Brant closed his eyes and lifted his face to the sun, stretching. Suddenly needing to sleep. He dropped flat onto the deck, put the hat over his face, and ignored her faint stirring. She wasn't going anywhere, after all. She'd still be there when he woke up.
The sun grew hotter, and Eve stirred, rolling her body over so that it was partly in the shade of the cabin. Thank God she tanned, not burned. She squinted through half-closed eyes, and he was asleep—or pretending to be. But thank God for that, too. She wished that she, too, could fall asleep as easily.
She lay still for a few moments longer, trying to make her mind a blank—a trick learned from Peter. It didn't work. The boat moved under her almost sensuously, and the sun had made her feel hot and sticky. She needed a drink—something long and cool. Eve rose cautiously and tiptoed into the cabin. Yes, there was a small refrigerator here, stocked with cans and bottles. She poured orange juice into a glass and added lots of ice.
"Fix me one, too, would you, please?"
His voice called to her politely from outside, and she jumped, juice sloshing over her bare toes. Damn him! Did he have to sleep as lightly as a cat? She poured juice into a second glass, dropped in ice cubes, not bothering to ask him what he wanted to drink.
Bracing herself against the slight rocking movement of the boat, Eve went outside with the glasses. Brant was still lying exactly as she had left him—flat on his back, the hat covering his face.
Forgetting her earlier fear and mistrust, her mind registering only annoyance now, Eve walked over to him and stood there, waiting for him to acknowledge her presence. When there was no reaction, she dropped to her knees on the deck beside him, holding both glasses carefully away from her body.
The boat rolled slightly, and the ice clinked in the glasses; little drops of liquid splashed downward and lay glittering against his skin.
He moved at last, stretching out a hand that found her ankle and slid upward.
"Don't—you'll get me off balance, dammit!"
Her body jerked, and more juice splashed onto him, making him grimace.
"Good grief, woman, you're clumsy!"
He sat up abruptly, taking a glass from her dripping fingers and squinting his eyes at her. They knelt close to each other, eyes measuring, wary. Her teeth worried her lower lip for an instant, and then, recovering, she sipped her drink nervously, still watching him—catching him start to smile.
"You know this won't do. We're as awkward as strange animals around each other."
He put his glass down and very deftly and quickly untied the top of her bikini before she could either protest or resist him.
"Brant, no!" she objected, but her tone was soft and unconvincing. He bent his head, and she felt his tongue, cold from the ice, on her nipples, making them swell. Her hands caught his shoulders; he felt her body quiver and pushed her gently backward.
"Suppose someone—another boat comes by?"
"Suppose they do? I'll cover you with my body; we'll fuck the traditional way."
His hands eased her brief, side-laced panties downward. His tongue traced the outline of her navel and traveled lower, then lower still, and she heard her own sigh of defeat and desire.
"Don't," she started to say.
"Yes, I must."
Eve stopped trying to fight the sensuality of her own body and gave herself up to his hands and lips and tongue, her mouth tasting him in turn—the slightly salty sea-sweat taste—tasting herself on his mouth at last when he eased himself very slowly and very gently inside her, going deeper and deeper inside her.
Eve closed her eyes against the sun and let herself go to feeling, being man-ridden and man-fucked, filled and then emptied, only to be filled again. She went suddenly wild under him as her desire rose and grew almost unbearable; no sooner was it sated than it seemed to rise again. And now what was happening between them was a contest, a battle of wills and staying power that went on and on with neither of them wanting to be the first to give in.
They began to experiment, moving easily from one position to another as if they were already used to each other. Their skins became wet and slippery with sweat, the heat of the sun being absorbed and then given off by their bodies. They lost identity and became male and female, fucking and being fucked, taking turns.
When it was finally over and they were spent, the sun had moved. The shadows seemed longer and darker, and the breeze had returned to rock the boat and chill their bodies. Eve felt as if every ounce of strength and will had been drained out of her. She lay flat on the deck, exhausted and literally unable to move, even after Brant had got to his feet and left her.
He came back with a warmly damp towel and began to sponge her body slowly, touching her gently between her breasts and legs, down her belly and up her arms.
It suddenly seemed so incongruous that this man, this tender stranger, was the same Brant Newcomb who had welcomed her to his party with icy, impersonal eyes only a month before.
"Here, you look as if you could use another drink. I've brought you a beer."
He had to lift her and prop her up against the side of the cabin so she could drink, holding the bottle with both hands. He leaned back beside her, nothing but a towel covering his nudity, and tossed both halves of her bikini between her legs, laughing shortly.
"I could fuck you all over again, just from looking at you now."
"But I don't think I could take it."
"I'd make you."
She looked at him almost fearfully.
"I know you could. But—"
"But I won't. I'll try to learn to take you only when you're ready. I'm not used to that, but I'll try."
She touched him lightly, leaving her hand on his bar e, warm thigh.
"I'll try, too. But you'll have to be—I mean, be kind, won't you, please? Or at least, be patient with me. I don't like being hurt, Brant. Nor do I like inflicting pain."
"Yes, I know that. I won't hurt you—I've already promised you that."
She closed her eyes, leaning her head back against his shoulder for the first time, and the boat rocked gently beneath them.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
STELLA WAS GOING to many George Coxe. She told David first—they had been off-and-on lovers for some time now, and she had grown used to confiding in him. But this afternoon he seemed preoccupied, and his only reaction was to congratulate her somewhat absent-mindedly.
Stella supposed he had things on his mind—she had really felt for him when he'd told her bitterly that his teenaged sister had eloped and run off somewhere with a guy she hardly knew. Poor David, she had thought. But what could you do with lads these days? As she'd told David, if Frances was almost eighteen, then she was certainly old enough to know what she was doing —or at least to take care of herself.
"I certainly hope so!" he'd said, and she'd sensed all the pent-up frustration he was trying to hide. David was really sweet and kind, and he deserved better—he really shouldn't blame himself, and she'd told him so.
Maybe because they'd become so much closer after that, she'd hoped for more of a reaction to her news about George. But Stella was pragmatic enough to shrug it off and think to herself: Why? Just because David had been the only man she'd actually made it with didn't mean that either of them was emotionally involved. David had his own problems, poor baby. That bitch
Eve ... Even Marti had been closemouthed as to what had really happened, and David wasn't the talking kind; still, from what he'd implied. . . . She wondered what was really going on between David and Mr. Bernstein's niece. The girl had a crush on him, that was obvious; and Gloria was mad, which gave Stella a secret pleasure, because that was something Gloria couldn't do a damn thing about!
Stella glanced toward the telephone. One of the lines was busy—David had kept it tied up for most of the day.
She couldn't help wondering if David had done anything after she'd told him that Eve was expected back from New York and Marti wouldn't be at the airport to meet her. He'd taken the afterno
on olf yesterday, but she hadn't seen anything different in his manner when he'd come in this morning, except for his preoccupation.
Marti . . . Stella couldn't help sighing. Marti didn't know yet, although she'd made it a point to be honest with Marti, right from the time she'd begun dating George. She wanted Marti—maybe she always would —but marrying George was the best, most practical thing for her. He was rich, and she'd be rich—free at last. No more nine-to-five job. Money really made you free; whoever said money couldn't buy everything had to be kidding.
There was another line that she could call out on if she really needed to. . . . Stella reached for the phone and then pulled her hand back, frowning. No, she was crazy. Let Marti call her. She knew that Marti should be back from LA, from that mysterious trip she wouldn't say too much about. Something to do with a job in the movies—maybe it was supposed to make her jealous. And in a way she was; only—why couldn't Marti understand? They could still see each other, still share and enjoy the fire that always erupted between them. But not in public—Marti's preference for women was too well known, and Stella regretted that they'd ever been seen out together. But if she could make Marti see why she had to marry George, make her see that it didn't really have to change anything for them...
The large diamond on Stella's finger winked and glimmered under the lights as she reached for the telephone. Why shouldn't she call Marti? Just to explain, of course. She owed her that much.
Marti answered the phone on the first ring, but her voice stayed flat, almost indifferent, even when she knew it was Stella.
"Los Angeles? Oh, it was okay. I met lots of people, and a few old friends." Did Marti's voice take on a strange inflection when she said 'old friends'?
"Marti, didn't you miss me at all?"
"Sure I did, baby. But I was busy, very busy most of the time. In fact..." Marti paused, evidendy wondering if she should tell Stella something, and then went ahead. "In fact, Stel, I might get a small apartment in LA— stay there some of the time. I was offered this part that sounded really interesting, and"—there was that little pause again—"very challenging."
"Marti!" Recovering herself, Stella said quickly, "But that's wonderful. I'm very happy for you." So Marti was trying to play hard to get?
Her voice soft, Stella said, "I've got some news, too. I'm going to be married." She wished she could see Marti's face when she said that. How would she react?
"George, I suppose. I'm glad for you, Stel, if that's really what you want."
God, how could Marti sound so polite, so indifferent, when only a few weeks ago she had actually cried. ...
"I'm glad you're not upset, Marti. I knew you'd understand. But we can still see each other sometimes, can't we?"
How difficult it was to let go when you'd shared something good with somebody. Marti had really loved her. Had?
"No reason I should be upset, Stel. You've told me often enough that this life wasn't really for you. It's just as well."
"Just as well what?" Was that really her voice, sounding so sharp?
"Just as well for us both, baby. Don't worry, I'll be around here sometimes, and we can get together if you still want to."
"Marti, of course I'll want to. Don't you?"
"Sure." But Marti's voice didn't sound convincing.
After she'd hung up, Marti stayed by the phone, staring at it. Well, so much for Stella. Lovely, wanton, selfish Stella. No more love; no more heartbreak. Let someone else do the falling in love with her for a change.
I'm stronger than Eve, Marti thought. Stronger than Stel, too, because I know when it's time to let go, even if I feel like it's going to tear my guts out.
She knew by now how it felt to hurt, to agonize, and she wasn't going to let it happen again. Not in LA, Celluloid City; the atmosphere there just wasn't right for love, anyhow. Lust counted; that was what everyone was paying for down there, one way or another.
Marti thought about the movie she'd made, and smiled. You sure as hell didn't need to be an actress to star in one of those! And her partner in some of the scenes—she had been really delicious. So damned experienced for a kid that young; so damned good. There was lots more where that came from—why should she mourn for Stella?
Suddenly the phone started to ring again, and she picked it up, making a wry face when she recognized the voice.
"No, David, I don't know where she is. I haven't heard from Eve since I've been back—maybe she changed her mind and stayed on in New York. . . . Oh! Well, Stella had no damn business telling you when Eve was due to arrive, and you—you men can be such bastards sometimes!" Marti's voice was vicious, and David flinched from the venom in it.
Goddam lesbian bitch! he thought furiously, wondering why in hell he felt driven to call and keep calling, again and again. Eve hadn't been home last night—she was probably partying it up with Brant Newcomb and his friends.
"I'm sure she's enjoying herself—you needn't bother to tell her I called." Filled with rage and frustration, David slammed down the phone. He shouldn't have bothered. He'd only gone out to the airport out of a sense of obligation, and he'd been careful to take Wanda with him. Thank God she, at least, wasn't Eve's kind. She was still naive, still idealistic. And he was pretty sure she was a virgin. He hadn't been able to teach Eve anything; she'd done it all before she'd met him. He'd accused her of being a bisexual once, and she'd denied it, although later he'd dragged a reluctant admission from her that she had tried it once—yes, widi Marti, dammit! He hadn't told her that he'd already known because Stella had told him. Her confession, and the details he'd wrung out of her, had excited him so damned much at that point that he'd stopped his questioning and started to fuck her. But he'd hoarded her admission as a kind of weapon to use against her if he had to. He'd always felt, with Eve, that he needed to have a weapon, something to use in order to keep her from clinging too close—from smothering him with her love.
Love, hell! He should have treated her as he had treated Gloria. The Four F's—find 'em, fool 'em, fuck 'em, forget 'em! Eve didn't deserve any more. Not that he had ever considered marrying her. When he married, it would be someone like Wanda. But he'd like to fuck Eve one more time at least, to prove to her, and to himself, that she was a cheap, too-easy lay—nothing more.
Eve—damn her! He wondered what, exactly, she was doing right now.
She was helping Brant moor his boat at the dock, her hair pulled back decorously now and held in place by a scarf. There was an unaccustomed soreness between her thighs that made her feel strangely shy and yet strangely proud, too. She couldn't believe that the woman on the boat had been her, letting go completely.
Such an unusual feeling, to have a guy of her own suddenly—to be engaged to be married, and not to David. She wondered if she'd ever get used to the idea, or to the fact that she was going to be Brant's wife, of all things.
Later, in the car, she asked him if he would take her back to her apartment.
He looked at her quizzically.
"Tired of me already? I thought you might be resigned to being my kept woman for a few days."
She managed to laugh, shaking her head.
"It's not that. But Brant, I really should go back just long enough to check with Marti if she's back, and pick up the rest of my clothes, and— God, I'm suddenly beginning to realize how damn many things I have to do, like call New York and—"
He touched her hand.
"Okay, okay. We're on our way."
David would have become impatient with her or grumbled—he hated having his plans delayed or interfered with. Brant was just as polite and reasonable as he'd been all day. Would he ever lose his temper with her, or were all his rages held inside and as carefully controlled as his other emotions?
When Eve started to let herself into the apartment, Marti came out of her room at once, heaving an exaggerated sigh of relief.
"Well, for God's sake! I was beginning to think you'd developed amnesia! He's been calling all afternoon, driving me nuts! I..."
Marti's voice trailed away almost ludicrously when she saw whom Eve had brought back with her.
"Oh, my God!" she burst out spontaneously. "Not you!"
"Hi, Marti. I'm afraid it is." Brant's voice was cool and slightly mocking, as usual.
"Marti," Eve stammered, "I—well, we—" She couldn't seem to get the words out in the face of Marti's obvious shock.
"Wiry don't you get whatever clothes and stuff you need and attend to your telephone calls, sweetheart, and I'll explain to Marti."
Telephone calls! Eve glanced sharply at Brant. Did he mind that David had called her? Had there been a touch of sarcasm in his voice?
But he had turned away from her already. He and Marti were eyeing each other coolly, like adversaries. Weakly, Eve decided to let Brant take over; he was good at that..
"Explain!" Marti was saying furiously. "Explain what? Eve's not going anywhere with you, Brant Newcomb. I won't let her. You forget, I know exactly what kind of a bastard you are!"
Eve retreated, closing the door of her room on their voices. For a moment, she leaned against it, closing her eyes. David had called. David—wanting what of her?
Automatically, even as she was thinking this, Eve had started to walk toward the telephone. But she stopped, stood looking at it for a moment, and then turned away. She knew what David wanted. His willing and accommodating mistress—giving in, expecting nothing, making no demands. This time, he wasn't going to get her back. This time, Eve Mason wouldn't be available, and he could think what he pleased. I can be stubborn, too, Eve thought. I can be practical and cool (learning from Brant?), even if I feel it's going to kill me inside, in that secret part of me that still wants David.
Hastily, almost frantically, Eve began to snatch things out of her closet, rummage through drawers, dumping everything out on the bed. She wanted to tear down the mirror that reflected her every movement back at her. Not wanting to think about David and the times he'd shared this room, this bed with her.
The Insiders Page 22
