Beyond Eden

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.”