Beyond Eden Page 4

  “A divorcée would never do. It somehow sounds so very imperfect.”

  “I agree with you completely.”

  “I don’t blame you. I’d do the same for the same reasons. It’s wise of you, though, not to try to hide such things, particularly from a nosy old lady. All my life, I’ve found things out that I shouldn’t have known about. Strange, but there it is.”

  After Gates Foxe had left, Candice saw to it that her secretary sent the recipe for the scones and the clotted cream to Mrs. Foxe in San Francisco. Then she went upstairs to see Lindsay. She could hear the girls laughing and chattering from outside the door. She smiled as she lightly tapped, knowing they probably wouldn’t hear it. They didn’t. Candice shoved the door silently inward.

  Bitsie Morgan was painting a picture of a naked boy on Lindsay’s cast. Gayle Werth was holding her sides with laughter. They were trying to decide what to do with the boy’s penis. Should they hide it or flaunt it? They decided to wrap it around Lindsay’s leg. Candice studied Lindsay for a moment before the girl was aware of her presence. She was flushed, in no pain, and enjoying herself immensely. Yes, she was happy here. She belonged. She fit in. No, her parents’ divorce didn’t seem to be affecting her at all. Lindsay looked at her then, and Candice smiled. Ah, those eyes of hers. Lindsay didn’t realize it yet, but someday men would go crazy over those incredibly gorgeous eyes of hers. Yes, they were just like her father’s. Whenever Royce was pounding into her, raised on his elbows, grunting with the force of his exertion, Candice would look into his beautiful sexy blue eyes and feel an orgasm hit.

  3

  The Betrayal

  Finally she was going to see him again. Lindsay hadn’t eaten for a day and a half; she was too excited. She’d felt nauseous whenever she even got near food, even her beloved cheeseburgers. She’d changed, she knew she had, but was it enough? He was used to Sydney and she was perfect. True, Lindsay was no longer the awkward dumb twit who’d stared at him, unable to say anything, unable to do much of anything except gaze upon him with adoring eyes, but that had been nearly two years ago. She’d been young then, very young and gauche and silly. She was grown now; she was mature. She was eighteen and nearly a woman. Her hands were clammy.

  She was also in France, riding in a white limousine, provided by the prince, on her way to the George V, and she would see him for the first time since his and Sydney’s wedding. She could still see him clearly in his tuxedo, still remember how the stark white of his dress shirt was so elegant and sophisticated against his olive skin. And his dark, dark eyes, looking at her, so intently, so seriously. She shivered with the pleasure of the thought. Of course Sydney would be there, but Lindsay didn’t care. She just wanted to see him, look at him, know that he was happy.

  She pulled out the wrinkled oft-folded letter from her purse and read it yet again. The limo driver had raised the glass shield and she was quite alone. The limo’s engine was powerful, smooth, and quiet. She smoothed out the page and read:

  My dearest Lindsay:

  Sydney and I will be in Paris the week of April 11. Enclosed is a ticket. We want you to join us. Do come. I, especially, want to see you again.

  And he’d signed it as he had the other cards he’d sent during the past two years. With love, Alessandro. She’d turned eighteen the month before. She was grown now. She had a figure too, not as perfect as Sydney’s, but it wasn’t bad. She had breasts and a rear end. She was also awfully tall, but she remembered him as being taller. He would see her as grown, he just had to. She stopped her thinking there, as always. Her half-sister was married to him. That was that.

  There had been no more pregnancies, as far as Lindsay knew. The poor prince. If he’d been married to her, she would have done anything for him, had as many kids as he wanted. He was special, he deserved all the good life could provide him. He was wonderful.

  She fell into daydreaming about him, and it was always the same, with only minor variations. He was carrying her in his arms and he was telling her that he loved her more than life itself, that she was so dear to him, that only she could make him feel so open, so giving. He was carrying her aboard his yacht and the crew were smiling and nodding, approving of him and of her, approving of them together, and it was perfect. Somehow Sydney was gone, magically, not dead, of course, that would never do. She was just gone and the prince was free and Lindsay was with him and would be for the rest of her life. Oh, how she loved him, and in her daydream he loved her even more. He was Alessandro to her. He was her prince. He was her god. She sighed at the muted sound of the intruding Paris traffic. The daydream was bliss itself, and she was always loath to let it go.

  She had three different news clippings about him, one with a photograph. She carried the photo with her in her wallet. She pulled it out now and stared. He looked grim in the photo, but his magnetism was clear to her, as were his beauty and the sweet tenderness of him. The article accompanying the photo spoke about recent problems in the family munitions factory near Milan, of terrorist acts on arms shipments bound for Iran, perpetrated by Iraq. Lindsay hadn’t paid much attention, searching only for personal remarks about him. One article, at the end, had mentioned that he was married to an American heiress and lawyer, Sydney Foxe di Contini, of the international firm of Hodges, Krammer, Huges, etc., now a partner herself. There were no children. It spoke of his antecedents, but nothing of interest to Lindsay.

  Lindsay hadn’t seen Sydney since the wedding. She hadn’t even seen a photo of her. Whenever the prince and Sydney had visited the United States during the past year and a half, Lindsay had never been invited back to San Francisco at the same time. And they had never stopped off to see her. She was certain this was Sydney’s doing. Sydney had ceased to like her, had probably never liked her, and finally had just stopped pretending. Lindsay remembered, even now cringing against the black leather of the limo, how Sydney had laughed at her the day of the wedding, telling her that the prince was amused by her silly teenage infatuation. How he found her pathetic. Just like her father. Lindsay cut it off right there.

  Why had Sydney suddenly changed her mind? Why did she want to see Lindsay now? She didn’t quite know what to make of it. She believed firmly that the prince had put his foot down. It was his doing that she was now in Paris. Sydney hadn’t had a choice but to go along with it. He was the boss and Sydney had bowed to his wishes.

  As for Lindsay’s father, it was as if she no longer existed to him. She knew he was in Italy a good three months of the year, but she knew nothing more, for her father, when he was compelled to speak to her, only remarked that her half-sister was as beautiful and as accomplished as ever. About the prince, his son-in-law, Royce never said a thing. And Lindsay was too intimidated to ask. She’d asked him once, inadvertently, about her mother, and he’d hung up on her.

  The limousine was entering Paris proper now and Lindsay pressed the electric button to lower the passenger window. The air was cool and sweet, the sun bright overhead, and it was, after all, April in Paris, the most romantic city in the world in its most romantic month of the year. Lindsay touched her fingers to her hair. The deep waves were in place, with tendrils wisping around her face. Gayle’s mother had done little with the thick overly curly masses of hair, but she’d told Lindsay not to worry. By the time she was twenty, she’d said, the fashion world would be ready for her. Lindsay pulled out her compact and studied her face. Too pale, but she didn’t have any blusher. All she wore was lip gloss, and that was a soft pink and nearly gone. She was eating it off.

  She was so nervous she felt nausea rising in her throat. She swallowed and breathed in the wonderful Paris air and tried to practice what she would say to him. Her mind was sluggish and she felt like a fool. She felt her spirits plummet and knew she would make an idiot of herself in front of him and in front of Sydney. And Sydney would laugh at her. And then she’d tell their father, and he’d laugh too.

  She was to go to the reception at the George V Hotel and ask to be escorted to the suit
e of Prince Alessandro di Contini. She wondered if the prince would be there to greet her or if just Sydney would be there waiting. It wouldn’t matter, she told herself, he would be there soon enough and she could look her fill and, she prayed, she would say something witty, something to charm him, something that would make even Sydney look at her with new respect.

  Her luggage was old and battered, and for the first time she was embarrassed. The doorman, however, didn’t seem to notice. She was led inside, allowed with gentle condescension to try out her French, and then escorted across the grand lobby to the correct elevator.

  The bellhop led her down the wide carpeted corridor of the twelfth floor. Lindsay slowed; her palms were wet and she felt stickiness in her armpits. She’d shaved her legs the previous night and cut herself badly in three places. At least the bleeding had stopped so she didn’t have to wear Band-Aids under her panty hose.

  The bellhop knocked lightly on the suite door. There was no sound from within.

  Lindsay felt frozen with such excitement she thought she would throw up.

  The bellhop knocked again. She heard approaching footsteps. Then, slowly, the door was pulled open. He stood there, dressed in dark slacks, white shirt, open at the neck, and he was smiling at her, and he was so beautiful she couldn’t see anyone else. There was a small St. Christopher medal on a gold chain around his neck. He motioned to the bellhop to place the bags just inside the door. He gave him a tip. He closed the door on him. She watched every move he made, listened to his fluent French, saw his charm, extended even to the bellhop, saw the man respond to his natural magnetism.

  He turned to Lindsay and his smile widened. “You’re here,” he said. He held out his arms to her and she was quickly pressed against him, just the way she’d dreamed. She couldn’t believe it. He was holding her and he was glad to see her and his body was warm and inviting, molding to hers. He was touching her hair, her back, his breath was sweet and warm on her face.

  He set her away from him then and looked her up and down, in silence, for a good two minutes. She stood very still and tall, for her grandmother had sworn that if she ever hunched her shoulders to try to minimize her glorious height, Gates would, quite simply, strangle her. Lindsay stood five-foot-ten . . . well, five-foot-ten and two-thirds, truth be told exactly.

  “My God,” Alessandro said.

  She smiled tentatively.

  “You’ve become more than I had believed you would. In another two years you will be a very beautiful woman.”

  She laughed, and poked his arm, just like a kid would, she thought, and wanted to curse herself out, but it was funny, this ridiculous sweet flattery of his.

  “I was a dog two years ago,” she said a shade too loud because she was disconcerted. “I’m just not so gross now.”

  “Nonsense,” he said, and hugged her to him again, kissing her cheek. “A pity that you had to grow up. But here you are, nearly as tall as I am.”

  She resisted the urge to hunch forward.

  “No, no, I’m not criticizing, cara. It pleases me. All little girls have to grow up. I like your height. With your sister I have to bend over, and I get a crick in my neck. Yes, a tall girl is very pleasing.”

  “Where is Sydney?”

  The prince looked away. He shrugged. “She isn’t here.”

  Lindsay felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. Now she’d have to leave. It wasn’t fair. After all this time—it wasn’t fair. He wouldn’t want her here without Sydney. She wanted to cry. She wanted to kill her selfish sister. Damn her for doing this.

  “She left for London this morning,” the prince said after a tense moment.

  “But why didn’t she want to see me? She knew I would be here this afternoon. Why?”

  “I’m sorry, Lindsay. She did want to see you. But she also wanted to get away from me more. Don’t take it personally. I will be honest with you. Sydney doesn’t much like me anymore, and that’s what makes her do hurtful things like this. You probably heard from your father that she is now working again. In a career! I am rich; I can take care of her, buy her everything she wants, but she claims she wants to be independent of me. I begged her not to, I pleaded with her to remain at the villa, to be my hostess, to become friendly with all the longtime associates of my family, to become pregnant again, but she refused. Ah, sweet Lindsay, I shouldn’t speak of these things. Please forget them. Believe me, I swear Sydney didn’t leave here because of you.”

  He saw the blatant worship in her incredible eyes, the anger all funneled toward her sister, and he smiled wearily. “You’re a good girl, Lindsay. Come, let’s put your luggage in your room and then you and I can go exploring. This is Paris and there’s so much for me to show you. There’s no reason to cut your visit short, is there?”

  She looked at him and smiled as she nodded happily.

  Lindsay tried not to think about what he’d said. Sydney didn’t like him now? Why, for God’s sake? Did that mean they were getting a divorce? Her mind boggled at that thought. If so, then he would be free. That brought her up short. Jesus, she was only eighteen years old. The prince was thirty-one or two. He wouldn’t marry her. It was stupid. She was a kid to him, nothing more. She was his young sister-in-law, nothing more. She was nothing at all.

  But if he and Sydney did divorce, then would she never see him again? The thought brought tears to her eyes.

  “What’s the matter, cara? What is this, tears? You don’t like the escargots? Come, tell me what’s wrong.”

  What could she say? Lindsay stared dumbly at him across the small table outside Les Deux Magots. The French were loud, she thought, as others’ conversations assaulted her ears. So many people, and they were all out on this beautiful mild April evening. He’d called her darling in Italian.

  “Here, have some more wine.” She didn’t want any more. She’d rarely drunk wine in her life, and it was making her feel dizzy. She was afraid she’d throw up. She handed him her glass that was still half-full. He grinned and filled it to the rim.

  “Drink it up, Lindsay.”

  She did, knowing that it pleased him. She wanted to see him smile, to forget, even for a few moments, about Sydney and the hateful things she’d done to him.

  “Tell me about school,” he said, sitting back and crossing his arms over his chest and his legs at the ankles. “Do you and the other girls tell each other about your dates? Do you tell each other about how talented the boys are? Do you compare your boyfriends’ physical endowments?”

  She shook her head.

  “Come now, you do have boyfriends?”

  “No. Maybe when I go to college. My friend Gayle says that’s when you’re supposed to . . .”

  “Supposed to what? Ah, my dearest little love, you mean that’s when you’re supposed to lose your virginity?”

  She couldn’t speak; she nodded. His love. It was all the wine. She wasn’t hearing him right. “I—I’ve never even met a boy I wanted to even, well, to kiss.”

  It was as if he sensed her embarrassment and quickly backed off.

  It began to rain.

  They walked through the rain, uncaring, oblivious, the prince with his arm around her, holding her close to his side, getting her even wetter. They laughed a good deal. She felt such adoration for him, such complete devotion, and she guessed he realized it. She didn’t care.

  When they reached the suite, he didn’t try to hold her in more conversation. He gave her a chaste kiss on her forehead and gently pushed her into her bedroom. She didn’t want the evening to end, but she realized she was drunk, not serious drunk, but dizzy, and wiped out with jet lag. She smiled and giggled a bit when she brushed her teeth in the bathroom. She pulled her cotton nightgown over her head and climbed into her bed. The room shimmered around her like a mirage in the desert. She felt soft and warm and the dizziness was part of the sweetness of her mood. What a wonderful evening, better than anything she could have fantasized. The best evening she’d ever have in her whole life. He was perfect and war
m and so tender. Yes, perfect, and maybe tomorrow would be the same.

  She wondered where he would take her tomorrow. This evening they’d wandered through Montmartre and he’d told her wicked stories of the artists who’d lived there at the end of the last century. La Belle Epoque, it was called, and he told her how one artist had painted himself making love to his model and how his wife had come to his showing, seen it, and set it and him and his model on fire. The painting had sold for a stunning sum just three years before here in Paris. Some Japanese had bought it, he said, laughing.

  He was the most romantic man in the world.

  Lindsay was on the point of sleep, her thoughts drowsy now and vague. The door opened quietly, and a shaft of light fell across her face from the living room.

  She sat up quickly, disoriented. “Is there something wrong, Alessandro?”

  The prince stood in the doorway, wearing a dark blue dressing gown, his feet bare. Her eyes adjusted to the light. She saw that he was smiling. Tentatively she smiled back at him.

  “I’ve been thinking, cara,” he said, and took a step into her room. “I’ve been thinking about you, ever since the wedding. I’ve never stopped thinking about you.”

  She saw then that he didn’t have pajama bottoms on. His legs were as bare as his feet. They were hairy. Black hair. His feet were long and narrow. Something stirred in her, something alarming, something utterly alien, something that made her heart pound in her stomach, something that scared the hell out of her. She pulled the covers to her neck and waited, not understanding, not wanting to understand, really, as his words replayed over and over in her brain.

  “I’ve been thinking that it’s absurd for a beautiful innocent girl like you to allow a fumbling boy to take your virginity. You wouldn’t enjoy it at all. You’d cry and hate it. No, I’ve decided I can’t allow that to happen.”