Forbidden Fruit (23 page)

S
antos stood in the doorway of Glory's pool house, gazing out at the swimming pool, finding it incredibly beautiful in the cold, moonlit night. A soft mist swirled up from the heated water, enveloping the area in a filmy cloud, creating a magical, private world.

He had been hesitant to come here, to her parents' home, though Glory had insisted that with her parents at the masquerade ball and the servants gone for the night, they would be alone, they would be safe.

He was glad they had come here. It had been wonderful to be able to lie freely with her, to stretch out and enjoy being together.

He sucked in a deep breath, growing drunk on the night, on Glory's scent, still on his skin, on the realization that she was his now.

He loved her.
Santos squeezed his eyes shut.
Dear Jesus, how had he allowed it to happen?

Santos glanced over his shoulder. The bathroom door was still closed; he heard the faint sound of running water. She had been in there for many minutes, more time, he thought, than she needed to repair her hair and face.

“Dammit,” he muttered, knowing he had hurt her. She wanted, longed for, a declaration of love from him. She had for some time; he had seen it in her eyes every time they were together, heard it in her voice each time she had said she loved him.

Now, after this, after their having made love, she longed for it even more.

Their making love.
Another thing he shouldn't have allowed to happen.

He stuffed his hands into the front pockets of his blue jeans. But she had offered herself so sweetly. And so passionately. Even as he had told himself to stop, he had been unable to. Even as he had assured himself he could remain in control, it had careened out of his reach.

He breathed deeply through his nose. She had been a virgin.
Had been.
No longer. Now she was his; he would never let her go. Not ever, not without a fight.

She opened the bathroom door, and light spilled through the dark pool house and across his feet. A moment later, the light disappeared.

She came up to stand beside him. “It's pretty tonight.”

“Yes, it is.” He drew her against his chest and wrapped his arms around her from behind. He rested his chin on the top of her head. “If I lived here, I would spend a lot of time right in this spot. Too much time, probably.”

She murmured something he couldn't make out and leaned more fully against him. He realized she was trembling and tightened his arms around her, fitting her body closer to his. “Cold?” he asked, rubbing his cheek against her silky dark hair.

“Not now.”

“Good.” He trailed his fingers through her hair, a fierce protectiveness moving over him. He would do anything for her. Face any demon; turn his back on all he had known; make concessions he would have sworn an hour ago he would never make.

He loved her so much it terrified him.

If only he could trust her as completely. If only he didn't feel this nagging doubt every time he looked at her. She was too young. Too privileged. They were too different to ever belong together.

If only she had faced down her parents. If she had, he wouldn't be afraid to give her his whole heart, he wouldn't be afraid to trust her. He wouldn't doubt.

A part of him understood her fear. But another part didn't. He needed her to claim him, to proudly tell the world, her parents included, that he was the one she wanted.

Until she did that, he couldn't give her what she longed for.

He wanted to. But he couldn't. It was as simple as that.

She sighed. He bent his head close to hers. “You're quiet tonight.”

“I guess.” She nestled closer.

“Are you sorry?” He held his breath, praying she didn't answer yes. If she did, he didn't know what he would do. He was sorry enough for the both of them.

“No.” She tilted her face to his; she searched his gaze. “Are you?”

“How could I be?” he returned softly, evading her. “It's never been so…wonderful before.”

That much was true. It had been almost painfully wonderful.

She turned in his arms so she faced him. She lifted her gaze to his. “Have there been a…a lot of girls?”

“Not a lot.” He chose his words carefully. “But some.”

She whimpered and curled her fingers into his open shirt. “Did you…care for them? Or for one of them…especially?”

“No. Not—” His throat closed over the words and he cleared it. “Not in the way I care for you.”

She searched his gaze for one moment more, then lifted her chin. “I'm not sorry,” she said again, almost fiercely. “I'm not.”

He sucked in a deep breath, feeling as if he were drowning in emotion. He had to get a grip on his feelings, he had to keep this relationship in perspective. He acknowledged it was too late for that. Way too late.

“I'm glad,” he murmured. “I would hate for you to be sad.”

For long moments they simply held each other, not speaking but communicating nonetheless. Santos hadn't thought it could be like this between two people, a man and a woman. Hot and potent, yet sweet and enduring. It certainly hadn't been between his parents, or any other couple he had ever known or observed.

If only she were a woman. If only she were older. They could marry, run away together if need be, and never look back.

“What are you thinking?” she asked, drawing slightly away to look up at him.

He trailed his thumb across her full bottom lip. “Why do you ask?”

“Because you sighed.”

“Did I?” He hadn't been aware of making a sound, and he wondered if she had somehow heard his thoughts. “I was thinking about if onlys.”

“I don't understand.”

He smiled. “One of my social workers used to repeat this ditty, ‘If if and and buts were candy nuts, we'd all have a merry Christmas. Grow up, Victor.' She wasn't a particularly sympathetic woman.”

Glory tightened her arms around his waist. “I think I hate her.”

“Don't. I hated her enough for both of us back then. It's okay now.”

“So, what…” She hesitated, as if questioning the wisdom of her question, then blurted it out, anyway. “What were your
if onlys
about tonight?”

“I think you know.”

She did. He could tell by the way her eyes filled with tears, and she looked away.

“It's all right, Glory.”

She returned her gaze to his. “Is it?”

He nodded slowly. “Because it has to be. What time do you have to be back?”

“Eleven-thirty.” He heard the regret in her voice. “I promised Liz I'd be back then, on the dot.”

“It's almost that.”

Glory sighed again. “We'd better go. She'll be fretting.”

Neither moved; seconds ticked past. Santos tangled his fingers in her hair and brought his mouth down to hers. He kissed her deeply and possessively, using it to tell her, in no uncertain terms, that she belonged to him. A moment later, he released her. “I wish we didn't have to say good-night.”

“If only we—” Their eyes met and they laughed at her choice of words.

“Merry Christmas,” he whispered.

“Same to you.”

By unspoken agreement, they started for his car. “Are you sure,” he said after a moment, “that no one saw you? That your mother didn't suspect or—”

“No one saw me. And no, Mother didn't suspect a thing. She hardly noticed me tonight, thank God.”

He stopped and turned to her. “Glory, we need to talk about your parents.”

She put her fingers to his lips. “Not tonight. Please, Santos. Tonight is too special. It's our night, and I…I don't want to ruin it.”

He nodded, though his chest was so tight he could hardly draw a breath. He wished he could drive his suspicions away, wished he could force them out of his head and trust her completely.

He couldn't. No matter how much he cursed himself and his past, he couldn't let go and trust her. His life lessons had been too hard-learned for that.

“Okay,” he murmured finally, taking a step away from her. “We'll talk about it after Mardi Gras.”

She nodded. “All right. After Mardi Gras.”

They finished making their way to the car. Santos unlocked it and opened the door for her, but caught her hands, stopping her before she climbed in.

She met his gaze, he saw concern in hers. He brought her hands to his mouth. “No one can touch us, Glory. Not if we really believe in each other. If we really believe, we'll be safe. I promise.”

“M
rs. St. Germaine, there's a girl here to see you. A Bebe Charbonnet. She says she's one of Glory's friends. From the academy.”

Hope recognized the name, frowned and glanced at her watch. “At this hour? How odd. Show her in.”

Hope tapped her index finger against the gold rim of her china teacup. In the two days since the masquerade ball, Glory had been acting strangely. Excited. Nervous. Guilty but exhilarated. Now this.

Mrs. Hillcrest escorted the teenager in. Hope swept her gaze over the girl. She wore her A.I.C. uniform; she looked like the proverbial cat with a saucer of cream. Hope smiled and stood. “Hello, Bebe, dear. Come right in.”

Bebe stopped before her. She clasped her hands together, two spots of color staining her cheeks. “Hello, Mrs. St. Germaine.”

“How's your mother?”

“Very well, thank you.”

“Do tell her I said hello.”

“I will.”

Hope took her seat, but didn't offer one to Bebe. She took a sip of her tea, then patted her mouth with a napkin. “What can I do for you this morning?”

“Well, I—” Bebe cleared her throat, obviously intimidated. “I don't know how to tell you this, and I…I want you to know I wouldn't be here if I didn't care so much about Glory. I hate to see her, you know, ruining herself over a…a boy like
that.
”

Hope stiffened. So, that was it—a boy. She should have known. Glory was a Pierron, after all. She had The Darkness in her. “Go on.”

“I was at the the ball Saturday night, and I saw—” Bebe drew a deep breath “—I saw her leaving the hotel to meet a boy. At about nine. They left in his car.”

“Nine o'clock?” Hope searched her memory. “That can't be, Bebe, dear. I saw her at nine-fifteen and…after.”

“That wasn't her! It—” She bit the words back, as if remembering suddenly to look sincere. She cleared her throat. “I think that was Liz Sweeney. Because I saw Liz in the hotel, and there was no reason
she
would be there. And I know that was Glory I saw leaving the hotel in blue jeans yet I, too, saw Glory minutes later. Or at least,” she added triumphantly, “I saw her gown.”

A switch. Glory and her friend had enacted a neat little switch; they'd thought they could fool her.
Devious, treacherous girls.

Such deception would not go unpunished.

“You noticed quite a lot Saturday night, Bebe dear.”

Bebe's cheeks grew pink. “Like I said, I wouldn't even be here, if I didn't care so much for Glory.”

“I'm sure,” Hope murmured, deciding she did not like this sly, self-important girl. But she could find a way to deal with her later.

Hope stood, shaking with anger. She crossed to the window and looked out at the bright, cold day. “Do you know this boy? Does he go to Jesuit or Christian Brothers?”

Bebe shook her head. “I don't know him and he…he looks older. In fact,” Bebe glanced over her shoulder, then returned her gaze to Hope's. “In fact,” she continued, her tone hushed, “he doesn't look like the type of boy who would attend either of
those
schools. He's a different type.”

“I see.” Hope swung to face the girl. “Can you describe him for me?”

“He's tall and dark and very handsome, if you like that type. He looks rough. You know. Kind of wild.”

Hope remembered something Philip's secretary had told her, weeks ago now. That Glory had asked about that vile boy Lily had sent, that Vincent or Victor Something. Glory had asked the secretary if she had seen him, if she knew who he was. Of course, the woman had told her daughter no. But still, Glory could have found him, anyway.

Hope narrowed her eyes. Whether that boy was the one, or whether it was another, she had to get control of this situation—and her daughter—immediately. It was obvious to her now, she had been much too lenient with Glory.

“You should get back to school, Bebe dear. Thank you for this information. You've been most helpful.”

“I'm glad I could help.” The girl couldn't conceal her glee. She all but rubbed her hands together. “I hope Glory and Liz don't get in too much trouble. I mean, I would hate to think I'm responsible—”

“Don't you give it another thought.” Hope walked her to the door. “I'm going to take care of everything.” She looked directly at Bebe. “And everyone.”