Oh, she thought helplessly, letting him pull her close, oh, what a treacherous, underhanded bastard he was! He was taking advantage of her, of the way he knew she felt about him. Damn him, damn him! She felt his hands move up her arms, heard his voice become tender, cajoling.
"Eve, you'll do it, won't you? Because it's so damned important to me, because there's no one else I can turn to, and you're my girl. Honey? I know Francie's been a little hellion and she hasn't always been nice to you— I can see that now—but she's just a kid, dammit, and she needs help. I'm asking you to share with me the responsibility of seeing that she gets it."
She leaned against him, shaking her head.
"Oh, stop it! You don't know what you're asking me to do, David! I met Brant Newcomb once at a party, and—" She bit her lip quickly, knowing how David reacted to her mentioning the names of other men she'd met at parties. He thought she'd been to bed with all of them.
And now, predictably, she felt him release her and take a step backward.
"You know him? And all this time you didn't even mention it? Why, Eve? Was he one of the guys?"
"David, please! No, he wasn't. I—I was introduced to him and I didn't like him, and that was all. Please don't keep tearing me down just because I did a lot of stupid, foolish things to get back at you. I love you, David!"
There, she had said it again—it was as if she couldn't stop herself from saying that to him, from betraying herself. But at least it had made him soften, and when he held her close to him again, she trembled inside with relief.
Without shame, without pride, she let his arms enfold her, melt her inside their warm, charmed circle. Her knees became familiarly weak as he pressed her against him, his mouth so sweet, so tender on hers that she knew she would give him anything, do anything at all for him, just to have him go on kissing her this way, as if his tongue would scoop out her very soul. Her hands clung to him for balance, and her thighs, with their own kind of radar, parted slightly as he started to swell against them. He moved his mouth to her ear.
"God, Eve! I want you. Whenever you're this close to me, I can't help it You're still my girl, aren't you? All mine, only mine. Say it, baby. I want you to say it!"
This was David the way she loved him most—part satyr, part little boy needing reassurance.
"I'm your girl, David. You know that already. I love you so much, I hurt sometimes because of it!"
He held her even more closely.
"I'll never hurt you again, sweetheart, never! I know I've been a brute and a rat sometimes, but that's only because you have the power to make me so damned jealous! And that's it, Eve. That's what keeps me coming back to you, wanting you. It's your strength, your love for me, the way we understand each other's thoughts and needs without words."
His hands moved over her body, and she shivered, closing her eyes. Why did she have to be such a fool for this man? And what was there so special about him that he alone, of all the men she'd ever known could turn her into a cringing, crawling slave? Her fingers tangled in his crisp-feeling dark hair, traced the firm fine of his jaw. He was her guy, and he needed her!
"Listen, Eve," he was saying seriously, "no matter what I do or say, promise you'll stick with me. I need you so much, and you know it, too, with that ESP of yours. Stick with me, luv, and in the end we'll make it, you and I."
It was the closest he had ever come to committing himself to her, and Eve felt a surge of hope and happiness go through her. He loved her—her instincts had been right all along! He'd marry her someday—of course he would! He was just the type of man who was cautious about marriage, and why not? Wasn't she glad some other woman hadn't snapped him up before?
David felt her melt against him and could almost hear the pounding of her heart against his chest. He hadn't lied about wanting her, nor even about needing her, because he did. Damn the fire that burned between them, that kept him after her like a dog after a particular bitch. No one, not even Gloria, was as exciting to him physically as Eve was—and she loved him, she'd do almost anything for him. It was exciting enough just to look at the lovely woman in his arms and to know that a million guys must lust for her when they saw her on the television screen, but she was his.
"Shut the door, baby. Lock it."
His voice sounded harsh as he shoved her away from him, his fingers fumbling for his belt. Eve understood his harshness and felt that she could not stand another moment without Dave's hands on her. Desire rose and stirred in her like a storm.
Not taking her eyes from him, she backed to the door and slammed it shut, locking it with shaking fingers. He was undressed already, waiting for her. God, how much she wanted him, how much she loved him!
She got on her knees in front of him and started to caress him in the way she knew turned him on the most. It was marvelous to feel the way he responded to her, to hear his groan of pleasure.
This was the first time he'd ever shown his need for her in this house, and this was one time that neither of them should be thinking about sex, but she didn't want to think right now—not about Francie nor about the party she had to attend tonight. She wouldn't let David think, either.
He fell backward onto the bed, pulling her up and over him, his hands urgent on her body.
"Get your damned clothes off, Eve! I want your warm, bare flesh against mine!"
It was like the early days of their love, when the urgency was always there and they had felt, both of them, that it was too good between them to last.
She shivered with delight and excitement as she felt his fingers fumble, helping her undress. Everything was flung aside and onto the floor, even her brand-new de la Renta dress, bought to impress him.
He made love to her for what seemed like hours. The world seemed to be compressed into their bodies and the narrow circumference of the bed they lay upon. And the only sounds in the world were their soft love-words, their ragged breathing.
David made her reach orgasm over and over again, with her vagina contracting each time in spasms that excited him beyond measure.
"Oh, Eve! Oh, sweetheart, you're so wonderful!" he said almost savagely when he allowed himself to climax at last. He kissed her, kept kissing her, while she moaned under the possessiveness and fierceness of his mouth.
He lay inside her and over her for a long time afterward, and she thought that somehow his taking her this way on Francie's bed sealed his possession of her, his need for her. He loves me, he really does, she thought. And the thought of that would make everything else turn out okay.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
BRANT NEWCOMB. Cold, icy-blue eyes burning like frost under glinting gold hair. Michelangelo's Eros—cruel, decadent, corrupt.
Eve shivered under those eyes, feeling beneath the swift, flickering look he'd just given her as if he'd lifted her skirt with his eyes and looked between her legs. Which was, she knew, exactly what he had wanted her to feel.
"Hi, Eve Mason. Glad to have you here tonight, luv. Francie has told me a great deal about you. In fact, Francie talks about you quite often—don't you, Francie honey?"
Francie's high, childish voice sounded vicious, almost hysterical. Eve noticed how abnormally bright her eyes seemed, and wondered what land of drug she had used.
"If David sent you, you're wasting your time. I'm never going back, and he can't make me—can he, Brant? So why don't you just fuck off. Make her go, Brant!"
"Now, Francie! That's no way to talk to one of my guests. You ought to know better. I'll bet you're just begging to be punished, aren't you, baby? Melvin, why don't you take Francie into one of the bedrooms and slap her a few times? Or spank her, if-you prefer. That's what she prefers, isn't it, luv?"
A tall, skinny man who had been standing by grabbed a suddenly cringing yet obscenely excited Francie by the arm and started to drag her away, while Brant Newcomb stood there, smiling thinly. Francie grimaced at Eve over her shoulder like a kid making faces, and Eve wanted to run after her, but Brant stood in front of her, a drink in
his hand.
Tony Gonsalves had already disappeared somewhere into the depths of the room with Richard, who was his current lover, and here she was, forced to stand with a polite smile feeling frozen on her face as she thought of Francie and what might be happening to her now, right now, in this same house.
"Have you met everyone yet? Here, this is for you— you did say Scotch, didn't you?"
Brant Newcomb was being vaguely polite to her— the Devil transformed suddenly into bored host—and she had no choice but to go with him, play his game, loathingly aware of the light pressure of his hand on her arm.
He was introducing her to some of the people who stood in the farthest corner of the enormous living room, talking about the theater and TV. They seemed to know what they were talking about. In the same group, Eve recognized Jerry Harmon and the two girls with him. They were new in town, called themselves models, but did mostly nudes and seminudes. That was Jerry's specialty, anyway. They called him the "Body Merchant"—he was always introducing new talent to the skin magazines and moviemakers. Jerry was smiling at her, showing his really beautiful white teeth, his smile somehow both knowing and mocking.
"Why, Eve baby! Such a nice surprise!"
"You'll look after her, won't you, Jer? Make sure she has enough to drink and meets everyone. I want Eve to feel at home. Have fun, Eve, and 111 see you later."
Brant Newcomb walked away then, and she was filled with a sudden, unreasoning feeling of relief. One of the girls with Jerry Harmon tugged at his arm and whispered something to him, taking his attention from Eve. She stood there silently, holding the drink in her hand and wishing desperately for David. Please, please come to me, David. Please let this crazy plan work, let me go home safe! She realized she was being childish, but she was afraid, unreasoningly so. Someone, noticing her silence, had asked her a question, and she forced herself to answer lightly, sipping at her drink now, at last. It gave her at least the appearance of being a part of the group, without a care in the world—did people at parties always have to wear the same look? She was trying to pay attention to the conversation, in case someone asked her another question, but it wasn't possible to stop her mind from going back to Francie—how to get to Francie, how to make her listen. It had been stupid and foolish to allow David to talk her into this ridiculous position—she was the last person that Francie would listen to! Still, she was here, she had promised, and she had, at least, to try.
Wild jungle music—all drums and flutes—began blasting out through concealed speakers, and people were starting to dance. Suddenly, Jerry was grabbing at her hand, and she was being forced to go with him— to stand with her body a few inches away from his, moving automatically in time to the beat of the music.
"You're some dancer, Eve," Jerry said admiringly, flashing that white grin at her again. "I dig the way you move your body, baby. Sure wish you'd relent and pose for some of those pictures I was telhng you about."
"Jerry, I'm sorry, but I've already told you I don't go in for that kind of modeling."
"That's okay, baby. Just keep dancing, keep moving, you're great!"
She wished she could stop this farce and go home. Why did she have to stand here and move her body to that sensuous, thudding beat, when she felt nothing but dislike for the man she danced with? She made herself smile, as if the cameras were on her, as if she were enjoying every minute of it. Normally, she enjoyed dancing, loved this primitive-sounding music. Maybe if she just let it take her along with it, stopped thinking...
She didn't know how long it was before Jerry finally tired and led her off to one side. She felt tired and thirsty, and he brought her a drink, being very attentive. With a feeling of relief, Eve saw one of the girls Jerry had been with earlier come up to him and pull at his arm.
"Come on, baby, c'mon!" she pouted. "Don't you like me with my clothes on?"
Jerry shrugged, rolling his eyes apologetically at Eve before he let the girl lead him back to join the dancers.
Eve looked around, trying to get her bearings. Someone had turned most of the lights off; the few dim lights that had been left on seemed to waver like flickering torches—what a weird effect! She could smell the acrid, burned-leaves odor of marijuana—it seemed to hang in the air, stinging her nostrils. Didn't anyone smoke cigarettes anymore? Eve noticed suddenly that the fat, machine-rolled sticks of the weed lay blatantly piled up in silver bowls on every table, alongside smaller, silver-chased antique goblets that were filled with a fine white powder. Oh, God, surely not cocaine? Obviously, Brant Newcomb didn't have to be afraid of police raids. Maybe he just didn't give a damn!
Francie—she had to find Francie. Maybe now was the time, while everyone was occupied and it was so dark you could hardly see. The dancers were becoming more and more uninhibited—some of them looked as if they were making love right in the middle of the floor. Those people who weren't dancing were just as oblivious of everyone else; they either talked with their heads together or were silently entwined with each other.
Eve started to pick her way through the crowd, trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible. She had to find Francie without making her efforts seem too obvious, although by now she had begun to wonder despairingly whether it would do her any good to try talking to the girl. Francie hated her; she always had. Goddammit, why had she let David persuade her into this foolishness?
She wandered through the room clutching her drink in one hand like a talisman and smiling mechanically at anyone who looked at her. Quite suddenly, she caught a glimpse of Francie, just a few yards away. The girl was obviously high on something, and she was giggling foolishly and loudly. Her thin silk dress had been torn, baring half of her torso, and there were purple marks on her back and upper arms. Shocked, Eve started forward quickly and instinctively, but the crowd suddenly seemed to swell, and there were too many people between her and Francie now, all pushing in the same direction. A tall young man with long, shaggy hair, a full beard, and wearing leather-strung turquoise beads swinging against his bare chest, shoved his way past her. The music was suddenly muted, so that the silence seemed to beat against her eardrums.
Now she could see Francie again, standing on one of the heavy, elaborately carved Spanish coffee tables with Brant Newcomb and Jerry Harmon half-supporting her.
Brant was speaking, asking everyone to shut up. Francie started to giggle again, and he slapped her lightly across the rump. Eve couldn't help but notice how the girl pressed her body backward against him immediately, her head twisted around so that she could peer into his face.
"Will you all shut up and listen a minute? Maybe some of you might dig this scene. It's like this chick says she's in trouble with her family and she wants to blow this town; only she needs someone to look after her, give her some bread. Francie here really digs money—she says she'll go anywhere with whoever bids the highest for her. Any takers?"
There was a wild cheer; someone clapped delightedly.
"A slave auction—yeah!"
Other people took up the clapping, and Francie began to laugh. Her face looked swollen and vapid, and Eve wondered miserably if she were capable of realizing what was going on. God, this couldn't be happening!
Brant Newcomb's hair glinted like dull gold as he moved closer to Francie, his hand ripping away what was left of her blouse to expose her breasts—large and ripe for a girl her age.
"Guess most of you here know Francie already— she's quite a chick, ready for anything. Those who don't know Francie can come up here and take a close look. Remember, our girl's up for grabs this evening. Any one of you can have what she's got to offer, so let's hear the bidding!"
Jerry, laughing, whispered to Francie, and she began a slow weaving of her body, beginning to slide her skirt down over her hips. Eve gasped with outrage when she saw the welts on the girl's buttocks and thighs.
"I bid fifty," someone said hoarsely.
Brant must have tired almost immediately of the game he had started.
"Done—
and she's all yours, Derek buddy," he said quickly, his voice sounding bored. "Don't forget to give her the dough after you get her out of town, but be sure she earns it first."
Someone began to titter, but Francie's voice, shrill, hysterical, cut through all the other sounds and voices.
"Hey, no! No, that's not enough bread. Goddam you, anyway, Brant Newcomb, I won't go with him. Told you already, I'm going to stay with you."
"I'll throw in a couple of thousand extra myself, sweetheart, and you go with Derek here like a good, quiet girl. He'll take you to his commune in New Mexico, and you'll find it's a whole new experience for you— won't she, Derek?"
Brant had moved back, grinning, and the bearded young man who had pushed past Eve caught Francie by the waist, pulling her off the makeshift platform.
"Hell, no! I'm not going off to any old New Mexico— I'm staying right here. Let go of me!" Francie yelled, her nails raking at the man's face.
He slapped her, the blow sounding like a small explosion. It knocked her backward onto the coffee table, where she lay sprawled out, her legs outspread obscenely. Eve could hear Brant laugh as he threw a wad of bills at Francie, heard the girl scream curses at him even as she grabbed for the money, clutching it to her bare breasts with greedy fingers.
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