He had moved so that their bodies still lay alongside each other with their legs still intertwined, and his quickened breathing was warm against her temple. There was almost—she could almost feel—and then he withdrew from her, rolling away to the side of the bed, and the ephemeral almost-thought went away and she wondered if he would always draw away afterward, and if, in time, it would begin to matter to her that he did.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
SHE MUST HAVE FALLEN ASLEEP. When Eve woke up, it was dark except for the lights of the city outside the windows—spread out all the way to the water. There were a few moments when she didn't remember where she was, and then it came back to her, along with the soft music—Mozart, this time—that continued to play.
With a smothered exclamation, Eve sat bolt upright. She had no idea what time it was, and she was alone in shadowed, half-lit darkness with only a fire to keep her company. The feeling of unreality she had fought back earlier returned, bringing with it a sense of panic. She was torn between the desire to leap out of bed and escape—or to slide back under the covers and go to sleep again.
Light shone across the bed as Brant came out of the bathroom. "Hi. Have a good sleep?"
She thought resentfully that he must have eyes like a cat. He touched a wall switch that brought dimmed lights on, and Eve saw her two cases sitting by the dresser. He was taking too much for granted, he—
He seemed to read her mind again. "You might want to make some telephone calls. Go ahead. There's no extension on the phone by the bed. What would you like for dinner? Jamison's downstairs, and he's an excellent chef."
He came to her at last, and sat on the bed beside her. He was nude, fresh from the shower, his hair still damp. She was still drowsy, her mind struggling to get used to everything she was suddenly faced with. He put his hand on her neck, under her hair, and kissed her lightly. "Eve—you'll stay?"
In the end, she did stay. She thought, Why not? And she was still tired—too tired and confused to protest or argue.
Eve tried calling Marti, but there was no answer. And if Marti wasn't back yet, she didn't want to be alone in the apartment, jumpy in case the phone should ring. She thought about calling her mother and decided not to. And she thought about calling David's number and hanging up if he answered—but what would be the point of that? David was part of the past, and she wasn't certain yet what the future would be. Time enough to think tomorrow.
Eve unpacked one case and hung her clothes in Brant's closet, noticing that it was less than half-full of clothes—those were mostly casual. He didn't have many personal possessions for a man of his wealth.
She used his big bathroom, soaking in the sunken blue-tiled bathtub—the first one she'd taken a real bath in. He offered, politely, to soap her back for her, and she refused just as politely but was surprised all the same when he didn't insist but went away, closing the door behind him.
Later, they had dinner on a covered terrace upstairs with a view almost as magnificent as that from the bedroom. Through the glass roof, Eve could see the stars and a silvered crescent moon. There was soft music even here, and die table was set with linen and silver and a heavy branched candelabrum—with crystal glasses for wine. Jamison turned out to be a thin, gray-haired man with a prematurely seamed face—as excellent and unobtrusive a waiter as he was a chef. He didn't turn a hair when Brant offhandedly introduced Eve as the young lady he was going to marry; merely inclined his head politely as he offered his congratulations, accepting with equal politeness Eve's praise of his seafood crepes.
When he had cleared the table and left them alone with their wine, Eve said, half in anger, half in exasperation, "Are you alwatjs so—so precipitate? There's a job waiting for me in New York—a whole new career. What makes you think I'm ready to marry and throw it all away?"
She noticed that he leaned forward to stub out his cigarette before he answered her. "Aren't you the one who's associating marriage with giving up your career, Eve? You see, you are an old-fashioned woman after all."
"And you're hedging!"
"All right, so I'm hedging. What is it you want me to tell you?"
A thought—really a suspicion—had been growing inside her ever since she had looked up to see him beside her on the plane.
Now she said slowly, "The job—it was all very sudden. I'd read that Joan Nelson was supposed to replace Babs Barrie on the show. And there was the way everyone seemed to be walking on eggshells around me in the beginning. Even Randall seemed to be—well, weighing me. You didn't—Oh, no! You couldn't have—"
His face was shadowed, and she couldn't read its expression.
"My grandfather believed in diversified investments, Eve. And afterward, I— Shit, for a while it was almost fun, a kind of challenge. I put money into the wildest schemes, the most unlikely to pay off—and damned if they usually didn't. Bill Fontaine is a friend of mine, in any case."
"Bill Fontaine!"
Fontaine was an almost legendary figure—head of the network, a man known personally by very few people who worked for him, but feared by everyone.
Brant shrugged. "Eve, if you hadn't been good and they hadn't thought you'd do, the job wouldn't have been offered to you. And that's on the level."
"You were in New York when I was—you arranged to be on that flight, didn't you? In the seat next to mine. Oh, God, maybe you own the damned airline, too!"
"Just some shares." How could he be so cool, so nonchalant?
Eve slammed her glass down on the table, spilling some wine. He lifted an eyebrow and refilled the glass for her, reducing her to a state of impotent fury.
"And I suppose you had me followed all the time I was in New York? That's why you mentioned Randall, why you implied—" Against her will, remembering the night with Randall, Eve felt her face flaming. She could almost have wept with frustration and embarrassment.
"I didn't have to have you followed, Eve. You were being kept damn busy, weren't you? And as for Randall Thomas, everyone knows he likes to make the new girls in town—through the back door, isn't that right?"
She stared at him, and he looked back at her. Eve felt the heat in her face spread right through her body.
She said stiffly, having to force the words out, "Knowing what you know, I'm just surprised that you still want to—to—"
He reached across the table, stilling the convulsive movement of her fingers as they played with the stem of her wineglass.
"That particular wine's better downed than spilled,
Eve. Hell, what makes you think I'm likely to condemn you for anything you've done? I'm not a David Zimmer. Shit, I've never tried to hide what I've done or-what I am—and the only thing I haven't been is a hypocrite."
She felt compelled to fling back at him, "That's because you've never had to conform. To live by other people's rules. You've always been—"
He released her hand, leaning back in the chair. "Set apart by the money I inherited? I guess you're right there. Sure, it's given me freedom—or license, if you will—to do as I damn well please. My grandfather tried to teach me to look at it as a responsibility. But I was too young to understand when he died, and I had other teachers—" He broke-off abruptly, draining his glass, filling it again with the last of the wine. "Well, Eve? Do you want to run away, or will you stay?"
She stayed. She was tired, she'd had too much wine to drink, and he had, in some subtle, indefinable way, challenged her.
They went back to bed—and the bed was big enough for them both to lie in it without touching. Strange that the man she was in bed with, knowing they would spend the night together, wake up in the morning together, wasn't David. Randall—or the others she'd let fuck her mindlessly, thoughtlessly—didn't count. All the lights below made a kind of glow that washed in through the enormous window wall. She liked the music; it was soothing, mind-emptying.
Later that night, he made love to her again, and then they both slept—she heavily and dreamlessly, and he lightly and restlessly.
/> Getting used to having a woman, the same woman, around all of the time, and particularly having her sleep beside him in his bed, would take getting used to. The first since Syl—if he didn't count the women in Vietnam who'd had no homes to go to. He wasn't used to it yet, but he felt somehow that it wouldn't be too hard to adjust to having Eve around. She was quiet, she walked and moved gracefully, and yet, dressed or undressed, she was one of the sexiest women he'd ever known. They were still strangers to each other—almost adversaries—and there would be a lot of changes in his way of life. But he'd already thought about that, hadn't he?
Brant moved onto his side, instinctively tugging the sheet up over Eve's sleeping body before he did. That instinct—was it a sign? He couldn't help but wonder how it would be to have someone else to consider besides himself. What would it be like, living with a woman, taking her with him when he felt like traveling? But he'd made up his mind. Deliberately, he stilled his thoughts, closing his eyes and emptying his mind until sleep overtook him again.
Brant had called his attorney the previous evening while Eve lay sleeping, and he arrived early in the morning with a briefcase full of papers. It was only 10:00 a.m., but Brant had already been awake for a couple of hours before then. Already showered and shaved, he was eating breakfast in the sunny dining room when Jamison announced that Mr. Dorman had arrived.
Wilson Dorman was an old man. He had known Brant's grandfather and had helped draw up his will. While it was impossible for one man to handle all of his complex affairs, Dorman was the only one Brant trusted with the really personal matters. Now the white-haired Dorman, who had known about Syl and his client's lifestyle and excesses, sat across from Brant at the polished mahogany table, refusing his offer of breakfast. Like Jamison, Wilson Dorman had long since trained himself not to show any emotion. This morning, however, he was, if not exactly rattled, slightly discomposed and patently cautious, wondering if perhaps his instructions of the previous afternoon had not been brought about by some drug-induced moment of weakness.
Brant gave him a cup of coffee and went upstairs to wake Eve. She came down about a half hour later with smudges under her eyes, but otherwise quiet and composed. She was wearing beige corduroy pants and a rust-colored silk shirt, with a gold Tiffany heart on a thin chain around her neck to match her earrings. She looked younger, not as polished and sophisticated as she had appeared on the early news show Dorman had occasionally watched. He noticed that she seemed not quite wideawake and almost confused as she tried to read through the papers he kept handing her across the table.
"You're going to be an extremely rich young woman," he commented once. Was there a slight undertone of disapproval in his voice? Perhaps he was wondering if she was a—a golddigger—or did anyone use that expression now? Eve looked almost desperately across at Brant, who rescued her from having to say something in reply.
"She knows that, Wilson. And she'll probably do a better job of managing the damn money than I ever could—or cared to do. This is a sudden decision for us both," he offered in explanation. "I guess we can go through all these papers again after we're married and things have settled down. For now, why don't we skip reading through the fine print and just sign whatever has to be signed right away? Just read out aloud all the really important clauses—whatever Eve really ought to know about—and that should take care of the preliminaries, shouldn't it?" He glanced at Eve. "Is that okay with you, Eve?"
"It—that's fine. Thank you."
She tried to concentrate while Dorman told her dryly and at considerable length what he thought she ought to be aware of. Nothing really sank in. She watched Brant signing papers, his hair reflecting the sunlight that slanted in through the open windows. And then, her hands shaking, she signed, too, not really understanding anything that was happening except that once these papers had been notarized she would be suddenly rich, not belonging wholly to herself anymore.
Dorman left at last, and it was almost noon by then; there was nothing left to talk about or do. They were still in the dining room downstairs, and Brant had opened the doors that led out onto another terrace. A light breeze blew in, carrying with it the faint sea smell of the bay.
Eve moved around the room nervously, studying abstract paintings and the carefully arranged bowls of flowers. Upstairs, half-dressed, she had seemed desirable and somehow even vulnerable, but now that she was dressed again, Brant thought she seemed to have become withdrawn and almost impersonal—even slightly afraid of him again. Watching her, Brant wondered once more, as he had done so many times during the night that was past, at the speed and finality of his decision to marry her—and why he had chosen her, of all the women he had known. Sure, the reasons he had given her before were all valid, still were—but were they the only reasons? And was he making a mistake in choosing for his wife a woman who had admitted she wanted another man—or was that the whole point of it, that she represented a challenge he wasn't used to facing?
Tired of introspection, he asked her abruptly if she'd like to go sailing, and she accepted quickly, sounding almost relieved.
CHAPTER THIRTY
EVE LOVED BEING out on the bay—the movement and salt-sea smell of the water, the gulls' shrieking cries, and the wind blowing in her face, blowing back her hair. Because it was choppy that day and she wasn't used to sailing, Brant had decided to take out his cabin cruiser instead—there would be plenty of deck space for sunbathing, and he told her, critically, that she needed some sun.
Eve changed into her new, brief bikini in the forward cabin and came out to join him on deck after they'd gone out several miles. The water was not too choppy out here; there was a slight swell and an occasional white-capped wave to rock them.
She watched with interest as Brant locked the wheel and maneuvered the sea anchor overboard. Seeing him concentrate on what he was doing, being natural and unguarded, she caught herself thinking that she could almost like him at moments like these because he wasn't watching her and she didn't need to hide. And then the thought: Hide? Hide from what? Was she still afraid of him? She realized suddenly that here she was, completely alone with Brant, not among people or even in a house surrounded by other houses, but miles out at sea. lit; could drown her if he wanted to (the ultimate kick?), and who would know it wasn't an accident?
Why had she agreed so eagerly to come out here with him?
Eve lay down carefully on the polished, sun-warmed deck and closed her eyes. If he wanted her overboard, he would have to pick her up and throw her over the rail, struggling. She wondered if the smiling girl who'd sold her the bikini in that little boutique in Sausalito would remember her. She'd certainly noticed Brant— there were few women who didn't.
ANCHORWOMAN DIES IN BOATING ACCIDENT, the headline might read. Or perhaps: BILLIONAIRE PLAYBOY SUSPECT IN DBOWNING. If she were reporting it, how would she write her copy? David would read the news —and be sorry!
An unwilling smile curved Eve's lips as other, more dramatic news headlines sprang into her mind.
"That's a woman-witchy smile if I ever saw one," Brant's voice commented from somewhere above her. She felt the coolness of his shadow fall across her thighs and refused to answer, squeezing her eyes tightly shut, forcing herself to he still. Would he want to? Did he want to?
"Okay, don't let's talk, then."
She heard him move softly away from her. Silence then, except for the suddenly loud noise of the water lapping against the sides of the boat, a seagull's occasional cry, and the slight creaking of the timbers. Where was he now? she wondered. Was he watching her still? She had to open her eyes just a fraction to look.
He was sitting across from her, leaning against the rail, a hat pulled low over his forehead. Barefoot and bare-chested, just the same pair of abbreviated white shorts he'd been wearing in the picture on Francie's bulletin board. And he was watching her, after all, but she couldn't read what was in his eyes—could anyone?
He didn't say anything, just continued to look at her, and she closed
her eyes again quickly. What was he dunking? In spite of the hot sun on her body, Eve couldn't suppress a small shiver. Damn him! And damn her own stupid gullibility, too, for being here—for believing anything he'd told her. She must have been mad to agree to have anything to do with him in the first place, but being let down by David always made her do crazy, spiteful things. Was this one of them? But Brant wasn't the kind of man you could play games with. Brant Newcomb was dangerous, a cold, deadly man she shouldn't trust—hadn't she had enough occasion to find out just how dangerous it would be to underestimate him?
What was he planning right now? Eve wondered, and thought she didn't want to know. Forcing her body to remain limp and relaxed-looking, she twisted around to lie on her stomach, feeling the comforting warmth of the deck beneath her. She felt safer now, turned away from him, her face hidden in the curve of her arm. He hadn't moved at all. What was he waiting for?
Brant, too, was wondering. What was she thinking, wrapped in silence? What was she waiting for? And why had he brought her out here? She was still all nerves, too wary of him to relax—he could sense that. I Jut she had appeared eager to come out in the boat with him. Did she feel safer out here in the open, under the sky? He couldn't help wondering why she had agreed to go through with the whole crazy idea he'd outlined to her. Marriage—the conventional bit. Oldest trap of all. What had been her real reason? He knew what he was looking for, but did she? Security—the money, maybe. Perhaps his offer had even provided a kind of escape for her. It was a gamble they were taking, but then any relationship between two people was an almighty gamble. What was the difference between taking a chance on marriage or racing a fast car or a speedboat—even racing an airplane and doing crazy stunts with it they said shouldn't be done? Either you made it or you didn't. Hell, maybe it would work out for them in the end. He had the feeling that if she actually went through with it, she'd make a gallant try, at least. And so would he— you always tried, especially when you had reached the stage where you had nothing left to lose and just maybe everything to gain. Lay Syl's ghost—could he ever do that? Wasn't that it?
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