His laugh was wry and short and not really laughter at all, and through all he'd said she could do nothing but sit there helplessly, no longer knowing what to say and feeling how damned unreal this all was. And without her realizing it, her eyes had dropped to his hands, one still holding the empty glass—the glinting gold hairs on the backs of them, the same strong, capable-looking hands that had hurt her and corrupted her body. How could she trust him now or believe anything he said?
"I—I don't really believe this is happening," she stammered at last, stumbling over the words. "I mean— I keep looking for the real explanation—for some kind of trickery. What is it, Brant? Do you need a front, is that it?"
"Damn you, no! That's too facile, Eve. You wouldn't know it, but when I say something, I usually mean it. I haven't really thought about marriage before, and I never thought I'd want to try it, either. But suddenly— it's the one trip I've never been on, Eve. And it's not just that. I'm sick of the life I lead, my so-called friends and hangers-on, and the searching, always searching for new lacks, and the boredom afterward when they're not new anymore. Having everything you want is really having nothing, baby. Stick around the swinging scene and you'll find out, too, and be just like everyone else. They'll grind you down and screw you to death, every way there is, and in the end you won't be anything, not even yourself."
"You've been there, I haven't...." The words seemed to escape her.
"Not yet. Do you want to? You can take that job in New York and find out. Have your affair with Randall Thomas, play it to a finish, and move on to someone else. Play the celebrity circuit, fuck on the side, and sliit—you'll stop fighting, won't you? You'll go to a lot of parties like mine and pretend you're enjoying them. It's your choice, baby. What I'm asking you to think about is the whole, old-fashioned bit, Eve. Marriage, kids, no other women for me and no other men for you. And if you're still afraid that I'm going to try to destroy you, I'll put half my money in your name the day we marry—Christ, you can have all of it if you'll have my children. Fuck the money, anyhow!"
"I—I still don't seem to understand what you're saying, Brant!" Eve squeezed her hands together in her lap, wondering why she was talking to him at all.
"Don't you? What I'm saying is, what can we lose? I '".very thing's a gamble, but if we can start out with no illusions, being honest with each other—hell, who knows?"
For the first time he touched her, putting his hands over hers to still their nervous, twisting motion.
"Eve, no swinging parties, no 'old friends,' no drugs. I promise you that. They gave you two weeks, didn't they? Stay with me. Find out. I won't try to coerce you, and I won't hurt you. You can walk out anytime you want to."
"You—my God, you're crazy! You're the rudest, most impossible, most arrogant man I've ever—"
Incredibly, he smiled at her with laugh crinkles showing around his eyes, and his hands squeezed hers.
"That's a feeling, and better than indifference, I guess. Maybe I can persuade you to change your mind. And if not, you're free to chicken out anytime you feel like it."
"Chicken out! My God, you leave me speechless, you—"
"So stay speechless, my sweet. Finish your drink. Go back to sleep if you want to. Just think about it. I have a car waiting at the airport, and when we land, I'm going to take your arm and lead you off the plane. I'll drop you off wherever you decide to go—your choice."
He released her hand, smiling almost mockingly at her before he leaned back in the seat And that was when, for the first time, Eve realized that he really meant it—all the crazy, incredible things he'd said to her, making her listen against her will.
What was even more incredible, and positively infuriating, was that right afterward Brant had the added effrontery to plug in his headset adjusting the earphones with careful concentration, while she sat there literally dumbstruck and seething inside; and then he pretended he was trying to sleep while she was still searching for words that were scathing enough.
Eve had to fight the impulse to snatch the headset away and slap him as hard as she could, or to get up and demand that her seat be changed. She glared at him —his bronze-and-gold Greek god profile, his tanned, well-kept hands. And wanted to scream from sheer frustration. How dare he? Just because he'd stunned her into listening to his ridiculous, unbelievable proposition, he had no damned right at all to assume that she'd let him lead her off the plane or even consider for a moment—
She noticed suddenly she was being stared at— enviously—by two women across the aisle from her. They looked away quickly, whispering to each other, and Eve's hands clenched themselves on her lap. Damn Brant Newcomb, anyhow! How had he known she was going to be on this flight? How had he arranged to have the seat next to hers? And what had he meant by that crack about Randall Thomas?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Afterward Eve couldn't remember how it happened that she did let Brant lead her off that plane. She had sat there looking out of the window, still seething. And then when the cabin was darkened and they started showing the movie, she must have let herself fall asleep. The next thing she knew, Brant was shaking her awake.
"Come on, we've landed. You looked like you needed the sleep, so I told Marcia here not to wake you up for lunch. If you're hungry, I'll buy you dinner on the way back."
The prettiest of the flight attendants stood there smiling. She had Eve's carry-on baggage, and Brant took it from her with a casual "Thanks, honey."
He'd taken advantage of her drowsiness. Before Eve had time to come back to awareness, he already had her arm and was leading her outside, down the carpeted corridor, and through it to the crowded gate area where everyone was greeting everyone else. Eve would have pulled away from him then—if she hadn't seen David.
David? She couldn't help the way her heart lurched, and she would have stumbled on her too-high heels if Brant hadn't tightened his hold on her arm. She was watching David's hurtingly familiar face, seeing the expression of shock chased away, to be replaced by a tight smile. She thought, Oh, God, no—now he'll think —he'll be sure I—
She heard Brant say, "Hi, Zimmer. You Eve's welcome-home committee?" And he moved her forward inexorably so that she noticed for the first time die girl who was standing too close to David. Short, dark-haired, rather pretty. She was looking awed, and her hand rested on David's arm.
"Well, I heard from Stella Gervin—my secretary— that Marti Meredith had to leave for Los Angeles, and since Wanda here has been wanting to meet Eve, we thought—"
Wanda turned out to be Mr. Bernstein's niece, fresh from Smith College. And David had actually brought her along with him—to prove that he and Eve were just friends?
Eve forgot what else was said—she knew that she managed to smile and give quite a creditable imitation of coolness. She was extra nice to Wanda, and she even managed to force herself to take David's hand. Head up, Eve! And let him see you don't give a damn. Let him think anything he pleases....
She heard her own voice, the voice of a poised, self-possessed stranger, saying:
"David, it was really nice of you to drive out here to meet me! And I'm sorry I hadn't the time to call Marti back and tell her of the change in my plans. But when I ran into Brant and he offered to give me a ride back...
More polite murmurs. They all walked down toward the baggage claim area together, and all the time Eve knew that he was furious. She could feel him vibrate with rage, even while he asked the obvious questions about New York and her new job and Wanda giggled at something Brant said. She was a somnambulist. Eve went on feeling that way, even when she was sitting beside Brant in his car—a white Mercedes SL450 this time—top down, her hair blowing in the wind.
Let the wind blow her thoughts away, too. Brant was silent and she was silent until they had taken the on-ramp and were on the freeway, headed toward the city. Eve wondered crazily if he had known that David was going to be there—whether he had arranged that, too. But at this point, she felt she didn't care. She f
elt numb. She might have been sitting between David and Wanda, still trying to smile, keeping it light Damn you, David! How could you do this to me? Why come at all? Why with another girl? It had been obvious that Wanda had a crush on David—had they been to bed together yet? She tried to excuse him in her mind the next instant, despising herself for it. Maybe he'd been uncertain of her reactions. Maybe he'd thought that if he came alone, she'd turn away from him and refuse to accept his offer of a ride. He'd have called her after he'd dropped Wanda off—she knew he would have! And then...
God, how could I be thinking this way? Prideless, spineless, crawling... Yes, she'd been all of those things with David. She'd let him turn her into a masochist, anxious for crumbs; and he'd shown her exactly how he felt about her the last time they'd been together....
"Would you like to stop off somewhere and get something to eat, Eve?"
Brant's expression was as impersonal as his voice, and Eve caught herself wondering what he was thinking, what was really behind his improbable, impossible suggestion earlier.
"Eve, I want to marry you." And later, "It's your choice. Eve." She had to have dreamed it, of course. Not Brant Newcomb. And what was she doing sitting beside him in his car, trapped into closeness with the one man of all men that she feared and hated most? She was the crazy one!
"I'm not really hungry, thank you."
"Polite girl, aren't you?"
She flashed him a quick, angry look, meeting his measuring blue eyes for an instant. "Is there something wrong with that?"
"I like it." And then, without giving her a chance to reestablish her defenses, he said evenly, "Why don't you come back to the house with me and have a drink?"
Her reaction was instinctive. "Oh, no! If you think I—"
"For Christ's sake, Eve. I mean everything I said to you earlier. And this isn't part of some elaborate plot to kidnap you. If that was all I wanted, I could have it done by experts. There's no one else at the house; I promise you that. And you can leave anytime you want to.
She thought again, My God, he means it! What am I going to say?
Eve put her hand up to brush flying strands of hair out of her eyes, teeth worrying her lower lip. She had to resist the desire to laugh hysterically at the sheer irony of it all.
"Well?" he said impatiently.
Damn, he was an impatient, far too arrogant man!
"You're insane!"
He laughed shortly. "I've been called far worse than that! Is that all you have to say?"
"No. I mean I—I really don't understand. Me—you— David at the airport with that girl—how—"
"If there's anything you're still curious about, we could talk about it over that drink I offered you. Hell, Eve, at least we're not starting off with any illusions about each other, are we? And maybe we both need to exorcise old ghosts."
She saw his hands clench whitely over the steering wheel—that was the first and only indication she'd had so far of any tension in him. It was the first human thing.... And when he spoke of ghosts, why did David's name, David's face flash across her mind?
Brant, still maneuvering the Mercedes with amazing skill, turned his head to glance at her with one eyebrow slightly raised. Eve felt her pent-in breath expelled with her sigh.
"All right, I—a drink sounds fine. But that's all I'm committing myself to for the moment."
Why had she added "For the moment?" What did she have to lose, anyhow? Feeling suddenly tired, Eve leaned her head back, closing her eyes, letting her hair blow free and wild.
Eve, you're such a wild bitch in bed! David again. David, who had also named her a tramp, a whore; using her just as if she had in fact been all those things. And she'd let him. She'd felt this way before, after David had walked out on her that first time. Reckless, uncaring, wanting to spite him. She had a feeling that he'd call her apartment later on that night. Checking up—just to make sure. Of what—her? His hold over her?
Eve opened her eyes, watching Brant's profile almost furtively. What was he after? She didn't quite trust him, but some part of her mind that was wiser, older, pragmatic, told her that at least this complex, surprising man beside her did want her for some strange reason of his own, that he really didn't need to play games or tricks on her and wouldn't bother if all he wanted was a female body to use or party with.
The leather upholstery was soft to lean against. Eve looked toward Brant again, measuring, and caught him looking at her. For a moment, like strangers first encountering each other, they stared—then looked away.
They had reached the city now. When they stopped for a light, Eve noticed people watching them. Two young women crossing the street slowed down to stare. A woman in a car alongside, fur jacket open indolently at the throat, looked at Brant hungrily, openly. Well, he was that kind of man, and if she had not been warned about him, had not found out about him, she, too, might look at him that way. Hadn't she stared, too, the very first time she had seen him? Until she had become afraid
But she wasn't afraid any longer—was she? The car stopped abruptly, and Eve found herself looking upward at the closed, private face of the tall row house again, seeing it in the sunlight this time. A shiver of fear shot through her. Oh, God, what am I letting myself in for this time? How far down will my need to shrive myself of David's memory take me?
It was too late for regrets; Brant had already opened the door on her side and was helping her out, his fingers closing around her cold hand, wanning it.
"No tricks, Eve. I won't hurt you again—I give you my word."
He said it quietly, and it was the nearest he would come to an apology of any kind. She accepted it silendy, but a small sigh escaped her and her knees felt weak as she walked inside the house with him, the sunlight suddenly shut out.
Being back in there felt strange. It was so dark, so quiet, with no crowd of people and no party noises. The huge living room looked empty—clean and tidy, too, smelling faintly of lemon wax; bowls of hothouse flowers arranged on tables. She wondered who cleaned for him and where they hid.
He released her hand and walked behind the bar. "Still drink Scotch, Eve?" Catching her tiny hesitation without seeming to, he produced a sealed bottle of Chivas Regal, opened it, and poured amber liquid into two glasses, dropping in ice cubes. "Nothing in there but Scotch and ice cubes. Pick either glass."
Suddenly Eve was able to manage a wry smile. She reached for a glass, holding it with both hands. "You must be a mind-reader."
"Hardly that. I try to read faces, and yours is pretty transparent."
"Oh." It was ridiculous; she could think of nothing to say. She tasted the drink, and it was strong and cold, just what she needed.
Brant was watching her, leaning his elbows on the bar, leaving a distance between them deliberately— to give her a sense of security? Thank God for the drink —that first sip had helped relax her; the second swallow she took now made her feel stronger, braver.
Silence stretched between them. From somewhere behind her, a clock chimed softly. Time. Too little of it left, with so many things she had to do. And if not for David showing up when he did, she wouldn't be here with Brant—he with nothing to say, she with nothing to say.
"Now what?" She hadn't meant her thought to slip out into words, but she got a reaction from him. He grinned at her suddenly, his teeth white and even against the bronze of his skin. She thought again, il-logically, that no man had a right to look like Brant did.
"I was thinking the same thing myself," he drawled, those very blue eyes of his keeping hers trapped somehow. "Do we spend the next hour or two playing question-and-answer games, or will you come upstairs with me?"
Catching her instinctive movement of recoil, he said impatiendy, "Dammit, Eve! I'm trying to talk you into marrying me. And I wasn't talking about a Platonic relationship, either. I want to make love to you—and listen, there's no need to shy away like that. I said make lov< not screw. If we can't make it in the sack, we're never going to make it, so what the hell difference
will it make? It's going to happen if we marry; it's something we're both going to have to accept and enjoy. I don't expect that from you yet, but at least you can find out for yourself if you can stand me or not. If you can't— if my touch turns you off—I'll take you back home, and I promise I won't bother you again. As it is, you can still back out at any stage of the game. I won't try to rape you, Eve. And you're the only woman I've ever taken into my bedroom. I do my playing in the—other room."
She thought he added the last deliberately, bringing the memory of what had happened the last time she'd been in his house out into the open between them— another specter from the past that needed exorcising?
Afterward, Eve didn't know why she hadn't turned to run or why she stood there while he came from behind the bar and took her hand in his. Afterward was already too late, because she had let him take her with him, and they were climbing a beautifully curving staircase, passing through rooms she didn't remember seeing before.
The door to his room stood closed, somehow forbidding—a massive and aged-looking carved door that seemed embedded in the rough-textured wall. There was no knob or conventional handle on it—Brant pressed a button somewhere in the carving, and it swung open like the entrance to some robber baron's cave or secret passage. Catching her look, he smiled.
"Relax. There is a handle on the inside. Turn it, and the door will open right away. No magic to it, just electronics."
Inside the room, Eve was surprised all over again at its starkness. She hadn't been in a condition to notice very much the last time she'd been inside here, but now she looked around curiously and saw sparse, austere-looking antique Spanish furniture, heavy and dark. The lack of anything that was in any way fussy or elaborate. It was a functional room; there was nothing in it to show what kind of person he was.
The Insiders Page 19
