Beyond Eden

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 guns 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,