Forbidden Fruit (43 page)

“W
ell, Mr. Michaels,” Glory said, closing her office door and motioning to the sofa grouping to her right, “what did you think?”

The man smiled, crossed to the sofa and sat down. “Please, call me Jonathan.”

She sank onto the chair across from him. “Only if you call me Glory.”

“Done.” He smiled again. “It's a beautiful property, Glory. You've taken excellent care of it.”

“Thank you.” She folded her hands in her lap, hating that they shook. “I love the St. Charles. It's been in my family for a long time. In fact, the St. Charles is like a member of the family.”

She hesitated, torn by what she was doing. A part of her felt as if even talking to an investor like Jonathan Michaels was letting her father down, another part knew that times had changed and that she—and the St. Charles—had to change with them.

“I'm sure,” she continued, meeting his gaze once more, “that sounds rather silly to a no-nonsense businessman such as yourself.”

“Actually, it doesn't.” He placed his hands on his knees and leaned toward her. “When my agent contacted you, I didn't think we had a chance. After all, we've tried before. Why are you interested in selling this time?”

“I'm not interested in selling,” she corrected quickly. “But, as I explained to your associate, I am considering taking on a partner.”

He inclined his head, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Poor word choice. You indicated you would part with twenty-percent ownership?”

“And no more. That's nonnegotiable.” Glory tightened her fingers in her lap. “I'm also quite interested in your management service. You have an excellent reputation, as I'm sure you know.”

He smiled, indicating that he did. “May I ask, why a partner now?”

“Due to forces beyond my control, the hotel is much less profitable than it once was.”

“The location.”

“Is the biggest reason, yes. The next is the proliferation of new hotels in and around the city.” She drew in a deep, careful breath. She knew these words, these reasons, by heart. She had played them all over in her head many times. “If I can't get occupancy up, eventually I will be unable to maintain the hotel, either its standards or the facility.”

“You can lower the room rate.”

“I have. Considerably, over the years. But occupancy is still down, and I'm getting less for the rooms. Standards will fall. I don't want that to happen.”

“I can understand that. In my opinion, it would be a tragedy. There are few enough grand old places like this left.” He searched her expression, his gaze, she suspected, missing nothing. “Are those your only reasons, Glory?”

“No.” She stood and went to the window that overlooked St. Charles Avenue. As she gazed down, a streetcar rumbled past. “As you know, running a hotel is a full-time responsibility.”

“Full-time plus about forty hours.”

“You've got that right.” She shifted her gaze to his. “And there's another venture I want to get involved in. Another, much smaller property that has a lot of potential.”

He arched an eyebrow. “From the look in your eyes, this property is special.”

She smiled. “Very. But it will take a tremendous amount of my time. And a great deal of capital to get off the ground.”

“Any chance you're looking for a partner in that venture?”

She laughed again, liking this man. “It wouldn't be your cup of tea, believe me. But I'm every bit committed to it as to the St. Charles.” At his expression, she added, “It's also a family property. My mother's family.”

She crossed to her desk and rested on its edge, facing him. “We've talked about me and my reasons for wanting a partner. What about you, Jonathan? I know you've done your research. You haven't built your business to its present state by being uninformed. Knowing what you do about the St. Charles, why are you interested in part ownership?”

“That's easy.” He lifted his hands palms up. “Because the St. Charles is a gem. Because it's a perfect complement to my other hotels. And because I believe this area of New Orleans will turn around. Eventually. I also believe that if given a choice, affluent, cosmopolitan visitors would prefer to stay in a grand old New Orleans hotel than in one of the large, slick chain hotels.”

He laced his fingers together. “Advertising this beautiful hotel is key, getting the word out about what a rare and special experience staying at the St. Charles would be. Travel agents need to know about the St. Charles, we need to be hooked in with tour companies, both in the U.S. and abroad. My management company has had incredible success with European wholesalers. You'll see occupancy back at ninety percent within six months.”

She worked to conceal her excitement. Except during Mardi Gras, the St. Charles hadn't been at ninety percent since before her father's death. “That's a big claim, Jonathan.”

He met her gaze evenly. “I've done it before.”

He had. She, too, had done her homework. Jonathan Michaels had a sterling reputation in the industry. He was financially sound, had a history of success and was considered both wily and honest. The year before, he had been named Hotelier of the Year by
Hotel
magazine.

He stood and crossed to the picture window behind her desk, occupying the spot she had occupied only moments before. He, too, gazed down at the avenue. “I'm also looking at buying several commercial properties around the hotel.”

Glory arched her eyebrows. “That would be a tremendous investment of capital in an area most consider dead.”

“I have the capital. And I love this city. I believe in it.” He folded his arms across his chest. “You know I'm a native New Orleanian?”

She nodded. “Your father worked for a time at the St. Charles.”

“As a bellman.” Jonathan laughed and shook his head. “I remember coming to see him here, with my mother. I was awestruck.”

She laughed. “Sometimes I still am.”

“I met your father that day. He was very kind to us. Later, I knew him through business.”

Glory swept her gaze over him. Jonathan Michaels looked to be in his mid-to-late-forties. Her father would have been sixty-four this year. “Did you?”

“I was just starting out in the business. He was very highly thought of in the industry. He impressed the heck out of me, that's for sure.”

Her lips lifted. “He did me, too. Thank you.” She checked her watch. “I know you have a plane to catch, I won't keep you any longer.”

He nodded and they started for the door. “What do you think?” he asked. “Interested?”

“Very. I have to talk to my business advisors. My lawyer and the hotel accountant. And my mother. As you probably know, she owns fifty percent of the hotel.”

“Do you think she'll be receptive to discussion?”

Glory held the door open for him, then they walked toward the elevators. “She's not as attached to the hotel as I am. But she enjoys the perks. And the prestige of owning it.”

“Many of those details can be worked out at the table.”

They reached the elevator, and Glory summoned one, inclining her head. “I'll call you.”

“You do that. An association between our hotels would be profitable for us both. And good for the St. Charles.”

“If I didn't believe that, I wouldn't have agreed to meet with you in the first place. I'll call you,” she said again. “Either way.”

After she had walked him to the elevator, Glory returned to her office. She stood at the door and gazed at her father's desk, the window and view beyond, a feeling of both sadness and hopefulness moving over her.

Her father would not have wanted the hotel to fail. He would not have allowed it to fall into disrepair. And he would have liked Jonathan Michaels—everything about him, from his reputation in the industry to the fact he was a New Orleans native.

But her mother would not like him. She would not think him “good enough” to be in partnership with. She would not want to give up any of her status, nor would she agree to anything she feared would cause talk.

Her mother would not readily—if ever—agree to this deal.

And Glory wasn't quite sure what she was going to do about that.

T
he club was called the Rack. Located on the edge of the French Quarter, away from the hustle and bustle of tourists and legitimate businesses, this club opened at midnight and closed at dawn; it catered to a clientele whose sexual appetites ran counter to normal, ones whose lives revolved around the giving and/or receiving of pain.

And Hope St. Germaine had just gone inside.

Santos whistled, low and sweet. Five days of following her had finally yielded pay dirt. But this? He shook his head. If he hadn't seen it himself, if he hadn't tailed her from her driveway to here, hadn't watched her climb out of her car—dressed totally in black, her face shielded by a scarf—scurry up the sidewalk and slip inside, he never would have believed it.

He had her now. Almost.

Santos tugged his New Orleans Saints' cap lower on his head and climbed out of his car. Jackson had used sources to discover that Queen St. Germaine had recently cashed in a twenty-five-thousand-dollar C.D. He had also learned that she hadn't redeposited the money in any accounts, at least none that Jackson's sources had access to.

Unfortunately, it wasn't a crime to cash in a C.D. And since he and Jackson had learned of it illegally, the information couldn't be used in a court of law or anyplace else. He needed more; he needed proof that she had set him up.

Santos entered the Rack, keeping his head down. He could be recognized here, though it had been years since he had busted the place as a part of a routine, cleanup sting. If his memory was correct, the place had been closed for less than seventy-two hours after the bust.

Life went on. The department had neither the funding nor staff to act on every infraction of the law, especially when it came to consensual sex between adults—even dangerous, twisted sex.

Everybody had to have a hobby.

Santos scanned the room. It was elegant and lovely, in a classy old-world kind of way, not at all the interior one would expect of a club that catered to the beat-me, whip-me crowd. But the Rack's clientele hailed from the upper crust: they were accustomed to the best and settled for no less, even in their sadomasochistic social clubs. Besides, if a client desired the more traditional, Bela Lugosi chamber-of-horrors stuff, it could be found in the private party rooms upstairs and in back.

Santos moved farther into the club, working his way through a crowd peppered with an unhealthy amount of black leather, spiked body adornments and chains. He paused to let a man leading his “friend” around by collar and leash pass; at the bar, a woman wearing five-inch spike-heel boots, was using her companion's naked back as a footrest. Santos winced as he saw her shift her weight and lean forward, as he saw the spike dig into the man's flesh.

Mixed into the flamboyant expression of personal preferences were people who looked as everyday, as straight-laced and conservative as every other banker, accountant or lawyer Santos saw on a daily basis in the central business district.

No Hope St. Germaine.

She had gone to a private party. Santos swore and glanced around again. Gaining entry to one of the private rooms would require an act of God or the law; unfortunately, he had access to neither at the moment.
Now what?

“Hello there, stud.” A tall, strongly built woman sidled up to him. She slipped a hand through his arm, her long, blood-red fingernails curling suggestively into his forearm. “You delivering tonight?” she asked in a husky falsetto. “You look like just the kind of man who could make me scream.”

Santos met her—or depending on perspective, his—heavily made-up eyes. He recognized Sam/Samantha from previous times their paths had crossed. A regular to this kind of scene, Sam was a gump, a male prostitute who dressed like a female.

And there was a good chance she could help him.

Santos smiled. “Hello, Samantha. What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

Her eyes widened in recognition, and she tried to pull away. He covered her hand with his, and held her where she was. “You're not going to go and make a scene, are you, Samantha? I'd really hate that.”

She shook her head. “I'm not doing anything. C'mon, Detective. I was just having a little fun with you, that's all.”

“Fun? That's right, that's what you call this.” He tightened his grip on her hand. “Come with me, Samantha, we need to have a little chat.”

He led her to a secluded corner of the club, positioning himself with his back to the wall, so he would have a clear view of the place. “I need to know what's happening tonight.”

Samantha shook her head again, beginning to tremble. “I told you, Detective. Nothing's going on.”

“Private parties, Sam. I need to know who's partying tonight.”

Samantha smoothed a hand over her black satin gown. Cut into two separate pieces, it was held together at the sides by silver chains. “I don't know anything. Really.”

Santos saw that her hand was shaking. “Nervous about something, Sam?”

“Not at all.”

“You're shaking like a leaf. Like you're guilty of something.” Santos leaned closer. “You know, I could bust you for about half a dozen different things right now. You never have liked jail much, have you, Samantha? The other boys just don't play nice, do they?”

She paled. “You're killing me, Detective Santos. If anyone found out that I'd told you something, I'd be—”

“I'm looking for a middle-aged woman. A real society broad. Lots of money and attitude.”

Samantha bit her lip, glancing nervously to her right, then left.

“You know who I'm talking about?” Santos looked into her eyes. “I'll owe you one, Sam. This is important. It's personal.”

For a moment, Samantha said nothing, then she nodded and leaned a fraction closer. “I know who you're talking about.” She lowered her voice. “She's a real bitch, too. She hurt a friend of mine pretty bad. He was in the hospital a week.”

Santos's heart began to thunder.
He had her.
“What else?”

“She likes her guys young and real macho.” Sam sniffed, put out. “There's no accounting for some people's taste.”

“She's in there now?”

Samantha wetted her lips and nodded. “Came in a little bit ago. Never speaks to anyone, never looks at anybody, like she's too good for the rest of us.”

“So, she comes in,” Santos urged, impatient. “Then what?”

“The games begin, obviously. She goes straight upstairs. I hear she calls herself Violet.”

She had given herself a flower name. Just like all the other Pierron women.
“Chop sets her up?”

Samantha's expression cooled. “I wouldn't know about that.”

“Bullshit.” Santos caught her hand, holding it so tightly she winced. “Chop sets most of these people up. How much? What she likes, how much does it cost?”

Sam lifted her shoulders. “I've never been in the room, you understand. But from what I've heard, a few hundred to a few thousand. Depending on what she's into that night.”

Nowhere near twenty-five thousand.
Santos nodded, narrowing his eyes. No, that kind of money was needed to set somebody
else
up. That kind of money was needed for something more dangerous, more out of the ordinary, than what went on upstairs.

“Thanks, Samantha,” he said, dropping her hand. “I won't forget this. I owe you.”

As he turned to go, Samantha caught his arm. She swept her gaze appreciatively over him. “Why not fulfill your debt now? Hang around a while, we could take a walk on the wild side.” She moved a fraction closer. “I bet I could teach you a few new tricks.”

He removed her hand from his arm, leaving no question what he thought of her offer, though when he spoke, he spoke kindly. “This old dog knows all the tricks he cares to. Be safe, Sam.”

Santos walked away, leaving the Rack behind.