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She watched with interest as Brant locked the wheel and maneuvered the sea anchor overboard. Seeing him concentrate on what he was doing, being natural and unguarded, she caught herself thinking that she could almost like him at moments like these because he wasn't watching her and she didn't need to hide. And then the thought: Hide? Hide from what? Was she still afraid of him? She realized suddenly that here she was, completely alone with Brant, not among people or even in a house surrounded by other houses, but miles out at sea. lit; could drown her if he wanted to (the ultimate kick?), and who would know it wasn't an accident?
Why had she agreed so eagerly to come out here with him?
Eve lay down carefully on the polished, sun-warmed deck and closed her eyes. If he wanted her overboard, he would have to pick her up and throw her over the rail, struggling. She wondered if the smiling girl who'd sold her the bikini in that little boutique in Sausalito would remember her. She'd certainly noticed Brant— there were few women who didn't.
ANCHORWOMAN DIES IN BOATING ACCIDENT, the headline might read. Or perhaps: BILLIONAIRE PLAYBOY SUSPECT IN DBOWNING. If she were reporting it, how would she write her copy? David would read the news —and be sorry!
An unwilling smile curved Eve's lips as other, more dramatic news headlines sprang into her mind.
"That's a woman-witchy smile if I ever saw one," Brant's voice commented from somewhere above her. She felt the coolness of his shadow fall across her thighs and refused to answer, squeezing her eyes tightly shut, forcing herself to he still. Would he want to? Did he want to?
"Okay, don't let's talk, then."
She heard him move softly away from her. Silence then, except for the suddenly loud noise of the water lapping against the sides of the boat, a seagull's occasional cry, and the slight creaking of the timbers. Where was he now? she wondered. Was he watching her still? She had to open her eyes just a fraction to look.
He was sitting across from her, leaning against the rail, a hat pulled low over his forehead. Barefoot and bare-chested, just the same pair of abbreviated white shorts he'd been wearing in the picture on Francie's bulletin board. And he was watching her, after all, but she couldn't read what was in his eyes—could anyone?
He didn't say anything, just continued to look at her, and she closed
her eyes again quickly. What was he dunking? In spite of the hot sun on her body, Eve couldn't suppress a small shiver. Damn him! And damn her own stupid gullibility, too, for being here—for believing anything he'd told her. She must have been mad to agree to have anything to do with him in the first place, but being let down by David always made her do crazy, spiteful things. Was this one of them? But Brant wasn't the kind of man you could play games with. Brant Newcomb was dangerous, a cold, deadly man she shouldn't trust—hadn't she had enough occasion to find out just how dangerous it would be to underestimate him?
What was he planning right now? Eve wondered, and thought she didn't want to know. Forcing her body to remain limp and relaxed-looking, she twisted around to lie on her stomach, feeling the comforting warmth of the deck beneath her. She felt safer now, turned away from him, her face hidden in the curve of her arm. He hadn't moved at all. What was he waiting for?
Brant, too, was wondering. What was she thinking, wrapped in silence? What was she waiting for? And why had he brought her out here? She was still all nerves, too wary of him to relax—he could sense that. I Jut she had appeared eager to come out in the boat with him. Did she feel safer out here in the open, under the sky? He couldn't help wondering why she had agreed to go through with the whole crazy idea he'd outlined to her. Marriage—the conventional bit. Oldest trap of all. What had been her real reason? He knew what he was looking for, but did she? Security—the money, maybe. Perhaps his offer had even provided a kind of escape for her. It was a gamble they were taking, but then any relationship between two people was an almighty gamble. What was the difference between taking a chance on marriage or racing a fast car or a speedboat—even racing an airplane and doing crazy stunts with it they said shouldn't be done? Either you made it or you didn't. Hell, maybe it would work out for them in the end. He had the feeling that if she actually went through with it, she'd make a gallant try, at least. And so would he— you always tried, especially when you had reached the stage where you had nothing left to lose and just maybe everything to gain. Lay Syl's ghost—could he ever do that? Wasn't that it?
Brant closed his eyes and lifted his face to the sun, stretching. Suddenly needing to sleep. He dropped flat onto the deck, put the hat over his face, and ignored her faint stirring. She wasn't going anywhere, after all. She'd still be there when he woke up.
The sun grew hotter, and Eve stirred, rolling her body over so that it was partly in the shade of the cabin. Thank God she tanned, not burned. She squinted through half-closed eyes, and he was asleep—or pretending to be. But thank God for that, too. She wished that she, too, could fall asleep as easily.
She lay still for a few moments longer, trying to make her mind a blank—a trick learned from Peter. It didn't work. The boat moved under her almost sensuously, and the sun had made her feel hot and sticky. She needed a drink—something long and cool. Eve rose cautiously and tiptoed into the cabin. Yes, there was a small refrigerator here, stocked with cans and bottles. She poured orange juice into a glass and added lots of ice.
"Fix me one, too, would you, please?"
His voice called to her politely from outside, and she jumped, juice sloshing over her bare toes. Damn him! Did he have to sleep as lightly as a cat? She poured juice into a second glass, dropped in ice cubes, not bothering to ask him what he wanted to drink.
Bracing herself against the slight rocking movement of the boat, Eve went outside with the glasses. Brant was still lying exactly as she had left him—flat on his back, the hat covering his face.
Forgetting her earlier fear and mistrust, her mind registering only annoyance now, Eve walked over to him and stood there, waiting for him to acknowledge her presence. When there was no reaction, she dropped to her knees on the deck beside him, holding both glasses carefully away from her body.
The boat rolled slightly, and the ice clinked in the glasses; little drops of liquid splashed downward and lay glittering against his skin.
He moved at last, stretching out a hand that found her ankle and slid upward.
"Don't—you'll get me off balance, dammit!"
Her body jerked, and more juice splashed onto him, making him grimace.
"Good grief, woman, you're clumsy!"
He sat up abruptly, taking a glass from her dripping fingers and squinting his eyes at her. They knelt close to each other, eyes measuring, wary. Her teeth worried her lower lip for an instant, and then, recovering, she sipped her drink nervously, still watching him—catching him start to smile.
"You know this won't do. We're as awkward as strange animals around each other."
He put his glass down and very deftly and quickly untied the top of her bikini before she could either protest or resist him.
"Brant, no!" she objected, but her tone was soft and unconvincing. He bent his head, and she felt his tongue, cold from the ice, on her nipples, making them swell. Her hands caught his shoulders; he felt her body quiver and pushed her gently backward.
"Suppose someone—another boat comes by?"
