Forbidden Fruit (20 page)

“I didn't have any friends because I was trash, and half-breed trash, at that. The people around Big Bass, Texas, didn't take too kindly to Indians and Mexicans, especially when mixed together. My daddy was white, and he pretty much felt the same way. I think I heard more racial slurs from him in those seven years than I've heard in all the years since.” Santos looked at her. “My own father. Isn't that a hoot?”

She shook her head and huddled deeper into the bucket seat. “No,” she whispered, “it's not.”

He shrugged and turned back to the road. “Somebody took care of him for me and Mama, though I'm sure when they were slitting his throat, they didn't know how relieved his
loved ones
would be.”

Glory cringed and he smiled. “Just wait, babe, it gets even prettier.” He crossed Canal Street and drove into the French Quarter. He went several blocks, crisscrossing, getting as close to Bourbon as he could. He saw a parking space and took it.

He swung open his door. “Will everyone please disembark for the next leg of our tour.”

She followed him out, though he could tell by her expression that she was uneasy. He followed her gaze. He had chosen one of the rougher, less touristy blocks in the Quarter. Lined by dangerous looking bars and dilapidated buildings, this little slice of New Orleans was about as far from the Garden District as you could get.

“Nice place, huh. Come on.” He caught her hand and started down the block, adrenaline pumping through him. He walked so fast she had to run to keep up.

“Our little saga continues,” he said, “right here in the world-renowned French Quarter. After my old man's unfortunate run-in with a knife, Mama and I moved here. She had a cousin who lived here, a cousin who said jobs were plentiful and the living was easy. Of course, when we got here, the cousin was gone and jobs for uneducated, untrained women were anything but plentiful.”

They reached Bourbon Street and Santos turned onto it. “Here we are,” he said. “The street that never sleeps, home to bars and strip clubs and sex shops. Home to Club 69.” He saw it just ahead and tugged on her hand. “There it is now.”

They stopped before the club. The hawker stood in front of the door, swinging it open, letting it shut, swinging it back open. With each swing of the door, Glory and Santos—and everyone else on the street who cared to stop and gape—got a glimpse of a woman on the stage, mostly undressed, gyrating for the drunken audience.

He hadn't been back—not to Bourbon Street or Club 69. He had avoided both, just as he avoided the memories. When they allowed him to. Most times, they simply swallowed him whole.

“See that, Glory? Take a good look. That's where my mother worked. That's how she supported us.”

“Don't do this, Santos.” Glory shook her head and made a move to turn away. “Please, it's not necessary. It's—”

“But it is necessary.” He caught her shoulders, forcing her to face the door. The hawker leered at her, and Santos felt her shudder.

“Look at that, Glory. Can you imagine? Not even two in the afternoon, and the place is already filled. Of course, my mother worked the late shift, the tips were better.”

He rested his chin on top of Glory's dark head. He breathed deeply, catching the ugly scent of the bar but also the sweet smell of Glory's shampoo. Both called sharply to his memory. And the memory cut him to the quick.

“Can you smell that, Glory. Take a good whiff. That's the way she always smelled when she got home from work. She'd reek of booze and cigarettes and dirty old men. I remember how much I'd love Sunday mornings. She'd always smell like flowers.”

Glory made a sound. Part revulsion, part pity. He wasn't sure which hurt more. He tightened his fingers on her shoulders, seeing all this through her eyes. Seedy and crass and so very demeaning. He imagined how she would have looked at his mother, what she would have thought of her.

It fueled his anger. “Come on.”

He started back to the car, dragging her with him, his hand a vise on her arm.

“Let me go.” She tugged against his grasp. “You're hurting me.”

He released her, and she stumbled backward. “You want to continue the tour, princess? Or are you ready to go back uptown?”

“You bastard.” She caught her bottom lip between her teeth to keep it from trembling. “Why are you doing this?”

“So you'll understand.”

Without another word, he turned and continued to the car, though more slowly so she could keep up with him. He unlocked it; they climbed in. He drove to the other side of the Quarter.

Heart in his throat, Santos turned onto Ursuline Street. Another place, another street, he had avoided. He had not been back in the four years since the social worker had taken him away.

He began to sweat—his palms, his armpits and forehead. His hands shook and a feeling of dread settled over him, so heavy and dark that for a moment he couldn't breathe.

“Santos?” Glory reached across the seat, though he was only half-aware of her touch. “Are you all right?”

He didn't reply. He couldn't.

He reached the building. He drew the car to a stop in the middle of the narrow street and climbed out. He stared at the apartment building, seeing it as it had been that last night—the crowd, the squad cars and ambulance, the police lights violating the dark with throbbing red.

Santos closed his eyes and relived the feel of the hot damp air, the smell of sweat and his own fear, relived the panic thrumming through him, and the way they had all combined to create a surreal, dizzying nightmare.

Only it hadn't been a nightmare.

In his head, he heard the low roar of the crowd as the paramedics emerged from the building with the stretcher.

Glory came up beside him. She curled a hand over his forearm, and he glanced at her, though he didn't see her. Not really. He saw two men dressed in white; he saw a stretcher, a still form under the sheet.

“My God.” She searched his expression. “What is this place?”

“This is where we lived,” he answered, turning back to the building. “Me and my mother.”

He started toward the entrance. His chest hurt so badly he could hardly breathe, he heard the thud of his heart, then the rush of blood in his head. “It's where she died. She was…murdered. By a john, they thought. Stabbed sixteen times.

“Here,” he said, speaking more to himself than her, stopping at the exact place. “This is where I saw her. This is where I ripped away the sheet and saw her…face.”

In his mind's eye, he pictured her just as she had been that night, deathly white and vividly, brutally red. A cry flew to his lips; Santos bit it back. Just as he choked back tears, though they burned his eyes.

“She was so beautiful. And her death was so…ugly. She didn't deserve to die that way. It wasn't fair. It wasn't—”

He swallowed the words and the pain, focusing instead on his anger. He looked at Glory. “I'm going to find the bastard who did it. I'm going to find him, and I'm going to make him pay.”

Glory caught his hand and brought it to her mouth. Her tears wet his fingers.

From the street came the blare of a horn and an angry shout. Santos had stopped his car in the middle of the narrow street and jumped out; it was blocking the way. Santos ignored the irate driver and curled his fingers around Glory's. “See how much we have in common, princess? You see who I am?”

Instead of recoiling at all she had learned about him, instead of looking at him in horror or pity, she put her arms around him. She laid her cheek against his chest and held him tightly.

“I'm sorry,” she said softly, her voice tear-soaked but strong. She tightened her arms. “I'm so very sorry.”

For one moment, Santos held himself stiffly, wanting to deny what she offered, deny what she made him feel. Then he closed his arms around her and buried his face in her sweet smelling hair. “I loved her,” he said, his voice low and strangled.

“I know.”

To the scream of horns, they held each other.

T
hose moments in the French Quarter changed everything between Glory and Santos. It was as if in the space of a heartbeat, they had gone from two people who hardly knew each other, to two people who had known each other forever—people who were connected by fragile yet powerful threads.

Glory accepted the newfound connection without question, but Santos could not. He fought it. He told himself what he felt for Glory was crazy, irrational and dangerous. He told himself it wasn't real; he told them both that they had nothing in common. Yet it felt real. And right. More right than anything he had ever known.

At first, Glory and Santos were content with seeing each other two or three times a week, often for no more than an hour or two. He would meet her at school, the library, or mall; they would sneak away together. And at first, they were satisfied just kissing and holding each other, they were satisfied just being together.

But the more time they spent together, the more time they wanted. The more they touched, the more their hunger for each other grew. They got greedy. And reckless. Glory began taking chances even she would have thought risky before.

Those chances left her with a knot of fear in the pit of her gut, a knot that grew daily. Before long, her mother would find her out. And when she did, it would be over. Her mother would find a way to tear her and Santos apart.

Even so, Glory could not bring herself to play it safe. The thought of doing without Santos for more than twenty-four hours was inconceivable. It was as if she couldn't breathe without him, as if he were her sun and without him she would shrivel and die.

So she called on Liz to help her, to cover for her while she and Santos spent time together, alone and in each other's arms.

The way she had tonight.

Santos picked Glory up behind the movie theater where she was supposed to be seeing a flick with Liz and drove them to a remote area of Lafreniere Park, parked the car and turned off the headlights. The moment he did, Glory fell against him, laughing and lifting her face to his. He rained kisses over her face, tasting her eyelids, her cheeks, her chin and mouth, as hungry for her as she was for him.

While he kissed her, she stroked him, touching every place she could reach, wanting so badly that touching through clothing was not enough. She tugged his chambray shirt from his jeans and ran her hands up his muscled stomach and chest. Smooth, hot and irresistible; touching his skin was like getting a feel of heaven itself.

“I missed you so much,” she whispered between kisses. “I thought today would never end.”

“Me, too.” Santos caught her mouth in a deep, hungry kiss. Then he broke away. “You taste so good. You feel so—” He groaned and caught her mouth again.

They kissed for a long time, growing drunk on each other, intoxicated with arousal, light-headed with the need for fulfillment. She fumbled with his shirt buttons, he fumbled with hers. She unfastened the last and pushed the shirt off his shoulders; he tugged hers over her head.

“You're so beautiful,” he whispered, trailing his fingers across her shoulders, then the curve of her breasts, covered in soft white cotton. Goose bumps chased his fingers, and she shuddered, aching for a closer, more intimate touch.

She flattened her hands on his chest and leaned closer. She rested her forehead against his; his heart thundering beneath her palm. This was the point they had always stopped, the place he had always stopped them. But she didn't want to stop. She told him so.

“You don't know what you're saying.”

“Yes, I do.” She reached behind her, unclasped her bra, then let it slip down her arms. The cold air stung her breasts; her nipples drew up into tight, aching buds.

For one unending moment, he simply stared at her, his expression almost painfully tight. “Glory,” he said finally, bringing his gaze up to hers, his voice thick with arousal, “sweetheart, this is not a good idea.”

She caught his hands. “Yes,” she whispered, bringing them to her breasts. “Yes, it…please, Santos, touch me.”

With a low sound of pleasure, he did. He cupped her breasts, the heat of his hands driving away the cold. But still she shuddered. With arousal, with the need to have an even closer touch. She arched into his hands; then cried out and tangled her fingers in his hair as his mouth found her breast, then nipple.

So this was what real pleasure was, she thought, dazed. She hadn't imagined being touched this way could be so exquisite, so perfect and wonderful. This was the power her mother had over her father, the power Eve had had over Adam. This heady, sense-stealing bliss could free or imprison, she realized. It could be good or evil. With Santos it freed her; she felt as if she were riding on the wings of angels; his touch was so perfect. Being with him was so right.

He was her destiny; if she'd had even a glimmer of a doubt before, she didn't now.

Panting, he tore his mouth away and fell backward, landing lengthwise on the seat, bringing her with him. She sprawled on top of him, her breasts flattened against his chest, her sex molded to his. Hers soft, his hard—terribly, exquisitely hard.

“Santos, don't stop.” She pressed her mouth to his chest. Beneath her lips his heart beat wildly. Though the car was cold, their warm breath fogging the windows, he was sweating. She tasted with the tip of her tongue, liking the sting of his salty skin. “I don't want to stop.”

He sucked in a sharp breath. “We have to.”

“Why? I love you.” She moved her hips against his. “After tonight, we won't see each other for three long weeks.” She thought of the rounds of Carnival parties and balls and dinners that would keep her away from Santos, and a cry of frustration rushed to her lips. “I want you so much.”

“I hate Mardi Gras.” He groaned. “I'll go crazy without you.”

“Then don't stop now.” She rubbed herself against him again. “Please, Santos.”

Santos clamped his hands across the small of her back and fanny, holding her still. “You're playing with fire,” he warned, his voice thick with desire.

She nipped at his earlobe, then mock-purred in his ear. “And I like it.”

“Glory,” he warned. “You'd better—”

“What?” She laughed softly and managed to rock her pelvis against his despite his grip on her. “What are you going to—”

He moved so fast, it took her breath. One moment she lay atop him, the next he was sitting up with her straddled across his lap. Her short denim skirt rode up, bunching around her hips, exposing her white panties and the mound of her sex.

“My little firecracker,” he murmured, sliding his hands up her thighs. “What am I going to do with you?”

He moved his hands around to her fanny and cupped her, stroking and kneading. The sensation was exquisite. Pure pleasure. She arched her back and purred again, this time without mockery.

He murmured his own approval and moved his hands yet again. He touched her sex, covered with only the thin, soft cotton, and she sucked in a sharp, surprised breath. He drew his hand away.

“No…” She caught his hand and brought it back. Lifting herself slightly to accommodate his hand, she placed it exactly where she wanted it. She shuddered. “Don't stop.”

He curved his fingers over her, and again she gasped. He had never touched her there—no one had, though several had tried. Now, she was so glad she had waited, so glad Santos was the first. She arched again and rubbed against him—his hand, his hardness—burning up, needing something she couldn't name but felt keenly.

He slipped his fingers under her panties and found her. She made a sound, one she had never uttered before, one that was deep, guttural, part pain but mostly pleasure.

She curled her fingers into his hair. “Don't…stop. Never…sto—” A moan slipped past her lips; she tilted her head back and closed her eyes.

Santos stroked, softly and lightly at first, then more deeply. She realized with a start that he was inside her, caressing, molding. The sensation defied description—it was hard but giving, invasive but welcomingly so. It was as if he belonged with her, inside her, as if they had been joined this way forever.

Her breathing grew ragged; she felt at once frightened and out of control, yet totally focused and fearless.

She rocked faster; her heart thundered; the breath shuddered past her parted lips. Stars exploded in her head. Glory cried out his name and collapsed against him, catching his mouth with hers, kissing him again and again. She was sweating, her heart pounding as if she had run miles. And her body throbbed, but not as with a wound. She felt deliciously, gloriously alive.

She nestled her face into his neck, murmuring soft sounds of thanks, sounds of complete devotion. Moments became minutes; her world slowly righted itself. She realized he was trembling.

Glory lifted her head and looked into his eyes, understanding suddenly. “Oh, Santos, I'm…sorry.”

He ran his fingers tenderly over her damp cheeks, smoothing away the tears she hadn't realized were there. “For what?” he asked softly, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “For making me the happiest guy in the world?”

“But how could I—” She flushed and looked away, then back. “But how could I have made you happy? You didn't…” Embarrassed, she let the words trail off.

He laughed, the sound low and intimate. He cupped her face. “By giving yourself so completely to me. That's how.”

A lump formed in her throat. She swallowed past it. “I would give you everything. Now, Santos. Everything.”

“No.” He shook his head. “It wouldn't be right.”

She covered his hands with her own. “Why not?”

“Because of—” He let out a short, frustrated-sounding breath. “Because of this. Where we are. The way we've been sneaking around. It feels wrong. It feels like a…lie.”

“It's not.” She tightened her fingers on his. “I love you, Santos. How can that be wrong? How can it be a lie?”

“You tell me.” He freed his hands from hers, though gently. Even so, she felt the movement like a slap.

She covered his hands again, determined to make him see. “It can't be wrong. I love you more than anything in the world. You believe that don't you?”

For one long moment, he said nothing. Then he shifted his gaze from hers.

She caught her breath, hurt beyond measure. “Santos? Tell me you believe me. Tell me you believe I love you.”

“I can't. I'm sorry, but I…can't do that.”

She drew away from him. She couldn't have heard him correctly, he couldn't have just said—

But he had. Loud and clear.

He didn't believe she loved him; he didn't believe in her.

She scrambled off his lap. She righted her panties and tugged her skirt over her hips and thighs, feeling suddenly, terribly exposed. And vulnerable. What moments ago had felt more right than anything she had ever known, felt wrong now. Her vision blurred with tears, and she fumbled around for her bra. She found it, turned her back to him and slipped it on.

“I didn't mean to hurt you, Glory,” he said quietly, handing her her shirt.

She snatched it from him, then put it on, her fingers shaking so badly it took her three tries to get it buttoned correctly. “You were just telling the truth, right? Just being honest. After everything, you still think—” She bit back the words. “Forget it.”

“Maybe I don't want to forget it.”

“Tough.”

“At least I was honest.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, you won't even say what you're thinking. Big, bad Glory is really just a chicken-shit.”

He'd made her mad now. She hiked up her chin and met his eyes. “You big…jerk. You weren't honest, not by a long shot. You still think I'm playing a game with you. You still think I'm a spoiled little princess who cares about nothing but myself.”

“Give me a reason not to.”

She swung at him. He caught her hand; she swung out with her other. He caught that one, too, and brought them both to his heart. “Grow up. Kids sneak around. I'm not a kid.”

“And you don't know everything you think you do.”

“Then clue me in.”

She wrenched her hands free, hurt beyond measure. “Why should I? You think I'm a spoiled princess? Fine. Great. I'm not going to prove myself to you.”

She glared at him, willing him to back down, to apologize, but most of all, willing him to love her the way she loved him. Instead, he glared right back, as angry and determined as she was.

Finally, he swore, looked away then back. “If you loved me the way you say, you would tell your parents about us.”

Her heart began to thrum, and she caught his hands, begging him to understand. “That's not true. You know why I don't. Why I can't. I told you about my mother. I told you—” Fear choked her, and she struggled free of it. “Ask anything of me, Santos. Anything. And I'll do it.”