“Yeah, but is that through personal commitment or because you have to starve yourself to make a living? Will you get fat when you stop modeling?”
“I don’t think so. I’ve never had a problem before.”
He smiled at her. “Good. I think we’ve got all the bases covered.”
“I don’t cook very well.”
“No problem. Since you don’t eat, why bother learning? I do great things with lettuce and tofu and pork chops.”
“All right.”
“Give me the ring.” He held out his hand.
She handed him the box.
He pulled the exquisite ring from its bed. “Give me your left hand.”
She hesitated, and he just waited, his hand still out, palm up.
She thrust her left hand at him. He held the beautiful ring out, staring down at it as he slid it on her finger. It was a tight fit, a very tight fit, and she had to help him, wincing as she forced it over her knuckle. He’d rather thought a size five would do the trick.
“Good, it’ll be a real pain to get the thing off. If you’re ever really pissed at me and want to throw it in my face, you’ll have trouble doing it immediately, in the heat of passion, so to speak. That, sweetheart, will give you time to cool down and me to talk you out of your snit.”
“You’re miraculous, Taylor. You’re also a devious smart-ass.”
“Tell me more. Come here now, I want to hug you.”
She came between his legs, stretched out, and leaned back against his chest, and his arms came around her waist. He kissed the top of her head. “You are now my fiancée. It’s official. How does that sound?”
“Miraculous.”
He laughed, pulled her hair back, and bit her earlobe.
“Taylor? Why don’t you stay tonight?”
He wondered if she was pressed close to him to feel how hard he was. “All right,” he said. “We’ve got our Christmas stocking for tomorrow morning. It’ll be nice not to have to come trudging over here in the cold and snow at seven o’clock in the morning. This way, we can sit in bed, drink cocoa, and attack the stockings whenever we feel like it.”
“I can’t imagine it,” she said, her voice low and just slightly bewildered and disbelieving.
“I can,” he said, and kissed her earlobe. “Now I can imagine it very easily.”
“The last time I had a Christmas stocking, I was eleven years old.”
“Oh, yeah? You want a real sob story? The last time anyone gave me a Christmas stocking, I was in the police academy and it was my instructor. Mean bugger, my instructor. Lots of wrapped goodies—things like hand grenades, tear-gas canisters, a toy gun, bullets, handcuffs, you wouldn’t believe those handcuffs, all fur-lined—Lord, she was something else, my instructor, especially with those handcuffs. Her name was Marlene ‘Ball Buster’ Jakoby and she was—”
Lindsay turned and hit him as hard as she could in the stomach. “Handcuffs!”
“Yes, ma’am, I was a slave for a day. It wasn’t bad though—the handcuffs were lined with this really soft material.”
She looked thoughtful and Taylor groaned.
15
Taylor / Eden
They saw in Christmas Day, but only just. At ten minutes after midnight, Taylor looked at her and gave a big yawn. Tomorrow morning, early, was Christmas stockings. They needed their sleep. He held out his hand to her as he rose.
She tentatively placed her hand in his, stood up, pulled down her loose wine-colored sweater, and said, trying to hide her sudden embarrassment, “I’ll go first, if that’s okay. I’ll be about ten minutes.”
He nodded, turning to face the fireplace, trying to be as laid-back as his computer friends in California. At that moment she felt a spurt of anger at him, for he’d known intimacy with a woman; he knew how to act, what to say, how to speak. He knew what to do. She said from the doorway, “This isn’t fair. I feel so strange. I don’t know how to act, how to joke around about all this like you do. I feel stupid.”
He grinned at her, waving her away as he said, “On the other hand, you’re wearing a beautiful ring. You’ve got me at your feet. What else do you want?”
Again, his light touch. She just shook her head at him. Lindsay called out to him when she was through in the bathroom, and after seeing to the candles, the fire, the front door, Taylor went into the bedroom. Only the lamp atop the bedside table was on. She was lying on the left side, flat on her back, the covers to her chin. She was staring at him.
“Hi,” he said easily, but he was thinking that she looked the twenty-first-century prototype of a vestal virgin. He unbuttoned his shirt. “You kept to the agreed-upon limit, didn’t you, Eden?”
“For what?” She was staring at him. He pulled off his shirt. Then he pulled his T-shirt over his head.
“For the presents in our stockings,” he said through the cotton. “Just nonsense presents, limit of fifty dollars. Did you stick to the limit?”
She watched the white T-shirt float to the floor. He began to pull the belt from the loops of his dark gray slacks. Taylor had decided while he’d waited for her that he would wear his T-shirt and shorts to bed tonight, then, after he moved in tomorrow, he’d wear sweats, nothing more. That was what he’d thought at first. Then he thought, why the hell hide his body from her? Why the hell pretend the situation wasn’t normal? Why the hell pretend he didn’t want her and not let her see that he did? Why the hell not have her get used to him, beginning immediately? It was a risk; it was a god-awful risk, but he accepted it, and prayed. His hand paused a moment; then he knew he had to go ahead with it. She had to get used to him. She had to know that even when he was naked there was simply no chance he would hurt her. She had to trust him.
“Did you?” he asked again, not looking up.
The belt landed on the chair, curling around the T-shirt. He sat down and took off his shoes and socks, then rose again, his fingers on the trouser button.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m taking my clothes off. I tend not to sleep in them, you know. It makes them last longer. Save on the laundry and cleaning bills. Now, did you stick to our limit?”
“Taylor!”
She couldn’t help watching, she simply couldn’t help it. The image of the prince flared bright and stark in her memory, and she saw him naked, saw his sex hard and long, remembered the heat of his breath on her face, the coldness of his hands on her body, and felt the old terror, the humiliation and fear, the helplessness.
“I managed to keep it at just $47.69, to be exact. I got you some neat things. You’ll see.”
She turned her head away.
She heard him whistling “Silent Night.”
But she wasn’t eighteen anymore. She wasn’t helpless. “Damn you, you promised me, you said that I could trust you, that you wouldn’t—”
He didn’t intend to pretend for an instant, nor did he hesitate to interrupt her. “I didn’t lie, Eden. Turn around and look at me. Get used to me, starting right now. I am incapable of pretending I don’t want you, so there’s no point in trying to hide it and pretend sex doesn’t exist and that I’m some sort of eunuch roommate. Look at me and trust me. I won’t ever do anything you don’t want.” He spoke slowly and easily, so calmly, his own voice nearly putting him to sleep. But not Eden. No, she was too terrified.
She turned her head slowly on the pillow. He was standing in the middle of her bedroom, naked, his arms at his sides, looking at her.
“I’m just a man, Eden.”
She stared.
“Do you still think I’m miraculous?”
“Yes,” she said finally after staring at him for a full silent three minutes. “I suppose you are.”
He grinned at her, feeling a whole truckload of relief. “I like a warped woman. Let’s get some sleep.”
He walked toward the bed, saw her freeze, but continued on his course. Normalcy was the key. He slipped under the covers. “Turn off the light. You wore me out tonight.”
“I didn’t. Whatever do you mean?”
“Oh, yes, you did. You didn’t squeal with incredible joy when you saw the ring. You didn’t leap into my arms and kiss my face off and scream that you couldn’t wait to marry me, that you were the happiest woman in New York. Oh, no, you nearly forced me to call out the Marines. Now I’ve got to regroup. Off with the light. I’ve got to think, to plan.”
The light clicked off. The bedroom was black as pitch. Lindsay moved around a bit, then became quiet. She said then, “Don’t you wear pajamas to bed?”
“No.”
“If I bought you some, would you?”
“No.”
She sighed.
“Speaking of pajamas, I hate nightgowns. If I burned all of yours, would you sleep nude?”
“No.”
“Well, there you are. Good night, sweetheart. It’s good to be here, where I belong.”
“Good night, Taylor. I’m glad you’re here. I think.”
“Do I get a good-night kiss?”
Silence.
“All right. A special kiss, an engagement kiss, a Christmas Eve kiss.”
She leaned over and kissed him, landing on his chin. He reached out to clasp her shoulders and instead brushed against her breasts. Oh, sweet Jesus, he thought. “No, don’t pull back. It’s dark in here. Now, let’s see if we can’t get our mouths together properly.”
They did and it was a sweet kiss, one that left him profoundly horny and left Lindsay feeling a small flutter in her belly, a sensation she attributed to residue fear.
When Taylor awoke the following morning at precisely ten minutes past seven, she was lying on her back, a good foot separating them. As he’d done before, he pulled her over and settled her against him. He didn’t go back to sleep. He lay there, quite happy and so pleased with himself he wanted to yell with it. She mumbled something and moved, coming closer, her thigh covering his legs quite thoroughly now, her palm over his bare chest, her face tucked into his throat. Her hair was thick and soft and wavy in his face.
He waited to see how she would react when she woke up. Unfortunately, she didn’t wake up, and by the time it was eight o’clock, he had to go to the bathroom.
“Well, damn,” he said as he eased away from her.
He brought hot chocolate, croissants, butter, and Kramer’s strawberry jam in on a tray. “Merry Christmas, Eden. Come on, wake up.”
Lindsay couldn’t believe it. A man’s voice, in her apartment, and she was in bed. It took her less than an instant to come fully awake. She stared at this man in her bedroom. He was wearing her white terry-cloth robe, belted at the waist. He was in her bedroom and he was bringing her food. He lived here. She must have lost her mind, she must be crazy. She’d lost it on Christmas Eve. He lived here and she’d agreed to it. Then she happened to look down at the blazing diamond on her left hand. Well, hell.
She scooted up in bed and patted her legs. Well, she didn’t have to act like a freaked-out fool. “Set the tray down right here, sailor. I’m starving.”
“Don’t you ever go to the bathroom?”
She ducked her head down.
“Eden, don’t be silly. Even though you’re gorgeous, your body’s a dream, still, even with all these perfections, you’ve got to go to the bathroom sometime.”
“All right,” she said, and went.
When she came back, teeth and hair brushed, the two bulging Christmas stockings were on the bed, along with the breakfast tray.
“This is wonderful,” she said, and realized with joy that it really was. It was new and different and she simply couldn’t believe it. She relished it. She wanted to hug it to her and never feel fear again. Perhaps Taylor was different—“I’m trying to show you that you can’t live without me. Food to a skinny woman is always a good start.”
She bit into a croissant. “Wonderful. Oh, that’s real butter. I’d forgotten I had any.”
“Kiss me good morning. It’s a tradition in my family that goes all the way back to the Spanish Inquisition. And it will become a tradition in our family as well.”
She kissed him, tasting of the delicious strawberry jam and hot chocolate on his mouth. He deepened the kiss just a bit and let it go at that.
Two weeks ago, Taylor never would have believed he’d be in bed with her on Christmas morning, the recipient of a sweet kiss, but here he was.
As she’d so aptly said, it was indeed miraculous. He wondered, as he picked up his first wrapped stocking present, if she loved him and just didn’t know it. He guessed he’d happily settle for “ miraculous” for the time being. There was lots to do before he asked her again if she loved him.
Taylor quickly discovered that Eden liked to talk in bed, when it was in the dark of the night, when she couldn’t see him or his reaction.
He, in turn, could have any reaction he wanted because she couldn’t see him. It suited both their purposes for the time being.
Their most memorable late-night talk had been short and had moved him more than he’d expected. She’d said matter-of-factly, “I’ve always wanted to belong. To have someone who loved me and cared what happened to me. Someone who never questioned me, who believed me, and accepted me.”
Jesus, he thought, and swallowed, then reached out his hand and poked her ribs. “Well, now you do. Don’t forget, all that still goes even when we have our first knock-down, drag-out fight.”
“It’s nice,” she said, grabbing his hand. She didn’t release it.
That was all, and he knew he’d never forget it as long as he lived. Her hand remained in his all night. It wasn’t until the second of January that Lindsay remembered about her mail. Most of it was addressed to Lindsay Foxe. It was possible, of course, that Taylor had already looked at incoming bills and letters, but she didn’t think so. When he snooped, she imagined he wouldn’t resort to sneaking looks at letters. Still, she either had to tell him who she was or do something about the mail. She felt like a fraud, but she didn’t do anything about it.
She shied away from admitting she was Lindsay Foxe. On the other hand, the odds were that he wouldn’t ever recognize that name, not in a million years, except that he had been in Paris. All he’d had to do was look at a newspaper or scandal sheet. How could he not know? Oh, God, she couldn’t bear it. But then again, just maybe he would never find out about her even if the name did sound familiar to him. In terms of his abilities, she had no doubt that if he were curious about her name, he’d know all about her within an hour. She wasn’t ready to tell him. Not yet. It surprised her that the wound still festered. For nearly nine years now she’d handled it, down to joining self-awareness groups in college and spouting the party line. Before, she’d really thought herself well-armored, despite Dr. Gruska’s two appearances, but Taylor was different in her life. He counted. She didn’t want to lose him. She didn’t want him to look at her and think she’d been a teenage Lolita. He already knew too much, but this—she simply couldn’t handle this yet.
She didn’t know what to do. What she did do, finally, was get a post-office box. It would be a real pain in the rear but she could see no alternative. Except to tell the truth. No, not yet. If Taylor noticed she didn’t get a scrap of mail anymore, he didn’t say anything.
He noticed, all right, because he’d been wondering if he should initiate a change of address. He wanted to confront her with it, but he decided to wait.
Damnation. Who was she? Why did it matter about her name? When was she going to trust him?
They both admitted to the other on the eighth of January that the apartment was too small for the two of them.
Lindsay was afraid to speak of it, but Taylor wasn’t and he got the ball rolling.
“Let’s either move to my place—it is bigger, but probably still not big enough—or let’s go looking. What are you doing Saturday?”
It was a commitment that appalled her. It was even more real than the diamond that winked brilliantly up at her. It felt very heavy on her hand. She thought suddenly
of the look on Demos’ face when he’d seen it. Shock, incredulity, and finally, pleasure. Glen had acted wounded, tossing his head, but he’d given her a big hug. Now Taylor wanted to move. It wasn’t a do-or-die decision, but to her it was close, very close.
“Well?”
She just looked at him, that look that used to drive him nuts, it was so wary and uncertain.
“Question, Eden. We’ve been together for two weeks. Do you realize that last night while I was taking off my clothes you were sitting up in bed, your arms around your knees, and you didn’t miss a beat in what you were saying?”
“I was concentrating on what I was telling you.”
“I was hard as a rock and you didn’t blink.”
“Oh, all right. So I’m getting used to you—to all parts of you. So what?”
“Two days ago, I woke up early. You were lying all over me. When you woke up, I pretended to be asleep. You got up, went to the bathroom, came back, and sprawled all over me again. What do you think of that?”
“I was too groggy to know what I was doing.”
“Right.”
“I was cold and you’re like a furnace.”
“Right. Do you remember only last night, you were talking to me through the bathroom door? Normal as could be.”
“I was creaming my face. Surely you should be grateful I spared you that.”
“Was that all you were doing?” He flicked his fingertips over her flushed cheek. “No, please don’t resort to violence. Regardless, it’s time to go the next step. Let’s look in the paper and see what’s available to rent.”
She threw the newspaper at him. “All right, just do it and shut up.”
“Okay,” he said mildly, smoothing it out. “How much can you afford for your half?”
She laughed, flinging her arms out. “Let’s splurge. I make lots and lots of money. I want one of those big old apartments with high ceilings and lots of molding and old marble fireplaces and views that make you cry, but, of course, modern kitchen and bathrooms.”
They found just what she wanted on Fifth Avenue between Eightieth and Eighty-first streets in the elegant 1926 Bishop Building. It hadn’t been advertised, of course. Taylor and Lindsay both had put the word out and it had been Demos who’d called with the lead. The apartment was one thousand, eight hundred square feet, with lots of shining old wood, both on the walls as wainscoting and on the floors. It cost three arms and a dozen legs, Taylor thought, but what the hell. He turned to see her mesmerized, just standing in the middle of the immense living room, staring out the big bay windows to Central Park and the museum.
Beyond Eden Page 22
