“No! Wait, you must give me your address, your phone number!”
There were at least six Columbia students within three feet of them. Lindsay shook her head. “I don’t think so, Dr. Gruska. Why would you want my phone number anyway?” She wished immediately that she hadn’t asked, for his show of uncertainty was replaced by a confidence that startled her with its arrogance. “So,” he said slowly, stroking his jaw, “you are still afraid of men, I see.”
She felt the deep corrosive fear. She held herself steady, still smiling at him. “It’s none of your business, Dr. Gruska.”
He leaned toward her, touching her arm. “Oh, but it is, Miss Foxe. I see now that you’re a model, that you’re known only as Eden. My dear father, Dr. Gruska, finds you immensely attractive. As I said, I’ve told him all about you. I’ve enjoyed seeing all the photos of you as well, but I know what they hide. They change you and you are willing to be changed, to be concealed, to be viewed as another woman, one who is not real. Even your name, Eden—ah, the beginning, the innocence, the purity—it is not you, but just another device to hide you from the world, from yourself. You must let me—” He broke off, as if realizing his words weren’t achieving the effect he wished, for her face was pale and set. Oddly, there was rage in her eyes, not fear. He continued, his voice gentle now, “I do not mean to distress you. It has been a very long time since your brother-in-law—well, since that traumatic time in Paris. So very long ago. If only you would let me help you. I can, you know, professionally as a doctor, and as a friend, a friend who is also a man who would take care of you, protect you, understand you.”
A student bumped against her and absently apologized. Lindsay said, her voice as cold as the air just beyond the library doors, “You’re an old man, Dr. Gruska. I don’t like you. I didn’t like you when I was a senior and forced to take your class. I think Freud is full of shit and I think you’re contemptible to remind me of a time that was very painful for me.”
He didn’t move. He smiled and Lindsay felt sick to her stomach. “I know it is painful, my sweet girl. Sometimes we must suffer pain to be cured of our illnesses. Come with me, Lindsay. Come with me now.”
He held out his hand to her. She stared down at his hand, then back to his face.
She wanted to strike him. She wanted to pound him into pulp. He was soft; he was old. She could grind him down easily. She wanted to run. She could taste her fear, raw and nasty in her mouth. She continued to look at him, hoping he couldn’t see the fear, hoping he didn’t know how scared she was. “Perhaps you can become a behavioral scientist and try to intimidate rats. Good-bye, sir.” She was out of the library and skipping quickly down the wide stairs.
He called her name out twice before she was lost in a congested mass of students.
“What’s the matter, Eden? Dammit, talk to me.”
Taylor took her upper arms in his hands and lightly shook her. “Something happened today. Don’t you know I can see every emotion that streaks through you? Talk to me.”
He’d caught her so soon after the run-in with Dr. Gruska. Just two hours, and she still felt threatened, wanting to hunker down in the corner of her living room and come to grips with what had happened. Deep inside her, pressing against the fear, was her elation at how she’d responded to Gruska. She’d faced him down. Still, there was all the darkness, the pounding emptiness. She wanted no one to see her like this, but here he was.
“No, don’t shake your head at me. It’s been four days since I met you but I can tell something is very wrong.” He frowned, released her, and said easily, changing his tone, his expression, his approach, “Can I brew you a cup of tea?”
“Yes, I’d like that.”
He’d verified a very useful fact, he thought as he put on her red potbellied kettle to boil. She responded to lightness, to matter-of-fact calm. Threats made her draw away even more. A raised voice sent her scurrying away, at least her mind, her attention.
“What kind of tea? Good old Lipton?”
“Yes, fine.”
“Lemon? Milk?”
“Just lemon.”
Two words at a time, he thought a few minutes later as he poured the boiling water over the tea bag. Go easy, very easy, and slowly. What the devil had happened?
He carried her tea into the living room, Lindsay trailing behind him. He set it down on the coffee table, scooting aside several of her novels to clear a space. One book fell onto the floor, but she didn’t seem to notice.
He sat down in one of the easy chairs opposite her and said nothing.
Lindsay sipped the tea. She looked at him over the rim of her cup. He wasn’t pushing now. He wasn’t doing anything.
She was immensely reassured, she could handle things now, and said, “I was at Columbia today, at the library. I was going to look up some articles for a friend of mine. I ran into this professor I’d had in my senior year, four years ago. I didn’t ever like him, in fact I wanted to drop his course, but I couldn’t because I needed it to graduate. My degree is in psychology. Anyway, he wanted to see me, like a date or something. I told him off, that’s all, and then I left, well, very quickly.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why did you leave very quickly? You’d told him off, what else was there to do? Why did you have to run away?”
“I didn’t want him to see that I was afraid of him. No! I didn’t mean that exactly—He’s a jerk and a pompous, arrogant creep. Maybe I should have punched his ticket.”
“So why didn’t you?”
“I wanted to be reasonable, to stand up to him, to handle him like an adult should.”
“Were you alone?”
“Oh, no. It was in the Columbia library. There were tons of students around.”
“You weren’t alone and you also know karate. I bet you could take him with one arm. You wouldn’t even need any help. Why are you afraid of him?”
“It’s not that—it’s his mind, the way he thinks, what he’s found out, what he now knows, what he threatens with his words.”
That was about as clear as a fog bank, Taylor thought.
Lindsay was appalled at what had come out of her mouth, all because of Taylor and the way he was and that he’d showed up here before she could get a good hold on herself again. She smiled now, a social smile, all bland and empty. “It’s the middle of the day. Why are you here? Don’t you have people to guard and computers to fix?”
“Yeah,” he said easily, sitting back. “Actually I was on my way downtown to Wall Street to a brokerage house. They’ve got screws loose in their computer brain and called me to fix it. I thought about you and that’s why I came.”
Truth be told, he’d gotten this feeling that something was wrong. It wasn’t unusual; he wasn’t psychic, for God’s sake, but sometimes, rarely, he’d just get these feelings, nibbling feelings, that wouldn’t go away. When he was much younger, he’d forced himself to ignore them. But not after an old woman had gotten mugged on his very street corner. He listened now, and even if the feeling turned out to be nothing at all, he still listened and still acted. This time his feeling had been right on the button. It was just that Eden wasn’t going to say anything more. She didn’t trust him. Well, it hadn’t been all that long. It would take time. With her, he was fully prepared to be patient. But he could also be cunning as hell.
“Well, I’m fine now, really. Thank you, Taylor. This professor—”
“No problem.”
“Thank you for making the tea. It’s wonderful.”