Beyond Eden

by Catherine Coulter

  “But by speaking of Paris and Alessandro, she would be hurting herself as well, wouldn’t she? I don’t understand why she would even consider doing it.”

  “You were correct the first time. You would be the one to come out looking like a Lolita. Sydney is so bright it sometimes frightens me. If she chose to speak of what happened in Paris, why, then, you would look like a conscienceless little slut, and Sydney would come out the brave wife/martyr and everyone would praise her and adore her.”

  “I’ve got to stop her. I can’t deal with it again.”

  “So you have dealt with it, then. Is that why you majored in psychology? I thought so. Something so juicy is difficult to keep buried.”

  “I’ll kill her.”

  “A thought, but impractical, my dear. No, Lindsay, I will deal with Sydney. You don’t have the ability to do it. At least not yet. Yes, leave her to me.”

  The following afternoon Sydney came into Lindsay’s bedroom. She looked beautiful, immaculate, chic. She looked angry, but when she spoke, it was with rueful amusement.

  “You’ve won this time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You got Grandmother to do your dirty work for you. I won’t tell anyone about you, that’s the deal. You can continue being wholesome Eden with your sweet smile. Oh, sure, the media will find out who I am almost immediately and I’ll be bugged about Alessandro and about Paris and about what really happened. But I won’t give you away, little sister. But know this, I will outshine you, Lindsay, don’t doubt it. Give me six months and you’ll be a has-been.”

  Lindsay wasn’t really listening. She wondered what her grandmother had used as bottom line to ensure Sydney’s silence. Self-interest, she thought. That meant money.

  10

  Lindsay

  It was late October and the leaves were turning. Central Park was never more beautiful than in the fall. Lindsay toed aside yellow leaves from red ones as she walked from the East Side to the West on her way to meet Gayle Werth at their Mexican restaurant on Seventy-first Street.

  The air was crisp, cool, and she was working up a light sweat walking.

  She heard some children and raised her head. They were arguing over a toy truck, pulling and tugging at it. Two mothers stood in close conversation, paying them no heed. Lindsay smiled and continued, saying nothing. They were cute kids. And the thought she hated came to her then, with no warning: I’m twenty-six years old. I’m terrified of men. I’ll never marry and have children.

  Just stop it, she told herself, kicking a large pile of brittle leaves out of her way. Just stop it, you stupid fool. Your life is fine, wonderful, no problems, no hassles. You’re handling things just fine. And indeed, the past two years had been something of a marvel for both her and her half-sister, when one looked at it from a certain point of view.

  Sydney, La Principessa, was seen everywhere, not only in magazines, on television, but also at the biggest society bashes in New York. As for the prince, he was never around. “In Milan, running the family business, the dear,” Sydney would say in a wistful sort of way. “I get away to see him and my darling daughter whenever I can. But everybody wants me! I do try, of course I do. Next weekend you can be certain I’m off.” But she never went to Italy, it seemed to Lindsay. Then again, she rarely contacted Lindsay, so it didn’t matter.

  Lindsay admitted to occasional twinges of pure envy when she would pick up a glossy magazine and see Sydney looking out at her, gleaming perfection, every inch of her. It didn’t matter that she was now thirty-five years old. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t even started modeling until she was past thirty. Nothing seemed to matter when Sydney set her mind to something. But she had, thankfully, been wrong about making Lindsay a has-been, though, which was an immeasurable relief. Lindsay was continuing to do well, not one of the top models like her half-sister, but well ensconced in any case. She was popular, well-liked, most directors and photographers worked well with her, and she could usually achieve almost any effect a client was looking for.

  As for Lindsay Foxe, she was still well-buried. Not a hint that Eden, the New York model, was Lindsay Foxe, the Lolita of Paris. Sydney had kept her word, thanks to her grandmother’s bribe. Lindsay thought about a margarita and tortilla chips and her mouth watered. She’d have to starve for two days, but it was worth it.

  Taylor

  Vinnie Demos stared at the man and wondered why the hell Glen had asked him. He’d recognized him immediately, of course, the second he’d walked through the door. He was the P.I. who’d been following Custer nearly three years ago. He was the ex-cop. Oh, sure, he’d told Glen to find him a bodyguard, someone really good, and he’d come up with this guy, this S. C. Taylor. Had Glen done it on purpose, to punish him? Demos didn’t doubt it. Glen was sometimes a vile bitch, and he was getting bitchier by the month. Vinnie took several deep breaths and told himself to keep calm. He could handle anything. He’d proved that over the years. This guy didn’t know, couldn’t possibly have a clue, who Demos was. There’d been nothing on that damned note except the single name, Demos. And who would remember that, after all this time? Still—shit. Vinnie was up to his eyeballs again, beyond them this time, as Glen screamed at him, all his own dumb-ass fault, of course, but—

  “Why do you want a bodyguard, Mr. Demos?”

  Vinnie scratched his left earlobe. “It’s not exactly for me, Mr. Taylor. It’s for the upcoming shoot that’ll be done in Central Park this Friday. It’s a TV commercial for this fancy shampoo. If it’s sunny—and it’s supposed to be—then they film the sunlight and have natural breezes fluff through the hair. That sort of thing. Have you heard of Eden?”

  Taylor frowned and shook his head. “Who’s she?”

  “A model. A rather well-known model, actually. She’s being threatened, both she and the shoot itself, really.”

  “What did she do?”

  Vinnie fidgeted with the white leather lead-weighted paperweight on his desk. Should he tell this guy something of the truth? No, not yet. Just let him use his brawn. Vinnie didn’t want a lecture, nor did he want to take a chance that the guy would bring the cops in on it.

  “It’s rather complicated and I’m hiring you to protect things, that’s all.”

  Taylor knew this lame explanation was no explanation at all, but his brain wasn’t on full power, he recognized that, and decided to play it easy for the moment. He’d protect this Eden and the commercial, then he’d see.

  “It’s only this one particular shoot that’s being threatened?”

  “Yes.” So far, Vinnie thought, but there’d be more threats until he came through. And he’d have to come through or there would be violence. But he couldn’t come through yet. It was like a damned snowball gathering speed. He wished he hadn’t had the burst of ethics and sent Sydney to another agent two years before, but he had, dammit, and now he was paying for it. He should have kept her on, he could have handled it. But it was too late.

  “Will you take the job, Mr. Taylor?”

  Taylor nodded. He told Demos his price, shook his hand, and left.

  “Glen, you damned bitch, get your ass in here!”

  Glen appeared in the doorway. He was grinning. “Yeah, boss?”

  “Why him?”

  “Why who?” Glen said, his voice coy, his subsequent shrug elaborate. “He’s supposed to be one of the best, I checked. And did you see that body? All hard and long and lean. And that manly jaw-line?” Glen licked his lips. “Strong bastard, and sure of himself. Nice smile too. I wanted to ask him if I could feel his stomach muscles, but I didn’t think he’d understand.”

  “Oh, he would have understood, all right. You silly jerk, he’s the same P.I. who found Custer, God, what was it—three years ago?”

  Glen grew very quiet. He wasn’t smiling now. “Yes, I know, Vinnie. He’s the ex-cop.”

  “Why’d you do it?”

  Glen turned dead serious, leaning over the desk, his hands flat on its surface, fingers splayed, long
slender fingers with short buffed nails. “You’ve got to face things, Vinnie, you’ve got to get yourself together. Sell another painting. Don’t fuck around with these folk. They do horrible things when you don’t keep to your end of the bargain. You want to know why I got him in particular? To pin you, buddy, to make you do something. I did it because they just might threaten me next time. Get off the dime and pay them off!”

  Glen left the room, then turned back, saying, “I can’t believe you’re taking a chance with Eden.”

  “They didn’t threaten her specifically, they threatened the shoot and the personnel. So don’t accuse me of messing with Eden’s life. I’m not taking one damned little chance with her. This bodyguard bit is pure overkill. Hey, you think the damned guy’s so great, so sexy, why, he’ll take good care of her. Why should you be worried?”

  “You’re a cold bastard, Vinnie. Cold.”

  “Yeah? Well, maybe he’ll even teach her how to like sex. Lord knows, she needs some.”

  Taylor took a taxi to Valerie’s apartment at Lexington and Fiftieth. They’d been seeing each other regularly since July 4, when Taylor had met her on the beach at Hyannisport. He’d admired her form—a wonderful swimmer—and then he’d found she was funny and sexy and smart. And Lord love it, she was beautiful. Masses of auburn hair and green eyes—moss green, and big and deep—and the whitest skin, all over. No tanning for her. He liked her, he’d discovered, liked talking to her. She was a bit older than he was, but who cared? Just last night, after they’d made love two times in rapid succession, because he’d been tied up with a computer puzzle in Minneapolis with the Claymore Corporation for a very long three days, he’d even told her about Diane, his first wife, and how he’d screwed up his marriage.

  “We were both too young,” he’d said, propping himself up in Valerie’s bed. “Of course that doesn’t really excuse anything.” She handed him a cup of tea and he sipped it.

  “Diane was—is—very rich. I think she wanted a common man under her belt. She got me, as common as they come. She’d decided it was too dangerous for me to be a cop. She wanted her common man safe. She hated it more and more with each passing week. She married me against her family’s wishes, naturally, but there again, I really didn’t know that either, not until later, not until it was over and she wanted to say hurtful things. It only lasted two years. Looking back, I’m surprised we managed to stay together that long.”

  “No kids?”

  “No. She was only twenty-two when we met, right out of Radcliffe. And I was just twenty-four.”

  “What did Diane look like?”

  Taylor grinned at Valerie. Her hair was tousled and falling in curling tangles over her white shoulders. She was naked, the sheets coming only to her waist. He cupped her left breast, lifting it. “Why would you care?”

  Valerie shrugged.

  Taylor leaned over and kissed her breast. He heard her intake of breath and lay back on his pillows, grinning impenitently at her. “She was fair, her eyes light blue, her hair black as sin. She was—is—lovely, small and dainty, but what a mouth she’s got on her. She can swear like a stevedore. In a fight, I could never outcurse her, never. I was always too surprised when she’d let loose to get my own arguments properly together.”

  “What finally broke things up?”

  “I wouldn’t quit the force. I got hit one night, just a flesh wound in the side, nothing serious, but she freaked and wouldn’t stop. She wanted me to go into her father’s business, which is antiques. I didn’t know a Sheraton from a Chippendale and I didn’t particularly care.” He shrugged, and his eyes, looking beyond her, were in the past. “I didn’t understand compromise and neither did she.”

  “But you did quit the force.”

  Taylor looked as uncomfortable as he felt. “Yeah, I know. But that was a little bit later, after we’d divorced. There were reasons.”

  “Why?”

  “There were reasons,” he said again. He finished the tea and set the saucer down on the bed table. He turned back to her and her left breast. “ Beautiful,” he said, “just beautiful.”

  “You’re not so bad yourself, Taylor.”

  “Oh?”

  They’d made love again, then finally slept. It was with regret that Taylor had left her the following morning to see this man Vincent Demos.

  The taxi let him out in front of her apartment building, a wonderful old 1920’s building with huge flats, only two per floor. He nodded to the doorman, the thought striking him that Diane had lived in a flat similar to Valerie’s. Was it his fate to be attracted to beautiful rich women? Well, if it was, it really wouldn’t matter. He had no intention of marrying again, even if he did, occasionally, feel the urge to be a father. To be like most men his age. A family, children, a dog, the whole bit. He shook his head. Enoch had Sheila, his mother, and he was happy as a clam. He was discreet, had relationships that seemed to keep him perfectly content. But Taylor knew he was different from Enoch. He had just turned thirty-two, still young, but getting up there. He felt itchy. Like now. He forced his mind to Valerie. She was the best thing that had happened to him in quite a while. She loved sex, she was undemanding, and although he knew little about her, he respected her right to privacy. She was bright and her wit sometimes too sharp, but still, she pleased him. He hoped, sometimes ruefully, that he pleased her as well.

  Diane had been bright and had loved sex. But still it hadn’t been enough. Taylor rarely thought of Diane these days. The last he’d heard she was in Boston, owned her own antique business—actually, inherited it from her father—and was doing quite well. He silently wished her luck and wondered just how rich Valerie Balack really was and he wondered just what she did, if anything.

  Eden

  The morning was bright, the temperature just sixty degrees, only a slight breeze in Central Park. George Hudson was the director of the Jezerell shampoo commercial, a job which he hated. He was in a foul mood. He yelled at the set designer, who ignored him more often than not. He was supposed to be in charge of this shoot, not any of these other morons who didn’t know rocks from shit. It wasn’t going well but it was easy money, good money, but he wouldn’t get any raves about it from people who counted.

  George Hudson insisted on good technicians, good makeup people, good cameramen, and he always got them, but he was pissed that he had to waste his time with a ditzy model who was six inches taller than he was and a miserable TV spot that would consume all of thirty seconds. Too, the people from the ad agency and Jezerell were always in his face, making suggestions, trying to tell him how to do his job. He looked up to see Eden, tall, lanky, striding toward him, legs as long as a damned man’s. At least she had gorgeous hair, all thick and long, deep waves, with a wonderful mix of shades that looked completely natural. He knew they’d done some more shading, to lighten the blond in places, but not much. He looked at her while he talked to his assistant. For the moment, her gorgeous hair was clipped back and flattened down. The hair guy hadn’t touched it yet. She was frowning. He wondered who had screwed up what. Her reputation was good, whatever that meant. He’d never worked with her before. He wondered, cynically, if it meant she slept around.

  “Yeah?”

  “Mr. Hudson? I’m Eden.” She stuck out her hand and he took it, shaking it, surprised at her and himself.

  “Yeah?” His voice and look were suspicious. “You got a problem? Like everybody else?”

  “Nothing really, at least I hope not. It’s just that Demos isn’t here and there’s this man—he’s over there. I don’t know who he is, do you?”

  George glanced over at the man standing casually just beyond the shoot area and cameramen. He was dressed neatly in dark brown corduroy slacks, white shirt, and a pale brown leather jacket. He looked clean-cut, respectable. Which didn’t mean shit in New York.

  George said to his assistant, a twenty-year-old girl who was overweight and worshiped him, “Gina, go see what that guy wants, then report back to me.”

  G
ina licked her lips, nodded nervously, and took off.

  “We’ll see. You never saw the guy before?”

  Lindsay shook her head. “No. I’ve just learned to be careful. And no one seems to know who he is.”

  She watched little Gina trot up to the man, for all the world like a tail-wagging puppy. The man smiled down at her and spoke, his posture reassuring, and he actually patted her arm.

  Gina came back, relief covering her face.

  “He says his name is Taylor and he’s here on Mr. Demos’ orders.”

  “Doing what?” Lindsay asked.

  “He said that Demos would be here soon and speak to you, Eden.”

  “I see,” Lindsay said, not seeing a thing. “Well, then maybe we can get this show on the road.”

  “We’ll begin in about forty minutes,” George said, waving her away. “Have them get your face and hair ready, and get into your clothes.”

  Lindsay nodded and walked back to where the hairdresser and makeup people were grouped around doughnuts and coffee.

  Taylor watched her. So this was Eden, his first exposure to a real-live model. She was very tall, nearly six feet. And thin. This was a shampoo commercial and her hair looked unappealing as sin, all brushed down against her head. He hoped they were going to do something with it and with her. She had to have something going for her other than her height. She was wearing jeans and a baggy T-shirt and high-top running shoes. He watched her go inside a trailer, and the door closed. Odd that she’d been the one to question his presence and not one of the others. Was the lady nervous about something? Had he misjudged Demos? Was this Eden the one on the hook and Demos was protecting her?