Forbidden Fruit (40 page)

He searched her gaze. “Would it have made a difference?”

She lifted her eyes to the ceiling. Maybe it wouldn't have in the before, but in the after, in this moment, it would have made all the difference in the world. If he had told her, she wouldn't be hurting so bad she could hardly bear it.

She curled her fingers into the bedding. “Is that why you came out here today?” she asked, praying it wasn't. Praying he had come because she had been on his mind, because he had wanted to see her, to be with her.

“Yes.”

She sucked in a sharp breath and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Silly me, I thought you'd come out for other reasons.”

“Don't be like that.”

He sat up and reached for her; she slipped off the bed, bringing the sheet with her. She wrapped it securely around her, then turned to face him. “And what sort of a ‘deal' did you offer my mother? Sixty cents on the dollar? Forty?”

He narrowed his eyes. “And why would I do that, Glory? She borrowed that money from Lily, nearly breaking her. She promised to pay it back and didn't. Lily left those notes to me. She wanted me to have them.”

Glory stiffened. “Of course,” she said coolly, “you're entitled to your inheritance.” She reached for her T-shirt, then bent and retrieved her panties from the floor. She met his eyes once more, lifting her chin haughtily. “I have things to do today, maybe you'd better go.”

He narrowed his eyes, furious. “What's with the attitude, princess? You think I should forgive your mother's debt because you're such a great lay?”

“Go to hell.”

She turned and marched to the bathroom. He followed her, catching the door with the heel of his hand as she tried to slam it in his face.

“Get out.” She clutched the sheet to her breasts, although considering that he was stark naked and had, only moments before, both seen and tasted the parts of her body she was trying to hide, it was a little ridiculous to play the outraged virgin.

“Unlike you and your mother, money means nothing to me. I told her I'd forgive the debt if she would publicly acknowledge Lily. That was the deal I offered her.”

Glory stared at him, stunned silent. She couldn't believe she had heard him correctly. She shook her head. “You can't mean you're going to forget—”

“That's exactly what I mean.” He laughed, the sound as tight and angry as his expression. “I don't give a crap about the money or the hotel or anything else I could get out of this thing. The way your mother treated Lily was wrong. She hurt Lily. And she's going to make it right, even though it's going to cost me a half a million bucks.”

He turned and walked away. Glory watched him go, her heart thundering. She reached out a hand. “I'm sorry.”

He stopped but didn't turn. “For what?”

“I misjudged you. I was angry and…hurt because you didn't confide in me. That you didn't trust me enough to tell me when you found out.”

“Should I, Glory?” He looked over his shoulder at her. “Should I trust you?”

She tipped up her chin. “Yes.”

“But do you trust me? Do you believe in me?” When she opened her mouth to reply that she did, he shook his head. “I don't think so. When it comes right down to it, I don't think you ever really believed in me. If you had—” He bit back the words. “Forget it.”

“How can I prove to you that you're wrong?” She took a step toward him, heart thundering. “I want to prove it to you.”

He met her gaze evenly. “I don't know if you can, Glory. It might be too late for that.”

A lump formed in her throat, and she fought to speak around it. She was no longer a sixteen-year-old girl; she was a woman. And she knew what she wanted. She wanted Santos. She wanted to be his lover. She wanted them to have a relationship.

She wanted everything. More than she would ever have with him.

“I'd like to see you again. I'd like to…be with you again. This way.” She crossed to him and drew in a deep breath, more afraid than she had been in a long time. “Is that going to be possible, Santos?”

“It depends.”

“On?”

“On you. On what you're willing to accept from me. On how much is enough.” He bent his head to hers and caught her mouth in a brief but shattering kiss. “My feelings aren't going to change. So long, princess.”

H
ope made her way down the dim corridor, the rancid odor of decay turning her stomach. She held her breath, but the stench still choked her, and she realized with a sense of horror that it was her own smell fouling the air.

She squeezed her eyes shut, her head filled with the image of her and the man-creature writhing on the bed, twisting and coiling together like two serpents. She had reveled in the unholy pleasure of his hands and mouth, then she had wielded the whip, punishing him for his sins.

But still The Beast clamored for more. A sound of terror slipped past her lips, and she brought her hands to her mouth to hold back another. These days, It always wanted more, no matter how often she bowed to its power.

Because of
him.
That boy, Santos.

Up ahead, light speared through and around blackened windows and heavy, metal doors, bolted from the inside. Good struggling to invade, then conquer, evil. Hope dragged her light wrap around herself tightly. Good would reign triumphant; she believed that, she had to.

If she didn't, she would be lost.

She drew closer to the light. Only a few more feet and she would be out of this godforsaken place, and maybe then The Beast would quiet. She counted the steps; she reached the door, threw open the bolt and scurried out.

The fresh air cleared her head, though she couldn't stop trembling. Taking a deep breath, she hurried to her car, praying no one spotted her. She hadn't been able to wait for the cover of night; the Beast had refused to be quelled even for another hour.

She reached her car and climbed inside. Only then did she allow herself a moment of stillness. As she had hoped, sunlight had beaten back The Darkness, and the silence in her head was sweet indeed. She curled her fingers around the steering wheel, and leaned her head against the rest. She closed her eyes.

The days and weeks since Victor Santos had arrived on her doorstep, threat in hand, had been a nightmare. After consulting with her lawyer, she had done as the detective demanded, following each of his instructions to the letter, though it had sickened her to do so. For all, she had played the part of the tragic victim, the loving daughter who, to save her own life, had fled the mother she adored.

Surprisingly, her friends and associates, be they business or personal, had stuck by her, though she had no illusions about the talk that had spread like wildfire through New Orleans society. To her face, they applauded her courage. To her face, they understood, they sympathized. They felt for her, they claimed.

But she saw their glances when she wasn't looking, the horror in their eyes, the repugnance. No area of her life had been left untouched—even Father Rapier looked at her differently.

She was flesh of whores, dirty and common. She had been marked by sin.

Hope tightened her fingers on the steering wheel. The Darkness had ravaged her with its laughter, with its constant, steady call. Ripping away her veil of purity had doubled The Beast's strength. It pounded at her without relief or remorse, giving her neither rest nor a moment's peace.

The control she had once prided herself in, that she had relied upon to protect her, failed her more and more often.

She had been marked by Darkness. Now, all could see.

Hope opened her eyes. The sunlight stung them, but she welcomed the pain. She unclenched her right hand and stared at her palm, red and bruised from the whip. She wished it had been Victor Santos's pain she had heard ringing in her ears, wished it had been he who she had punished. Her hatred for him knew no bounds. It defied logic and restraint; it burned so hotly and so brightly inside her, her skin flushed and blistered with it.

He thought he had won. He thought he had beaten her. She could hear his amusement, his ringing laughter in her head. He and Glory were seeing each other; her daughter had shared that news almost defiantly. Glory didn't understand, she didn't see The Beast beneath the beautiful facade. As it had always been, it was up to her to show Glory the truth, to save her.

Hope shivered as a chill crawled up her spine. She would make Victor Santos pay. She had friends, people who, for a price, would help her. People who had always helped her.

Oh, yes. She would make Victor Santos sorry he had ever dared to corner Hope St. Germaine.

New Orleans, Louisiana.

1996

C
hop Robichaux was one of those French Quarter landmarks the tourists never saw, a bit of local color even the locals didn't know about. Unless they were part of the city's dark, twisted underbelly. Unless their sexual preferences ran counter to both the laws of God and man. If so, they knew Chop as a businessman of great wiles and flair, a businessman who had the reputation for always landing on his feet and for being able to supply any perversion for a price.

He had information about the Snow White Killer.

Santos set the phone's receiver back into its cradle, pursing his lips in thought. Chop had said that if Santos was interested in catching the Snow White, he should come now, to his club on Bourbon Street.

Santos rubbed the side of his nose with his index finger. He didn't trust Chop Robichaux. He considered him several levels slimier than swamp scum. But if anybody in the Quarter might be privy to information about who was knocking off young hookers, it would be Chop. After all, young hookers were the man's stock and trade.

“Who was that?”

Santos looked over his shoulder at Glory, naked, sprawled across the bed, half covered by the rumpled sheet. She smiled, and his body stirred. She was so beautiful, she took his breath away. And making love with her defied description. Passionate. Mind-blowing. Erotic. All paled to the way being with her made him feel. These last couple of weeks had passed in a kind of hot, sexual blur.

He shook off his growing arousal, forcing himself to focus on the matter at hand—Chop and whatever information he might have on the Snow White Killer. “You want to take a ride?”

“Sure. Where are we going?”

“To the French Quarter. To see an old friend.”

She searched his gaze, as if sensing something was not quite right. “An old friend?” she asked softly, sitting up, pushing her tangled hair away from her face. “What kind of friend?”

He leaned down and kissed her, hard and deeply, then reluctantly broke away. “I'll tell you more in the car.”

“I know a place on Burgundy that has killer margaritas.”

He laughed. “Frozen or rocks?”

“Either. Great chips and salsa, too.”

“You got it.” He kissed her again. “We have to hurry.”

She nodded and they quickly showered and dressed, not wasting time on talking. He liked that about her, the way she accepted the limitations of their time, the way she didn't feel the need to fill every quiet moment with chatter.

Although he liked that quality in her, it unsettled him, too. Because the quiet never seemed empty; it never felt strained. And it should. When they weren't making love, it should feel awkward and strained and empty as a tomb between them.

Within twenty minutes, they were in his car, heading deeper into the Quarter.

“So, who is this old friend we're going to see?”

“A sleezebag from my days on vice.” He cut her a quick glance. “His name's Chop Robichaux.”

“Chop Robichaux,” she repeated. “That name sounds familiar.”

Santos laughed without humor. “I'm not surprised, for a while six years ago, it was splattered across every headline in the city. Remember the N.O.P.D. scandal the press dubbed the French Quarter Four?”

She drew her eyebrows together in thought, then inclined her head. “Yes, but only vaguely.”

“I'll refresh your memory then. Four N.O.P.D. vice officers were accused, then convicted, of taking pay to overlook the activities in a club at the fringe of the French Quarter. The place was a sort of sex shop. But not the usual above-the-law touristy stuff. Hard-core. Some real sick shit. A lot of the operation involved underage kids, most of them runaways. The place was called the Chop Shop. After its owner, the man we're going to see.”

“Underage kids?” Glory made a sound of outrage. “That's…that's disgusting. It's beyond terrible.”

“That's what everybody thought, once the story broke. Of course, they thought it even worse that some of New Orleans's finest were taking money to look the other way. That was my opinion, too. That's why I blew them all in.”

“Blew them in?” She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“At the time, I was a ranking vice officer. I became aware that some of my fellow officers were on the pay. I went to Chop to talk a deal. Then I went to Internal Affairs.”

“I bet that didn't make you too popular.”

“That's putting it mildly. Luckily, shortly afterward I got my transfer to homicide.” Santos turned onto Bourbon. “Internal Affairs was a lot more interested in the dirty cops than in Chop. He turned state's evidence in return for immunity from prosecution.”

“He never did time?” She looked shocked.

“That's the way it works, babe. Standard operating procedure. They closed him down, of course. He just opened up on another block. This time, he's supposedly straight, on the up-and-up. But I say people like Chop Robichaux don't know how to operate by the books or by the law. But that's not my department anymore.”

“And that was it? The end of the story?”

“Not quite.” He swung into an illegal spot across from Chop's place. “One of The Four claimed I was involved. He claimed I became aware that I.A. was sniffing around, and sacrificed them to save myself. Seems the bit about Internal Affairs sniffing around was true. I.A. investigated me, but they couldn't find anything.”

“They took his word against yours?” she asked, sounding stunned.

“I messed up, and it looked bad.” He turned off the ignition. “I should have gone to I.A. with my suspicions right away, and let them take it from there. But I wanted proof. And I wanted to know Chop would back me up.”

“So because you offered him the deal, he thinks he owes you.”

Santos laughed. “Hardly. He hates my guts. I'm the one who busted his operation, after all.”

Silence ensued. Santos darted a glance her way. “What?”

She was silent a moment more, then she shook her head. “I don't understand something. If this Chop hates you, why did he call you about this information?”

“Good question. One that's bothering me. But in another way, it makes sense. I'm the lead detective on the case, and he knows me. It could be he's incriminated in some way and wants some sort of deal. Maybe he wants to feel me out, see where he might stand.”

“Maybe you should call Jackson. Or get backup.”

“Backup?” he repeated, laughing. “You've been watching too many cop shows on TV. There's a big difference between talking to an informant and going into a life-threatening situation.”

He saw her nervous glance toward the front of the nightclub. The street was busy; a usual Saturday night in the Quarter. Every so often, someone would enter or emerge from the club, and he and Glory could get a glimpse inside. The place appeared to be packed.

“Look,” he said, “I'm in and out of there. You wait here. It won't take ten minutes.”

“You're sure?”

“Yeah.” He leaned across the seat, kissed her, then opened his car door. “After that, it's Margaritaville for us.”

Santos hopped out of the car and started across the street and into the club. The place was, indeed, packed. On the stage, a scantily clad woman undulated to the deafening music. The place reeked of beer, cigarettes and sweaty bodies. It brought back memories, unpleasant ones. From his youth. From his time working vice.

He caught sight of Chop behind the bar, and started to pick his way through the crowd, being bumped and jostled along the way.

A guy wearing a Dixie Beer T-shirt knocked head-on into him, spilling half his beer on Santos in the process.

“Hey, pal.” Santos reeled backward, getting bumped from behind, feeling someone's hand at his back. “Watch it.”

The guy grinned, exposing a mouthful of rotten teeth. “Pardon me,” he said, weaving on his feet, not looking sorry at all. “My mistake.”

Santos flashed his shield. “I think you've had enough, buddy. Take a hike.”

The guy backed away, grinning again. “Whatever you say, Officer.”

The hair on the back of Santos's neck stood up, and he frowned. He swung his gaze to the bar, only to find Chop watching him. The hairs prickled again; Chop motioned him closer.

He reached the bar. Chop had moved to the other end to serve a customer. Santos studied the man, his skin crawling with distaste. He was short and heavy, with thinning hair, dyed an unnatural white-blond. He had perpetually oily skin, and had suffered a severe case of adolescent acne, as evidenced by the scars that pitted his face. But it wasn't Robichaux's physical person, unpleasant though it was, that made Santos's flesh crawl. No, it was what showed from inside of the man. Chop Robichaux had the soul of a monster.

As if aware of Santos's thoughts, Chop looked over his shoulder and directly at Santos. He smiled thinly. A moment later, he sauntered over. “Hello, asshole. It's been a long time.”

Santos swept his gaze over him, disgusted, unwilling to play the man's game. “You have information for me?”

“What kind of information are you looking for?”

“Don't screw with me, Robichaux.” Santos narrowed his eyes. “You have that information or not?”

The man smiled again, that same thin, unpleasant twisting of his lips. “Nah, I just wanted to see your pretty face in my place.”

“I ought to bust your ass right now.”

“Try it.” Chop laughed. “You've no grounds. I'm clean.”

“When hell freezes over.” Santos swept his gaze over the odious little man. “Maybe I should just manufacture something. Anything I came up with would no doubt be true.”

“You don't have the balls.” He laughed again, the sound almost girlish in its glee. “You were always such a fucking Boy Scout. But you know what? Even Boy Scouts have their day. Now, get out of my place.”

“With pleasure, Robichaux. Your place reeks.”

Santos pushed away from the bar, a knot of unease settling in the pit of his gut, his mind clicking over the reasons Chop could have had for claiming he had information about the Snow White, then playing dumb when Santos arrived. He could have gotten last-minute cold feet. Maybe he couldn't talk at that moment because the perp was close by. Or, he could have been, simply, messing with him.

None of those explanations struck Santos as quite right. None of them lessened the knot of unease in his gut. Why would Chop Robichaux call a homicide detective at home, on a Saturday night, to play games with his head?

The situation stank, big time. Chop was up to something, and it involved him.

Santos made his way through the club without incident. He stepped out of the bar, his gaze immediately going to his car. Glory was just where he had left her, looking his way. She smiled and waved.

“Detective Santos?”

Four men—cops, he guessed, judging from their cheap suits and their regulation haircuts—circled him. Santos eyed them warily. “That's me.”

One of the men held up his shield. “Lieutenant Brown, Internal Affairs. These are Officers Patrick, Thompson and White.”

Santos met each of the officer's openly hostile gazes in turn, a feeling of
ah-ha
sliding up his spine.
So that was it; he'd been set up. But by who? And why?

“What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

“I think you know, Detective. Up against the building.”

Santos did as the man asked, and one of the officers, Patrick, he thought, frisked him, taking his service revolver and badge.

“What's this?” Patrick pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to the lieutenant.

The officer opened it, then met Santos's eyes. “It looks like about twenty-one hundred-dollar bills, Detective. Marked bills, if my guess is right. You want to tell me where this money came from?”

“I'd love to, but I don't know where it came from. I've never seen it before.” Heart pounding, Santos searched his memory. Any of a couple dozen people in that bar could have planted that envelope, but he would lay money on the big guy with the bad teeth. “I've been set up.”

“Surprise, surprise.” Officer Patrick grabbed Santos's right arm, twisted it behind his back and snapped a handcuff around his wrist, then did the same to his left arm. “I've heard that one before.”

Santos swore silently. “I don't doubt you have, but this time it's true.”

“Tell it to your lawyer,” the lieutenant snapped. “Somebody read him his rights.”