“Did I tell you that you look real cute in that outfit, Lindsay? Like a real bow-wow. Is your underwear just as ratty? Glen told me how you’ve got this running-joke battle with the Lancôme ad folk. You’ll win this one, kiddo, hands down.”
“Listen to me, Vinnie. I won’t pose with my half-sister. I won’t be associated with her in any way. I won’t tell anyone she’s any relation to me. I’ll break my contract first and then you’ll have to haul me into court and it’ll be a real mess. But I mean it, I simply won’t do it.”
Vincent Rafael Demos sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers together in front of his face. He frowned. Glen always told him his brain was like a chain saw, always hacking and hacking away until the solution to any problem was there, shining clear amid the wreckage. But this time, nothing came to mind.
“You also know why I won’t do it.”
Vinnie shrugged. “Your sister told me it was because you’re jealous of her, that you grew up that way. She also laughed and said she didn’t understand it because, after all, you were already a successful model and she was a nobody. Is that it, kiddo? You’re afraid everyone will want her and not you anymore?”
Lindsay smiled for the first time since she’d entered Demos’ office, a plush but too-stark room with white leather everywhere—sofa, love seat, chairs, even the photos on the walls were framed with white leather. “You know, Vinnie, I thought that too, but just at first. I thought, here she is again, and lo and behold, I’ve got something she doesn’t have, so her first reaction is to outdo me. But no, I’ve thought about it and that isn’t it. I just gave her the idea, that’s all. Look, I’m not a kid anymore. I’m an adult. If it were just a matter of jealousy on my part, I could handle it.”
Lindsay drew a deep breath.
“Come on, spit it out.”
“I won’t pose with her for the same reason you and I came up with the name Eden for me. Just Eden and nothing else.”
“Oh.”
“I know, you forgot.”
“It’s been five years since Paris, Lindsay. Who the hell would care now? No one, not even the scandal sheets. Geraldo won’t be knocking on your door.”
“That isn’t true, and now that you remember, you know it isn’t. I can see it now: ‘La Principessa and Her Little Sister, Lindsay/Eden, Together Again. Sharing Photos, Sharing the Same Man, Again. Will Little Sister Scream Rape This Time? Where’s the Prince?’ No way, Vinnie. Forget it.”
“I hadn’t realized, Lindsay, really, I hadn’t realized you still felt so strongly about it.”
“If you want Sydney for the Arden thing, then she’ll do it alone.” Lindsay tucked her hands into her jeans pockets. They were shaking. She felt cold but she was also determined.
“All right.”
“What’s all right?”
“She’ll do it alone. The Arden people are really high on her. She’s so damned beautiful and sophisticated and smart. All those things, and they show on her face, fortunately. I just wish I could have gotten hold of her years ago. If she decides to model, Lindsay, will you be able to handle it?”
“Just as long as no one knows who I am.”
“I can’t muzzle her. If she wants to tell who Eden is, why, then, she will.”
And she would. Lindsay knew nothing could hold her back if she decided to talk.
When she went to the Lancôme shoot, her clothes set the two ad people to screaming and clutching their hearts when they saw her. But winning the latest practical joke only brought a small smile to her face. She went to her apartment immediately after the shoot, turned the air conditioning on high, and brooded with a Diet Coke. What to do?
She knew Sydney. She would turn it all into a droll joke. That or she’d twist things about in a sweetly solicitous way that would make Lindsay look like a teenage hooker. Lindsay could hear her now, telling about what a pity it all was that her sister, poor Lindsay Eden, had misunderstood, how she herself had misunderstood, how the poor prince had felt so sorry for the ugly duckling. And everyone would think: She misunderstood? Sure.
Lindsay couldn’t bear it. She had to do something. Sydney was staying at the Plaza. She’d see her again, plead with her to keep quiet, she’d agree to do anything, anything. Lindsay remembered so clearly way back at the beginning, when she’d told Vinnie about what had happened in Paris. He’d said nothing much, just nodded now and again. He’d offered no sympathy, not patted her hand once. Better than that, he hadn’t doubted her once.
“No problem,” he said when she’d finished. “You know what, Lindsay? You don’t really look like a Lindsay. You look like an Eden. How about that for your modeling name? Just plain Eden. It evokes wonderful images and promises mysteries and puzzles of a womanly sort. No one will ever know. How about it?”
But now Sydney was here. Lindsay picked up the phone and called information. Within minutes she heard Sydney’s voice.
“Ah, Lindsay, is that you? Whatever do you want now?”
“I want to know if you plan to model.”
“Why, yes, I believe I will. The Arden people want me badly and the money they’re offering turns even my head. After all, I am a real princess, not just a phony name like Eden, for example. It turns out they would have accepted you because Demos was pushing the sister idea. Yes, I think I will be their spokeswoman for the new perfume. Do you know they’re considering calling it La Principessa? And then I’ll be there on all the propaganda material, on TV, in magazines, everywhere. People magazine will probably want to do a story on me.”
Lindsay’s knuckles showed white, she was clutching the phone so tightly. “Will you say anything about me? Do you plan to tell people I’m your half-sister and it’s such a pity and your husband, the prince, and—” Lindsay ran out of words. She was breathing fast and her hands were so clammy the phone was slipping from her grasp.
Sydney mused aloud. “Do you think it would even come up, Lindsay? That is your real name, isn’t it? How depressing for Father to learn that you’re ashamed of your name. Of course, on the other side of the coin, he’s relieved that you’re not connected with him in any way.”
Lindsay knew Sydney would remind everyone the moment the opportunity arose, simply because she would be recognized very soon as the wife who shot her husband in bed with her sister in Paris five years before. She’d never take that. She’d shift things and bring Lindsay into it and Lindsay would end up with the blame all over again. She very gently replaced the phone into its cradle. She drank another Diet Coke and went to bed.
At midnight she was still awake, lying in the dark, thinking, remembering, her breath hitching even as she thought of the man’s name.
His name was Edward Bensonhurst. He was a businessman in automotive parts, with two kids and an ex-wife in New Jersey, and now he lived in Manhattan. Lindsay had met him at a party and liked him. He, however, had wanted to have sex. When she told him no, he’d turned ugly. She told him off and got away from him. Then he’d called her two days later and laughed. He knew who she was. He told her he could play a prince if that’s what turned her on. He was the same age as the prince had been in Paris. Hell, maybe he could even get his ex-wife to come over in time and shoot blanks at him. He’d even wear leather if she wanted him to.
She never knew how he’d found out and he hadn’t said. She’d hung up on him and kept her answering machine on for the next three weeks. He’d called ten more times, cajoling, making threats, but finally he’d just stopped calling. She prayed he’d finally decided she wasn’t worth his effort. God, would it never end?
The phone rang and Lindsay grabbed for it. For an instant she thought it was Edward Bensonhurst again. Foolish, so foolish. She answered it and heard her father’s voice.