The Insiders

She thought again, My God, he means it! What am I going to say?

Eve put her hand up to brush flying strands of hair out of her eyes, teeth worrying her lower lip. She had to resist the desire to laugh hysterically at the sheer irony of it all.

"Well?" he said impatiently.

Damn, he was an impatient, far too arrogant man!

"You're insane!"

He laughed shortly. "I've been called far worse than that! Is that all you have to say?"

"No. I mean I—I really don't understand. Me—you— David at the airport with that girl—how—"

"If there's anything you're still curious about, we could talk about it over that drink I offered you. Hell, Eve, at least we're not starting off with any illusions about each other, are we? And maybe we both need to exorcise old ghosts."

She saw his hands clench whitely over the steering wheel—that was the first and only indication she'd had so far of any tension in him. It was the first human thing.... And when he spoke of ghosts, why did David's name, David's face flash across her mind?

Brant, still maneuvering the Mercedes with amazing skill, turned his head to glance at her with one eyebrow slightly raised. Eve felt her pent-in breath expelled with her sigh.

"All right, I—a drink sounds fine. But that's all I'm committing myself to for the moment."

Why had she added "For the moment?" What did she have to lose, anyhow? Feeling suddenly tired, Eve leaned her head back, closing her eyes, letting her hair blow free and wild.

Eve, you're such a wild bitch in bed! David again. David, who had also named her a tramp, a whore; using her just as if she had in fact been all those things. And she'd let him. She'd felt this way before, after David had walked out on her that first time. Reckless, uncaring, wanting to spite him. She had a feeling that he'd call her apartment later on that night. Checking up—just to make sure. Of what—her? His hold over her?

Eve opened her eyes, watching Brant's profile almost furtively. What was he after? She didn't quite trust him, but some part of her mind that was wiser, older, pragmatic, told her that at least this complex, surprising man beside her did want her for some strange reason of his own, that he really didn't need to play games or tricks on her and wouldn't bother if all he wanted was a female body to use or party with.

The leather upholstery was soft to lean against. Eve looked toward Brant again, measuring, and caught him looking at her. For a moment, like strangers first encountering each other, they stared—then looked away.

They had reached the city now. When they stopped for a light, Eve noticed people watching them. Two young women crossing the street slowed down to stare. A woman in a car alongside, fur jacket open indolently at the throat, looked at Brant hungrily, openly. Well, he was that kind of man, and if she had not been warned about him, had not found out about him, she, too, might look at him that way. Hadn't she stared, too, the very first time she had seen him? Until she had become afraid

But she wasn't afraid any longer—was she? The car stopped abruptly, and Eve found herself looking upward at the closed, private face of the tall row house again, seeing it in the sunlight this time. A shiver of fear shot through her. Oh, God, what am I letting myself in for this time? How far down will my need to shrive myself of David's memory take me?

It was too late for regrets; Brant had already opened the door on her side and was helping her out, his fingers closing around her cold hand, wanning it.

"No tricks, Eve. I won't hurt you again—I give you my word."

He said it quietly, and it was the nearest he would come to an apology of any kind. She accepted it silendy, but a small sigh escaped her and her knees felt weak as she walked inside the house with him, the sunlight suddenly shut out.

Being back in there felt strange. It was so dark, so quiet, with no crowd of people and no party noises. The huge living room looked empty—clean and tidy, too, smelling faintly of lemon wax; bowls of hothouse flowers arranged on tables. She wondered who cleaned for him and where they hid.

He released her hand and walked behind the bar. "Still drink Scotch, Eve?" Catching her tiny hesitation without seeming to, he produced a sealed bottle of Chivas Regal, opened it, and poured amber liquid into two glasses, dropping in ice cubes. "Nothing in there but Scotch and ice cubes. Pick either glass."

Suddenly Eve was able to manage a wry smile. She reached for a glass, holding it with both hands. "You must be a mind-reader."

"Hardly that. I try to read faces, and yours is pretty transparent."

"Oh." It was ridiculous; she could think of nothing to say. She tasted the drink, and it was strong and cold, just what she needed.

Brant was watching her, leaning his elbows on the bar, leaving a distance between them deliberately— to give her a sense of security? Thank God for the drink —that first sip had helped relax her; the second swallow she took now made her feel stronger, braver.

Silence stretched between them. From somewhere behind her, a clock chimed softly. Time. Too little of it left, with so many things she had to do. And if not for David showing up when he did, she wouldn't be here with Brant—he with nothing to say, she with nothing to say.

"Now what?" She hadn't meant her thought to slip out into words, but she got a reaction from him. He grinned at her suddenly, his teeth white and even against the bronze of his skin. She thought again, il-logically, that no man had a right to look like Brant did.

"I was thinking the same thing myself," he drawled, those very blue eyes of his keeping hers trapped somehow. "Do we spend the next hour or two playing question-and-answer games, or will you come upstairs with me?"

Catching her instinctive movement of recoil, he said impatiendy, "Dammit, Eve! I'm trying to talk you into marrying me. And I wasn't talking about a Platonic relationship, either. I want to make love to you—and listen, there's no need to shy away like that. I said make lov