Forbidden Fruit (29 page)

T
he phone awakened Glory from a deep, dreamless sleep. She sat bolt upright in bed, breathing hard. She reached for the phone, pushing her sleep-tangled hair away from her face as she did.

“Yes? Glory St. Germaine.”

It was the hotel's assistant manager, a highly excitable man. The way he was babbling, Glory could hardly understand him. “What?” She rubbed a hand across her face. “Slow down, Vincent. I can't make out—” She suddenly realized what he was saying and drew in a deep, stunned breath and sat up straighter.

The Snow White Killer had struck again.

And this time, he had decided to dump the body in the hotel parking lot.

Glory swore and jumped out of bed. “Stay calm, Vincent. And do not, I repeat, do not talk to the press. I'll be right there. I'm calling the PR firm and the hotel lawyer now.”

She hung up the phone without waiting for the man's reply and dug in her nightstand drawer for her phone book, already strategizing damage control. The hotel couldn't take another crime-related scandal. Just the week before, two hotel guests, a married couple from Indiana, had been mugged only a dozen feet from the St. Charles's lead-glass front doors. Two months before that, a man had been shot not a half block from the hotel, and although not a guest—thank goodness—he had stumbled into the lobby, bleeding, and collapsed. That incident had prompted a News Eight special called
Crime Uptown: Are our grand old neighborhoods safe?

Glory was certain the press was going to have a field day with this one. And this time, considering it involved the Snow White Killer, the St. Charles just might make the national news.

And the hotel's occupancy rate would sink yet again.

Glory found the phone numbers and muttering an oath, dialed her public-relations man first, then her lawyer, dragging them both out of bed and ordering them down to the hotel A.S.A.P. Then she ran for the shower.

Thirty-one minutes later, she pulled up to the hotel, cool, collected and completely put together. She presented the picture of unflappable professional chic, a business barracuda in size seven Manolo Blahnik pumps. Looking at her, no one would guess she had been awakened less than an hour ago, just as no one would guess the turmoil raging behind her calm demeanor.

She intended to keep it that way. She drew a deep breath through her nose, focusing, readying herself for what was sure to be a chaotic scene. It would take every scrap of her savvy and business acumen to carry this off.

Santos.
His name and image ran through her head, and a place in the vicinity of her heart tightened. She knew from the
Times Picayune
and the TV news that Santos was the lead detective on this case. In the two months since the last victim had been found at St. Louis Cathedral, he had come under heavy fire from the mayor's office and the media. She had even seen him on TV a couple of times, and she had hated herself for the way she had stared at him, remembering and memorizing.

He had grown into an outrageously attractive man, very masculine, sexy in a rough, macho kind of way. He was the kind of man some women looked at and ached for, the kind of man that made some women want so badly, they forgot what was safe and smart and right.

Glory wasn't that kind of woman. Not anymore. No, she had learned her lesson. She prided herself on keeping her wits and her emotions in check at all times. And if, when she saw Santos, she experienced a wisp of longing, a thread of unwanted arousal, it was only because the past could not be forgotten or her memories controlled.

The valet ran to her car and opened her door. He was obviously shaken. “Ms. St. Germaine, did you hear? Pete found her, and now the police—”

“I heard, Jim.” She flashed him a confident, if grim, smile. “Everything's going to be fine. Just do your job, and if anyone has questions or concerns, you send them to me. All right?”

The young man returned her smile, looking almost comically relieved. “The police have already asked me all sorts of stuff. The way they questioned me, it was like they thought I did something.”

“Really?” Glory narrowed her eyes slightly. “What did they ask you?”

“Who was in and out tonight. If I saw anybody or anything unusual. You know, like if one of the guests was acting upset or unusually rushed.” He leaned toward her and for the first time she realized that he was afraid. “Then they asked me if I could account for all of my time. They asked me if I had the opportunity, during work, to come and go as I please, with no one knowing. Why did they ask me that, Ms. St. Germaine? You don't think I'm…I'm a suspect, do you?”

She shook her head and patted his arm comfortingly. “Those are all routine questions. Don't you worry another minute, Jim. I'll take care of everything. Where's Pete?”

“With the police.” He pointed. “Inside. Man, from what I heard, they're really giving him the third degree.”

“Is that so?” She glanced in the direction he indicated, then returned her gaze to his. “Have any of the press arrived?”

He shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Good. When they do, come and get me. Immediately. Interrupt whatever I'm doing. I don't want them in the hotel. Is that clear?”

“Yes, ma'am.” He straightened. “I'll come get you the minute I see them.”

Glory smiled. “Good work, Jim. I really appreciate you keeping your head through all this.”

She strode into the St. Charles. As she had expected, pandemonium reigned. She soon learned that Jim and Pete weren't the only ones who had been subjected to the police's interrogations. Several of the housekeeping staff, the girl manning the registration desk, the night bellman. Even two hotel guests, ones who had arrived back at the St. Charles shortly before the body was found, had been roused from their beds and questioned. Glory was seething.

The hotel manager raced over to her, nearly hysterical. “The police want to go door-to-door and question the guests. They're insisting, Ms. St. Germaine, and I don't know what to do.”

“Over my dead body,” she muttered. “Don't you worry, Vincent, I'm going to take care of this—”

“Ms. St. Germaine!” The valet waved to her from just inside the door. “They're here.”

She indicated that she had heard, then turned back to her manager. “I have to take care of this first, Vincent. Do not let them rouse one guest, I'll be right back.”

She headed outside. All three network affiliates had arrived, their vans blocking the hotel entrance. The minute the reporters saw her, they began shouting questions. She flashed them all an easy smile and held up her hands. “Please, one question at a time. I'll try to answer each of you in turn. Hoda, how about you first?”

“Is it true the Snow White Killer has struck again and that he has disposed of the body right here at the St. Charles? What are your thoughts on that?”

“My first thought is, I wish he had picked one of the competition, maybe Le Meridian or the Windsor Court.” A ripple of laughter moved through the group. “But from what I understand, it is true. However, I haven't talked with the police yet, so I don't know any more than you do. I'm sure they'll be issuing a statement soon.”

“Where was the body found?” another reporter asked. “Do you think the killer could still be on the premises?”

“Absolutely not,” Glory said confidently. “The hotel is completely secure. As you all know, this criminal simply chooses a place—any place—to leave his victims. Unfortunately, he chose my parking garage. This murder has
nothing
to do with the hotel. Nothing at all.”

“But, Ms. St. Germaine,” called a reporter from Channel Eight, a woman she didn't recognize, “do you think your guests can feel safe after this? Knowing that a killer was on the premises?”

Glory shook her head, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, making sure she was the picture of confidence. “Let's put it this way, the last victim was found at St. Louis Cathedral. I attended mass there last Sunday and I assure you, I felt perfectly safe. It seems to me, this guy's picking some of New Orleans's best addresses. I have to say, though, the St. Charles has much better security. State-of-the-art.”

She saw that her public-relations man had arrived and was heading her way. She smiled at the reporters. “I'm needed inside the hotel, but Gordon Mackenzie, my public-relations director, will finish telling you about our security team and answer all your other questions.”

After exchanging a quick word with Gordon about what had already transpired, she slipped back inside to save Vincent. And none too soon. He had been cornered by two uniformed officers, no doubt in an effort to get him to agree to a room-to-room search. And he was crumbling fast.

“Perhaps I can help you, Officers?” She held out her hand. “I'm Glory St. Germaine, the hotel's owner.” Just as she had suspected, they wanted to search the hotel and wake the guests. She smiled sweetly. “I'm sorry, but that won't be possible. You'll have to do without.”

The men exchanged glances. “We have our orders, ma'am.”

“Is that so?” She smiled again, sweet as pie. “Well, I've already spoken with my lawyer and you have no right to search these premises without my permission or a warrant. You have neither. Now,” she asked, looking from one officer to the other, “who's in charge of this little circus?”

The younger one cleared his throat. “That would be Detective Santos.”

At hearing his name, Glory squeezed her fingers into fists. “And where might I find Detective Santos?”

“He's in the garage. With the coroner. I'm afraid you'll have to wait here.”

“Like hell, Officer. It's my hotel, I'll go anywhere I please.” Without waiting for an argument, she turned and headed for the elevator. She took it to the third floor and the bridge between the hotel and parking garage.

The area had been cordoned off by a yellow police line. Compared to the chaos in the lobby, however, it was quiet up here. Up ahead she saw a group of people, several of them squatting, studying something on the ground.

Not something.
Someone.
Glory shuddered and crossed herself. That poor girl, she thought.

“Excuse me!” An officer hurried toward her. “You can't be in here.”

“I need to speak to Detective Santos.”

She started to move by the man, he caught her arm, and none too gently. “I'm sorry, ma'am,” he said, his steely voice brooking no argument, “Detective Santos is busy right now. You'll have to wait in the hotel.”

Glory jerked her arm from his grasp and squared her shoulders. “My name is Glory St. Germaine. This is
my
hotel, and I demand to see Detective Santos. Now.”

For a fraction of a second, the officer looked as if he might try to argue with her. Then he shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

He hurried back to the group, and a moment later Glory saw one of the men stand, then start toward her. Not any man, she realized. Santos.
Her Santos.
Her heart began to thunder, the inside of her mouth turned to ash. She called herself a fool and reminded herself of why she was here—she had to protect the hotel, her employees and guests. No matter the cost.

He stopped before her. She looked into his dark eyes, looked into them for the first time in ten years, and all her stern self-reminders flew out of her head. For a fraction of a second, she was sixteen again, sixteen and head-over-heels in love.

“Well, look at the little firecracker,” Santos drawled, a snide edge to his voice. “All grown-up and in charge now. Accustomed to giving orders and getting her way. What can I do for you, ma'am? Better make it fast, though. I'm busy.”

She stiffened her spine and faced him down, not bothering with preliminaries. “I will not have you harassing my guests or my staff. If you need something, you come through me or the hotel lawyer. We will make ourselves available to you.”

“Will you?” He moved his gaze slowly, insolently over her, from head to toe. “Make yourself available to me?”

“Don't push me, Detective. If you so much as say good morning to one of my employees or patrons without consulting me first, I'll have your job. Do you understand?”

“My job? Really?” Santos arched his eyebrows, amusement tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Well, I'll be damned. Who are you going to get it from? The mayor?”

She folded her arms across her chest, feeling the color in her cheeks and hating it. “As a matter of fact, we are acquaintances. And the governor also happens to be a friend of the family.”

“Is that so?” He took a step closer, then bent toward her, looking her straight in the eye. “Here's a news flash for you, princess. You can have my job. But until then, I'm going to do it to the best of my ability. To that end, you will provide me with a list of hotel guests and employees. I will question those guests and employees. And by the way, if you don't cooperate with me, in every way, I'll have you charged with obstruction of justice. Do
you
understand?”