Forbidden Fruit (32 page)

“What I'm saying is, don't you ever come in here and tell me how to do my job. I know how to do my job. I take it seriously, and I'm damn good at it. So if there's nothing else, princess, I've got a killer to find.”

“Don't call me that.” Though shaking, she yanked her arm free of his grasp.

“Why?” He arched his eyebrows. “Do you prefer Your Highness?”

“Go to hell,” she said succinctly, then swung away from him. As she did, her gaze lighted on the photographs spread across the center of the desk. She caught her breath, and took an involuntary step back, her hand going to her throat.

“Ms. St. Germaine.” Jackson jumped up. He steadied her with a hand to her elbow. “Why don't you sit down a moment?”

She dragged her gaze away, struggling, Santos saw, to compose herself. He could almost see her armor going back up, fitting snugly into place. But for a moment before, when she had been angry, when he had goaded her, she had been alive with fire. In those moments, she had reminded him of the girl he had once known.

“Thank you, Detective,” she said stiffly to Jackson, easing her elbow from his grip. “But I'm fine. If you'll excuse me.”

She turned and walked away, back straight, head held high, though Santos suspected she would not sleep well tonight. The image of the dead girl would haunt her. In truth, they sometimes still haunted him.

“Ms. St. Germaine,” Santos called after her. “About your employee…”

She stopped and looked over her shoulder at him. He saw the hesitation in her gaze, the apprehension.

“He's clean. He's got an airtight alibi.” Santos smiled, acknowledging that he had won round one, acknowledging that he liked the feeling. A lot. “I just thought you'd like to know.”

“You son of a bitch.”

He smiled and tipped an imaginary brim. “At your service.”

L
ily awoke to the sound of birds singing. Gently, sweetly, they coaxed her from her heavy sleep and into the new day. She opened her eyes. By the softness of the light, she judged that it was early, just after dawn.

She folded back her blankets and climbed out of bed, though not without difficulty. She crossed to the French doors that led to the small balcony that overlooked the building's central courtyard. Smiling, she opened them and stepped outside to admire God's handiwork.

The dappled light on the courtyard floor reminded her of her youth, though she couldn't pinpoint exactly why. Her mind was flooded with memories of the mornings of her past, and with the sensory reminiscences that came with them: the clean, sweet scent of the air; the feel of morning dew on her toes; the enticing smell of bacon frying; the warmth of the sun on her face as she lifted it to heaven.

Lily tilted her head and listened. The birds continued to sing; they sounded like a choir of angels.

The cold came upon her so suddenly that for a moment she thought it January instead of June, thought the cold that enveloped her came from outside her rather than from within.

But no, she was cold. To the touch cold. She rubbed her arms and found them wet. Slippery wet, as if she had been working in the garden during the day's zenith.

The birds were singing.

And she was dying.

Lily didn't know how she knew, but she did, with a kind of clarity she couldn't dismiss.

She moved her gaze over the courtyard, searching for the birds, finding peace in the fact that she could hear, but not see, them. Perhaps He would take her, after all. Perhaps He had forgiven her sins. Her many, many sins.

Lily turned away from the new day and left her bedroom, though she didn't bother with her slippers or robe. Santos was up. She smelled the coffee, heard the crackle of newspaper pages being turned. Santos never slept deeply or for long. He never had. His demons robbed him of that pleasure, of the sweet perfection of deep, dreamless sleep.

Lily moved slowly to the kitchen, the cold becoming almost unbearable. She wished Santos would find someone to love, a mate, a life partner. She wished he would find someone who loved him so much and so completely that he would never feel alone or unloved again.

She had spent too many years feeling both. Life, she realized now, was too short. Life needed to be grabbed with both hands; it needed to be enjoyed, to be basked in.

Lily found Santos in the kitchen. He sat at the kitchen table, coffee mug and newspaper before him, head bent as he read. He was so strong and handsome, she thought, moving her gaze over him almost greedily. He was so good. Her being filled with such love, such pride that for a moment, the cold receded. He wasn't hers; she wasn't his mother, she hadn't brought him into this world.

But she felt as if she was, as if she had. She couldn't be more proud of him, couldn't love him more if she had given birth to him, if she had held him in her arms and to her breast, if she had nourished him with her own body.

She would look his mother up when she reached her destination. She would tell her about him.

Although, Lily suspected, she probably already knew.

“Santos?”

He lifted his gaze and smiled. “Good morning. You're up early.”

“There's something I need you to do for me. Some things I need to tell you.”

He frowned and searched her expression as if suddenly realizing that something was wrong. “Lily, are you…all right?”

Her left arm went numb. The sensation unsettled, robbing her of some of her peace. A modicum of her relief. She drew in a deep breath, forcing herself to focus. “I must tell you this now…in case I can't…later.”

He stood and rushed over to her, his expression alarmed. He touched her, then snatched his hand away. “I'm calling 911.”

“Wait!” She caught his hand, her shoulders growing tight. “Santos…I want you to call Hope. I must see her before…I have to see her before I—”

The pain hit her like a foot to her chest. Lily squeezed Santos's hand, holding on to him, on to his life force. “Promise me you will…promise to…call her.”

He promised, then raced for the phone and called 911. A moment later, he swept her into his arms and carried her down the flight of stairs to the building's entrance to await the ambulance.

Lily gazed lovingly at his face, unfooled by his set, emotionless expression. Inside Santos there had always raged an inferno of emotion. And a bottomless well of love.

“Everyone goes sometime,” she said softly, her voice small and slurred with pain. “If this is mine, I welcome it.”

“You're not going to die.” Santos tightened his arms. “I'm not going to let you die, Lily.”

“Silly boy,” she whispered, wanting to reach up and stroke his cheek but finding she didn't have the strength. “I want you to…know how much I…love you, Santos.”

“I know, Lily. I—”

She shook her head, though she couldn't feel her head move. “I think of you like a son. My son. Without you…my life—”

She gasped, struggling past the pain, wanting, needing to share this with him. “I was dead before you came into my life. You took my loneliness away. You gave me something I thought I would never…have. You gave me love, Victor. You're a good boy, and I want you to know everything before I…before I die.”

“Lily, stop this.” He pressed his face to her hair. “You're scaring me.”

“You deserve everything…good. I don't think you know that about yourself. Promise me…be kind to yourself. Don't cheat yourself as I…Victor!” She brought a hand to her chest, her head emptied of everything but the pain. She closed her eyes.

“No, Lily! Wait!” She heard the panic in his voice, felt it in the way he clutched at her. “You gave me those things, too, Lily. A home and a family. You gave me love…Lily, don't do this. Please…don't die. You can't leave me. I need you.”

“Hope,” Lily said again, her voice small and breathy. She curled her fingers into his T-shirt. “I must see…her. Must…make…peace. My baby, I…”

The pain took her breath, her ability to speak. She heard the wail of the ambulance, heard Santos's frantic, muttered pleas, the cry of the neighbor's baby. And she heard the birds. Singing. Sweetly, sweetly calling.

Then she heard nothing at all.

T
he next two hours passed in a panicked blur for Santos. Lily had suffered a heart attack, though the extent of the damage to her heart was not yet known. The doctor had administered the highest allowable amount of morphine to ease her pain, then later, when he had been sure what they were dealing with, he gave her a miracle drug he described, simply, as a clot buster.

Though Santos had never considered himself a particularly spiritual man, a prayer ran continually through his head, one in which he begged God to keep Lily alive. His prayers had been answered, though the doctor had given him no pretty illusions to hang on to. Lily was old, her health poor and she had suffered what looked to be a major heart attack. The probability that she would have another was great.

But she was alive. Santos gazed at her, so thankful he could weep. She was finally free of pain and was resting. The doctor had said she would sleep for as many as twelve hours and had suggested Santos get some shut-eye, too. The next few days would be long ones.

Santos bent and pressed a kiss to her forehead, whispered that he would be back, then left the room in search of the pay phone. He called the division and Liz, then swallowing both his pride and his hatred, he called Hope.

She answered on the third ring and oddly, she didn't sound surprised when he identified himself.

“What can I do for you, Detective Santos?”

A shudder ran up his spine. He found something almost snakelike about her voice, about the way it moved over him. “I've called with some bad news, I'm afraid.”

“Oh, and what could that be? Another murder at the hotel?”

He amused the woman; he heard it in her voice. She thought she was so much better than he, so much above everything, even the law. That was obvious. She made him sick.

“It's about your mother,” he said stiffly, controlling his anger and dislike, but not hiding them. “She's had a—”

“I'm sorry, Officer,” Hope said, cutting him off, “but you've been misinformed. I have no mother. She died years ago, traveling abroad.”

The image of Lily, pale, near death, filled his head. As did her plea that he bring Hope to her side. His anger swelled, taking his breath, stealing his self-control, his ability to think.
For Lily,
he reminded himself, gripping the receiver tightly. He would do this for Lily.

“You can forget your little fairy tale, Mrs. St. Germaine. I know who you are. And personally, I don't think you're good enough to lick Lily's boots, but she asked me to call you. For some reason, she actually thinks you're worth a crap.”

Hope laughed, the sound had an almost girlish lilt. “Is that so? Go on, Detective.”

“She's had a heart attack. And it doesn't…it doesn't look good.” Saying the words out loud hurt; they shook him to his core. His throat closed over them, betraying his feelings.
What would he do without Lily?
“There's every chance she might…die.”

For a moment, Hope was silent, then she made a small sound of impatience. “Is this supposed to concern me in some way, Detective?”

“Did you hear what I said? Your mother is dying.”

“Yes, I heard you. But I don't understand why you're calling me.”

He could detect no regret in her voice, no remorse, not even a trace of sadness. How could she be so heartless? he wondered. How could she be so cold?

He drew a deep breath, struggling to keep his fury and hatred in check. Hope St. Germaine would love having him lose it, he knew. She would love rubbing his nose in it.

For Lily, he reminded himself again. For Lily he would do anything, even beg. “She wants to see you. She wants to make her peace with you.”

“I'm sorry, Detective, but that won't be possible.”

“Are you saying—”

“That's exactly what I'm saying.”

“She's dying, for Christ's sake!” He struggled to get a grip on his rage. “She wants to see you. It's her dying wish.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me? I can assure you, it doesn't.”

“Please.” He choked out the word, thinking of Lily, hearing her weak plea, remembering all the years she had longed for her daughter. “Please,” he said again. “I'm begging you. Give her this. Let her die happy.”

“No, thank you,” she said sweetly, as if he were a canvasser who had called for a donation. “Good day.”

The phone went dead. Santos stared disbelievingly at the receiver, adrenaline pumping through him, his fury knowing no bounds.
The bitch had hung up on him! She had refused her dying mother's last wish.

He slammed the receiver of the pay phone back into the cradle, so hard he heard the plastic housing crack. He would show Hope St. Germaine; he would get her where she was most vulnerable. He would not allow her to treat Lily this way.

He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. Sweet, generous Lily. Lily who had loved and shared so much and been hurt so often. He would give Lily's her heart's desire, no matter what it cost him.

Or rather, he would give her
one
of them.

After checking with the doctor and on Lily, then leaving his beeper number at the nurses' station, he went to his car. His fury in check, he slid inside, slapped his police light onto the roof and peeled out. He drove as only a seasoned police officer could—like a controlled madman.

And made it to Glory's Garden District cottage in less than fifteen minutes. He wheeled into her driveway, beacon flashing. A neighbor, retrieving her Sunday paper, gaped openly at him, obviously aghast, then hurried inside. No doubt to inform the rest of the family and neighborhood that
that nice Glory St. Germaine was in some sort of trouble.

His lips lifting in amusement, he slammed out of the car. Glory was about to become the talk of the 'hood.

She answered the door within moments of his knock. She was wearing faded blue jeans and a short, soft knit top. Her feet were bare, her face free of cosmetics. She looked young and vulnerable; she looked like the sixteen-year-old girl he had fallen in love with.

Seeing her that way affected him like a shock to his system. Memories flooded him, hot and sweet, electric and electrifying. In those moments, he remembered things he had managed to put out of his mind for twelve years. Things that made him ache, things that made him wish for the past, wish for a way to turn back the clock.

He scowled at his own thoughts. She was not the girl she had been all those years ago. Hell, that girl had never even existed.

“What?” she asked, searching his expression, hers concerned. Nervously, she brought a hand to her throat. “What's happened?”

“Police business,” he said stiffly, struggling for just the right tone of voice. “You'll have to come with me.”

“Come with you?” she repeated, alarm racing into her eyes. “What do you mean? Am I under arrest or—”

“Nothing like that,” he said quickly. “I need you at headquarters. For questioning.”

She frowned. “Has there been another murder? Is the hotel involved or—” She caught her breath. “Is this about Pete?”

“I can't discuss this until we're on our way. I'm sorry.” He cleared his throat. “Could you please come with me?”

“All right.” She nodded and stepped back from the door so he could enter. “I'll get some shoes and my purse.”

While he waited, he looked around her place. The large, open foyer was flanked on the right by a parlor, on the left by a dining room. As were the majority of homes in the Garden District, her raised cottage was old, probably dating from the late 1800s. The windows ran almost from floor to ceiling, the wooden floors and molding looked like cypress and had been buffed to a high shine.

He had expected something grand, more a showplace than a home. He had expected a place that screamed wealth. Instead, her home looked lived-in and comfortable in a warm, unpretentious way.

“You look perplexed,” she said, returning to the foyer.

“Do I?”

“Yes.” She slipped her purse strap over her shoulder and tipped up her chin. “Maybe you expected different digs for a princess?”

He met her gaze evenly, hating that she had been able to read his mind. “Sorry to disappoint you, Ms. St. Germaine, but I don't have any expectations when it comes to you.”

She flushed. “For you to disappoint me, I would have to care what you thought. I don't.”

“Good.” He motioned the door. “If you're ready.”

Together, they walked to his car and without speaking, climbed in. Santos started the car, glancing at her from the corner of his eyes. “Your seat belt, Ms. St. Germaine. It's the law.”

She shot him an annoyed glance, but did as he asked. Moments later, they were heading down St. Charles Avenue as if going to Lee Circle; instead, he darted onto the interstate, heading west.

She frowned. “I thought you said we were going to headquarters?”

“I did say that.” He eyed the speedometer, seeing that he had reached sixty-five. “But I lied.”

It took a full ten seconds for his words to register. When they did, her eyes widened with alarm. “Let me out of this car right now. Do you hear me, Santos? I demand that you stop this car and let me out.”

“Sorry, Glory, but I can't do that. Somebody needs you. Somebody I care a lot about. I'm not going to let her down.”

“This is ridiculous.” She drew in a sharp breath. “If you don't stop this car right now, I'm going to report you for…for kidnapping!”

Santos laughed and shook his head. “You're being melodramatic. I didn't kidnap you. We're just going for a little ride.”

“Against my will.” She grabbed the door handle. “That's kidnapping.”

He pressed down on the accelerator. The speedometer shot up to seventy, then seventy-five. “I wouldn't jump out just now, if I were you. It might hurt.”

“You jerk, I'll have your badge for this.”

“That's the second time you've said that to me. Sounds to me like you have a pretty serious case of badge envy.”

She glared at him. “Go to hell.”

“Okay.” He took his eyes from the road to meet hers. “But first I have a story to tell you. I didn't think you would listen if given a choice.”

“So you're not giving me a choice?”

“Basically. But if, after I tell you this story, you still want to jump out of the car while it's moving, you'll have my blessing.”

“What a guy.” She folded her arms across her chest. “So, what kind of story is this?”

“One about a mother and a daughter.” Santos cut her a quick glance, then returned his gaze to the road. Glory had turned her face to the window, deliberately ignoring him. “This mother loved her daughter more than anything in the world, and she wanted her to have a good life, a better one than she'd had. You see, the mother was a prostitute, a madam, actually. She ran a house, a brothel, the same one her mother had, the same one her grandmother had.”

He had Glory's attention now. He saw her look his way. “Anyway,” he continued, “the mother arranged a new identity for the daughter. She arranged for the girl to go away to a school where no one would know who she really was. Or what she had come from.

“But the daughter had her own plans. She had decided to take all her mother had provided for her, and use it as a way to escape forever. The daughter made that fabricated identity her own, lying to everyone, even to the man she eventually married. She broke her mother's heart, refusing to see her again, no matter how her mother cried, no matter how much she begged. This daughter even refused to go to her mother's deathbed, though seeing her one last time was her dying mother's only wish.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Finally, Glory cleared her throat, obviously more moved by his tale than she wanted to admit. “An intriguing story. But what does it have to do with me?”

“I'm getting to that,” Santos continued, ignoring her question. “The daughter went on to marry very well. She had her own daughter. But no one knew the truth. No one questioned the woman's past or the story she told about how her parents died.”

“Please, Santos, I have to be at the hotel in a couple hours.” She checked her watch and made a sound of frustration. “Make that an hour and a half. Could we quit the cloak-and-dagger? If you have something to tell me, I wish you would just do it.”

“All right. The daughter attended a fine, old boarding school in Memphis. She told everyone her parents died while traveling abroad.”

Glory turned toward him. “What did you say?”

“I think you heard me.”

She shook her head, disbelieving, the full impact of his words hitting her. “You're not actually suggesting—”

“But I am.”

“That's ridiculous. That would mean my mother—”