The Insiders

by Rosemary Rogers

  Derek pulled Francie to her feet, and someone handed him an Indian blanket. In spite of her struggles and screams of rage, he began to wrap it around her squirming body, pinning her arms against her chest, as if it had been a straightjacket. Some of the other men who stood close by helped him. Eve could hear their laughter and their coarse comments.

  It had all been like something thrown from a projector onto a movie screen—it just wasn't possible that this was really happening, here in the same room with her! Suddenly recovering from her disbelieving, frozen immobility, Eve began to push and fight her way through the crowd of people that seemed to hem her in.

  "This isn't true, any of it!" she exclaimed aloud, and a man glanced at her curiously.

  "You never been to one of these 'partouzes' before, doll? Stick around and we'll make even wilder things happen, you and I "

  His hands reached under her skirt, pawing, but she managed to elude him, almost running now. She could see Francie again, being carried out of the room by Derek, half-smothered by the blanket, but still struggling. There was a flurry of cheers and lewd remarks as one of Francie's flailing bare legs knocked another man off balance.

  Another minute and Francie would be gone—she'd never catch up with them. How could she, with not even a car to follow them in?

  Eve forgot everything but her own anger at what she had just witnessed, and her frustration at not being able to do anything about it.

  "Francie! Bring her back in here, you crazy, irresponsible fool!"

  She screamed it as loud as she could, not caring who heard, hoping only that the man would hear her voice over the yells and catcalls of this gang of maniacs.

  Eve grabbed at the arm of someone who loomed in her way, shutting Derek and Francie out from her view.

  "Please, stop them! Francie's only seventeen—and anyway, it's nothing but kidnapping, and he'll get in trouble, too! Please..."

  Her words trailed away as Brant Newcomb's fingers closed around her arm, stopping her, freezing her.

  She felt suddenly isolated on an island alone with him —encapsulated within the sea of faces and voices that swirled like a rising and falling tide around them.

  He had said nothing. His mouth smiled at her without humor, and his eyes stayed cold, chilly blue, showing neither feeling nor emotion.

  "Will you let me go!" she whispered to him, without knowing why she felt impelled to whisper. "You must be insane to think that you—even you—can get away with something like this. Francie is—she's a human being, or don't you understand that? You can't just auction her off as if—"

  "But I just did, sweetheart. And it seems as if I did it at the right time, too. You know her, what she's like. Can't you see that she'll be better off with Derek in New Mexico? Now, suppose you and I talk about it quietly and alone, while Derek takes Francie away, hmm? You don't have to worry; Francie will like him, and he'll be good for her. He might not look the part, but Derek's a psychiatrist and he's into social work. He knows about Francie and her hang-ups, and he's worked with kids like her before. So why don't you come along with me now, baby, and we can talk about your hang-ups. You know our little talk is long overdue, don't you?"

  His grip on her arm was unrelenting, and she thought that his speech sounded almost imperceptibly slurred. As if— God! she thought frantically, is everyone here stoned right out of their minds?

  She tried to pull away from him, her eyes starting to search desperately for Tony, for any familiar, friendly face. His grip tightened, hurting her, and she found herself forced to move along with him.

  And Marti's words, Marti's warning came back to assault her mind with their terrifying implications....

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  BRANT NEWCOMB TOOK HER to the bar and held out his hand to the bartender, his eyes never leaving her face. He took the drink the man gave him and handed it politely to Eve, still holding her arm with his other hand. Automatically, without will or volition, she took it from him, glad of a respite of some kind. His fingers continued to dig into the soft flesh of her arm, hurting it. It took an effort not to wince with pain.

  "Let's drink, Eve Mason." He took the glass that the bartender slid across to him and lifted it in a formal and somehow mocking toast.

  "Let's drink to a pleasant conversation—the one we're going to have presently. And you'll tell me all about your concern for Francie, and for Francie's big brother —the one who gets his kicks beating her ass. And I'll tell you—no, maybe I'll show you, instead. I think I'd enjoy that more."

  She held her glass with suddenly nerveless fingers. He touched the rim of his against it, nudging it upward toward her lips.

  "Drink up, Eve. I'm starting to get impatient."

  His voice was soft and slow and so polite—and all the while, his fingers kept digging into the vulnerable flesh of her arm, forcing tears into her eyes.

  Because she was left without an alternative, she

  drank quickly and sloppily, not stopping to think about anything except getting away, escaping from this soft-spoken maniac. Marti had been right, and Peter had been right. Brant Newcomb was dangerous, and she was very much afraid of him. The melodrama she was involved in had suddenly become very real, and she had to do something to save herself—and Francie, too. For after all, what could he do to her—kill her? No, of course he wouldn't dare go so far, but he could hurt her in other ways. . . . Eve shuddered; her drink spilled as she drained the glass and set it down on the counter, trying to be defiant.

  Politely, he wiped the front of her dress with a clean napkin. She could not help flinching away from his touch, bringing a slight, mirthless curve to his chiseled mouth.

  "What's the matter, Eve? Don't you like being touched? And don't tell me you're shy—I couldn't quite believe that, coming from a Stud centerfold. Or am I the wrong sex? Is that what it is, baby? Let's see— you're Marti Meredith's roommate, aren't you?"

  "You—you—" Eve couldn't speak coherently for the rage that suddenly filled her, obliterating her fear and even the thought of Francie.

  "Save it for when we're alone, Eve. You can call me all the names you can think of while I'm fucking you. And I've waited a long time to do that. Why don't you come with me now and show me what you can do, huh?"

  He was already taking her with him before the impact of his lightly uttered words sank in, making her suck in her breath with anger.

  He took her through the crowd, and people moved aside to let them go—some of them staring curiously, and others too busy with each other. Eve moved with him, helpless. She could make a fuss, she supposed, with a detached part of her mind, but that would only serve to put her on exhibition, like Francie. She wouldn't give in.

  He led her through a door that she hadn't even noticed before.

  "I apologize for the room," he murmured behind her. "I realize that it's a trifle overdone—a kind of Frank Harris daydream come true—but it does impress a lot of people and actually helps get rid of a lot of inhibitions. Francie calls it the game room—I suppose you might say there are a lot of games played in here."

  Eve had stopped, staring around her with a land of disbelieving horror. She almost forgot the pressure of his fingers around her upper arm, the steely, painful pressure that had brought her here with him against her will.

  At first sight, it was a functional kind of room, all stark blacks and whites, with mirrors everywhere to catch the reflection of the enormous bed from all angles.

  The lights that blazed from the four corners of the room were photographer's lights, blinding-bright when he turned them on; and apart from the bed, the only other furniture was a heavy, leather-covered desk in one corner of the room with a single hide-upholstered chair behind it. Large cushions lay huddled in an untidy pile against one wall.

  Eve stumbled as he suddenly propelled her forward, feeling terror like a sudden weight in the pit of her stomach when she heard the door close behind him. She had the feeling that she was caught up in a nightmare, that this wasn't rea
lly happening to her—she couldn't have let Brant Newcomb bring her here with him like a wooden puppet to this horrible, nightmarish room. It wasn't possible either that he was now turning her body around so that she faced him.

  "Why don't you take your clothes off now," he told her quietly, his very bright blue eyes on hers. His voice was polite and quite casual, just as if he had merely offered her another drink, and for a stunned moment she couldn't believe that she had heard him right.

  Anger washed through her again, drowning the fear.

  Eve tried to make her voice cold and firm, but she could not stop it from shaking. Even in her own ears, it sounded pitifully weak.

  "This—I can't believe it! And it's gone far enough, too. You said you were going to tell me about Francie. ... I'm leaving now, do you understand?"

  "Ah, Eve, you disappoint me! You're putting on an act and pretending—I had expected better from you. You struck me as being—well, intelligent, at least." As an afterthought he added softly, "I didn't invite you here tonight, sweetie, remember? You came of your own free will. And I got to thinking—now, why else would you come to my party except to get laid? Especially after we'd already discussed it at our last meeting."

  He ran the fingers of one hand gently down the side of her face, and she shuddered with distaste, pulling her head back sharply.

  But at the same time, she felt herself almost hypnotized by his cold, empty eyes, unable to speak. Sensing her turmoil and taking it as a kind of surrender, he began to smile.

  "You do want to get screwed, don't you, Eve Mason? That's why you came, isn't it? There's no need to act embarrassed about it, baby—I don't mean to boast, but this kind of thing has happened before. You, however— I've wanted you, too, for a long time. But hurry up now, I have other guests to attend to."

  At the back of her mind, she realized that he seemed to be deliberately taunting her. She heard herself stammer, "I won't—I don't," and wondered dimly why, when she tried to speak, the words wouldn't come out right.

  His fingers tightened, drawing a stifled cry of protest from her.

  "You will, and you do. You'll want it, Eve. And I'm going to have you in any event—you already know that, don't you?' His voice hardened as he continued, "Stop playing silly games, doll. Let's forget all the pointless preliminaries for a change. Or are you Francie's type? Is it rape you desire? Perhaps you enjoy being hurt first, is that it?"

  He had her by both arms now, pulling her toward him. His eyes seemed to burn into hers like blue frost-fire, but his voice remained even and polite, heightening her feeling of unreality.

  "Stop it," she whimpered. "Let go of me! You can't— I won't let you touch me. You're wrong, wrong! I'm not like Francie!"

  Her words sounded pitifully inadequate even to herself, and he laughed, tightening his hold on her arms until she winced, crying out

  "Ahh! Stop hurting me!"

  He made his voice exaggeratedly patient.

  "Eve, it's too late to stop anything. If you want it to be rape, then I guess I can oblige you. If you won't take your clothes off by yourself, then I'll rip them off your cringing body. Will that turn you on, honey? Is that one of the things you enjoy having done to you?"

  Inexorably, ignoring her struggles and her protests, he forced her closer to him while his hands slipped down her arms until one was clamped around her waist, pulling her up against his body. She felt stifled, suffocated! With his free hand under her chin, he forced her face up to meet his and began to kiss her brutally and thoroughly, his cruel, hurtful fingers pressing on either side of her mouth now until he had forced it open and she felt bis tongue ravage it.

  Sobbing, whimpering, Eve tried-to push him away from her, but he was like a rock—obdurate, hard, and unyielding—and she was compelled to endure his kissing with her head strained back, her mind starting to whirl strangely so that she thought back with sudden panic to the drink he had given her earlier. God, suppose he'd had the bartender put something in it, some kind of drug that was now making her dizzy, taking the strength away from her arms and legs, leaving her weak and helpless? She felt as if her head were floating in space, detached from her body. She felt the taste and texture of his tongue, his lips, his teeth pressed against her lips, hurting her.

  Suddenly and silently, while he continued to kiss her bruised and open mouth, Eve felt his hands go up to the neck of her dress and rip it downward.

  She tried to cry out against the pressure of his hps and plundering tongue. She felt that she was going to faint, and then his mouth left hers and he pushed her backward. As she started to fall helplessly, he grabbed at the front of her dress, tearing it, pulling her toward him again. Within a minute he had contrived to strip her naked except for her pantyhose, and she began to shiver, feeling the air cool on her body.

  He meant it, then. He actually intended to rape her —he had not merely been trying to frighten her.

  Disjointed thoughts, words, phrases tumbled around in Eve's mind. This is something out of a scary novel. David, save me! How could I have underestimated this man so, after all the warnings, after the feeling I had about him. This is a nightmare. Wake me up somebody! David? She had said it so often, his name was her talisman.

  She moved backward now—warily, fearfully, like a terrified trapped animal.

  "Don't—please—this has gone beyond a— Stop it, I won't let you—"

  He laughed. His eyes, she thought, looked like polished stones, reflecting the fight. She had seen cats look at her that way with unreadable feline eyes. She noticed then that whatever drug he had used had enlarged his pupils, so that his eyes looked more violet than blue.

  He made no move to come at her this time; he was standing there watching her, with his hands now at his belt—strong, capable-looking fingers moving so quickly and efficiently as he started to undress.

  "That's better, Eve Mason," he said softly, "that's much better. You really do have a beautiful body, don't you? Francie kept telling me you were too skinny, but you're not, under your clothes. Be a good girl now, and take off those pantyhose, too, won't you?"

  Goaded by his words, and suddenly finding some strength left in her legs, Eve whirled and started to run desperately for the door. She had reached it, was actually turning the handle, when he caught up with her and held her immobilized against his body from behind. He chuckled softly in her ear while his hands moved slowly and insolently down her cringing body, squeezing her breasts, pressing between her legs, making her squirm and begin to cry with shame and fear and anger while she attempted to flail at him with her hands.

  He held her—and after a while, the drug, whatever he had had put in her drink, made her so weak and dizzy that he must have felt her weakness and turned her around to face him. Without warning, then, his hand lashed out at her, slapping her backhanded—first one side of her face and then the other.

  Eve heard her own scream of pain echo in her ears as she instinctively brought her hands up to her face. While she swayed on her feet, she could feel, with helpless anger, how he tore away her last shred of protection, the thin nylon ripping under his fingers.

  He pushed her backward, holding "her shoulders, and us she felt the edge of the bed behind her knees, she fell back onto the bed as he meant her to do. The lights blinded her, and above her a mirror reflected her own too-pale body back at her until his body covered it.

  Eve started to struggle as soon as she felt his weight on her. Panic-stricken, she began to claw and tear at him with her nails, seeing his eyes at last register some emotion—surprise? Had he really expected her to succumb easily?

  "No!" she screamed again. "I won't, damn you, I won't, I won't!" She kept repeating the words through bruised lips, not even caring when he slapped her again, sharply and impatiently.

  "Oh, for God's sake! What do you want, foreplay? Want me to go down on you first to get you ready? Hold still, then, you stupid bitch, and I'll give you what you want."

  He hit her again, this time stunning her momentar
ily. She saw in the mirror, through tear-blurred eyes, his sun-bronzed body slide down the length of hers, between her legs—his hurtful hands now holding her thighs apart. She fought against him, felt her body slip on the shiny taffeta spread until she was suddenly poised on the edge of the bed with her legs hanging down on either side of him.

  "Oh, n-no!" she wailed with horror, but he didn't seem to hear or care, as his fingers held her open.

  "You are beautiful. Here, too. You have the ripest, loveliest lips I've ever seen hidden down here, doll, and I've seen plenty. Why hide anything so good?"

  He bent his head, and she felt his lips on her, and then his tongue.

  She thought suddenly that if only this were David doing it to her—David whom she loved, and not this hateful, self-contained egomaniac, then—but this was Brant Newcomb, not David, and she would never, never let him take her this way, not unless he killed her first, or....

  Sobbing, gasping with fear and humiliation and rage, Eve struggled to get away from him, her body twisting and writhing, while he tried to hold her down with his hands. He was at a disadvantage now, she felt with a surge of triumph, for he still knelt between her flailing, thrashing legs.

  "Damn you, Eve Mason, will you stop playing your stupid games? Lie still, bitch, or I'll have to—"

  She was half-sitting up by now, her legs still kicking out wildly at him, but his sudden stillness caught her off balance. His grip on her slackened, then let go, and she fell back momentarily, to sit up again, eyes wide with horror.

  The door was open—God, when had they opened it? —and people had crowded in through it, filling the room, grinning at them both as they seemed to freeze in a tableau of fear or frustration.

  How many of them were there? She couldn't tell, but quite suddenly they seemed to press in on her, all around her, with their grinning, vacuous faces and their eyes—their eyes were all over her body, crawling over it. She tried to scream again, but only a small, choked sound escaped her dry throat. Instinctively, her hands grabbed for the bedspread, and she attempted to pull it over her exposed body. Was there actually regret in his eyes as he got slowly to his feet and leaned over her?