Don't think—relax. She tried the Yoga breathing, keeping her eyes closed, but her mirid kept clicking like a computer, planning ahead, measuring out her time.
She had to go back home, spend some time with Mom and the kids. Explain how suddenly everything had happened. That she'd still be at the other end of a telephone if they needed her. Before dien she'd have to pack, arrange for some of her stuff to be shipped—why didn't it seem real yet? Was she ready for such a drastic change in her life, or would it be a change after all? Would there be someone else to replace David? Randall . . . Somehow the night she'd spent with him didn't seem quite real, either.
Eve wondered vaguely why they hadn't taken off yet. This particular flight seemed a popular one—even first class was full, except for the seat next to hers. She had a window. 3A. Good. Her thoughts became hazy and disjointed as she forced herself to relax. She heard someone else behind her ask querulously the same question she'd been thinking.
"We're late taking off, aren't we? Hope there's not going to be a delay at the other end—I have an important meeting to get to."
"We'll be arriving right on schedule, sir. Traffic's been delayed by the fog this morning. We have to wait our turn."
Eve didn't really care. God, I'm tired! she thought. Maybe Peter would give her a vitamin shot when she got back; the one she'd had three days ago had really helped. In her half-asleep, half-awake state, the title of an old song popped into her mind. "Is That All There Is?" Crazy, not knowing what she really wanted—not even now, when everything had been offered to her on a platter.
She was hardly aware of the slight stir as a late passenger arrived. Soft voices of the flight attendants, hovering. Someone settled in beside her; she heard the click of the seatbelt and couldn't be bothered to open her eyes. She heard the heavy door thud, and soon after the sound of the engines screaming to a crescendo as the big DC-10 started to move. At last! That ought to keep the fussy guy behind her happy....
"Would you care for a drink? Sir? Miss?"
"Scotch, please. On the rocks, for me. With soda for Miss Mason, if I remember right."
Eve had to force herself awake, coming out of a nebulous nightmare in which she heard Brant Newcomb's mocking voice. "Have a drink, doll. And after that, we're going to talk, aren't we?"
All she had to do to escape from a bad dream was to wake up—and then she did.
"Hi, Eve."
She couldn't speak. She felt literally frozen, caught on fast film, all motion stilled. She felt the faint hum and vibration of the jet engines, heard the buzz of conversation around her. Normal. Think normal; then she'd wake up all over again
"Oh, no! Not you!"
Sunlight coming in through the small window caught in his bright-gold hair, reflected off the blue glaze of his eyes. She made an involuntary movement of escape and was trapped by her seatbelt.
"Did you enjoy New York?" The smiling flight attendant set their drinks on the armrest between them, and he smiled at her.
"Thanks."
"This can't be happening," Eve said aloud. "I won't sit here beside you."
"There isn't another seat available, I'm afraid," he pointed out politely. "And since you've managed to be sensible so far, I wouldn't spoil it all by making a scene, Eve. It wouldn't be good for your image."
She sucked in her breath, trying to keep herself from shaking. Brant Newcomb. But even he, Devil or not, couldn't do anything to her here. She mustn't let him see her unreasoning fear. Be cool, Eve.
"What are you doing here? I don't want to talk to you."
He shrugged, although his eyes, bright blue like a glacial mountain lake, seemed to pin her back in her seat.
"That's okay. But I wanted to talk to you."
"I don't—"
"You'll listen, though." He cut her off as though she hadn't spoken. "I made sure of that. So why don't you settle back like a good girl?"
She shuddered, remembering.
Stop fighting it, Eve. Give in and enjoy....
God, he was a madman. Fury struggled with primitive terror. What did he want with her this time? What had he meant by "I made sure of that"?
In spite of herself, Eve's voice dropped to a sharp whisper.
'1 don't know what you want with me this time, Brant Newcomb! And I don't care! I don't give a damn about your threats, either—I told your friend Jerry."