Forbidden Fruit (39 page)

H
ope gazed at Victor Santos, distaste crawling up her spine. She swept her gaze coldly over him, then smiled thinly, not bothering to hide her feelings. “What can I do for you, Detective? I understand you're here on police business.”

He lifted an eyebrow, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Did your housekeeper say that? I don't know where she could have gotten that idea. I'm sorry to say, but no, I'm here all on my own.”

She stiffened at his air of amused superiority and motioned toward the door. “Then I'll ask you to leave.”

“I don't think you'll want to do that.” Without invitation, he stepped farther into the foyer and looked around with unabashed curiosity. “Nice little shack you have here.”

Again, amusement laced his tone. She squeezed her hands into fists, resenting that she had to put up with him because he was a police officer. If he weren't, she wouldn't even have received him. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“That remains to be seen.” He met her eyes. “I have something you're going to be quite interested in.”

“I rather doubt I would be interested in anything
you
have to say.” She folded her arms across her chest, curiosity piqued, despite herself. “But if you insist on this ridiculous little game, I'll give you a minute.”

“I do insist.” He smiled. “You heard your mother died?”

“Of course,” she said, drawling the words in a way that left no doubt how little she cared. They had the desired effect, she saw, by the tightening of his mouth.

“She left Glory the house. Your childhood home. You knew that, too?”

She did know. When Glory had told her, she had wanted to kill Victor Santos. She still did. Impotent rage swelled inside her. She had spent her entire life trying to protect Glory from the Pierron legacy, and now, because of him and his meddling, her daughter was in possession of the very seat of sin.

“She left me everything else.”

“I heard that,” she snapped. “You've told me nothing new, Detective, so if there's nothing else…” Hope checked her watch impatiently. “Your time's up, I'm happy to say.” She started toward the front door, annoyed when she realized he wasn't following. She grasped the knob and swung open the door, then turned to face him.

“Good day, Detective,” she snapped, wanting to claw that smug half smile from his face.

“Do you have five hundred thousand dollars handy, Mrs. St. Germaine?”

Hope froze. The devil-boy laughed.

The Darkness took many forms.

“That's right. A ghost from your past has come to haunt you.”

She struggled to remain calm. “I don't know what you're talking about,” she said coldly.

“No?” He took a step toward her, and she fought the urge to turn and run. He moved like the Serpent, slow but with unerring aim. “How about three notes that promise to repay, on demand, the sum of five hundred thousand dollars? Is your memory sufficiently refreshed yet, Mrs. St. Germaine?”

He took another step toward her; this time she took a step back, heart pounding. Sunlight spilled over her back, hot and too bright. “Lily helped you out of a costly little jam back in 1984, didn't she? The hotel was in deep debt. It took nearly everything Lily had, but she lent you that money. I made those three deliveries, each time you sent me back to her with one of those promissory notes.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You knew she would never try to collect. You knew all she wanted was a little time with you. It makes me sick to think how much she loved you and how badly you treated her.”

“That's right.” Hope lifted her chin arrogantly. “She didn't try to collect, it's over now. She's dead.”

“Sorry, sweetheart, but it doesn't work that way. Promissory notes are like stocks, bonds and other forms of negotiable assets.”

Hope began to sweat. The sun on her back became unbearably hot. The blood thrummed in her head, until it drowned out all else but the sound of his hateful voice.

“I fulfilled my debt to her,” she said, voice shaking. She worked to steady it. “I gave her the time she wanted.”

“You gave her nothing.” He fisted his fingers. “She went to her grave longing for her daughter's forgiveness and love, but you couldn't give her even that much. You couldn't pay her even one small visit to the hospital.”

“You can't prove it. You can't prove I didn't—”

“But I have the notes. I inherited them from Lily.” He leaned toward her, murder in his eyes. “If you had fulfilled your ‘debt', you should have collected them.”

Hope brought a hand to her throat. “What do you want from me?”

He arched his eyebrows, as if shocked. “Why, Hope, darling, I want my money.”

She took another step back, and the sunlight stung her eyes. “You bastard.”

He laughed. “I seem to be called that a lot lately. And always by a St. Germaine.”

She couldn't bear the sun, the heat, any longer. She pushed past Santos and into the cool, dark foyer. She struggled to catch her breath, realizing only then how panicked she was. She didn't have five hundred thousand dollars. She didn't have it.

Hope rubbed her arms, chilled now. Chilled to the bone. “How do I know the notes are real? How do I know you even have them?”

“They're real, all right.” He slipped his hands into his front trouser pockets. “My lawyer has them.” At her expression, he smiled grimly. “Oh, yes. I did my homework. Got myself a good lawyer. You've heard of Hawthorne, Hawthorne and Steele, haven't you? Contact Mr. Steele. He's the best estate lawyer in the city, maybe even in the South.”

Hope began to shake. She had heard of Kenneth Steele. He was, indeed, the best. “It doesn't matter,” she said. “I don't have the money.”

“But you can get it. After all, Lily could.” He gestured around them. “And she lived a lot less extravagantly.”

“Well, I can't.”

He clicked his tongue, obviously enjoying himself at her expense. Obviously wallowing in it. If it wouldn't be so far beneath her, she would scratch his eyes out.

“I'm sure this place is worth that much, probably a lot more. I'm sure the St. Charles, your half of it, anyway, is worth more than that.” He slipped his hands into his pockets once more, this time grinning like the devil himself. “Imagine me, lowly, low-born Victor Santos, your business partner. Or better yet, living in the St. Germaine mansion.”

“Never!” She spat the words at him, shaking with rage. “I would never be partners with a…
creature
like you! I would burn down this house before I allowed you to possess one brick.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Didn't anyone ever teach you to be nice to other people? Where were you when the golden rule was the lesson of the day?” He shook his head, his mouth twisting. “But maybe you think, because you're so rich and powerful, that you don't have to worry about such things. Maybe you think you don't need to worry about retribution. Or punishment. Or about paying your debts. Obviously, you don't think you have to treat others with simple human decency.”

He laughed and The Darkness closed in on her. “Well, the time to worry has come, Hope St. Germaine. The time to pay has come. You owe Lily, and you're going to have to pay.”

She spun away from him and crossed the foyer. She stopped before a Sheraton convex mirror and gazed at her distorted image, scrambling to think of a way out of this. The hotel was worth a fraction of what it had once been worth. She had some investments, only enough, combined with her part of the hotel profits, to maintain her life-style. Some of her…
needs
…had proven quite costly over the years.

Like a house of cards, remove any piece and it all tumbled.

What was she going to do?

“There may be another way,” Santos said softly.

Light-headed, she met his gaze in the mirror. “Another way?”

“Actually, I don't care about the money. I don't care about your precious house or hotel. Or anything else you have.”

Hope turned slowly to face him. She searched his eyes, looking for the joke, the ever-present amusement. Instead, he looked deadly serious. “You don't?”

“No.” He crossed to stand directly before her. “I care about Lily.”

“But she's dead.”

His expression hardened. “But her memory is not. My feelings for her are not. I've decided to give her the thing she wanted most in life, but went to her grave without.”

“And that is?”

“Her daughter.”

She stared at him, confused. “I don't understand.”

“I'm going to give her you, Hope. You will publicly admit Lily was your mother. You will tell everyone who you are and where you come from.”

Hope took a step backward, her legs threatening to buckle beneath her. “You can't be…serious.”

“Trust me, I am serious.” He swept his gaze over her. “Perhaps you should sit down.”

She nodded and crossed to a chair arranged against the wall by the mirror. She sank onto it and folded her trembling hands in her lap. “Go on.”

“If you agree to this, you will have to do several, very specific things.” She nodded again, and he continued, “The first, you will take out two full-page ads, both declaring your true lineage. The first in the
Times Picayune,
Sunday main news section, the second in
New Orleans
magazine, inside front cover.”

He slipped his hands into his pants pockets and rocked back on his heels. “As I said, in those ads you will admit your true lineage, confess to your years of untruths and express your deep and eternal sorrow at having cruelly abandoned your loving mother.”

“And next?” she asked tightly, clenching her fingers together.

He smiled. “You throw a huge party, a gala in Lily's honor. You invite all your fancy friends, all the city's bigwigs—mayor, police chief, maybe even Governor Edwards. Of course, once again you will publicly acknowledge Lily.”

“And of course,” she added bitterly, “you'll be right there to see that I follow your directions to the letter.”

“Don't be naive, this is costing me five hundred thousand dollars. Everything will be perfect.”

“And if I do all this…to the letter?”

“The notes are yours, free and clear.”

Hope looked at him in astonishment. “That's insane. Why are you really doing this?”

He swept his gaze over her, his lips curling, as with distaste. But she knew they curled with pure evil. “You can't understand it, I know. That I could love Lily that much. That I could believe I owe her everything, even my life. It's beyond you to comprehend that I could want to give her what she wanted most in the world, no matter the cost to me.

“But my reasons aren't totally altruistic. I'm going to enjoy seeing you do the right thing. I'm going to enjoy seeing you forced to act, for once in your life, like a decent human being.”

For a moment, she said nothing. The hate inside her grew, twisting and turning inside her. She would kill him if she could, if she had that power.

But there were other ways to make him pay; she would find one. If it was the last thing she did, and she would find one.

She met his eyes evenly, with malice. “You are a very foolish young man.”

He cocked an eyebrows. “What? Are you going to ‘get me' for this? Are you threatening me?”

Hope simply smiled.
The Darkness came in many forms. But the Lord would not leave the guilty unpunished.

T
he River Road house beckoned Glory; it called her name, low and softly, the way a lover would. She stood at the end of the long, oak-lined driveway, gazing at it in wonder, thinking it the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. She shook her head, awed. Still, three weeks after the reading of Lily's will, she couldn't believe it was hers.

Over the past weeks, she had driven out here as often as she could. Sometimes, as she had last night, she slept over; sometimes, she simply stole a couple hours from her busy schedule.

Glory bent and plucked a blade of grass and held it to her nose. The house had a powerful hold on her. She was happy here, relaxed and at peace. Here, she felt she belonged.

She started for the house, moving slowly, taking her time. She had nowhere to be today; the hotel, she had decided, could function without her. In the past weeks, she had spent her time here going through boxes of mementos and photographs, through the house's financial records. Her ancestors had run a thriving little business here—shockingly profitable, actually. Considering that, it was odd that Lily had died with so little.

Glory yawned, then combed her fingers through her hair. Last night she had found a small trunk of journals. Ones belonging to her relatives—some going all the way back to the first Madame Pierron, Camellia. Among those, too, had been diaries of some of the girls who had worked in this house, girls whose days had been empty save waiting for the nights.

The accounts of the girls' lives had fascinated and appalled her. She had read deep into the night, until her eyes burned and her head throbbed. Finally, fatigue had forced her to put the journals aside, but she intended to spend her day reading more.

In the broad branches above her, a bird called out. She lifted her face; as she did, it was kissed by a soft river breeze. From behind her came the sound of a car easing down the driveway.

Glory turned. Her heart jumped to her throat.

Santos.

With a feeling of fatalism, she watched as he drove slowly toward her, a subtle cloud of dust billowing up behind him. She had always thought of Santos as her other half, had always used him as the measure by which she judged other men. It felt right that he should be here now, appearing as if by magic. The way he had first appeared in her life.

He pulled the car to a stop beside her. His dark hair was mussed from the breeze through the windows.

She longed to touch it, to smooth it. She shoved her hands into her pockets instead. “Hello, Santos.”

“We should talk.”

Glory smiled calmly, though her heart had begun to thunder. “All right. Let's sit on the gallery.”

He nodded and pulled the car ahead, to the side of the house. She met him there and together they walked around to the stairs that led to the first-floor gallery.

He moved his gaze over the front of the house, his expression wistful. “It's the first time I've been out since she…died.”

“It brings back memories, doesn't it?”

“Yes.” He met her eyes. “Good ones.”

She slipped her fingers into the front pockets of her shorts. “For me, too, though it shouldn't. I have no history here.”

“You have more history here than I, though of a different kind.”

She thought of Lily and of the journals and a lump of emotion formed in her throat. She cleared it away. “Would you like an ice tea, a soft drink or…something?”

He shook his head. “Nothing. Thanks.”

Nothing. What he wanted from her.
She looked away, then back. “How did you know I would be here?”

“A hunch.” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “And a tip from your assistant manager. Funny how a police badge opens doors.”

“Vincent isn't my most levelheaded employee, but his efficiency makes up for it.” They climbed the stairs. “And what was your hunch?”

“The look in your eyes when you learned Lily had left you the house.”

Her smile faded. “I'm sorry. I know you wanted—”

“Don't be. I'm not.”

“Liar,” she said softly but without malice, surprising herself. “I see the truth in
your
eyes.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgment of the accuracy of her comment, then crossed to the gallery's edge and gazed down the tree-lined driveway to the levee beyond. “It's not a bad feeling, Glory.”

“Just kind of sad.”

“Yes. Kind of sad.” He glanced over his shoulder at her, his lips curving up. “Now that it's yours, what do you think?”

“That I love it. That I belong here.” She crossed to stand beside him, and followed his gaze toward the horizon. “I don't understand the hold this place, this house, has on me. But it does have one. And that…confuses me. It scares me.”

He met her eyes. One moment became several, still they simply gazed into each other's eyes. Then he looked away. Back toward the river.

She swallowed hard, missing the connection between them, irrationally hurt. Bereft without it. Santos, too, had a hold on her. On her life and her heart. From the first moment she laid eyes on him; still, now, after all these years. She understood his hold on her no more than she did this house's.

She sighed. A long time ago, she told Liz that Santos was her destiny. That seemed so silly now, such a naive statement made by a silly adolescent girl.

But in a way, it was true. She couldn't seem to shake Santos from her system. She couldn't seem to forget him. She couldn't move on without him.

And since they had been together, she'd been tormented by her longings—for him, to be with him again.

He turned suddenly and met her eyes. She knew he could see each of her thoughts, read them in her face and eyes. She didn't try to hide them, didn't try to pretend. She wanted him to know how she ached for him, how she burned.

She felt bold, unafraid and dizzyingly alive. An incredulous laugh bubbled to her lips, though she didn't release it. Perhaps this place was affecting her, perhaps it was having read the journals that influenced her, having read the accounts of women who had been shamelessly wanton, women who had lived by their bodies but without love.

Or perhaps, she had finally come to understand her own needs.

She brought a hand to Santos's face, caressing softly, first his cheek, then his mouth. “I want you.”

He caught her fingers with his own. “Glory, I—”

“No.” She brought his fingers to her mouth, kissing, tasting with her tongue, finally sucking. She felt honest. The way she hadn't felt in ten years.

The last time she had been honest with a man. The last she had really wanted a man.

And then she hadn't understood. She had been a girl, untried, inexperienced. Now she knew what she needed. Now she knew how to satisfy her lover.

“You want me, too,” she murmured. “I know you do.”

“Yes.” His voice was thick with arousal, his eyes dark. “Yes,” he repeated, searching her gaze. “I do want you. But—”

“No.” She shook her head. “No buts. Come.” She led him into the house, led him upstairs to one of the big, soft beds. The windows were open; the breeze off the Mississippi stirred the lace curtains. Patches of sunlight dappled the floor and walls. The bed.

Together they sank onto it, the light spilling over them. Moments became minutes, time both stopped and slipped away as they explored and pleasured each other.

Glory asked Santos for what she wanted; he gave her all she desired. As he asked; as she gave. Their mating was exquisite and perfect, by turns tender and rough, frenzied and languorous. Glory understood, completely, finally, what it was to be a woman.

Afterward, they lay twined together, damp and out of breath, yet totally relaxed. He didn't draw away from her and she was glad, though she had no illusions about what had occurred between them.

She trailed her fingers across his chest, loving the feel of his firm, muscled flesh. “Are you sorry?” she asked softly.

“No.” He bent his head to meet her eyes. “Are you?”

She shook her head. “How could I be? That was so…wonderful.”

He smiled, pleased, then he returned his gaze to the ceiling and the elaborately carved medallion at its center.

She followed his gaze. “This place is quite something, isn't it?”

“Mmm.” He tightened his arm around her. “Have you decided what you're going to do with it?”

“No. I haven't gotten that far yet.” She pressed her cheek to his chest, torn between thoughts of him and this moment and ones of the future. “There's so much history here. This place is a part of Louisiana, a part of her history. It's special. Unique and wonderful. It would be wrong for me to change it.”

She drew in a deep breath. “The women who lived here deserve to be remembered. Not to be held up as role models, but to be remembered as a part of history.”

“You could live here.”

She shook her head. “I'd like to, but it's too far from the hotel. And I'd be lonely, I think.”

Unless Santos was here with her.

The thought jumped unbidden into her head, and she quickly pushed it away. It wouldn't do to start thinking about a forever with Santos, it wouldn't do to start thinking about love. It wasn't going to happen, and if she let herself hope, she would end up hurt.

They had too much past to ever have a future together.

“So where does that leave you?” he asked, interrupting her thoughts.

“I have some decisions to make concerning the hotel, too. Some changes I'm going to have to make.” She sighed. “Changes my father wouldn't have approved of.”

“Time marches on, Glory.”

“I do know that.” She pressed her mouth to his shoulder, tears stinging the backs of her eyes. “But I wish I could have run the hotel so expertly that changes in the city and in the world wouldn't have affected the business. I wish I could have kept it running, and performing, the way he did. I know that sounds silly.”

“Not silly,” Santos murmured, moving his fingers in slow, soft circles against the small of her back. “But self-defeating. Time changes everything. Don't kid yourself, if your father were still alive, he would have had to make adjustments to meet the challenges of 1995, too.”

“Thank you,” she said, tilting her head to meet his eyes. “That makes me feel…better. I loved him so much.”

“I know.” Santos's fingers stilled. “There's something I have to tell you.”

She lifted herself to an elbow and met his eyes, frowning. “That sounds serious.”

“How serious depends on your perspective.”

“I don't understand.”

“I know where your mother got the money to bail out the hotel ten years ago.”

“You do?” She drew her eyebrows together. “Where?”

“Lily.”

Santos explained how her comment the day the will was read had gotten him thinking—about the correspondence he had delivered to the hotel all those years ago, about what her mother might have sent back to Lily, and about Lily's altered life-style afterward. Finally, he told her how he had searched through Lily's things and found three demand notes promising to repay the sum of five hundred thousand dollars, all signed by her mother.

“I don't—” Glory drew in a deep breath, not quite believing her ears. “Are you saying that my mother owes you…five hundred thousand dollars?”

“Yes. And no.” She frowned, and he continued, “I've offered your mother a deal.”

“A deal,” she repeated. “You mean, you've already spoken to her about this?”

“Yes. After I consulted with a lawyer.”

“I see.” She sat up and pulled a hand through her hair, not surprised to see that it was trembling. “How long ago did you find these notes?”

“Two weeks.”

She looked over her shoulder and into his eyes. “And you're only telling me now. Very nice, Santos. Thanks a lot for the big vote of confidence.”

“There wasn't a reason to tell you before this.”

That hurt. Because that omission said everything about their relationship. Relationship? she thought, despising herself her foolishness. They had no relationship. They had gone to bed together a couple times.

Sex wasn't love. It wasn't a relationship. And it certainly wasn't what they had shared all those years ago.

She wanted that. She would never have it. She bit down hard on her lip, refusing to cry. Refusing to acknowledge how much that hurt. How much his not trusting her hurt. He didn't think enough of her to tell her that her mother owed him five hundred thousand dollars.

“What about before this?” She gestured toward the rumpled bed. “You don't think you had a moral obligation to tell me before we made…before this?”