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She had a four-page spread and the centerfold. The title was "The Many Faces of Eve," photography and story by Tom Catt.
"It took a challenge thrown at her to persuade Miss Eve Mason, San Francisco's loveliest answer to Barbara Walters, to pose for this magazine. Eve, an ex-model who has never agreed to pose for so much as a lingerie shot before, was stung when we suggested to her that all models are toothpick-thin and would never qualify to make the pages of this particular magazine...."
There was more, but David didn't want to read it. He looked at the pictures, shots of Eve from various angles and in various outfits. Making a TV commercial, Eve working—looking very businesslike—Eve and her roommate Marti fixing supper in their apartment, Eve at the opera on the arm of a pompous old man with a potbelly. Curled up with a book, reading—her face devoid of makeup but still flawlessly beautiful.
His fingers shook when he came to the centerfold. Unlike most of them, this one could almost qualify as a work of art. Tom Catt, alias Jerry Harmon, alias the "Body Merchant," had really outdone himself with this picture.
A waterfall in the background, a real one, with its spray creating a misty effect. Shrubs in the foreground, wet green leaves. And Eve. Half-smiling, minute drops of water standing out on her body to give it a sheen (how could he not remember how the perspiration looked just so after they had made love?), the leaves barely covering her. No mistaking that this model, at least, had a real figure. "I'm one of the fortunate few who photograph skinny, darling," she had told him once.
The pain in his groin was almost unbearable, but then, so was his anger—a rage intense and primitive.
How dare she? How dare she do this, knowing how he felt about the kind of woman who would put her body on exhibition for everyone to see?
He raged at her silently, fists clenched. Hypocritical, lying bitch! All those tears she had shed, begging him not to leave her—all those times she had told him how much she loved him, that he was the only man she had ever loved, could ever let love her again ...
The telephone rang, startling him. He knew it was Gloria and didn't want to answer it, knowing all the same that he had to. It was the direct "hot fine" from Howard Hansen's office, and Howard was the senior partner of Hansen, Howell, & Bernstein, attorneys-at- law—"H. H. & B." as they were known in the city. Mostly, only Gloria would call him, but sometimes it would be Howard. It rang again, insistently, and David picked it up, taking a deep breath before he did.
"Darling, did you get your thrill for the afternoon? Now I know why you were so hard to get. Quite a body under those skinny-look dresses!"
"All right, Gloria. You know damn well Eve and I are all washed up. I couldn't care less if she went in for porno movies next. If it's advertising she needs, I could provide that, for that matter." He caught himself, realizing he'd let his irritation show through.
Gloria chuckled; it always gave her a kick to needle someone.
"You must tell me all about it, lover. When you're through making noises like a jealous boyfriend, that is."
The phone clicked in his ear as she hung up.
In spite of himself, David went back to Stud and the feature story on Eve. Of course, he knew why she had done it. To make him mad—to make him realize what he was missing. Eve wouldn't have done it except to spite him. She was a bitch all the same, and he longed to tell her that.
Somehow, he knew that right now, right this minute, she was thinking about him. Feeling the same way he did. "Our damned ESP," she used to call it.
Without stopping to think, not wanting to consider what he was doing, David dialed Eve's number. Of course, she wouldn't be home. She worked hard all day— hadn't she told him that often enough?
He heard two empty rings then hung up, disgusted at himself for his own weakness. Why couldn't he forget about her, let her be? It didn't matter to her whom she went to bed with—man or woman. When poor, unhappy Stella had told him about Eve and Marti, he had not wanted to believe it, but when he'd seen Eve with that other man, a stranger, he'd felt sick to his stomach. Why did just her picture give him a hard-on?
There were letters on his desk that had to be answered, a brief he should be reading through. But David didn't feel like working this afternoon. Why not, he could almos
t hear himself think, why not Gloria? At least she wanted him and made no bones about it. And he still had something to prove where Gloria was concerned. ...
He picked up the telephone and called her extension.
Gloria's body was beautiful, almost perfect, except for the overlarge breasts. But they were high and firm, and very lovely—sexy, too, with the shiny drops of water standing out against the slight oiliness left on her skin by the tanning lotion she had used.
David's anger made him almost aggressive. Gloria wanted him—she had certainly been obvious about letting him know it. Why in hell should he hesitate, waste time?
He put his hand out and touched a breast, and she didn't move. Then, very deliberately, he lifted it out of the barely confining bikini top and bent his head, his tongue stabbing greedily against Gloria's already hardened nipple.
"Ohh, baby, yes!" her voice breathed as she turned against him and the other breast came loose, too, pressing against his bare chest while their hands fumbled at wet swimsuit bottoms.
She was easier to reach than he, and she was ready for him. He pushed her backward and down, uncaring now that they were right out in the open where anyone might surprise them. His fingers explored her, gauging her readiness before he plunged into her and felt her tighten wetly on him—swallowing, sucking him inside her.
The sun gleamed off her blond hair, reflected off each individual golden piece of fuzzy down on her body that proclaimed proudly she was a natural blonde. She was lying half on and half off the pad she had been sunbathing on, her head back, her eyes closed against the blinding brilliance of the afternoon sun.
"That's the way, lover—that's the way!"
Her legs clamped around him, and he felt her fingers digging into his buttocks, pulling on him, grabbing at him. She was a big golden-haired bitch squirming under him, wanting it, grabbing for it. A bitch like every other woman—like Eve—only Eve was more of a bitch, a lying hypocrite. What or who did they think about when they got screwed, the bitch-women?
Gloria's eyes were still closed, but her half-open mouth emitted sounds of pleasure and words that spurred him on. Gloria knew all the words; she was taking him on a mad, wild ride on her bucking, writhing body. He got one hand underneath her and rammed a finger up her ass, enjoying her yelp of pleasure and the way she came up to meet him with new fervor.
