Forbidden Fruit (37 page)

Santos stirred beside her, then muttered an oath. “I'm sorry.”

The regret in his voice was real, the self-recrimination. “Don't,” she said, her voice thick. “Don't apologize.”

“Why not? I behaved like—” He bit back the words on another curse. “I never acted that way before.”

“You tried to stop it. But I…I was the one who—” Her throat closed over the words, and she rolled onto her back and threw an arm across her eyes. “I'm deeply…embarrassed.”

He said nothing. One moment became two, became several. Finally, when her chest hurt so badly she could hardly draw a new breath, he cleared his throat. “I'm sorry, Glory,” he said again. “Really sorry.”

She moved her arm and met his eyes, her cheeks burning. “You already apologized. Accepted, okay? Let's just stop this now.”

She made a move to get up, he caught her arm, but gently this time. “You misunderstand. The first time, that was for the…act. This one is for before. For the things I said. I'm sorry. I didn't mean them.”

She looked quickly away, her heart in her throat. “Forget it.”

“No.” She glanced back. He met her gaze but without apology or condemnation or fury. In the way he looked at her, she saw something of the boy she had known.

“Earlier, you said that I wouldn't listen to you. That I wouldn't believe you because I was too angry and hurt.” He searched her eyes. “Tell me now.” He hesitated, as if carefully choosing his words. “Tell me why you loved Lily. I really want to know.”

Emotion choked her. It took her a moment to clear it away and find her voice. “Because she loved me. Because she needed me.” She met his eyes. “Can you understand that?”

He nodded and, a lump in her throat, she looked away. “When you gave me Lily, when you gave me that piece of my past, it was like you gave me a missing part of myself. A part I didn't even know was missing. I felt I belonged with her the minute I saw her. From the minute I saw the house, I felt I belonged there. Really belonged.”

“Maybe because you wanted to feel that way.”

She shook her head. “I don't think so. The feeling was too strong. Too immediate.” She shrugged. “Whatever the reason, knowing Lily made me feel whole. I don't know why, but it did.”

He touched her, absently, she thought, trailing his fingers back and forth along the outside of her thigh. She suspected he didn't even realize he was doing it. She didn't point it out because she didn't want him to stop.

“Your being there for her at the end, it was good for her.” His fingers stilled and Glory held her breath, hoping, praying he hadn't stopped for good.

He hadn't. His fingers began their magic again and a shudder of pleasure, pure and intoxicating, moved over her.

“She died happy,” he finished. “Because of you.”

His voice was suspiciously thick, and her heart broke for him. “You made her happy, Santos.”

She reached up and touched his cheek, cupping it. She moved her index finger along his high, strong cheekbone, realizing with a sort of shock how vivid her memory of him was—his shape, the way he felt under her hands, the way he smelled, the sound of his breathing.

She realized, too, how he had changed. He had toughened, become harder and leaner, a man now. She wished she could explore his body now, wished she had taken the time to explore him before, learning the changes time had wrought, wished she had taken the time to savor.

She dropped her hand, though when she did, it ached for him. “You were right, you know. Sixteen days can't compare to sixteen years. You made her happy for a long time.”

His lips lifted. “I was just being a bastard when I said that. I was angry.”

She smiled. “I know.”

He increased the length of the sweep of his fingers. She grew warm. And wet. She wanted him again, wanted so badly she ached. But this time she didn't want just sex. She wanted warmth. She wanted sharing. She wanted to make love.

Glory made a strangled sound, part disbelief, part arousal.
How could she be such a fool?
She sat up and reached for her dress.

He followed her up. “What?”

“Nothing.” Her cheeks heated. “I was just wishing that I…Nothing.”

“Yes, something.” He caught her chin and turned her face to his. “After what just occurred between us, you can't possibly be worried about what I might think.”

The heat in her cheeks became fire. “All right. Can I ask you something?”

“Ask, though I don't promise to answer.”

“Can we try this again?” She made a fluttering motion with her right hand. “Do it over, from the start?”

He frowned. “Do what?”

“You know, do—” She took a deep breath, feeling like a complete fool. “Never mind. I was just being…ridiculous.” She slipped her dress over her head, shimmied into it, then dragged her hands through her hair. “I guess I'd better get going. The hotel will need—”

He caught her hand and yanked; she tumbled against his chest. She looked up at him, surprised. He laughed. “Oh, you mean do…this.”

He kissed her then, taking her mouth deeply, passionately, but without the fury of before. When he lifted his head, she struggled to find her voice. “Yes,” she managed to say, her voice thick. “This.”

He gazed at her for long seconds, his smile becoming bittersweet. “We can't go back, Glory. I can't, though a part of me wishes I could.” He cupped her face in his palms, his expression almost fierce. “And the future, well, I don't see anything there.”

“I know,” she said softly, though it hurt beyond measure. The past couldn't be found again; and they had too much past to ever have a future. “But I don't want to leave things the way we were today. And I…I need to be held now. I need to not be alone. I thought maybe you did, too.”

He answered her by taking her into his arms, by holding her, by stroking and kissing and arousing with touches both gentle and stirring. He removed her dress and explored her body, every part, worshiping and encouraging. Thoughts of the past, of this sad day, of future wishes, all flew from her head. For her, nothing existed but him, his body, his touch.

And when the time came, she gave each of his gifts back to him. Stroking. Worshiping. Exciting. Arousal became passion, then passion spun dizzily out of control. Once again they came together in a frenzy of need and heat. But this time, when Glory cried out with completion, he caught her cries with his mouth, giving back to her with cries of his own.

Breathing hard, Glory rolled away from him and onto her back. She gazed up at the ceiling, aware, so aware, of him beside her, doing the same thing. Aware of each breath he took, of the heat of his body, the scent of him, them, their sex.

It had been almost unbearably good, unbearably…sweet. It had rivaled the first time.

All that had been missing was love. And all those years ago, it had been the love that had left them fulfilled and clinging to one another, the love that had made the magic that lasted. Not the sex. The aftermath of this act was empty. It was sad. It hurt.

Glory squeezed her eyes shut. Why had she done this? How could she have acted so…impetuously? She had thought she'd left this kind of self-destructive behavior behind a long time ago.

Ten years ago. The night her father died.

Tears of remorse stung her eyes. She had let herself down. She had let her father—his memory—down. Not because she had been with Santos, but because she had led with her emotions; because she had acted impulsively, recklessly.

She curled the fingers of her left hand into her dress, lying in a rumpled heap beside her. Dear Jesus, they hadn't even used protection. What was wrong with her?

A lump formed in her throat, as memories, unbidden and unwanted, sprang into her head. Memories of the first time she and Santos had been together, of the sweetness of the act, of her longings, her hopes for the future.

She had loved him so much. The future had been so full of him, of them, she had been unable to see anything but the two of them. She had been so young and headstrong, so without focus or fear.

And she had paid a terrible price for her recklessness.

She sighed. He stirred beside her; she felt his gaze.

“That bad?” he asked.

She didn't look his way. “What do you mean?”

“You sighed.”

What could she say? She had sighed, and she did wish she were anyplace but here. “The sex was great, Santos,” she said sharply. “Don't worry, your reputation's intact.”

“I wasn't worried.”

She felt his words like a slap. “Typically not a problem for you, right?”

“Typically.”

“I should have known.”

He propped himself up on an elbow, forcing her to meet his eyes by leaning over her. “Are you trying to pick a fight with me?” Heat stung her cheeks, and he smiled without humor. “Don't take your regrets out on me, babe. I have my own to deal with.”

“I'll just bet you do.” She sat up, forcing him to move aside. “I have to go.”

“So, go.”

She fisted her fingers, his words ricocheting through her. “I think I hate you.”

For a moment, he said nothing. Then he looked at her. “I think I hate you, too.”

F
or a long time after Glory left, Santos lay on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, his mind whirling with all the things he should have done. With all the things he should have said. And with the ways he had gone wrong.

Finally, disgusted with himself, he sat up. He dragged his hands through his hair. What was wrong with him? Hadn't once with this woman been enough to teach him a lesson? Hadn't he learned anything ten years ago?

Apparently not. He groaned. Now what? What did he do with the rest of today, with tomorrow and with the next ten years?

Damn. He did think he hated her.

But right now, he hated himself more.

Liz.

He rubbed his hands over his face. What did he say to Liz?
“I hate Glory, but I want to screw her?”
Or how about,
“I like and respect you, but I slept with her? Twice? And I fucking liked it—a lot?”

Right. He made a sound in self-disgust. Damn, but he was an asshole. He had really messed up this time.

Santos fell back against the carpet, annoyed when he caught a whiff of Glory's perfume, more annoyed when it went straight to his head, affecting him like a fine, potent wine. Scowling, he turned his head and breathed in the flowery, too-expensive scent. The fact of the matter was, like it or not, he and Liz didn't have a future together. Not the kind of future she wanted with him. Not the kind he wished he wanted with her, but didn't.

God help him, he wanted what he'd had with Glory.

Maybe, if he had never known Glory, if he had never known how deep and strong his feelings for a woman could run, maybe he and Liz would have had a chance. If he had never known how explosive—or how moving—sex could be, maybe the “very good” he experienced with Liz would have been enough.

But he had experienced more; he couldn't go back. And he hated that. He hated that he was going to hurt a very nice woman, a woman who cared for him, and he hated himself for not being able to settle for what he knew would be good for him.

Liz deserved better than he could give her. She deserved everything.

And he did, too.

The phone rang, saving him from his own thoughts. Muttering a word of thanks, he stood and crossed to it. It was Jackson. “Get your ass down here, man. We've got another body.”

“The Snow White Killer?”

“None other.”

“The son of a bitch is still here.” Propping the receiver between his shoulder and ear, he retrieved his clothes. “I thought for sure he'd blown town.”

“Hold your load, partner, it gets even better. This time we've got a witness.”

 

Santos made it to headquarters in record time. He slammed into homicide division, adrenaline pumping through him, the scent of the hunt filling his head, every nerve ending crackling with awareness, on the alert and ready.
He was going to get this bastard. He had him now.
He could almost taste it.

So could his fellow officers. A low hum of excitement crackled in the air, a subtle but distinct energy he recognized every time there was a break in an important case. Especially a case like this one—one they had all taken heat for, one that had beaten them more times than their egos cared to count.

Several of his colleagues met his eyes. They didn't speak; they didn't have to. He read their thoughts, their expressions.
Don't screw up. Get this guy. It's time to nail him. Do it.
He understood; they were depending on him. He had been on the other side before.

He found Jackson. “Where's the witness?” he asked without preamble.

“Interrogation two.” As they started for the interrogation room, Jackson filled him in on the details. “She's a hooker, name's Tia. Came forward at the scene, said she knew the victim and saw her get a date last night, about 2:00 a.m. Got a good look at the guy, too.”

“Out-fucking-standing.” Santos rubbed his hands together, anxious to get to her. “Anything else?”

“Oh, yeah. It gets even better. This Tia, two, two and a half hours later, she's walking home. She passes the old U.S. mint. That's where we find the body today, right? She sees something that's not quite right. A guy hanging around in back, looks like he's dragging something.”

“Or somebody.”

“Bingo. And she's got a general description. Medium height, medium weight, a white guy. Definitely white.”

“She didn't think to phone this in last night?”

“Get real.” Jackson plucked a file folder off his desk as they passed it. “That's why she came around today. She saw the blue and whites, wanted to check it out. Finds out it's her pal—” Jackson opened the folder and glanced inside “—Billie.”

“We're sure this is the work of our sick friend?”

“Not a doubt.” They stopped outside the interrogation room's closed door, and Jackson handed him the folder. “Right down to the palms.”

Santos opened it, scanned the information, noting each detail, looking for anything unexpected, any detail that didn't seem to fit the other killings. He found none.

“There's a hitch.”

Santos met his partner's eyes. “Of course there is.”

“She got wind this guy's the Snow White, and she clammed up. Big time. Recanted the whole thing. Claims she saw nothing.”

“She
got wind
this guy's the Snow White?” Santos swore. “Who was it?”

“Patterson.”

“Remind me to kick his ass.”

“With pleasure.” Jackson held out his hand for the file. “She's a real cop hater, too. We're going to need some of that famous charm of yours with this one.”

Santos nodded. “Let's do it.”

They entered the room. The woman was standing against the far wall, nervously chewing on her fingernails. She was white, appeared to be about forty, forty-five, but was probably younger. The street aged a girl. Santos had seen sixteen-year-olds who passed for thirty.

She looked scared. Real scared.

She met their eyes, masking her fear with defiance. “You got a cigarette? I need a smoke.”

Santos nodded and looked at Jackson. “Get Tia a pack of smokes. While you're at it, bring a couple Cokes, too.”

Jackson nodded, turned and left the room. He didn't mind Santos making him the gofer; this was part of their routine. Santos had been known to work wonders with reluctant witnesses, especially working girls. They trusted him because he didn't judge. A lot of his fellow officers had attitudes when it came to prostitutes, they treated them worse than dirt or expected services for free. So the girls hated them. Santos couldn't blame them.

“Hi, Tia.” He smiled and motioned toward the chairs. “Have a seat.”

He pulled one out, swung it around and straddled it. She didn't move from her position against the wall. “My name's Detective Santos. Detective Jackson's the guy who went for smokes.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Detective Santos?”

“That's right.” He smiled again. “Victor Santos.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

He arched his eyebrows, a little surprised by her venom. She wasn't joking around—she wished
him
ill. It was personal. He met her eyes. “Did we start off on the wrong foot here, Tia? Or have I done something to offend you?”

“Something to offend me? You could say that.” She shifted her gaze. “I want out of here.”

“Sure. I just need to ask you a few questions first.”

“I already answered a shitload of questions. I didn't see anything.”

“No?” He opened the folder and scanned it. “Says here, you saw plenty. Saw a john pick up your friend Billie around 2:00 a.m. It says you saw some guy around the mint about two hours later.”

“I didn't.”

Jackson returned with the cigarettes and soft drinks. He set the open pack of cigarettes on the table, in front of the chair directly across from Santos's. She eyed it, then crossed to the table and snatched the pack. Her hands shook so badly it took her three tries to get one lit. She finally did and took a long, greedy drag on it.

Santos watched her a moment, letting her get in a few good drags, waiting for the nicotine to kick in and calm her. “Why would the officer who took your statement lie, Tia?”

“How should I know? I'm just a hooker.” She swept her gaze over Santos, her lips curling with distaste. “Besides, all pigs lie.”

This girl not only hated all cops; she seemed to have a special dislike for him. Santos slid a glance to Jackson. His partner arched an eyebrow slightly; he saw it, too.

“You do drugs, Tia?” Santos asked.

“Fuck you. I'm clean. You can't keep me.” She sucked on the cigarette. “I didn't see anything.”

“You're lying, Tia. For whatever reason, probably 'cause you're scared.”

“Prove it.” She crushed the cigarette in the battered metal ashtray. “Can I go now?”

“We want to help you.” Santos met her gaze, not flinching at the horrors he saw there. “A girl's dead. A friend of yours. You can help us nail this guy.”

“I told you, I didn't see anything.” She folded her arms across her chest. “And I know how it works. You can't hold me.”

“Don't you get it?” Santos made a sound of frustration. “You could be next. If this guy hears you saw something, he's after you. You're safer talking to us, helping us get this guy. Come clean and—”

“And you're going to protect me?” She jumped to her feet. “That's a laugh. I'm just a hooker. You're going to get me to talk, then set me loose. You don't give a shit about me.”

“That's not true.” Santos stood. “I don't want another girl to die. I don't want you to die.”

“I'll take my chances.”

“Look, Tia,” Santos said, slipping his hands into his pockets, feigning nonchalance, “we'll just talk. About anything. Get to know each other. Then, if there's something you want—”

“You don't remember me, do you?” She all but spat the words at him. “You don't even have a clue.” Her teeth began to chatter, and she rubbed her arms. “But why should you? You forgot me the minute you left.”

“Do we know each other?” Santos shook his head. “I'm sorry, Tia, but I don't remember you. I meet a lot of girls—”

She laughed. The hollow, hopeless sound crawled along his nerve endings. “I wasn't a working girl back then. And you weren't a…pig.”

He tilted his head studying her, finding nothing familiar in her hard features. “Okay, Tia, why don't you refresh my memory.”

“My name's Tina. Got that? Tina.” She grabbed her purse, slung it over her shoulder and crossed to the door, stopping when she reached it and meeting his eyes once more. “Figure it out from there, hero.”

For a moment, he drew a blank, then his head filled with a memory from the night his mother died, the memory of a girl he had met at the abandoned school on Esplanade.

Tina?
Santos made a sound of surprise, of disbelief.
The runaway he had met that night? Could it be?
He remembered that girl, that Tina, sweet and frightened, vulnerable. He remembered her tears, their kiss; he remembered the way she had clung to him, so afraid to be alone on the streets.

And he remembered his promise to her. “I'll come back for you, Tina. Tomorrow. I promise. I'll be back tomorrow.”

But tomorrow had never come. Twenty minutes later, his world had come crashing in on him, and he'd been able to think of nothing but what he had lost.

He met Tina's eyes, his heart heavy with the memories, with apologies and with sadness for the way her life had turned out. He had been so much luckier than she.

“That's right,” she said, spitting the words at him. “You never came back, you bastard. I waited. I waited so lo—” She bit back the words, yanked open the door and walked out.

Jackson leaped to his feet. “I'll get her.”

Santos caught his arm. “Let her go. We know where to find her.”

Jackson made a sound of frustration and shook his head. “Nice girl.”

“Actually,” Santos said, his voice thick, “she was. Once upon a time, she was a very nice girl.”