The Insiders (23 page)

"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 set
tl
e 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?"

"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?"

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?

A
fterward
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 wi
th
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 felt 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!