The Insiders (27 page)

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 sof
tl
y 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 s
il
ence? 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 ou
tl
ined to
h
er. 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?

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 abrup
tl
y, 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 deft
l
y 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
li
ps 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 gen
tl
y 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.

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