Beyond Eden

by Catherine Coulter

  His face was right above hers. His look was serious and it frightened her, but his voice was soft and low. “Hello, sweetheart. You’re going to be fine. Jesus, don’t ever give me a scare like that again. Here’s your doctor. I’ll be right here. It’ll be all right.”

  Dr. Shantel, a woman who was nearly as tall as Lindsay and tanned from a recent vacation to Maui, said, “Stay, Mr. Taylor. Hold her hand. You’re quite a calming influence. And we want her calm as she comes out of the anesthesia.” To Lindsay she introduced herself, then said quietly, “You’re very lucky. I’ll take care of all of you except your face. That’s Dr. Perry’s area. Now, your ribs aren’t bandaged. They’ll mend faster just left alone. We’ve stitched up some cuts on your shoulders and chest and neck. Nothing, really. Practically no scarring. You’re just fine now. You’ll be with us for a while. I want you to rest and I want you to hold your head very still.”

  Dr. Shantel looked at the bandages wrapped around the young woman’s head and face. “Your face will be all right. You’ve come out of the anesthesia well. It’s time for some more painkiller, and then you can have a good night’s sleep.”

  “Taylor?”

  “I’m here, Lindsay. Here’s some medication for you. No, I’m not leaving you.”

  He watched the nurse inject medicine into the IV in her left arm. He stroked his fingers over her right forearm, the way the nurse Debra had told him. He wanted to cry.

  The nurse said quietly, “I understand you’re her fiancé?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell you what. I’ll speak to the nursing staff on the fourth floor. No reason why you can’t stay with her if you want to. We’ll have another bed moved in there. Does Miss Foxe have other family you need to call?”

  Taylor just stared at her. Miss Foxe. Lindsay Foxe.

  He said aloud, “Foxe. Her name’s Lindsay Foxe. It’s a nice name.”

  The nurse looked at him curiously. “You don’t have to worry about any paperwork. Mr. Demos provided all the insurance information.”

  It was exactly nine o’clock at night when he remembered. He was alone with her in her private room. There was the soft hissing sound of the lung machine, nothing else, save perhaps his own breathing. He remembered. Sharp memories, utterly clear and brutal. He jerked with the knowledge.

  Lindsay Foxe.

  The young girl who’d been in the cubicle in the emergency room next to his at St. Catherine’s Hospital in April, nine years ago, the young girl who had been raped by her sister’s husband—a bloody Italian prince—and who had screamed and screamed and fought the men who were also doctors. He remembered hearing how those doctors had spoken about her and to her and what they’d done to her. He shook his head. It was beyond anything. And now that young girl was here and she’d grown up and he loved her and she was going to be his wife.

  Lindsay Foxe. Jesus, he couldn’t believe it, he couldn’t seem to accept it—the chance of it happening; but then there was the gut feeling that it was somehow fate. Taylor shook his head. He was losing it. Lindsay Foxe.

  No wonder she’d changed her name when she’d become a model. No wonder she hadn’t wanted to tell him what her real name was. She’d said something about not wanting him to hate her. She’d only tried to protect herself. From everyone and then from him. When would she have told him? When would she have decided to trust him enough?

  Jesus. He thought of Sydney di Contini, La Principessa, Lindsay’s half-sister. It had been her husband who had raped Lindsay, and Sydney, that sophisticated bitch he’d met for the first time four days before, had been the one who’d shot him.

  Taylor saw she was sleeping. He called Enoch, speaking very softly, and told him what had happened. And then he said, “I need a favor, Enoch.”

  “You got it, Taylor.”

  “A serious favor, one that you can’t ever talk about, even to Sheila.”

  “What’s going on?”

  Taylor told him. “Yeah, that’s right. Only French newspapers, no American, they’re not necessary.” He gave him the exact day. Then he hung up. He looked at Lindsay. Her breathing was shallow, her skin was flushed. The lung machine—looking for the world like a blue briefcase—hissed and bubbled. He closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of the machine and picturing again that young girl, wheeled out on a gurney past where he sat waiting for a doctor to see to his arm. So young she’d been, so pathetic, and so completely alone. No one there for her, no one.

  And he realized in that instant how much she had to love him. After all that had happened to her, she’d still come to him. She’d trusted him with her body, she’d trusted him not to hurt her. Who cared that she hadn’t yet told him her name? It didn’t matter. He leaned his forehead on her hand. He prayed silently.

  It was nearly midnight when Sydney arrived.

  “My God,” she said from the doorway.

  “Yes,” he said, looking at her with new eyes. “Speak quietly. She’s sleeping.” Sydney nodded and came into the room and slipped out of the full-length Russian sable coat. She was wearing a long black dress beneath, with no sleeves, little front, and no back. She was wearing diamonds—a necklace, earrings, bracelet. Her hair was piled on top of her head and she looked exquisite and expensive. He wished she would fall out the window.

  “What happened?”

  “It was at a photo shoot in Washington Square. They’d built a ski lift and it exploded. She was standing right there, evidently. The cops and the fire department are working on it. How did you find out?”

  “Well, you didn’t call me, that’s for sure.”

  “Keep your voice down. It’s possible I didn’t call you because I don’t know where you live.”

  “Even if you’d known, you wouldn’t have called, would you, Taylor? Oh, just forget it. It was on TV and I happened to see my sister being lifted into an ambulance.” She walked to the windows, fidgeting with an emerald ring on her right hand.

  Sydney turned to look at him. He was pale but it didn’t diminish the fact that he also looked mean and angry and hard as nails, his eyes narrowed on her face. He was holding Lindsay’s hand, his strong and hard, hers pale and limp.

  “Ah, so she’s told you how I’m the wicked half-sister.”

  “No, she’s hardly told me anything at all, as a matter of fact. She hadn’t yet told me her last name. The hospital needed it and Demos told them.”

  Sydney just looked at him. He could practically hear her thinking and sorting through things. Finally, “You remembered the old scandal? Good God, it was years ago. Or did Demos tell you about that too?”

  “Actually, Demos didn’t have to. I just happened to be in the same emergency room in Paris when Lindsay was brought in. I’d been hit and knocked off my motorcycle, and my arm was broken. I’ll never forget it as long as I live, her screams, her fear, her pain, and the fact that she was completely alone. I wanted to kill those bloody doctors who were supposed to be taking care of her. Yeah, I wanted to kill them, and she was helpless because they were holding her down, holding her legs apart and prying into her; it was just another rape, dammit! She didn’t speak French and they didn’t give a shit because she was a foreigner. I also wanted to kill the bloody bastard who’d raped her. Your precious husband, I believe.”

  Sydney felt the shock of surprise, then calmed herself. She remembered Valerie telling her how Taylor loved France, how he was there two or three times a year. How he’d even been in an accident there once—years ago, and had broken his arm and been in a hospital—

  She tried to keep her voice down, keep it smooth and calm, but it was tough. “I wasn’t with her in the emergency room. I was a bit over the edge myself at the time. Hysterical, I guess, though I hate to think of that word being applied to me. And the bloody bastard who raped her is doing nicely. He still likes young girls. He’s still got enough money to command a steady supply and charming enough so that rape isn’t necessary for him. He only seems to have problems when he leaves Italy. And that only once, with
my little sister here, in Paris. I don’t pay much attention anymore. If it makes you feel any better, Taylor, I shot him. I did save her. A pity, but he pulled through.”

  It was hard to stay calm, difficult not to strangle her. “If that was supposed to be an apology, it’s sadly lacking. Even as an excuse, it sucks. Maybe you can explain why you shot him and then turned around and accused Lindsay of seducing him. For God’s sake, didn’t you see him raping her?”

  Sydney shrugged.

  “Why did you turn around and attack her? Why did you let her father attack her? That’s what happened, isn’t it?”

  “Stop being so melodramatic. For God’s sake, things are and were very complicated, particularly at that time.” Taylor watched her toss her coat over a hospital chair. She tossed her black purse on top of the coat. She walked back to the window. They were on the eleventh floor. “It’s very dark out,” she said after a moment. “I hate winter. It was very dark out even at five-thirty. I do hate the blackness.”

  “Complications come out of lies. The truth is usually very simple.”

  She turned. “A truism, Taylor? You really don’t know anything, you’re only guessing.”

  “What do you want here, Sydney?”

  Sydney suddenly smiled. “I called our father and told him Lindsay had been in an accident, evidently a very bad one. Would you like to know what he said? He asked me if Lindsay was going to live. I told him I didn’t know, didn’t have any details on her condition. He told me to call him immediately when I found out. If she was going to die, why, then, he would inherit all her money, and he needed to get the legalities under way.”

  He was cold with rage. “And what did you say, Sydney?”

  Sydney laughed. “Why, I told him I would call him back, naturally.”

  “Her plastic surgeon is a Dr. Perry. Her other doctor is named Shantel. You may want to speak directly to Perry and to her. Lindsay will live, Sydney. She’s got broken ribs, a collapsed lung, and her face—I understand the bones were crushed but she’ll be all right. Be sure to tell her father that, won’t you? Tell the bastard for me that he can fuck his legalities. Tell him for me that if he comes near her, I’ll flatten him.”

  “You don’t care for me much, do you, Taylor?”

  “No.”

  “You really shouldn’t hate her father. You don’t know him.”

  “I don’t want to know him. He’s a shit.”

  “You cared for Valerie, didn’t you? You were with her for three months?”

  He said brutally, “I enjoyed fucking her, but only for a while. She was too possessive, too selfish. She had no control over herself. She was like a spoiled child who wanted everything her own way. I met Lindsay, and Valerie ceased to exist. I told Lindsay you reminded me of Valerie.”

  Sydney picked up her coat and slipped her arms into it. She strode toward the door, her hand out for the knob, when she turned and said, “What happened to Lindsay’s face?”

  “A falling beam struck her directly.”

  She looked at him curiously. “Valerie told me how you enjoyed just looking at her because she was so beautiful. Lindsay isn’t in her league. What does she have now to hold you?”

  “You seemed to think her money would hold anyone.”

  “Perhaps, but it didn’t work for Valerie.”

  “No.”

  “Well, then?”

  He went still, deeply and utterly silent.

  She smiled. “Ah, perhaps it’s pity for the sparrow with the broken wing? Don’t you think so, Taylor? That fades, pathetic things always do, and all that’s left is the damned sparrow and it still has a broken wing. And your guilt because you aren’t interested anymore.”

  Surprisingly, Taylor smiled back at her, a smile cold and taunting as hers. “I find you amazing, Sydney. I find your father amazing. You know something else? The real pity is that none of us can choose who our relatives are. I’d say that Lindsay got all the black cards in the deck.” He turned back to Lindsay then, and didn’t move until he heard the door close.

  It was ten o’clock the following morning. Lindsay was awake and in pain. Taylor was going crazy watching her trying to control it. Finally the nurse gave her more medication. She fell into a light sleep. The nurse told him it was the facial swelling that was causing most of the pain.

  He was on the point of going to their apartment to shower and change clothes when Sergeant Barry Kinsley of Manhattan South walked into the room.

  “Jesus,” Taylor said, staring at his old sergeant. “What the blazes are you doing here?”

  “Taylor? A shock, my boy, but at my age there shouldn’t be any more shocks. Why are you here? You know the lady?”

  “She’s my fiancée. She’s sleeping right now. What are you doing here, Barry?”

  “Official, Taylor, very official. Someone tried to kill the lady. The explosion wasn’t an accident, it was a bomb, one of those neat little plastic numbers, and it was detonated from about twenty yards away. She was right there, leaning against that ski lift, when someone detonated the explosive. No one else was anywhere near. A setup, straightforward, no muss, no fuss. Clean, sweet.”

  Taylor saw red. “Excuse me a minute, Barry.” He ran out of the room.

  20

  Demos had left Lindsay’s room just two minutes before. Taylor ran down the hospital corridor. He saw Demos standing in front of the elevator banks and yelled, “You goddamned little worm! You filthy little bastard! Don’t you move!”

  Demos turned, horror turning his skin pasty, as Taylor bore down on him. He didn’t hesitate. He poked frantically at the elevator button. Taylor grabbed him by his knotted tie and lifted him off his feet, pinning him against the wall.

  “You damned little pervert!” He smashed his head into the wall. “That was no accident, that was a bomb, and it was meant for Lindsay! You didn’t even bother to warn me this time. Why not? Jesus, she’s lying in there because you’re a filthy scum and don’t pay your gambling debts!”

  Taylor slugged him hard in the stomach and then in the jaw. And still he held him up, cursing him and punctuating his curses by banging him against the wall.

  Taylor heard nurses yelling, saw people running toward him, saw some, terrified, running away. A patient came out of his room carrying a bedpan and dropped it. Urine splashed upward onto the linoleum floor. Taylor suddenly felt arms trying to pull him off Demos, but he didn’t let go. He wanted to kill the damned bastard.

  “Taylor, my boy, stop it!”

  Barry Kinsley was built like a bull. He was fifty-five, balding, five-foot-ten, and had a chest the size of a pork barrel. He was still one of the strongest men on the New York police force. He’d been one of Taylor’s instructors at the police academy and he’d taken him on the wrestling mat every time they’d gone at it. He’d tried to talk Taylor out of leaving the force. He’d remained a friend, distant, but always there, over the past few years.

  He pulled Taylor off Demos, grunting with the effort—Jesus, he thought, he was getting too old for this shit—and Demos slid to the floor. He wasn’t unconscious; he looked up at Taylor, whimpered, and drew his legs to his chest in the fetal position.

  “I didn’t do anything, Taylor, I swear it to you.”

  “You miserable liar! Barry, let me go, damn you! I’ll beat the truth out of this little prick in no time.”

  “Nope, Taylor. Now, boy, hold yourself still or I’ll have to rearrange that sexy face of yours. The ladies won’t like that, boyo. That’s right, deep breaths, get control of yourself, and tell Papa Barry what gives here.”

  Taylor was trying to slow his breathing, trying to get back his control. It was tough. Barry loosened his grip just a bit. Taylor didn’t try to escape him.

  “Good, now behave, Taylor. I’m going to help this little fellow here get to his feet, and then we’re all going back to your fiancée’s room. Seems to me that’s the safest place for Demos here. You wouldn’t want to disturb her now, would you, Taylor?”

&nbs
p; “He deserves to have his belly ripped out.”

  “Possibly,” Barry said, eyeing Demos up and down. “Yeah, just possibly. Come along, let’s get back to the lady’s room.” He looked up to see the sea of shocked and scared faces. “Show’s over, folks. Go about your business now. Hey, what’s that smell?”

  Taylor walked on one side of Sergeant Kinsley, Demos, still bent over, on the other side.

  “I didn’t do anything, Taylor,” Demos said, feeling safer with Kinsley between them.

  “Just hold your horses, sir,” Barry said easily. “Just wait until we get in the lady’s room. Then I know Taylor won’t rip your throat out.”

  “Oh, God,” Demos said.

  “Now, sir, trust me. I’m an officer of the law.”

  “Oh, God,” Demos said again.

  Once in Lindsay’s room, Taylor immediately went to her bedside. She was deeply asleep. There was only the hissing sound of the lung machine.

  He turned back to Barry. “In early November Demos hired me to keep an eye on her—she’s called Eden, and she’s a model—because he was into the New Jersey boys for a big amount of bucks. He hadn’t paid so they threatened to take out some of his players, not just him, more’s the pity. I told him to pay because if anything happened to her he’d be responsible and I’d call the cops. Do you remember that man who was found beaten up in his car trunk near the Lincoln Tunnel? Well, that was the boys’ demonstration. It was the director of the commercial shoot Eden was in. The guy recovered, lucky for birdbrain here. Demos then swore to me he’d paid up and he’d never do it again. Now, you little scum, who’s coming down on you this time? Who has your balls in a vise now? How much are you in for?”

  Demos was finally standing straight. He’d regained some sense of himself. He looked Taylor straight in the eye, Lindsay’s hospital bed between them, ignored the sergeant, and said, “I kept my word, Taylor. Do you think I would ever take a chance again on having Eden hurt? My God, she’s so—”