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"But I just did, sweetheart. And it seems as if I did it at the right time, too. You know her, what she's like. Can't you see that she'll be better off with Derek in New Mexico? Now, suppose you and I talk about it quietly and alone, while Derek takes Francie away, hmm? You don't have to worry; Francie will like him, and he'll be good for her. He might not look the part, but Derek's a psychiatrist and he's into social work. He knows about Francie and her hang-ups, and he's worked with kids like her before. So why don't you come along with me now, baby, and we can talk about your hang-ups. You know our little talk is long overdue, don't you?"
His grip on her arm was unrelenting, and she thought that his speech sounded almost imperceptibly slurred. As if— God! she thought frantically, is everyone here stoned right out of their minds?
She tried to pull away from him, her eyes starting to search desperately for Tony, for any familiar, friendly face. His grip tightened, hurting her, and she found herself forced to move along with him.
And Marti's words, Marti's warning came back to assault her mind with their terrifying implications....
CHAPTER NINETEEN
BRANT NEWCOMB TOOK HER to the bar and held out his hand to the bartender, his eyes never leaving her face. He took the drink the man gave him and handed it politely to Eve, still holding her arm with his other hand. Automatically, without will or volition, she took it from him, glad of a respite of some kind. His fingers continued to dig into the soft flesh of her arm, hurting it. It took an effort not to wince with pain.
"Let's drink, Eve Mason." He took the glass that the bartender slid across to him and lifted it in a formal and somehow mocking toast.
"Let's drink to a pleasant conversation—the one we're going to have presently. And you'll tell me all about your concern for Francie, and for Francie's big brother —the one who gets his kicks beating her ass. And I'll tell you—no, maybe I'll show you, instead. I think I'd enjoy that more."
She held her glass with suddenly nerveless fingers. He touched the rim of his against it, nudging it upward toward her lips.
"Drink up, Eve. I'm starting to get impatient."
His voice was soft and slow and so polite—and all the while, his fingers kept digging into the vulnerable flesh of her arm, forcing tears into her eyes.
Because she was left without an alternative, she
drank quickly and sloppily, not stopping to think about anything except getting away, escaping from this soft-spoken maniac. Marti had been right, and Peter had been right. Brant Newcomb was dangerous, and she was very much afraid of him. The melodrama she was involved in had suddenly become very real, and she had to do something to save herself—and Francie, too. For after all, what could he do to her—kill her? No, of course he wouldn't dare go so far, but he could hurt her in other ways. . . . Eve shuddered; her drink spilled as she drained the glass and set it down on the counter, trying to be defiant.
Politely, he wiped the front of her dress with a clean napkin. She could not help flinching away from his touch, bringing a slight, mirthless curve to his chiseled mouth.
"What's the matter, Eve? Don't you like being touched? And don't tell me you're shy—I couldn't quite believe that, coming from a Stud centerfold. Or am I the wrong sex? Is that what it is, baby? Let's see— you're Marti Meredith's roommate, aren't you?"
"You—you—" Eve couldn't speak coherently for the rage that suddenly filled her, obliterating her fear and even the thought of Francie.
"Save it for when we're alone, Eve. You can call me all the names you can think of while I'm fucking you. And I've waited a long time to do that. Why don't you come with me now and show me what you can do, huh?"
He was already taking her with him before the impact of his lightly uttered words sank in, making her suck in her breath with anger.
He took her through the crowd, and people moved aside to let them go—some of them staring curiously, and others too busy with each other. Eve moved with him, helpless. She could make a fuss, she supposed, with a detached part of her mind, but that would only serve to put her on exhibition, like Francie. She wouldn't give in.
He led her through a door that she hadn't even noticed before.
"I apologize for the room," he murmured behind her. "I realize that it's a trifle overdone—a kind of Frank Harris daydream come true—but it does impress a lot of people and actually helps get rid of a lot of inhibitions. Francie calls it the game room—I suppose you might say there are a lot of games played in here."
Eve had stopped, staring around her with a land of disbelieving horror. She almost forgot the pressure of his fingers around her upper arm, the steely, painful pressure that had brought her here with him against her will.
At first sight, it was a functional kind of room, all stark blacks and whites, with mirrors everywhere to catch the reflection of the enormous bed from all angles.
The lights that blazed from the four corners of the room were photographer's lights, blinding-bright when he turned them on; and apart from the bed, the only other furniture was a heavy, leather-covered desk in one corner of the room with a single hide-upholstered chair behind it. Large cushions lay huddled in an untidy pile against one wall.
Eve stumbled as he suddenly propelled her forward, feeling terror like a sudden weight in the pit of her stomach when she heard the door close behind him. She had the feeling that she was caught up in a nightmare, that this wasn't rea
lly happening to her—she couldn't have let Brant Newcomb bring her here with him like a wooden puppet to this horrible, nightmarish room. It wasn't possible either that he was now turning her body around so that she faced him.
"Why don't you take your clothes off now," he told her quietly, his very bright blue eyes on hers. His voice was polite and quite casual, just as if he had merely offered her another drink, and for a stunned moment she couldn't believe that she had heard him right.
Anger washed through her again, drowning the fear.
Eve tried to make her voice cold and firm, but she could not stop it from shaking. Even in her own ears, it sounded pitifully weak.
"This—I can't believe it! And it's gone far enough, too. You said you were going to tell me about Francie. ... I'm leaving now, do you understand?"
