, tears flooding her eyes. She swung away from him, gulping in deep breaths, struggling for control. What she and Santos were doing was wrong; it was dangerous. They had to get control of themselves and their emotions now, before they did something they would regret forever. Something Lily would hate.

“We can't do this, Santos.” Glory moved a distance away from him, then faced him again. She wrapped her arms around herself. “I know how much you hurt. I know how much you loved her, how much you'll miss her.” Her eyes filled. “I loved her, too. I'll miss her. So much I—”

He cut her off. “You know nothing of how I feel! You keep saying you do, but how could you?” He advanced on her; she saw that he was shaking with rage and pain. “You have a mother. A family. Lily was like my mother, she was my family. I have no one else.” He bent his head close to hers. “Go back to your family. Leave me alone.”

Santos wanted blood. She saw it in his eyes. He wanted her to crack; to break down or fly into a million pieces. He wanted to punish her.

She wouldn't allow him that pleasure; she would not fall apart or back off. She had become a part of Lily's life, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

Glory met his gaze evenly, though she was trembling badly. “Lily was my grandmother. And she loved me.” Glory poked a finger into his chest. “I won't allow you to minimize that. I won't allow you to tell me I don't belong—”

“You don't belong.” He grabbed her hand, closing his hand into a fist around it. “This was our life. You can't compare sixteen days to sixteen years.”

“You son of a bitch.” She brought her other hand to his chest, curling her fingers into his jacket lapel, wanting so badly to slap him that she shook with it. “You won't understand because you don't want to. You can't believe I really loved her because you don't want to share her memory.”

“Are you so sure, princess?” He caught her other hand, anchoring her to him. “Maybe it's because I know you. And you're cold. You're a conniving, lying bitch, just like your mother. You're incapable of love.”

Her rage swelled. She made a sound, one she had never uttered before, one that seemed to come from the very recesses of her being. One that terrified her.

“Stop it!” She yanked her hands free and backed away from him, breathing hard. “It's not true!”

But he didn't stop. He kept on pushing, the smell of blood in the air. “I think maybe you're just hanging around, hoping for a piece of the pie. Well, I'll save you the time, Your Highness, there ain't much.”

With a howl of pain, she lunged at him, taking him by surprise, knocking him off-balance. He stumbled backward, and she kicked and scratched and flailed at him with her fists. “It's not true! I loved her! But you're too angry and self-centered to see that.” She caught the side of his chin with her fist. “I loved you, you son of a bitch.”

He swore and captured that hand, then her other. “You never loved anyone but yourself.”

“I did! I loved you. I was hurt, too!” She tried to wrench herself free of his grasp, but unbalanced him instead. Tangled together, they hit the edge of the couch, then tumbled onto the floor, hitting it hard, knocking the breath from her. He rolled on top of her, pinning her under him, her arms over her head. “Admit it, you never loved me. I was convenient. Just a fun little defiance to you. Poor little rich girl, bored and misunderstood.”

“What did you expect of me?” she cried, struggling, freeing a leg and kicking at him, connecting with soft flesh.

He made a sound of pain and released her. She scrambled away; he caught her and dragged her back. “I expected you to believe in me,” he said. “I expected you to stand up for me.”

The fight gone out of her, she began to cry. “I was sixteen. I lost my father that night. I lost everything. And I was alone. So…alone.”

“You had me.” He tightened his hands over hers, his grip punishing. “But that wasn't enough, was it? Not for you, not for the girl who had everything.”

She shook her head, her tears spilling down her cheeks. “I never had you. You never trusted me. You never loved me. That's all I wanted, for you to love—”

Santos caught her mouth, her words and her tears. She felt his rage, his frustration and grief; she tasted them. He thrust his tongue into her mouth and ground his pelvis into hers, meaning to punish her, wanting her to pay for their past. Pay for how she had hurt him.

He released her hands, shifting his weight so he no longer pinned her to the floor. But instead of using her freedom to escape, to push him away and run, she used it to anchor him to her. She brought her hands to his hair; she hooked her legs around his.

She wanted him, she realized. And what she wanted had nothing to do with making love. Nothing to do with sharing, or completion, or romance. She wanted him to take her, to be inside her. To fuck her.

And, God help her, she wanted to do the same to him.

Muttering an oath, he ended the kiss and broke away from her, breathing hard. “Glory, hell…I'm—”

“No.” She tightened her fingers in his hair and dragged his mouth back to hers. “No,” she said again, catching his mouth, then tongue, desperate and hungry. So hungry she felt as if she hadn't eaten in years. Ten long, barren years.

She clawed at him, at his clothes. As he clawed at hers. It wasn't easy; she was wearing a dress and hose and full undergarments; he was wearing a suit and tie and dress shirt. Buttons flew, seams gave, finally, in frustration, he ripped her panty hose off her.

Naked enough, finally, they came together. As he thrust into her, she cried out. But not with pain. No, far from it.

Their mating was raw, it was rough and ugly. They didn't kiss or stroke; they didn't murmur sounds of affection or even pleasure. Their joining represented the culmination of ten years of hatred and longing, ten years of wanting and despair. Without uttering a word, they told each other everything they had been speaking and feeling.

And some of what they had to say hurt. Hurt almost more than Glory could bear.

Immediately afterward, she rolled onto her side, not wanting to see his expression, the look in his eyes. What had begun in anger, then taken a twisted turn into passion, had ended in regrets. So bitter they burned her tongue.

Glory drew her knees to her chest, ashamed and humiliated. She had behaved like a whore, like an animal in heat. She squeezed her eyes shut, aching in a way she never had before. How would she face him? How would she look into the mirror and face herself?