He was all bronze—face and arms and throat—contrasting with the bright bleached gold of his hair, and he was dressed so casually it was almost insulting— open-neck shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, thick gold chain about his neck, teamed with tight, faded blue Levi's and sneakers. He looked as if he'd been out sailing and
didn't give a damn about his appearance, and if he was gay, that was unusual. His hair was long enough to curl at the back of his neck, giving him the look of an Edwardian satyr. Still staring, unable to help herself, Eve decided there was something about the slight flare of his nostrils, the mocking, somehow cruel curve of his chiseled hps that reminded her of an animal scenting prey. But whatever he was, satyr or fag, it was obvious the woman with him wasn't going to let go easily.
Eve realized suddenly that both Peter and the singer had ended their conversation and were following the direction of her gaze.
"Good-looking bastard, isn't he?" the singer murmured, watching his girl start stroking the blond man s arm. "I guess I'd better rescue Margo. He's the type who would swallow a little thing like her up like an hors d'oeuvre and then spit her right back out."
Eve thought that Margo looked neither little nor helpless; nor did she act as if she needed or would welcome her impending rescue. No polite, curvy redhead with Margo's good looks deserved pity, anyhow. But the singer obviously thought she needed protection, and he moved away purposefully.
Peter smiled warningly at Eve after the singer had left them.
"My pet, that's one man I'd advise you to stay away from. Ray isn't right about too many things, but he is right about Brant Newcomb."
"That's the notorious Brant Newcomb?" Eve looked over at him with renewed interest, this time mixed with a cautious kind of horror. "I've read all kinds of nasty things about him. He sounds too bad to be true, almost. Is he really?"
Peter caught her hand and swung it between them, smiling his superior, knowing smile.
"He is, indeed! But I realize that by warning you to steer clear, I've probably madly intrigued your delightfully feminine mind, Eve darling. So I shall let you decide for yourself. Just try not to let yourself get too shocked or too excited by anything he says."
Eve felt like pulling back now, but Peter was already tugging her along with him and was halfway across the room when Brant Newcomb turned away from the singer and his pouting lady and noticed Eve. His eyes met hers briefly, moved away, and then came back to her, raking down the front of her dress quite openly and insolently, with no civilized attempt to disguise what was in them. And while she hated the way he had looked at her, she could not help noticing that his eyes were the brightest blue she had ever seen—so blue and thickly lashed they seemed opaque.
He began walking to meet them, and even his manner of walking was junglelike—an animal stalking its prey.
"Well, well. It's been quite some time since we've run into each other, hasn't it, Pete baby? And that's a lovely creature you have by the hand there. Is she yours, or only borrowed?"
"I'll lend her to you for a few minutes if you’ll swear you'll bring her back. I think she's curious about you, and I want her to find out."
Eve listened to them talk at each other—light, fencing words that showed they knew and disliked each other. Already she regretted having let Peter lead her into this.
Brant Newcomb was saying, "I'll be sure this charmer finds out anything at all she wants to know, sweetheart. I like girls who look like her—all autumn tones. She looks warm. Are you warm, honey?"
Eve tried to return his somehow mocking look levelly and coldly, but she felt uncomfortably as if his eyes were not looking at her but into her, eating through her clothes. Suddenly and unreasonably, she was frightened and didn't want to be left alone with him. Her fingers tightened around Peter's. She didn't want him to leave!
'I’ll be back in just a few minutes, Eve," he said, smiling at her urbanely. "I'll just get us some refills at the bar, and Brant here will look after you for me until I get back."
Peter winked at her, pulled his hand away firmly, and left her there with Brant Newcomb. Who was the Brant Newcomb? Money and women were his specialty, and dangerous sports. If she remembered right, he'd been in a few spectacular wrecks, automobiles and motorcycles. He was the land the magazines called a playboy, the kind of man she despised.
Already she hated him, and so she looked back at him defiantly, letting her dislike show.
"Peter's always playing psychiatrist, even if it's after office hours. I'm sorry."
"No—no, don't be. Tell me, Eve Mason, are you his plaything?"
If she was amazed that he knew her name, she refused to show it.
"That's really none of your business, is it? Or is rudeness one of your habits?"
She had made her voice icy, but he only laughed, catching at the hand that Peter had dropped so unceremoniously.
"Ah, I can tell you've heard all the bad things they say about me, and believe them. Well, luv, they're true. But you're not the type who's easily scared off, are you?" He squeezed her hand meaningfully. "I think—I just have the feeling we might like the same kind of things. Why don't you come home with me tonight and find out? I'd really like to fuck you, Eve. And Jerry would, too, wouldn't you, Jerry? I mean, you really owe him one for that really great picture of you he did for Stud."
The dark-haired photographer seemed to trail Newcomb everywhere he went, Eve thought contemptuously, even as she felt her insides coifing up with anger at his words. She ignored Jerry Harmon and fixed her cold gaze on Brant Newcomb.
"Why don't you just fuck each other instead?" she said politely. "I mean, I'm sure it wouldn't be the first time."
She pulled her hand away and started to walk, hearing their delighted laughter behind her.
Eve could feel her cheeks burning with rage and humiliation as she kept right on walking. She was furious with Peter, too, for leaving her alone with that monster of a man.