Beyond Eden

by Catherine Coulter

  “No,” she said, “I don’t think you do. Perhaps it’s better not to. Skeletons abound. No, better not to. Would you like a diet soda? A cup of tea?”

  A beer would be nicer, but what the hell. “Tea would be fine, thank you.”

  She disappeared into the kitchen thinking that he was involved, and that was a good thing. She wouldn’t have to worry now. She wondered why the woman on the phone could possibly be mad over another female she’d never met. And he’d said, quite calmly, that this was nothing more than a job. Strange.

  Taylor sat down on her oversized sofa, covered in a bright South Seas pattern with a good half-dozen throw pillows scattered over its surface. He leaned back, getting comfortable, and took in her surroundings. The living room wasn’t large, but it was comfortable, cozy, very cluttered, and surprisingly, for he was a person of strict neatness, he liked it. There was a bamboo coffee table covered with novels in haphazard stacks, another pile of novels on the floor beside the sofa, and two beckoning easy chairs opposite the sofa, a reading lamp between them. He looked at the books, paperbacks mostly. Her taste was eclectic. There were mysteries, spy novels, historical romances, science fiction. He counted just about every Dick Francis novel ever written. And, surprising, there were books on architecture, big sprawling books that you’d normally see carefully arranged to impress on coffee tables. But she had a lot of them and they were as indiscriminately set about as all her other books. Big picture books and biographies, at least a dozen of them about such architects as Barry, Pugin, and Dominico—little-known men, surely—and Telford, the man who had built the first suspension bridge.

  No nonfiction, no newspapers, no magazines. Odd about the absence of magazines. She was a model and was probably in many of them. He rose and walked to the fireplace. There were photos on the mantel, several of her with an old lady who looked patrician as hell and stylishly dressed, a single photo of a man who looked to be her father—same eyes exactly—and a lone small photo of a woman who was very thin, looking gaunt, deep worry lines furrowing her brow. Her mother? There was no similarity that Taylor could see. No brothers or sisters?

  “Anything in your tea?” She sounded wary, suspicious. He turned slowly, aware that she thought he was spying on her, which, actually, he was, kind of, and said easily, “Thank you. Nothing for me. I like my tea clean. I hope it’s not one of those wild sorts of tea, you know, with ground mice toes or herbal orange droppings?”

  She laughed, disclaimed, then retreated back to the kitchen. He resumed his perusal. The fireplace was black with use and needed a good cleaning. When she came back carrying a tray, he said, “You need to get yourself on the phone and call a chimney-cleaning place. This is a hazard.”

  Lindsay grinned at him, her apprehension banished with his light touch. It was free, that grin, and somehow he knew that it was special. Special from her, a woman, to him, a man.

  “You invited me here,” Taylor said after taking a sip of jasmine tea that he hated. “I’m surprised.”

  Lindsay shrugged. “What else was I supposed to do with you? Leave you in the hall? Insist you remain out on the street corner?”

  “We could have gone places. I told you I have great taste. We would have gone to Bloomingdale’s.”

  “I’m tired, to tell the truth. Must you really stay with me like this? All the time? What about tonight?”

  “You’re stuck with me. Since Demos is paying the bills, do you want to go to the movies? I hear Black Prince is excellent, at least it got great reviews.” What he didn’t tell her was that he already had two tickets. He’d weighed the possible risks in his mind and decided he could sufficiently minimize them. He wasn’t stupid and he was experienced. He truly didn’t want her to think herself a prisoner.

  Her eyes lit up; all of her lit up. It surprised him. She was beautiful; she was successful; she had to have lots of men around, men, of course, of her own choosing. Yet she just looked like she’d been offered an unheard-of treat, something glorious, something completely unexpected.

  “We could eat Chinese—no calories, they all fade away after thirty minutes.”

  Then she looked away from him, saying as she sloshed her tea in its cup, “It’s just a job for you, right? Not a date or anything?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of asking you for a date.”

  He’d meant it as a joke, but she took him seriously. “All right, then. That would be fun.”

  “I like your apartment.”

  She looked at him, uncertain whether he was kidding or not. He saw the exact moment when she decided to take his comment at its face value. He should get her in a poker game. He’d win everything she owned, including her knickers, she was so transparent.

  “Thank you,” she said finally, looking around proudly. “It’s small, but it’s all mine and I’ve done exactly what I wanted to with it. I even got a good price on it.”

  “I see you also like architecture.”

  “Oh, yes, particularly the architects themselves, those of past centuries. Their lives are fascinating, and what they did, goodness, it—” She broke off, and he recognized embarrassment. She thought she was boring him.

  “Tell me about Telford,” he said easily. “Didn’t he once create a design for London Bridge and it got turned down?” When she nodded happily, obviously delighted that he knew something, he was pleased that he’d seen that tidbit when he’d opened the book.

  When she accompanied him to his apartment, only eight blocks from hers, so he could change, Lindsay felt strangely happy. She hadn’t been out with a man in years, actually walking beside a man, talking to him. Not worrying or inadvertently drawing back. And this wasn’t really out, it was a job, his job, but still, it was so very different for her. Please, she prayed, let him be kind.

  Bottom line, his apartment was much nicer than hers. In an older building, it was larger, with high ceilings and beautiful molding that somehow didn’t clash at all with very modern furnishings. A big deep green leather sofa and two leather chairs with footstools, glass-and-wood lamps and tables. Clean, uncluttered, orderly, that was her impression, that and good taste. He obviously liked earth tones—rich creams and tans and pale golds. She felt intimidated. He wasn’t poor; not remotely. Why had she expected it? Because he was a bodyguard? She became aware, suddenly, that he was watching her take in his apartment.

  “I, uh, like it,” she said.

  “Thanks. Make yourself comfortable.” He waved toward the sofa and left her alone.

  He wasn’t a fiction freak, she quickly saw, not the way she was. And the neatness, the order of everything, made her want to toss all the magazines and books into the air and let them stay where they landed. It made her itchy, all those tidy stacks. Computer magazines were neatly piled on nearly every surface and on nearly every bookshelf. She picked a very thick PC Magazine and flipped through pages scored with indecipherable numbers and words and phrases. There was an article titled The Dizzo Chip and she knit her brow over that one. She thumbed through more of the pages, saw Internet ads, all sorts of different sites cross-referenced. She laid the magazine back down, very carefully, into its neat stack of other computer magazines, and looked about some more. She felt a shock when she picked up a magazine with a muscle-bound man on the cover. He looked like Rambo, a huge Uzi or some such thing held close to his chest, his eyes mean and hard and—Then she saw the gun magazines, hunting and rifle magazines, sporting magazines, international firearm magazines. She opened one of the foreign gun magazines and read about a Glock 17, an Austrian-made plastic gun. There was a caption beneath the big glossy photo of the gun that read: “For Every Homeowner in the U.S.—Now Available.” Jesus, she thought, the thing looked like a toy, most of it transparent and flimsy-looking. But it wasn’t a toy. One for every household, wonderful. She turned more pages to see men holding weapons, on target ranges, out-of-doors in forests, with other men in groups, all of them holding weapons, men and more of them, all armed, ready to kill. And several photos of men with gu
ns standing next to women, or looking down at women, arrogant and dominating, in charge—Did Taylor carry a gun? She shook her head. Of course he must have one. He was a private investigator, he was her bodyguard. Did he wear a gun?

  She looked up when she heard the shower turn on, muted from another room, but still clear enough to identify. Another person taking a shower, and only a room or two away. It was a strange feeling. She’d been alone for so very long. She prowled his living room, then went into the kitchen. He was a gadget freak. There were appliances she recognized and some she didn’t. She looked at a shiny Belgian waffle maker, sparkling clean, open, and ready to use, and felt her mouth water. There was a can opener that was so fancy it made her feel sorry for the can. She opened his refrigerator to get a diet soda. There were lots of raw vegetables, orange juice, cans of tuna fish, many kinds of dressings, a loaf of wheat bread, non-fat butter, sugarless jams, but no diet soda. She looked longingly at a bottle of Balidonne chardon-nay and regretfully closed the refrigerator door.

  She wandered back into the living room. The shower cut off, and suddenly, in that instant, she realized that he was naked and what that meant. It wasn’t just simply odd to be in the same apartment with a man, it was suddenly overwhelmingly terrifying. She wasn’t far from a man who was naked. Only two doors away or maybe just one. She looked down at the coffee table and saw a man with a naked chest, holding a rifle, a woman standing behind him, her look one of awe, of worship, her lips parted slightly, her age no more than twenty-two.

  A man could hurt a woman. This man, this Taylor, could hurt her. He was big. Taylor seemed nice, but maybe it was just an act to get her over here. And here she was, having trailed after him without hesitation, happy as a pup, meek as a lamb, blabbing on and on about architects in the seventeenth century. She’d been boring, stupid, and now she was vulnerable.

  He was naked. He was in his bathroom now, but what if he came out? Would he have on a dressing gown like the prince had worn, choosing to play the game a little while longer? Would she know he was naked beneath it like she’d known the prince was? No, she was certain Taylor would be naked, no Italian dressing gown for him, no fancy games for him, and all she was wearing was slacks and a simple sweater.

  Oh, God. He looked like those men in those gun magazines. The self-defense she knew was laughable against a man like him. She’d heard him at the gym, speaking to Lin Ho, her instructor, heard the two of them discussing strategies when faced with more than one opponent and the opponents were both armed with knives. He’d said nothing to her about knowing martial arts, but he did, he had to. Just the way he’d stood when he was talking to Lin Ho. It was obvious. He was strong and he could fight. He was a man and he was big and she’d never have a chance against him.

  Lindsay grabbed her purse, ran to the front door, wrenched it open, and was out in a second. She heard Taylor calling her name.

  She ran down the five flights of stairs, afraid to wait for the elevator. He’d catch her if she waited. If it came, he’d be faster and be waiting for her at the lobby, ready to grab her and shove her back into the elevator and bring her back up here. She was winded, a stitch in her side, when she reached the lobby. She was bent over, clutching her purse to her middle. She ran to the corner and waved wildly for a taxi.

  She had to get away.

  Taylor heard the front door slam, and without a thought, he raced naked into the living room. She was gone. Jesus, could someone have come in and snatched her? No, not possible. He called after her, but, realizing he didn’t have a stitch of clothing on, he knew he couldn’t run after her.

  Why had she run out?

  He stood there dripping water, wondering what the problem was. It was weird. She was weird. He sighed, turned back into his bedroom, and quickly dressed. She was alone, no one to protect her, if the enforcers who hounded Demos wanted to go after her.

  Lindsay told the taxi driver to drop her off at Gayle’s apartment over on the West Side, just opposite Lincoln Center. Gayle lived in a condo on the thirty-sixth floor. Lindsay dashed through the immense lobby to the bank of six elevators. She punched the buttons and collapsed back against the wall. She was safe. But, as it turned out, Gayle wasn’t home.

  Lindsay leaned against the corridor wall next to her apartment door, her eyes closed. What to do?

  She couldn’t very well stand here forever. The security was too good in this building. She’d soon be reported by a neighbor. Slowly, slinging her bag back onto her shoulder, she went back down to the lobby. She’d wait there. If she stayed out in the open, looking harmless, they wouldn’t kick her out. If Taylor came looking for her—Oh, no, no.

  She was approached by a security guard two hours later. Their patience had run out.

  She left, catching a taxi to return to her apartment. In the back of the taxi she remembered for the first time since her flight from Taylor’s apartment that she was under threat. She’d been running around like a fool, unthinking, dangerously unthinking. She realized, laughing a bit hysterically, that she had no place else to go, except maybe to an impersonal hotel. She had no other close friends. Even Demos and Glen she’d kept away from when it came to social get-togethers. She’d kept a whole bunch of folk at bay, all those people who’d tried to be nice to her over the years. They were acquaintances, nothing more, because she’d distrusted them, all of them, women included. All except Gayle because Gayle had known her before Paris.

  Head down, she exited her elevator. She felt numb and very, very tired. She very nearly walked squarely into him.

  His hands closed around her shoulders and her head jerked up. She nearly screamed but his hand was over her mouth.

  “Shut up, damn you!”

  She tried to jerk away from him. He was strong, she’d known he would be. He wasn’t going to let her go. He would drag her into her apartment and—

  Taylor saw the terror in her eyes. Not terror of a possible enforcer, he realized with a shock, but terror of him. He said very calmly, “I have to urinate. I’ve been standing here like a fool for the past two hours waiting for you to bring your butt home. Would you please open the door?”

  She stared up at him. He didn’t look at all interested in ripping off her clothes. What he looked was vastly annoyed. With her. “You have to urinate?”

  “Yes. You’re the only game around, Eden. I couldn’t very well see myself asking your neighbor to use her bathroom. Open the door.”

  “Oh.” She giggled. Her terror—God, she’d been paralyzed with terror and all he wanted was to go to the bathroom.

  She opened the door and stood aside, pointing straight ahead. “Just beyond the bedroom.” Taylor gave her another long, very irritated look, then went to her bathroom.

  She was standing in the same spot when he came out.

  He stopped a good three feet away from her. “Talk to me.”

  She stared at him instead.

  “I’m also tired of standing. Come along and sit down. Talk to me.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “I won’t eat another damned yogurt.”

  “Chinese?”

  “Are you going to duck out on me again?”

  “No.”

  “All right.” Taylor sighed. This was weird, the entire situation. “Let’s go to Chow Fang’s, down in Chinatown.”

  “I like spicy Chinese.”

  “It’s very spicy.”

  To Lindsay’s surprise and relief, Taylor didn’t demand to know why she’d run out on him. She’d fully expected it, an attack, a show of anger, a man’s anger, all of it, maybe cold sarcasm like her father’s, but he didn’t say anything, not even a mention of how she’d endangered herself.

  He ushered her into a Szechuan restaurant, old and needing a paint job, with dusty red lanterns hanging from a low ceiling. It was set in the midst of Chinatown and known, Taylor told her, for authentic and tasty dishes.

  Lindsay ordered green-onion pancakes with peanut sauce.

  “My favorite,” Taylor said,
and doubled the order.

  He spoke to her of the owner of the restaurant, a Mr. Chang, who’d come over in the early 1970’s from Taiwan. He spoke of Mr. Chang’s family, discussing each of the six children in great detail, until Lindsay finally said, “Stop it! You’re making that up!”

  “It took you long enough. I was running out of descriptions. Another kid and he would have had to be a juvenile delinquent. Chinese Mafia maybe.”

  She studied his face. No clues there. Open, kind. But as he’d said earlier, who really knew another person? She picked up a fortune cookie, vastly uncomfortable. She unfurled the narrow strip of paper and read: “You need a new environment. Wallpaper your bedroom.”

  She laughed and handed it to Taylor. “Keep it,” he advised, cracked open his own fortune cookie. There were two slips of paper. The first said: “A woman who seeks to be equal with men lacks ambition.”

  Taylor grinned and handed it to her. Her eyes lit up and she crowed. “Aha! You see, ancient Chinese wisdom still applies today. I see they believe you need a double dose. What’s the other one?”

  He opened it and froze. “You have finally met the one love of your life. Tread carefully. You don’t want to lose her.”

  He frowned. What utter nonsense. Bullshit. After the way Valerie had yelled at him, calling him a bastard and a liar? No way. He stilled. Oh, no, not this strange creature sitting opposite him, her eyes on his fortune, waiting for him to hand it to her. Her anticipation was endearing and he shied away from it. This was the woman who’d run out of his apartment with no thought to her own safety. With no reason for flight that he could see. Oh, no, that was crazy. Then he laughed. A damned silly fortune cookie. Produced in a factory in New Jersey by Italians, no doubt.

  “What is it? You will take a trip around the world? Confucius says something?”

  He merely smiled, shook his head, folded the paper, and stuck it in his wallet.

  When they came out onto the street, the night was clear and cool. Chinatown had its own smells and sounds, and tonight, both were pleasant. “I love New York when it’s like this,” Lindsay said, breathing in deeply. “It feels so good in your lungs.”