Forbidden Fruit (19 page)

T
his time, the St. Charles Hotel did not awe Santos. This time, he didn't pause to study the people or surroundings, he didn't wonder at the nature of Lily's relationship with Mrs. St. Germaine or at the contents of the envelope tucked into his pocket.

This time, his head was filled with thoughts of a dark-haired beauty, a firecracker of a girl who had turned him inside out with nothing more than a kiss and a challenge.

Santos muttered an oath. He had tried to put her from his mind. He had told himself all the right and smart things; he had thrown himself into other activities, had even asked out a girl he had met in one of his classes.

But try as he might, he had been unable to stop thinking about Glory, not completely, anyway. And never for long. She had even popped, full-blown, into his thoughts as he had been kissing his date good-night.

He shook his head, disgusted with himself. It had been three weeks now. Three weeks since their stormy, exhilarating, passionate encounter.

Why couldn't he forget her?

The low point of the last weeks had come one afternoon four days after their meeting. He had driven uptown to the Academy of the Immaculate Conception, he had parked his car, climbed out and stood in front of her school waiting for her. Like some silly, love-struck kid. Santos shook his head at the memory. He had felt like a cradle robber, too, as those giggling girls had strolled past, many of them openly staring at him.

He had recovered his sanity in time, before Glory had seen him, before harm had been done.

Before he had actually laid eyes on her and been unable to walk away.

Santos reached the stairs and took them to the third floor. He found Mrs. St. Germaine's office, handed Lily's correspondence to her, took the one she offered in return and left the office. The entire transaction took place without them speaking a single word to each other.

The dislike he had initially felt for Glory's mother had grown in the weeks since he had first met her. And it had festered. He found her to be the coldest, most unpleasant woman he had ever met. He wondered how someone with as much life and fire as Glory could be her daughter.

Once again, Santos took the stairs. He reached the lobby in moments and started for the hotel's front entrance. As he strode toward the doors, he told himself to keep his gaze forward, he told himself it was better off this way, that seeing Glory would be a mistake.

Even so, he looked for her. Against his better judgment, he hoped he would see her. That he couldn't control his own thoughts annoyed the hell out of him.

It was ridiculous. He was obsessed with a spoiled little flirt who had probably not given him a second thought.

Santos made it across the St. Charles lobby and stepped outside. He released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He had made it. He had run Lily's errand without seeing Glory.

But the hell of it was, he wasn't sure which he felt more keenly—relief or disappointment.

Santos smiled at the doorman, then started for his car, walking briskly. He had parked it several blocks up, on a side street. He turned onto the street, then stopped, surprised.

Glory leaned against the front passenger side of his Camaro, her face lifted to the sun. She wore blue jeans, a white sweater and a short, leather jacket.

She was incredibly beautiful.

His heart hammered against the wall of his chest, and he scowled. Damn, but he felt too stupid for words.

He drew in a deep, determined breath and started toward her. He didn't know how she had found him, but he was going to lose her. And fast.

“Hello, Glory,” he said when he reached her.

Without taking her face from the sun, she smiled. “Hello, Santos.”

He fished his car keys from his pocket. “This seems an odd place to sunbathe.”

This time, she turned her face to his. “Does it?”

“Mmm.” He moved his gaze over her face, acknowledging awareness. “Odd time of year, too. Late November.”

She turned herself to the sun again. “I was heading for the hotel when I saw you drive by.”

“So you followed me.”

“Basically.” She straightened and met his gaze once more. “I wanted to see you again.”

He jiggled his car keys in his right hand, at war with himself. She intrigued him, she turned him on. He would enjoy nothing more right now than taking her up on the challenge in her eyes by dragging her into his arms and kissing her senseless.

He had never been a particularly self-destructive guy, and getting involved with Glory St. Germaine would be just that.

He indicated her clothes. “No school today?”

She shook her head. “It's a feast day. Saint somebody or other.”

“Lucky you.” Santos jiggled the keys again. “It was nice seeing you, Glory, but I've got to go.”

She reached out and caught his arm. “I've been thinking about you. About us.”

“Us?” He arched his eyebrows in exaggerated disbelief. “I didn't realize there was an ‘us.' I remember a couple kisses and a drive to the lake. That's not an ‘us,' babe. Sorry.”

“It could be.”

She was as persistent as a bulldog, but a hell of a lot prettier. He was flattered and, truthfully, impressed by her nerve. But enough was enough.

He shook off her hand. “I know what you're all about Glory St. Germaine. And I don't want to play.”

She drew her eyebrows together. “What do you mean?”

He thought of Hope St. Germaine, of the way she looked at him, as if he were one level below scum, and imagined what her reaction to him and her daughter talking would be.

Oh, no. He understood Glory St. Germaine very well.

“You're rebelling. Against mommy and daddy. Against the limitations of your privileged life. You want to prove something, to them or to yourself. You want to be a little reckless, you want a short walk on the wild side. How better to do all that than by chasing a bad boy like me.”

She paled. “That's not true.”

“Right. I've been down this road before, babe. I've known girls like you before. Lots of them. And I know there's nothing there.”

She shook her head. “There is something between us. I feel it, and I think you do, too.” He opened his mouth to deny her words, she cut him off. “And I'm not like the other girls you've known. I'm not.”

“You are, sweetheart. Sorry.”

He made a move to turn away from her, she caught his arm once more. “You're the one playing a game. Not me.” She sucked in a quick breath. “Why are you doing this? Why the big act?”

“It's not—”

“I saw you,” she interrupted evenly. “At the school. My school.” She searched his gaze. “If there's nothing between us, why were you there?”

He narrowed his eyes. Furious at her. And at himself. For getting tangled up in this no-win situation, for wanting her despite all the reasons he shouldn't. “Maybe I was waiting for some other underage firecracker.”

For one moment, she looked as if he had slapped her. Then she hiked up her chin. “You weren't. You were waiting for me. And you chickened out.”

“‘Chickened out?”' he repeated, arching his eyebrows. “Dream on. Being there was a mistake. So I left.”

“But it wasn't a mistake.” She tightened her fingers on his arm, her expression earnest. “I think we could be good together.”

“You do?” He laughed, the sound without humor even to his own ears. “You're too young, and I'm too experienced. Nothing's changed from the other day.”

But she didn't seem young, he acknowledged. Not when he looked into her eyes. Then he saw someone wise beyond her years, someone who had seen more than her share of pain. When he looked into her eyes, he saw himself.

He didn't know how that could be, but it was.

Just as he didn't know why standing here with her should feel so right.

He swung away from her, shaken by his own thoughts. Stunned to realize that in a way, he
was
afraid of this girl. Because, despite what he knew to be true, he could find himself involved with her. He could maybe even start to care for her. And if he allowed that, she would hurt him.

He faced her once more. “You want the brutal truth, Glory St. Germaine? I don't think we would be good together. Not at all. And age is only part of it.”

He made a sound of frustration and anger, and dragged a hand through his hair. The frustration he understood; the anger came upon him so suddenly it took his breath. He seethed with it.

“It's not just you, doll. It's your type.”

“My type,” she repeated, her voice small and hurt. “You mean rich and spoiled.”

“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “Rich and spoiled and pampered. You know nothing of life, of real life. You know nothing of ugliness, nothing of pain. You've been catered to and coddled. You can afford to play these little rebellion games with other people's feelings because you've never had to care about anyone but yourself.”

He had hurt her, he saw. This time, he had penetrated her cocky self-confidence and cut her to the bone. Even though he had meant to, he felt no pleasure in it.

“How do you know?” She asked, her voice thick. “What makes you think you know what I've seen or felt? You don't know anything about me.”

“Look at you. What's not to know? You go to that fancy-ass private school. I'll bet your parents had to register you at birth, and that the tuition is more than most people earn in a year. I'll bet, too, that you live in the Garden District. In a mansion that's on the historic New Orleans walking tour. You have servants, two or three, and the only time people like me are let in is through the back entrance, as servants. Daddy may have a Rolls, Mommy has plenty of diamonds and at least two furs.”

This time, it was Glory who tried to turn away, Santos who stopped her. He forced her to meet his eyes. “You're so matter-of-fact about what you have. ‘I'll own the St. Charles one day,' you told me that first day we met. You have no fucking idea what that means. You are so narrow, you have no conception of the kind of life you live. You and I, princess, have nothing in common.”

Her chin trembled; her eyes brimmed with tears. But the tears didn't fall; she didn't allow them to. He wished they would; he wished she was made of softer, shallower stuff. He wished she was one hundred percent the girl he accused her of being. This would be so much easier.

“You're the one who's prejudiced,” she said softly. “You're the one who judges people by what they have or don't have. Not me.”

“If I do, I've earned it.”

She stiffened her spine. “Maybe you have, but that girl, that's not me. I don't care about the things my parents have. They don't mean anything to me.” She held out a hand to him. “And they're not who I am.”

He caught her hand, angrier than before. Because she reached a place inside him that she had no business touching. A place he didn't want touched, especially not by someone like her. And because he knew he was right; yet, irrationally, he wished he was wrong.

If she understood, she would leave him alone. She would run as far and as fast as she could.

By God, she would understand.

He tightened his fingers over hers and tugged her away from the car. Reaching around her, he unlocked the passenger door. He swung it open. “I want to show you something. Come on.”

She rubbed her wrist. “What do you want to show me?”

“That's for me to know and you to find out,” he mocked. “Get in.”

“Not before you tell me where we're going.”

“Not so quick to trust now, are you, Glory St. Germaine? Maybe you want to call it quits? Maybe you should run home to mama?”

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, obviously frightened.

He smiled. “See, babe? I'm a scary guy. Just ask anybody you know.” He slammed the door, so hard the car shook. “Run on home, little girl. Go now, before you do something stupid.”

Without waiting for a response, he went around to the driver's side, unlocked and opened the door, then slid behind the wheel. He jammed the key in the ignition, twisted and the engine roared to life.

He threw the car into First. The passenger door flew open, and she tumbled into the seat beside him. He swore silently.

“Okay,” she said, her expression defiant. “Show me.”

Without a word, he peeled out from the curb. He drove toward the French Quarter, navigating the noontime traffic without speaking, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his fingers went numb.

Finally, as they neared the Quarter, he began to speak. “I spent the first seven years of my life in a broken-down trailer that stank of sweat and booze. My daddy was a piece-of-shit no-good drunk who beat my mama and me. I looked forward to his drunken binges because he usually passed out or puked before he could do much more than bloody my nose or blacken my eye. He was a real man's man, he wasn't averse to breaking a bone or two when the situation called for it.