The Insiders

He released her wrists and tangled his fingers in her hair, twisting her face around, almost snapping her neck. His mouth burned her earlobes and her cheeks and the corners of her mouth. Finally she lost all consciousness of anything but their bodies—what he was doing to her—what she was feeling—the sensations erupting inside her.

This was being punished and possessed and taken. ... She made wordless sounds of protest and need and lust, and it went on and on for what seemed forever until suddenly it was over and they were lying together, exhausted and shaken and spent. She suddenly started to cry again, helplessly and quietly.

Eve felt him pull away from her and move off. The smell of cigarette smoke drifted to her, stinging her nostrils. After a few moments, she felt his arms lift her and carry her to bed.

"I'm sorry, Eve," he said quietly into her silence. "I promised I'd never hurt you, and I did. You laughed at my control, and I lost it Which proves. ... I think— I think it would be best if I went away for a while. Until we can sort things out. Maybe I need to get back to the people I used to know so I'll find out once and for all if I miss the old life. Maybe you need the same thing—and you might understand yourself better, too, if I weren't around. I think you've started to get bored and uptight, Eve. I think you're missing what you might have had, and it could be that's what you need, too— to get away, get back...."

Eve felt his weight shift from the side of the bed. She knew he'd gone, and she wanted to speak, to have the last word, to tell him.... But there were no words left in her. Only a cold kind of emptiness that made her wonder if that was the way he felt inside all of the time, and if so, poor Brant.

She didn't really want him to go now, but she couldn't stop him, either. She had no strength of will left.

"I'm taking the boat. Guess I'll sail around the coast to Colombo. I'll be in touch later. Take care, Eve. I'll look in on Jeff before I go."

The walls were falling down, everything was crumbling around her, and she couldn't seem to react. She heard the door close behind him, and she had still not found words, nor the energy to utter them. Absurd, the sudden surge of feeling that she wanted to follow behind him and remind him that he hadn't taken any clothes with him, nor even a checkbook. What did it matter? He'd managed before her....

And at least she had Jeff, who had Brant's eyes, but with a difference. There was love and life and humor in her son's eyes—she would see that there always would be. The slow tears slipped out from under her closed eyelids as she began to cry again, softly this time and helplessly, unable to stop.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

LATER, lying on the patio beside the pool, letting the sun burn and consume her body, Eve tried to think about it all—the suddenness, the how and the why, and then gave up because her mind felt as bruised as her body, and thinking was as painful as too-sudden movement.

Brant had already left, of course. The baby's ayah had been curious (had she overheard Eve's screams, even through the thick, soundproof walls?), but Eve had not volunteered any information, and the woman, shrugging, had taken the baby to his room for his afternoon nap.

Eve wondered again if she would call him back if she could, but her subconscious mind gave her no answers this afternoon.

She thought again about Brant's almost unconscious arrogance—about the women who, no doubt, would flock to him now. She realized with a kind of shock that women—particularly the one whose name had started off a chain reaction, Syl—and her own jealousy had started it all. What she hadn't wanted to admit, even to herself, was that she was jealous. She had let herself become too arrogant, too sure of herself and of him. Maybe he'd been right and she had wanted, consciously or unconsciously, to be fucked, to be reassured in that way, at least, that he wanted her.

She moved restlessly on the chaise lounge and felt the aches in her body. Her wrists showed purple bruises already—what did the ayah really think? Oh, Christ, I must be a masochist, Eve thought, and fell asleep after all.

She slept until it began to get dark—the sudden dropping of a black curtain that was a tropical night without a lingering twilight. And then, of course, she couldn't fall asleep that night, even after she had stayed up as late as she could, reading.

The heat of the afternoon sun must have seeped into her body while she had foolishly lain out there, soaking it up defiantly. Now Eve felt her skin burn and sting in spite of the air conditioning. Even the soft sheets felt rough and scratchy, and the bed, she discovered suddenly, was too damned big—leaving her far too much space in which to toss and tarn in her efforts to get comfortable. Insect noises and the high-pitched croaking of frogs outside seemed to beat against her ears, in spite of the insulated walls. She remembered how, during their early days here, she had felt deafened by all the noises of a tropic night.

Giving up on sleep, Eve turned the light back on and sat up, reaching for her robe. She might as well check on Jeff; surprisingly, he hadn't awakened and cried for his feeding yet. Usually he woke up at least twice during a night, and she'd hear, with half her mind, the ayah crooning to him gutturally as she patted his little bottom to soothe him back to sleep. Children were spoiled here, especially if they were boys, but Brant said it was okay—that kids needed all the love they could get, and it was most important when they were very young.

The hell with Brant! She wondered if he were already in Colombo, headed for the airport—or in some crowded little nightclub, dancing with Manel, the tall Sri Lanka girl who'd given him so much attention at their housewarming party.

She hadn't paid too much attention then—she'd found it almost amusing—but now she wasn't sure, and the mixture of emotions churning around inside her amazed and infuriated her.

Tying the belt of her robe around her waist, Eve walked barefoot to the baby's room, noticing at once, with surprise and apprehension, that the light was on in there, shining under the door. She pushed it open and walked in, then stood silently on the threshold.

Brant lay on his back on the rug, the baby's pillow under his head, his son lying on his chest. The ayah had obviously been dismissed, and they were communicating in silence, watching each other with unblinking, identical eyes. Jeff looked fatly content, his head stubbornly raised so he could stare down at his father.

"What in hell are you doing back here?"

Eve's voice was taut.

"I found I missed you both. So I turned around and came back."

His eyes studied her, and she realized suddenly that she was still all oily from the cream she'd slathered on herself. Unconsciously, she put both hands up to her face, and his eyes began to crinkle.

"Damn you, Brant!" she whispered, but his admission had disarmed her, and her tone lacked conviction.

"I guess we all need to get all the pent-up questions and frustrations out of our systems, even if it means quarreling," she said to him later, when they lay together in bed.

"I don't know about needing to quarrel, but I suppose people have to learn how to communicate, and when you're used to holding things in, that can be difficult."

He was learning, she thought. He was so different from the way he had been at the beginning, and all this time she hadn't realized it. Was she different, too?