Beyond Eden (34 page)

“Yes.”

“I've seen her picture many times. She's quite beautiful and she will be again.”

“Thank you. She is. She's also a lot more than that—she's—”

She wanted to take his hand but she didn't. “I understand, Mr. Taylor. I will tell you as soon as I know something more.” He nodded and she knew he was fighting for control. She hated to see such pain. She hated to see this hidden, deep pain, this completely controlled pain. Sometimes it was better to shriek and curse all the doctors and nurses and rail against God and fate. But this man would always try to control himself and circumstances around him.

Ann Hollis smiled at him, and now she patted his arm again. The poor young woman was a model—not anymore, Ann Hollis thought. Oh, no, not unless she was very lucky indeed. She'd seen the young woman's face. They hadn't cleaned it yet, and there was nothing but dried blood and bone and matted blood-dried hair. Yes, it would be difficult to be beautiful when your face was smashed.

She watched the man Taylor turn away and walk back into the waiting lounge with two other men.

 

Lindsay wished she could throw a rock at the light. It was bright and it hurt her eyes. Why was it on? She hadn't turned it on. Why didn't someone turn it off? She didn't want to open her eyes. She didn't want to see anything; she didn't want to be or do anything. She wanted to stay buried deep and warm within herself, within the warm darkness. It was
secure here, except for that damned light. She knew, somehow, that if she opened her eyes she would regret it.

Still, the light was there, brighter now, and there was a voice along with it, a woman's voice, urgent and hoarse-sounding, saying over and over, “ Lindsay, Lindsay, wake up now, wake up now. Come on, you can do it. Wake up.”

“No,” she said, and even that one small word was difficult. Her throat was dry and to the point of pain.

“Here, I'm putting a straw in your mouth. Try to suck some water. You need it.”

How did the woman know that? She sucked and felt the water fill her mouth and trickle down her throat. It was wonderful until she swallowed. A shock of pain went through her, squeezing the breath out of her, making her tighten and shrink and shudder with its force.

“Oh, God.”

“I know it hurts. I'll give you more painkiller very soon now. You've got to get over the anesthesia first. I need to see how your brain is working.” There was a smile in the woman's voice; then she said, “Please open your eyes for me.”

“The light. It hurts.”

The light disappeared. Lindsay opened her eyes. The room was in shadows. There was a woman in white standing over her. There were other people in the room, she could hear them. She couldn't see them, but she could hear them. Their breathing, a few moans.

“That's good. Now, tell what you see.”

“You. I see you and you're wearing white and you're pretty.”

“Thank you. Now, don't be frightened. You came
out of surgery and you're in the recovery room. You pulled through everything great. Dr. Perry will be in to see you in the morning. He said you'll be gorgeous again. Right now, you look like a Q-Tip—your head is all bandaged up and that's why you can't open your mouth very wide. The bandages are to keep everything immobile. Do you understand? Good. Now, I want you to count some fingers for me. Four? Excellent. And now? Good, Lindsay. Very good.”

“My ribs hurt.”

“I know. And they'll hurt for quite a good while yet. But the painkiller will help immensely. Dr. Shantel will be here in a moment to talk to you. Just hang in there and then we'll give you some more painkiller very soon.”

“Taylor. Where's Taylor?” It was so hard to talk. She felt the swath of bandages for the first time. Her head felt tight. It hurt to try to open her mouth, even a little bit.

“He's here. I tried to keep him out but he threatened to break all my moving parts if I didn't let him in.” The nurse leaned closer and whispered, “Besides, he's a real cutie. If he has a brother, I sure would appreciate an introduction.”

The nurse moved aside. Lindsay felt him take her hand. Then his fingers were on her bare forearm, light and gentle, Taylor's fingers. Odd that he was doing just what Debra had done. She wondered if they'd told him to touch her, to keep human contact.

His face was right above hers. His look was serious and it frightened her, but his voice was soft and low. “Hello, sweetheart. You're going to be fine. Jesus, don't ever give me a scare like that
again. Here's your doctor. I'll be right here. It'll be all right.”

Dr. Shantel, a woman who was nearly as tall as Lindsay and tanned from a recent vacation to Maui, said, “Stay, Mr. Taylor. Hold her hand. You're quite a calming influence. And we want her calm as she comes out of the anesthesia.” To Lindsay she introduced herself, then said quietly, “You're very lucky. I'll take care of all of you except your face. That's Dr. Perry's area. Now, your ribs aren't bandaged. They'll mend faster just left alone. We've stitched up some cuts on your shoulders and chest and neck. Nothing, really. Practically no scarring. You're just fine now. You'll be with us for a while. I want you to rest and I want you to hold your head very still.”

Dr. Shantel looked at the bandages wrapped around the young woman's head and face. “Your face will be all right. You've come out of the anesthesia well. It's time for some more painkiller, and then you can have a good night's sleep.”

“Taylor?”

“I'm here, Lindsay. Here's some medication for you. No, I'm not leaving you.”

He watched the nurse inject medicine into the IV in her left arm. He stroked his fingers over her right forearm, the way the nurse Debra had told him. He wanted to cry.

The nurse said quietly, “I understand you're her fiancé?”

“Yes.”

“Tell you what. I'll speak to the nursing staff on the fourth floor. No reason why you can't stay with her if you want to. We'll have another bed moved in there. Does Miss Foxe have other family you need to call?”

Taylor just stared at her.
Miss Foxe. Lindsay Foxe.

He said aloud, “Foxe. Her name's Lindsay Foxe. It's a nice name.”

The nurse looked at him curiously. “You don't have to worry about any paperwork. Mr. Demos provided all the insurance information.”

It was exactly nine o'clock at night when he remembered. He was alone with her in her private room. There was the soft hissing sound of the lung machine, nothing else, save perhaps his own breathing. He remembered. Sharp memories, utterly clear and brutal. He jerked with the knowledge.

Lindsay Foxe.

The young girl who'd been in the cubicle in the emergency room next to his at St. Catherine's Hospital in April, nine years ago, the young girl who had been raped by her sister's husband—a bloody Italian prince—and who had screamed and screamed and fought the men who were also doctors. He remembered hearing how those doctors had spoken about her and to her and what they'd done to her. He shook his head. It was beyond anything. And now that young girl was here and she'd grown up and he loved her and she was going to be his wife.

Lindsay Foxe. Jesus, he couldn't believe it, he couldn't seem to accept it—the chance of it happening; but then there was the gut feeling that it was somehow fate. Taylor shook his head. He was losing it.
Lindsay Foxe.

No wonder she'd changed her name when she'd become a model. No wonder she hadn't wanted to tell him what her real name was. She'd said something about not wanting him to hate her. She'd only tried to protect herself. From everyone and then
from him. When would she have told him? When would she have decided to trust him enough?

Jesus. He thought of Sydney di Contini, La Principessa, Lindsay's half-sister. It had been her husband who had raped Lindsay, and Sydney, that sophisticated bitch he'd met for the first time four days before, had been the one who'd shot him.

Taylor saw she was sleeping. He called Enoch, speaking very softly, and told him what had happened. And then he said, “I need a favor, Enoch.”

“You got it, Taylor.”

“A serious favor, one that you can't ever talk about, even to Sheila.”

“What's going on?”

Taylor told him. “Yeah, that's right. Only French newspapers, no American, they're not necessary.” He gave him the exact day. Then he hung up. He looked at Lindsay. Her breathing was shallow, her skin was flushed. The lung machine—looking for the world like a blue briefcase—hissed and bubbled. He closed his eyes, listening to the sounds of the machine and picturing again that young girl, wheeled out on a gurney past where he sat waiting for a doctor to see to his arm. So young she'd been, so pathetic, and so completely alone. No one there for her, no one.

And he realized in that instant how much she had to love him. After all that had happened to her, she'd still come to him. She'd trusted him with her body, she'd trusted him not to hurt her. Who cared that she hadn't yet told him her name? It didn't matter. He leaned his forehead on her hand. He prayed silently.

It was nearly midnight when Sydney arrived.

“My God,” she said from the doorway.

“Yes,” he said, looking at her with new eyes.
“Speak quietly. She's sleeping.” Sydney nodded and came into the room and slipped out of the full-length Russian sable coat. She was wearing a long black dress beneath, with no sleeves, little front, and no back. She was wearing diamonds—a necklace, earrings, bracelet. Her hair was piled on top of her head and she looked exquisite and expensive. He wished she would fall out the window.

“What happened?”

“It was at a photo shoot in Washington Square. They'd built a ski lift and it exploded. She was standing right there, evidently. The cops and the fire department are working on it. How did you find out?”

“Well, you didn't call me, that's for sure.”

“Keep your voice down. It's possible I didn't call you because I don't know where you live.”

“Even if you'd known, you wouldn't have called, would you, Taylor? Oh, just forget it. It was on TV and I happened to see my sister being lifted into an ambulance.” She walked to the windows, fidgeting with an emerald ring on her right hand.

Sydney turned to look at him. He was pale but it didn't diminish the fact that he also looked mean and angry and hard as nails, his eyes narrowed on her face. He was holding Lindsay's hand, his strong and hard, hers pale and limp.

“Ah, so she's told you how I'm the wicked half-sister.”

“No, she's hardly told me anything at all, as a matter of fact. She hadn't yet told me her last name. The hospital needed it and Demos told them.”

Sydney just looked at him. He could practically hear her thinking and sorting through things. Finally, “You remembered the old scandal? Good
God, it was years ago. Or did Demos tell you about that too?”

“Actually, Demos didn't have to. I just happened to be in the same emergency room in Paris when Lindsay was brought in. I'd been hit and knocked off my motorcycle, and my arm was broken. I'll never forget it as long as I live, her screams, her fear, her pain, and the fact that she was completely alone. I wanted to kill those bloody doctors who were supposed to be taking care of her. Yeah, I wanted to kill them, and she was helpless because they were holding her down, holding her legs apart and prying into her; it was just another rape, dammit! She didn't speak French and they didn't give a shit because she was a foreigner. I also wanted to kill the bloody bastard who'd raped her. Your precious husband, I believe.”

Sydney felt the shock of surprise, then calmed herself. She remembered Valerie telling her how Taylor loved France, how he was there two or three times a year. How he'd even been in an accident there once—years ago, and had broken his arm and been in a hospital—

She tried to keep her voice down, keep it smooth and calm, but it was tough. “I wasn't with her in the emergency room. I was a bit over the edge myself at the time. Hysterical, I guess, though I hate to think of that word being applied to me. And the bloody bastard who raped her is doing nicely. He still likes young girls. He's still got enough money to command a steady supply and charming enough so that rape isn't necessary for him. He only seems to have problems when he leaves Italy. And that only once, with my little sister here, in Paris. I don't pay much attention
anymore. If it makes you feel any better, Taylor, I shot him. I did save her. A pity, but he pulled through.”

It was hard to stay calm, difficult not to strangle her. “If that was supposed to be an apology, it's sadly lacking. Even as an excuse, it sucks. Maybe you can explain why you shot him and then turned around and accused Lindsay of seducing him. For God's sake, didn't you see him raping her?”

Sydney shrugged.

“Why did you turn around and attack her? Why did you let her father attack her? That's what happened, isn't it?”

“Stop being so melodramatic. For God's sake, things are and were very complicated, particularly at that time.” Taylor watched her toss her coat over a hospital chair. She tossed her black purse on top of the coat. She walked back to the window. They were on the eleventh floor. “It's very dark out,” she said after a moment. “I hate winter. It was very dark out even at five-thirty. I do hate the blackness.”

“Complications come out of lies. The truth is usually very simple.”

She turned. “A truism, Taylor? You really don't know anything, you're only guessing.”

“What do you want here, Sydney?”

Sydney suddenly smiled. “I called our father and told him Lindsay had been in an accident, evidently a very bad one. Would you like to know what he said? He asked me if Lindsay was going to live. I told him I didn't know, didn't have any details on her condition. He told me to call him immediately when I found out. If she was going to die, why, then, he would inherit all her money, and he needed to get the legalities under way.”