The Insiders

by Rosemary Rogers

  That was why Eve hadn't had time to think, and why she was traveling—first class, no less—to New York.

  She put her seat back, leaned her head against the headrest, and closed her eyes, refusing the drink that the flight attendant offered her. Two more hours, and they'd be landing at Kennedy Airport. There'd be a limousine to meet her and take her to her suite at the Plaza Hotel. A cocktail party two hours later, where she'd meet everybody.

  And for the first time, Eve began to feel that it was true, it was all really happening and not some fantasy she'd dreamed up. New York, new life—here I come!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  BY THE END OF THE WEEK, Eve felt weak from a combination of exhaustion and excitement. She'd had to have vitamin Bi shots to keep her going.

  She'd had experience, sure; but San Francisco, the tiny, bare studio at KNXT hadn't really prepared her for New York and its racing pace. From the moment she'd walked into the big gray building on her first morning, it was as if she'd been chained to a treadmill and couldn't get off. Photographs, interviews, publicity —and learning in between; meeting people and encountering their curious, measuring eyes. Learning to get up at 2:00 A.M. every morning to be rushed to the studio. Just observing everything that went on at first, getting the feel of it. Then a couple of days of actually sitting in on the show itself, making ad lib conversation with Randall Thomas, whom she was still a little bit in awe of. Her evenings were equally busy. A few hours' sleep with the sun still shining outside the windows of her hotel suite, and more parties to go to—she had to meet everyone and be charming to everyone. Being a person wasn't enough. They were going to turn her into a Personality.

  Eve called Marti—or had Marti called her? She couldn't remember.

  "How's everything going? You're a big celebrity already, you know that? The Record gave you a great write-up. And KNXT is doing reruns of some of your earlier shows, even the 'Our Girl on Location' interviews you used to do. Are you coming back to pick up your stuff or staying on?"

  "I don't know!" Absently, Eve had started to massage her temples to ward off a headache she felt coming on. "My God, I haven't even had time to ask, you know? I'm—at least I haven't had time to think, which is good." She heard Marti's patient sigh and hurried on, "What happened with the picture deal in LA? Did you—"

  "I told them I'd think about it—very seriously." Marti's voice sounded cautious, and Eve wondered if Stella had anything to do with her hesitation. Poor Marti!

  Marti was saying, "Shit, I really think I'm going to do it in the end, why not? And if you're going to be moving out— Anyhow, I have a month or so in which to make up my mind while they're raising the bread for the production. I'll let you know—you might give us some publicity!"

  "Did—were there—" Damn her own weakness!

  "No calls, baby. He might have tried, but I just unplugged your telephone. And by now he knows the big news, I'll bet"

  After she had hung up, Eve could feel her hands shaking. Oh, God, would she ever be completely over David? She was crazy-stupid to think about him at all, after the things he'd said—his rejection of her when she'd needed him most. She could never go back to him again.

  She stood in front of the mirror and started putting on her makeup. She had to hurry. The limo would be waiting downstairs for her in exactly fifteen minutes. Her face stared back at her. She practiced smiling, and turned the smile into a grimace of self-disgust. She was turning into a commodity, that was what. Plastic doll image of the successful woman, smiling, intelligent, witty, never at a loss for words. They liked the way she wrote her copy; they liked the way she could ad-lib easily. She had made it—why wasn't she happy?

  "That's a good question." Randall Thomas looked at her rather owlishly over his famous hornrims. They had gone to see Chorus Line, had had dinner at the Four Seasons with the rest of the crowd. Eve had been surprised when Randall suggested they might have a drink at the Oak Bar before she went up to bed—just the two of them. He'd been nice to her all these days, of course, but rather aloof, weighing. Now, after three drinks, he seemed relaxed and friendly, asking her questions about herself. She felt she'd like to have him as a friend.

  He put his cigarette out, still watching her, and shrugged. "I suppose we all ask ourselves that. We all work our asses off to get what we want and where we want to be, and then suddenly—no more goals to strive for? It's an empty feeling in the beginning, but then you learn, as you will learn, my dear Eve, that you have to keep fighting and striving to stay on top. You have to keep on being good, hoping you're better than the competition, and praying like hell that the Nielsens keep you where you are. Scared?"

  Eve sipped her drink. "I don't know. Maybe it's partly that—I really haven't had time to think about it yet. I want to be good, I don't want to fail, and still—sometimes I feel like two different people. The outside me and the inside me. Will I have time for a personal life?" You really screwed that life up good, didn't you? her mind laughed back at her.

  Randall laughed shortly. "Sure, when you're not being a public person! But you ought to know by now that doesn't leave too much time for yourself. It's part of the package. You going to accept the job?"

  His sudden question took her by surprise. Of course she was. She had to, to prove— And then he answered his own question.

  "Of course you are. You'd be stupid not to, and you're not a stupid woman. You're going to be great. And you're going to have plenty of offers to fill up the times when you're not busy working." He lifted his glass to her. "You're a beautiful woman, and you'll have every guy in town chasing after you, especially since you're not taken yet. You're not, are you?"

  Eve was booked on the noon flight back to San Francisco the next day, which was Saturday. They'd given her two weeks to make up her mind, although she, along with everyone else, took it as a foregone conclusion that she'd be joining the "Going On" show by the beginning of the following month. Just a matter of going over her contracts with her agent and an attorney.

  This was her last night in New York for a while, and shod really begun to like Randall. So why not? Why lie in that big bed alone again with her old dreams and new nightmares?

  Randall as a lover was unexpected. Very different from the polite, friendly man she'd found so easy to talk to. He was—he was almost businesslike, she thought with vague surprise, after he'd first surprised her by carrying her to bed soon after he'd locked the door behind them.

  "I lift weights at the gym," he explained to her almost proudly. "Only way to keep in shape, with all that sitting around." But after that, he didn't talk much.

  He didn't try to undress her but started quickly to take his clothes off, obviously expecting her to do the same. She was slower than he, and he stood and watched her as if fascinated by her body.

  She thought, Thank God all the bruises have gone; I wonder what he'd have thought— And then she lay back on the bed and watched him come toward her.

  To her surprise he started to go down on her very efficiently and expertly. Eve made protesting murmurs at first, but her protests were only halfhearted and he ignored them, concentrating on what he was doing. She began to breathe faster, to move her hips involuntarily, and tried to stifle tiny whimpers with the back of her hand.

  "Do you like that?" His tongue stabbed at her clitoris. "Tell me what else you like," he asked her politely.

  "I—I don't know—don't stop now. Do whatever you want."

  "Did you come yet?"

  "Not—not yet..."

  His mouth attacked her again, his tongue digging deeply into her, his fingers pressing down, down until she climaxed shudderingly and satisfyingly. And then he climbed on top of her and screwed her as efficiently as he had gone down on her a few moments before.

  "You're so beautiful, so natural in the way you let go," he whispered to her. "You're quite a woman, Eve."

  He put one hand under her, and she felt his finger pressing up, probing into her— She cried out, jerking up against him.
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  "Do you like that, then?"

  "No—yes—I'm not sure!"

  She hadn't had this happen to her before; against her will, she heard herself cry out again, felt her excitement rising to meet his.

  Suddenly he withdrew himself, pulling and lifting her body so that she lay with her own thighs pressed against her breasts, her legs over his heavily muscled shoulders. And now that he had her helpless, he began to fuck her in tire ass, and there was nothing she could do about it except drum her legs ineffectually against his back.

  After the initial shock of his entrance and the pain, however, she suddenly found the new sensation was wildly pleasurable, especially when he put two fingers into her vagina at the same time.

  He kept watching her while she moaned and thrashed about, waiting for her orgasm; and when it came, he pumped himself into her at last, moving very fast and hard, then leaning on her so heavily that her doubled-up legs hurt her breasts and she cried out with pain. With a grunt of apology he pulled himself out of her, hurting her again—leaving her sore and throbbing but satisfied all the same.

  Randall left at seven in the morning, considerately waking her up with the warning that she mustn't miss her flight. He kissed her, patting her face, and told her again that she was really a wonderful woman, she mustn't ever change, and he looked forward to seeing her again as soon as she got back.

  Eve soaked in the bathtub afterward, wondering how it had happened. My God, she thought crazily, my mother watches him every morning—I wonder how she'd react if she knew. . .. Eve started to giggle. After all, she had enjoyed it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Eve barely made it to Kennedy in time for her flight. The traffic was murder all the way—there was a four-car pileup that slowed them down even worse. She supposed she was fortunate that the man at the ticket counter recognized her (all the recent publicity paying off when she needed it most!) and rushed her through, with a conspiratorial smile. They were boarding when she reached the gate, breathless from running.

  She'd made it with five minutes to spare. Eve glanced at her watch, fastened her seatbelt, and leaned back with a sigh. She turned down the flight attendant's offer of champagne, closing her eyes. Suddenly, all the tiredness of the past week seemed to catch up with her, and she was unutterably weary, needing only to sleep all the way back to San Francisco. Five hours. She hadn't been able to reach Marti before she'd left, so she'd sent a telegram. But if Marti wasn't at the airport, she'd get a taxi—she thought wryly that it was a come-down after the limousine treatment she'd become used to without even thinking about it. Back to reality for a couple of weeks, and she needed it. Cinderella Girl—she forgot which columnist had called her that.

  Don't think—relax. She tried the Yoga breathing, keeping her eyes closed, but her mirid kept clicking like a computer, planning ahead, measuring out her time.

  She had to go back home, spend some time with Mom and the kids. Explain how suddenly everything had happened. That she'd still be at the other end of a telephone if they needed her. Before dien she'd have to pack, arrange for some of her stuff to be shipped—why didn't it seem real yet? Was she ready for such a drastic change in her life, or would it be a change after all? Would there be someone else to replace David? Randall . . . Somehow the night she'd spent with him didn't seem quite real, either.

  Eve wondered vaguely why they hadn't taken off yet. This particular flight seemed a popular one—even first class was full, except for the seat next to hers. She had a window. 3A. Good. Her thoughts became hazy and disjointed as she forced herself to relax. She heard someone else behind her ask querulously the same question she'd been thinking.

  "We're late taking off, aren't we? Hope there's not going to be a delay at the other end—I have an important meeting to get to."

  "We'll be arriving right on schedule, sir. Traffic's been delayed by the fog this morning. We have to wait our turn."

  Eve didn't really care. God, I'm tired! she thought. Maybe Peter would give her a vitamin shot when she got back; the one she'd had three days ago had really helped. In her half-asleep, half-awake state, the title of an old song popped into her mind. "Is That All There Is?" Crazy, not knowing what she really wanted—not even now, when everything had been offered to her on a platter.

  She was hardly aware of the slight stir as a late passenger arrived. Soft voices of the flight attendants, hovering. Someone settled in beside her; she heard the click of the seatbelt and couldn't be bothered to open her eyes. She heard the heavy door thud, and soon after the sound of the engines screaming to a crescendo as the big DC-10 started to move. At last! That ought to keep the fussy guy behind her happy....

  "Would you care for a drink? Sir? Miss?"

  "Scotch, please. On the rocks, for me. With soda for Miss Mason, if I remember right."

  Eve had to force herself awake, coming out of a nebulous nightmare in which she heard Brant Newcomb's mocking voice. "Have a drink, doll. And after that, we're going to talk, aren't we?"

  All she had to do to escape from a bad dream was to wake up—and then she did.

  "Hi, Eve."

  She couldn't speak. She felt literally frozen, caught on fast film, all motion stilled. She felt the faint hum and vibration of the jet engines, heard the buzz of conversation around her. Normal. Think normal; then she'd wake up all over again

  "Oh, no! Not you!"

  Sunlight coming in through the small window caught in his bright-gold hair, reflected off the blue glaze of his eyes. She made an involuntary movement of escape and was trapped by her seatbelt.

  "Did you enjoy New York?" The smiling flight attendant set their drinks on the armrest between them, and he smiled at her.

  "Thanks."

  "This can't be happening," Eve said aloud. "I won't sit here beside you."

  "There isn't another seat available, I'm afraid," he pointed out politely. "And since you've managed to be sensible so far, I wouldn't spoil it all by making a scene, Eve. It wouldn't be good for your image."

  She sucked in her breath, trying to keep herself from shaking. Brant Newcomb. But even he, Devil or not, couldn't do anything to her here. She mustn't let him see her unreasoning fear. Be cool, Eve.

  "What are you doing here? I don't want to talk to you."

  He shrugged, although his eyes, bright blue like a glacial mountain lake, seemed to pin her back in her seat.

  "That's okay. But I wanted to talk to you."

  "I don't—"

  "You'll listen, though." He cut her off as though she hadn't spoken. "I made sure of that. So why don't you settle back like a good girl?"

  She shuddered, remembering.

  Stop fighting it, Eve. Give in and enjoy....

  God, he was a madman. Fury struggled with primitive terror. What did he want with her this time? What had he meant by "I made sure of that"?

  In spite of herself, Eve's voice dropped to a sharp whisper.

  '1 don't know what you want with me this time, Brant Newcomb! And I don't care! I don't give a damn about your threats, either—I told your friend Jerry."

  "Shit, I know What you told Jerry. And when you sent my check back, I got your message loud and clear, doll. That's not what I wanted to talk to you about. No bribes, no threats. And by the way, in case you were worrying, I burned all that film. Negatives, prints, everything. Goddammit, will you sit still? You almost spilled your drink."

  "I—you—" She was stuttering and couldn't help it. Her eyes blazed into his. "Whatever you're up to this time, I'm not buying, do you hear?"

  He went on as if he hadn't heard her, speaking quietly and concisely, as if he were reading from a list. "If you're still concerned about Francie, she's okay. As I told you that night, Derek, in spite of the way he looks and dresses sometimes, is a psychiatrist. He specializes in disturbed adolescents. And Francie's a lot better off now than she was before—or would have been, let loose."

  "Why are you telling me all this? Why bother to explain anything to me?"

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p; "Hell, I don't really know. Except that I thought I ought to get everything cleared up before I asked you to marry me."

  She hadn't heard right, of course. Either that or she really was going crazy. He was, obviously. Or else he was playing one of his sick games with her, hoping to— hoping to what?

  She was silent, staring at him, and he smiled mirthlessly.

  "Look, Eve, I haven't ever proposed to a woman before. I guess it's one of the few things I haven't experienced. But I mean it for real."

  "You can't!" She couldn't take her eyes off his face, feeling the blood drain from hers. "You can't think—"

  Why didn't she wake up? Why didn't the flight attendant come back? Brant Newcomb—Brant Newcomb was asking her—no, he was telling her he wanted to marry her, and it was all some kind of a joke, a game....

  He picked up his glass and drained it, still watching her. She saw him all over again as she had seen him first—a too-handsome, coldly arrogant stranger. A dangerous stranger. She didn't want to remember the last time she had seen him.

  "I suppose you want reasons," he was saying formally. "And I have a couple I can put into words, I guess. You're the only woman I've ever known who kept on fighting and wouldn't let herself be bought off afterward. And then—there's the way Francie said you were with Lisa."

  "Lisa? But how—I don't understand." She was mouthing words, any words. So much for ad libs.

  "Francie didn't like you—you knew that, didn't you? But she did have a grudging kind of admiration for die way you drew her little sister out of her shell. She admitted you'd probably make a good mother, even if she didn't want you for hers."

  "You—you seem to know a lot about me, but that's still no reason—"

  "Will you just listen to me for a few moments longer, Eve? You're right, I do know a lot about you because I made it my business to find out. You're a bloody Puritan in some ways, and yet you like to fuck, but only when you're ready and when you want it—and that night you wouldn't give in, would you, you stubborn bitch? You made us take it, and even I had a rotten taste in my mouth afterward, when the goddam drug wore off. Shit, I don't know why, Eve. Maybe you've made me curious and I want to find out more about you. Or maybe it's just because I'm suddenly so sick and tired of the whole phony, sick routine—the endless, pointless rat race—going through the motions, one predictable move after another, and for what? Hell, maybe I want to be saved—my immortal soul, remember?"