“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.
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.”
Gina 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?
He scanned the group, taking note of each man’s position and what he appeared to be doing. He had a list of all the men and women who were to be involved in the commercial. What a list. He couldn’t begin to estimate the cost of this little outing. He’d checked them all off. No one appeared unaccounted for.
He looked up to see the plump little pigeon, Gina, smiling at him. He winked at her.
He didn’t like the fact that they were in Central Park. There were more bushes and trees around than could be counted. There was a continuous stream of people strolling by, trying to be cool and act nonchalant, but still slowing and looking. And there were lowlifes everywhere. He prowled continuously, eyes peeled for anything or anyone suspicious. Nothing so far.
He was used to waiting. He was patient and he knew how to keep perfectly still, if the situation demanded it. He heard a noise and quickly turned. There were two black kids with ghetto-blasters, earplugs in their ears, gyrating down a path. He watched them closely until they passed from sight. He leaned back against an oak tree, feeling the comfort of his 9mm automatic tucked close to his body in his shoulder holster. Thirty minutes later the trailer door opened and three people stepped out. They turned, and one of the men bowed and held out his hand.
An incredible woman took his hand and let him help her to the ground. She was wearing a white flowy dress and her feet and legs were bare. Her hair was something else—all full and deeply waving and multicolored and thick and long. Gorgeous. It was her, the model, Eden. Impossible to believe. He gawked at her, unable to help himself. Of course he hadn’t seen her up close.
She looked up then and met his eyes. He felt like a kid with a sudden attack of hormones, and a fool. He nodded to her, then resumed what he was being paid for. He scanned the set and all the people who passed by who even looked like they were considering stopping. He looked at men’s hands. At men’s faces, at the angles of their
