Beyond Eden (17 page)

“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 heads. He'd always been good at seeing intent. Then his eyes came back to her. Demos had said she might be a target. Demos wanted Taylor to keep close to her. Well, looking at her was no problem.

He watched the director throw his weight around, heard him give orders in a churlish manner, heard him criticize Eden, not once but a good half-dozen times. Her smile was all wrong. She wasn't graceful. She was acting all stiff, like a damned puppet. Taylor would have punched the guy out. Eden
simply nodded, shook her head, or asked for clarification. She did what she was told with no show of hesitation or disagreement, moving to a certain position, standing calm and still when ordered to do so. He watched makeup people swarm over her, then a hair person was ducking past a cameraman to straighten hair that didn't need straightening. The head cameraman and the director kept fighting, and Taylor wondered who was supposed to be the boss here. It was chaos and madness.

The shoot took two and a half hours. During that time Taylor had spotted twenty possible suspects, but all of them had faded away. And always he looked back at her. He watched as one man held a fan two feet away from her and blew her hair away from her face. He watched her arch her back, push her breasts forward, watched her move to sit atop a horse, her long bare legs showing. They'd hired from one of the park drivers a docile old bay mare with a white fetlock, patient and long-suffering.

He wondered at her patience. He wondered how she could keep smiling. He wondered how she could put up with the egotistical director. He waited for her to scream at the jerk, but she didn't, at least this time. When it was over, he breathed a sigh of relief. There'd been nothing more suspicious than a man who'd dropped something and spent too long looking for it, to the point that Taylor started to approach him. But the guy took off. Taylor watched her stretch, speak briefly to the director, shake the head cameraman's hand, then go back into the trailer.

When she emerged some twenty minutes later, she was back in jeans and T-shirt, her hair clipped back at the base of her head. Strangely, he thought
she looked more lovely now than with all the wild and flowy hair.

He pushed off the tree he was standing against and walked over to her.

“Demos didn't show up,” he said. He stuck out his hand. “So I'll have to introduce myself. I'm Taylor.”

“Taylor what?”

“Taylor's my last name. And that's what I'm called.” One of her eyebrows was still up in question. He shrugged. “Okay, my full name is S. C. Taylor, but as I said, Taylor is what I'm called.”

Because she saw no alternative, Lindsay took his hand. “I'm Eden. Why are you here?”

“Demos hired me to protect you and the shoot.”

Lindsay's mouth fell open and there was no mistaking her surprise. “What?”

“He should have come. He said he would, and tell you who I was and why I was here. He's asked me to stick with you for the next couple of days.”

“But that's crazy! Protect
me
? But who would—?”

“Yeah, my thoughts exactly. I think friend Demos owes someone money and the someone isn't happy with him at the moment.”

“He loves the horses.”

“How long have you been with him?”

“About four years.”

“You want to call him and check me out?”

She shook her head on a sigh. “Don't get me wrong. It's not that I trust you so quickly. No, it sounds just like Vinnie. I am surprised that Glen didn't let me know, though.”

“Shall we go have some lunch?”

Lindsay didn't know what to say. She'd seen him and distrusted him. He looked too sure of himself,
too on top of things. He was good-looking, and that always put her on the alert. He was big, and that made her even more wary. The prince had been smaller-boned, slender, but he'd been strong enough to do just as he pleased with her. This man was six-foot-two, she guessed, the same height as her father. She wished she was wearing heels instead of her sneakers, so she could look him straight in the eye. She supposed that sticking with her meant just that. “It's yogurt for lunch. I pigged out on Mexican food last night and have got to pay the piper now.”

“No problem,” Taylor said. “You ready?”

She nodded. Suddenly she was aware of the mobs of people all around. “It's not dangerous for us to be walking out in the middle of everything?”

“Don't worry. I'm right with you and I'm armed. I don't want you to end up a prisoner in your apartment, afraid to answer your telephone or your front door. That's no good either. We'll be conservative and smart, that's all. And of course, I'll be dogging your heels.”

She nodded. She couldn't wait to get her hands on Demos. Could she truly be in any danger? That bastard. She wanted to kill him. How dare he put her in this kind of situation? And with this man who was a total stranger?

“Maybe I shouldn't have been honest with you,” he said, in step beside her, “or rather, speculated about things, but Demos didn't show up like he said he would. I figured you wouldn't buy anything but the truth.”

“You're right about that,” Lindsay said, her voice stony, striding so fast he had to double-step to stay even with her. “I'll get him for this, the jerk.”

Taylor said mildly, “Perhaps I've got it all wrong. He didn't spell it out like that.”

Lindsay looked over at him then, the first time, he realized. What was with her? “Yeah, sure. I'm so valuable he's suddenly decided that I'm in danger of being abducted by a Middle Eastern sheik.”

“I'd be tempted.”

She withdrew. It was the strangest thing. She was simply no longer there. She didn't speed up her pace, she didn't really do anything different, but she was gone from him, completely. He frowned at her profile and said, “I was out of line. Sorry.”

She didn't come back, just nodded, not looking at him, and kept taking those long-legged strides.

“There's a good yogurt shop just over on Sixth and Fifty-seventh. You want to give it a try?”

She nodded. The sidewalks were congested with people, all hurrying, because it was the best offense, the streets congested with cars, taxis primarily, all honking, all zigging and zagging, trying to get the best of each other. She found she was studying faces, assessing them, giving them a significance they'd never had before. Her intent different now, suspicious, afraid. Taylor said quietly beside her, “No, don't do that. Everything will be fine. Trust me. I'm good at my job. If it makes you feel better, I was a cop for a number of years.”

“Okay,” Lindsay said, and tried to keep her glances at strangers surreptitious.

The yogurt shop was full and they had to wait for ten minutes to get served.

Lindsay ordered nonfat banana-nut yogurt, medium size, and sat down at a small round white table with ice-cream-parlor chairs recently vacated. He ordered the same and joined her.

She ate very slowly, cherishing each bite. He found himself watching her. “You're always hungry?”

She didn't reply until she'd swallowed slowly, with obvious relish. “No, not really. It's just that I'm forced to weigh ten pounds less than I should carry. It's the cameras that put the weight on you. Those are the rules,” she added quickly when she saw he would say something. “If I want to be in this profession, I must abide by them.”

“I guess I can understand that. Does your family preach at you about not eating enough?”

“No, they—Where did Demos find you?”

“Actually it was Glen—Flaming Glen with the row of diamond studs marching up his ear—who called me up and asked me to come in for a job. Does he always wear black?”

Lindsay smiled. She was relaxing again. He'd backed off, for which she was immensely grateful. Oddly, she also trusted him to keep her safe. She'd be rid of him soon enough, just as soon as she got hold of Demos. “Flaming Glen is a nut case. If he isn't wearing black, well then, it's violet. He says it complements his eyes. Be thankful you got the black dose. He's very angry with Demos about something right now. How was Glen dressed when you met him?”

“In tight designer jeans, black, ribbed turtleneck, also black, a western belt with a huge round silver buckle, and black Italian loafers.”

“He adores that particular outfit. You're observant. You know, I try to stay away from the office. They try to get me to take sides.”

“Well, I'm a private investigator when I'm not a computer hacker. And that's what Demos is paying me for. I hope you don't mind me hanging around you for a couple of days.”

“Hanging around exactly how? You mean giving me advice on what to do and what not to do?”

Taylor shrugged. When Demos had called him at home the previous night, he'd sounded a bit agitated. It was then he'd asked Taylor to keep a close watch on Eden, after the shoot. He wasn't going to take any chances, he'd said. Keep a close guard on Eden.

Taylor had jacked up his price, to which Demos had too readily agreed. Taylor wondered if he'd try to stiff him. He'd called Glen and asked for cash up front and Glen had come through.

“Hanging around exactly how?” Lindsay asked again.

He smiled at her and it scared her. She very nearly recoiled. The smile was gone in the next instant and he sat forward in the flimsy chair and said in a very low voice, “I don't know what's with you, lady, but I don't intend to spend my time wondering how you're going to react to me, and worrying about what I say. I've been hired to do a job and you're the job. I'll be your bloody shadow until Demos stops paying the bills. If you don't like that, call him. Now, do you want to call him now or are you ready to go? Incidentally, I've got great taste in clothes, so if you want to go shopping, I'm at your disposal.”