Forbidden Fruit (22 page)

L
iz grew more uneasy by the minute. She checked her watch and frowned. She and Glory had arranged to meet here, in the ladies' room of the Fairmont Hotel, at nine-fifteen sharp. That had been ten minutes ago. Where was Glory?

Liz stood and began to pace, a field of butterflies in her stomach. What was she doing? What had possessed her to agree to this crazy, dangerous scheme? She shook her head, suddenly dizzy with alarm. Switch places with Glory? Pretend to be Glory in front of four hundred or so people? She must have been insane.

Liz crossed to one of the mirrors above the sink and gazed at her pale reflection. She shivered. When Glory had first suggested they switch places at this
bal masqué,
Liz had been skeptical, though intrigued. It hadn't taken Glory long to suck her into the idea, explaining that it wouldn't be as difficult or risky as it sounded. She and Liz were the same size and general build; they even wore the same shoe size. The crowd was always huge, the ballroom dimly lit. Her mother never bothered her; her father stayed busy at the bar. If Liz kept her mask in place and stayed on the fringes of the room, their plan would go off without a hitch.

Liz had not only warmed to the idea, she had become excited. She had always dreamed of going to a real masquerade ball, like the ones she had read about in historical accounts of the Old South and in novels. She was curious, too, to see how the other half—Glory's half—lived. The clincher had been her desire to be Glory, even if only for a night.

Her cheeks heated, and Liz reached out and touched her reflection, more than a little embarrassed by her own thoughts. Who did she think she was? Cinderella? And did she think that just by wearing the glass slipper, she would become the real deal? That she would be the one who got the prince?

Right. Liz made a face and turned away from the mirror. Once an ugly stepsister, always an ugly stepsister.

She went to the bathroom door and peeked out. She could see all the way down the hall that led to the bank of elevators. No Glory. Liz sighed, shut the door and crossed to the powder-room settee. She sank onto it, propping her chin on her fist.

She should have known Glory would be late; she always was these days. Just as she, Liz, was always alone, always covering for Glory so she and Santos could be together. At first, her friend had called on Liz to cover for her every once in a while, and she had been happy to help. But lately, it had been every day. Glory was her best friend, and she would do anything for her, but she was getting tired of this. And resentful.

Liz sighed. She and Glory used to do things together—study or catch a movie, go to the mall or library, sometimes they had gone bike riding in Audubon Park. Now, the time she used to spend with Glory, she spent
pretending
to be with Glory. Liz sighed again. The price for having a best friend who was madly in love, she supposed.

Liz dug the toe of her sneaker into the sumptuous oriental-style carpet. The more infatuated Glory had become, the more Liz had begun to worry that she and Glory would be caught. She had never seen her friend this way, had never imagined she could be so…careless when it came to her mother. It wouldn't be long before Glory's mother noticed the change in her daughter.

If she hadn't already.

Liz shuddered at the thought and rubbed her arms. Hope St. Germaine terrified her, even though the woman had always been cordial toward her, even though she greeted her warmly whenever she saw her.

Liz didn't believe the warmth for a moment, she didn't buy the niceties. She had Glory's mother figured out. Hope St. Germaine had decided that Liz Sweeney was a good influence on her daughter, so she had sanctioned the friendship. For now. That could change, would change, if the woman suddenly decided that Liz was no longer the kind of friend she wanted her daughter to have.

Hope St. Germaine was a powerful woman. And cold. So cold that sometimes when Liz looked into her eyes, she couldn't suppress a shudder. Hope St. Germaine, Liz knew with certainty, would not hesitate to ruthlessly wield that icy power against her.

And if she did, Liz would have no way to protect herself. Liz understood that very well. She was not only distinctly without power, but in a vulnerable position, as well. As a scholarship student, she had to hold herself to the highest standards of propriety and morality. If she slipped up, she was out. The academy had made that abundantly clear.

A mother came into the powder room, two small children in tow, both tired and crabby. She herded them into the bathroom, then into a stall, and Liz gazed blankly at them, her thoughts still on Glory's mother. When she had tried to express her fears to Glory, her friend had insisted Liz was worried over nothing. Her mother did not suspect. And if she did somehow uncover her daughter's romance, it would be Glory who was punished, not Liz.

But Liz couldn't shake a feeling of impending doom, coiled like a snake in the pit of her gut. Glory had told her about her and Santos's fight. Glory had told her she intended to talk to her father soon; when she did, the jig would be up, all of them found out. Glory was scared, Liz knew, but not scared enough. Not enough to be cautious or play it safe, not enough to stop seeing Santos.

Not that she didn't understand Glory's feelings. She did, more than she should. Over the past two months, she had spent a good bit of time with Glory and Santos. Glory had said she wanted Liz to know Santos the way she did, that she wanted her best friend to think he was the greatest, too.

And Liz did think Santos was the greatest. In fact, she thought he was the most wonderful guy she had ever met. He was smart and funny and gorgeous; he made her laugh, he made her think, he even made her feel pretty. Liz drew in a deep breath. And he didn't think her being so smart was nerdy. He admired her intelligence; he had told her so. And they understood each other, in a way he and Glory never would. Because of their similar backgrounds, because they had both, in a way, grown up having to make their own way in the world.

She was more than half in love with Santos herself.

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. She despised feeling that way. She despised her tiny, niggling, hateful hope that Glory and Santos would break up. It was disloyal and dishonest—even though she would never act on her feelings. Her friendship to Glory came first. She would never betray her. Never.

Not that Santos would ever look twice at her, anyway. Liz trailed a finger along the settee's pretty mauve piping. Even if Glory wasn't in the picture, Santos would be beyond her reach. He was too good-looking, too cool for a little bookworm like her.

Liz sagged against the plump cushions, drawing her eyebrows together, thinking of the future. Her future. Someday she would be rich and respected and successful. She would come up with a cure for cancer or invent something that would change the world. Then it wouldn't matter that she wasn't pretty or curvaceous or bubbly.

She narrowed her eyes in determination. A.I.C. was just the beginning. With top grades from the academy she could win a scholarship to any school she wanted. She would have everything she'd always dreamed of.

The mother and her children emerged from the bathroom; she hustled them through the sitting area and past Liz, sending her a friendly glance as she did. Liz smiled at the woman, reminded of her own mother. As the door began to shut behind them, Liz heard the little girl exclaim, “Look, Mommy, a princess!”

Glory.
Liz jumped to her feet. At last.

Glory swept into the powder room; Liz caught her breath. Glory's gown was made of a delicate, shimmery fabric, its color the rich jewel tones of a peacock feather and laced in gold braiding. Glory did look like a princess. Like the princess Liz had always fantasized being.

Liz brought a hand to her chest, almost dizzy with excitement. “You're late,” she said breathlessly.

“I wanted to wait for the perfect moment to slip away.”

“Your mother?”

“Is playing queen bee, safely surrounded by a group of admiring matrons. She hasn't looked twice at me all night.” Glory sucked in a deep breath. “This is going to be fun. An adventure.”

“I'm so scared, I'm afraid I'll wet my pants.”

Glory laughed, then held a finger to her lips. They tiptoed to the handicapped stall, slipped inside and locked the door. Carefully, quietly, they exchanged clothes. Glory had solved the problem of the obvious differences in their hair with a beaded snood; she helped Liz with it and with the dress's zipper, then carefully fitted on the elaborate feathered mask. Though it only covered half of Liz's face, it concealed her identity.

“You look fantastic,” Glory whispered, eyes sparkling.

“Do I?” Liz gazed down at herself, smoothing her hands over her waist and hips, thinking once again of Cinderella. “This is the most beautiful dress I've ever seen. It must have cost a fortune.”

“You can have it. Santos is all I want.” Glory hugged herself. “Tonight's the night all my dreams come true.”

Liz looked sharply at her friend. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling.
Something was up. Something more than their switch.
Liz frowned. “Okay, Glo, spill it. What aren't you telling me?”

Glory opened her mouth as if to do just that, then shut it and shook her head. “Come on, you have to look at yourself in the mirror.” She unlocked the stall door, peered out to make sure the coast was clear, then grabbed Liz's hand.

They exited the stall and crossed to stand before the mirror. Liz made a sound of disbelief. And wonder. “Is it really me?”

“It is.” Glory smiled. “I told you you look fantastic.”

Liz cocked her head to the side, studying her image, unconvinced they could pull this off. “Even with the mask, I don't look like you.”

“But you look enough like me. Just don't get too close to Mother or Daddy.”

Liz shuddered at the thought of Hope St. Germaine discovering their trickery. “Don't worry. I don't plan to get close to anyone. Especially her.”

“Here.” Glory handed Liz her evening bag, made out of the same fabric as the dress. “My lip gloss is in there. And a hanky. If someone gets too close, have a coughing fit and run to the ladies' room.”

Liz took it, her hand shaking. “I can't believe I'm doing this.”

Glory pressed a hand to her fluttering stomach. “I have butterflies.”

“Me, too.” Liz gazed at her reflection, wishing she looked a little more like Glory. “What if—”

“No what ifs. We're going to pull this off.”

“Be careful.” Liz caught Glory's hands. “Make sure no one sees you.”

“No one will.” Glory squeezed her friend's fingers. “Stay on the fringes. Let Mother catch sight of you every once in a while. That will satisfy her.”

“What about your father?”

“I promise, he'll be at the bar all night. Just don't go near there.”

Liz giggled nervously. “I'm so scared. But excited, too.”

“I know. I feel the same.” Glory hugged her. “I love you, Liz. You're the best friend in the whole world. I'll see you back here, at eleven-thirty.”

“On the dot. Don't be late, Glory. Not tonight.”

“I won't. I promise.”

They crossed to the door. Liz peeked out. There was no one about, and she eased into the hall. Glory caught her hand, pulling her back into the bathroom. Startled, Liz met her eyes. “What?”

“I'm so…Do you—” Glory bit back the words, her eyes growing bright with tears. “Do you think Santos loves me? I just…I just have to know if I'm doing the right thing.”

Glory's question, her uncertainty, affected Liz like a stunning punch to her gut. She sucked in a deep, steadying breath. “Oh, Glo…of course I think Santos loves you. I know he does. When he looks at you, I—”

Liz's throat closed over the words. When Santos looked at Glory, she ached. Because she wished someone would look at her that way, wished it with all her heart. And because she feared no one ever would.

She would never really be the princess. And she would never get the prince. He belonged to Glory.

“When Santos looks at you,” she finished softly, aching, “I see the way he feels. He's crazy in love with you.”

“Then why won't he tell me?” Glory's voice thickened with tears. “If I knew he loved me, I could face anything, Liz. Even my mother.”

Liz didn't have an answer for her, and it wasn't until Glory had run to meet Santos and she had made her way up to the ballroom, that Liz wondered what Glory had meant about worrying if she was doing the right thing. What was Glory planning to do?

H
ope slipped out of the ballroom. Her heart beat rapidly, erratically. Under her elaborate beaded gown she wore an old-fashioned black corset, real hose and nothing else. The corset stays bit punishingly into her flesh, and she was grateful for the pain.

She deserved to be punished. She was weak. And wicked. She deserved to be struck down by the almighty hand of the Lord. She heard the scripture in her head, pleading with her to stop, to go back.

She tried to cling to it, but the voice of The Darkness drove it back, insisting on payment, on satisfaction. The Darkness demanded to be fed.

Hope took the elevator to the fifth floor. She moved down the hall, without worry of discovery. If anyone happened to see her, she would explain that she had taken a room so she could rest during the ball. As she had taken pains for everyone to know, she had been feeling quite under the weather for more than a week now.

She neared the room. Her gown whispered against her legs like an illicit chant. With each step, the corset seemed to grow tighter, the pain becoming insanely erotic. The thunder of blood in her head reached a deafening crescendo.

Number 513.
She stopped in front of the door and drew in a deep, trembling breath. Her procurer, a crude but clever little man, would have taken care of everything. He had done this for her before, many times.

A tag hung on the door, asking that the party inside not be disturbed. She knocked, anyway; she was expected.

From inside came a sound, one that was not quite human. Hope grasped the doorknob and twisted. The door swung open; she slipped through. The room was dark but not empty; she heard the man-creature's soft panting.

She fastened the lock and safety chain behind her. She unzipped her dress and removed it, careful to lay it out smoothly, then crossed the floor.

She made out his form as she neared the bed. He was naked and prone, tied to the bed with velvet cords.

With a guttural cry, she fell on him.