"We'll leave heaven out of this, if you please!" A big vein throbbed in her father's forehead—she could tell from the way he rubbed his palm against the side of his pants that he itched to smack her, as he would have without hesitation a few years ago. "Now you listen here. College is bad enough, but this place you've picked, Berkeley—isn't that the place all the damned radicals go? Always in trouble, always making protests and demonstrations—I tell you, no daughter of mine—"
"Pop, I want to major in political science. And maybe take journalism as well. Berkeley's one of the best universities, and I won a scholarship, so you won't have to support me! I'm only going to college, Pop, not taking to a life of sin!"
"I wouldn't be too sure of that, after the things I've heard about that place!"
The arguments and the rows had gone on, up until the day Eve had finally walked out, with her father's shouted threat that she'd better not get in trouble and she needn't bother to come back home if this was how little her family meant to her ringing in her ears.
But she'd won out! The first time she'd ever fought a battle for herself and won it. The first time she'd really been free; completely on her own.
By this time, the skinniness had turned to slenderness, offset by curves in the right places. Her hair, still long, was tamed—shining copper-brown, thick. "Skinny little Eve" had blossomed into a natural beauty, but on the inside she was still shy—a little scared by her new environment and suddenly full of doubts about herself.
Eve had picked the Berkeley campus of the University of California mostly because it symbolized, in those days, the land of freedom she thought she craved. The freedom to think and speak out as she pleased— not to have to go to church—the freedom to fuck if she wanted to, although at that time in her life she would never have used that word.
She found, in the end, that between classes and her part-time job and studying hard to keep her grades up so she wouldn't lose her scholarship, there was really no time for anything else, not even serious dating. The few times she did go out with guys, she discovered they expected to make it with her. She hadn't become liberated enough to accept casual sex, and she didn't hare the nerve to let any of them know she was still a virgin at eighteen.
Nothing exciting happened to her, and she had begun to despair that anything ever would. She was getting good grades, and she had switched to journalism as her major, discovering she had an aptitude for writing. And then, toward the end of her second year, everything seemed to happen at once.
Her father died—he had refused to speak to her since she had left home—and her mother needed help to support the family. Eve was thinking of dropping out, taking a job—but what could she do?
That was the year that Good Taste magazine decided to ran a feature titled "Undiscovered Beauties on American College Campuses," and their photographer, shooting pictures in the library one rainy day, discovered Eve.
The Good Taste fashion editor made her over, gave her pointers on makeup and how to dress, but it was the photographer, Phil Metzger, who made Eve look beautiful.
"You'd be perfect for modeling, baby—you're one of the lucky few who's got curves and still photographs slim. And that face. You're really beautiful, you know that? Got bones in all the right places."
Phil tried to make her all the time they were shooting, and, in the end, she gave herself to him on his last night in town.
Phil had been at first disbelieving and then honesdy astounded when he found Eve was a virgin.
"Oh, my God!" he kept saying, "I didn't think there were any left! I mean—hell, don't the guys around here have eyes? Christ, baby, you're my first cherry, you know that?"
Halfheartedly, he tried to persuade her to go with him to New York, but they both knew that it was only because of her now-lost virginity and not because there was anything really going between them.
Eve turned him down politely and sensed his relief. And, maybe because he was relieved that she had let him off so lightly, he gave her prints of all his best pictures of her, told her how to put them together, and added a letter of introduction to the head of the Ray Burnside Modeling Agency in San Francisco.
CHAPTER TWO
IT DIDN'T TAKE Eve long to discover that she didn't really want to become a model. There wasn't anything exciting or challenging about what was supposed to be a glamour job, standing around posing—either baking under hot lights or freezing outdoors and there just weren't enough openings and opportunities in and around San Francisco to make it worthwhile—New York was where the big money was. But after the training, Eve did take a few assignments, mostly out of a sense of gratitude, partly to find out for herself how it really felt. And that was how she met Marti—and Mark Blair.
Marti came first. Marti Meredith was an established model who had made the six-hundred-dollar-
an-hour bracket before she left the East Coast. An inch taller than Eve, who was five foot seven, Marti had a truly patrician face, with a polished-ivory complexion and large dark eyes fringed with spiky black lashes. Where Eve had curves, Marti was all angles.
They were introduced by one of the secretaries at the agency when it turned out that Eve was looking for a place to stay in the city and Marti, who had just taken on a too-large apartment, needed a roommate.
When they were first introduced and went out to look at the apartment together, Marti didn't waste time beating around the bush, either.
"There's something you'd better know before you decide to share an apartment with me, Eve. I don't dig men, except as buddies. I dig women. I'm a lesbian. Most people in our crowd know it."
There was more—and Marti said it all, flat out, while Eve just stood there looking at her. Later, she thought it was mostly the challenge that Marti had indirectly thrown at her that had led her to accept both the apartment and Marti. Now, three years later, Eve and Marti not only accepted and understood each other, they really liked each other. As Marti had pointed out early in their acquaintance, there were several advantages to roommates who dug playmates of different sexes—the main advantage being that you didn't have to worry about poaching on each other's preserves.
Now . . . Eve opened her eyes, seeing her own reflection in the full-length mirror that was angled on the wall across from her bed. The mirror had been David's idea—he had hung it for her about four months ago. And damn David again for coming back into her mind! She felt like a child again, crying for the moon or the stars when she had everything; didn't other people always say so enviously? Why did she still want David when she had done quite well without him before?
David, David, David. Just saying his name, over and over like a litany, a cry of pain and passion. David, who had been her David just two months ago. Who had him now?
Eve's reflection stared back at her—smudges under her eyes. Concentrate, Eve. Assess yourself; this won't do. All your good points. Face. That's okay. Cheeks slightly hollow now (good for camera angles) from too much thought and too little nourishment. Green-tinged hazel eyes (they were really more green than hazel), copper-brown hair, cut to shoulder length. Nice breasts. Not too big, thank God, but definitely there. And long, slim legs, too long to cross comfortably behind the desk in the newsroom. She had begun, again, to play tennis and the exercise was good for her. Mental and physical discipline, that's what she needed!
Why can't I turn David out of my mind? I made myself stop thinking about Mark Dear Mark, why did