Demon Rumm (3 page)

Beyond that, he had to be very careful about whom he became involved with on any level, for the other person’s sake more than for his own. Kirsten Rumm had suffered tremendously in the past few years. He would have to be a prize sonofabitch to drag her out of one well-publicized heartache into another.

But all his good intentions fled his mind when he crested the hill and saw her through the glass wall. She was sitting at her desk, bare feet tucked under her chair. Her head was angled to one side. She was chewing on the cap of her red pen and, as he watched, mouthed the words to the sentence she was painstakingly constructing.

Apparently she had forgotten her houseguest. That piqued him. He felt a perverse desire to get her attention off her work and onto him. So, wearing his arrogant smile, a deep suntan, and his damp jeans, he walked up to the part of the wall that slid away to form a door and knocked.

She jumped and whipped her head around. She had on her glasses again and looked damned attractive in them too. They had thin tortoiseshell frames, which were not quite as dark as her short hair. Few women could wear a pixie haircut, having only that fringe around forehead, ears, and nape to soften the severe look. But it was a sophisticated foil for Kirsten’s youthful face.

He opened the door. “Got a towel?”

Irritation oozing from every pore, she got up and left the room, but was gone only a moment before she returned carrying a beach towel. “Thanks,” he said as she passed it to him through the door. He used it to blot the salt water from his face, but didn’t dry the rest of himself. “The water felt great.”

“Not too cold?”

Was she looking at his nipples? They were erect, almost painfully so. “Uh, no. Just right.”

“Oh.”

“Will it distract you if I lie out here by the pool for a while?”

“Suit yourself.”

She was still treating him with that condescending air, which would have irritated the hell out of him, had he not guessed that she was using that snootiness to hide something. Maybe an attraction to him that she didn’t want to admit, even to herself?

He draped the towel around his neck and saw her gaze flicker over his chest and all the way down to the snap of his jeans. Between his navel and the waistband, his body hair was wet and curly. At her involuntary display of interest, he felt himself grow thick behind his damp fly.

“Why don’t you come out with me?” he asked huskily.

The invitation startled her. She glanced up at him and said quickly, “No. I’ve got work to do.”

“Gee, that’s too bad.” Pouting, he slurred his words.

Obviously irritated, she briskly slid the door closed. Few doors were closed to Rylan North. Even fewer were slammed in his face. But that’s what he felt had happened and it made him madder than hell.

Turning abruptly, he reached for the snap and zipper of his ancient jeans and unfastened them. Before he reached the chaise, and in full view of her desk, he stripped off the jeans and kicked them away. Then he spread the beach towel over the chaise and lay down on his stomach.

He tried not to wince as he mashed his protesting manhood between his body and the unyielding fiberglass chaise. Looking as innocent as a baby settling down for a nap, he rested his cheek on his stacked hands and closed his eyes . . . but not before catching a glimpse of Kirsten’s astonished face through the glass wall.

Two

He didn’t realize he’d dozed off until he gradually woke up. And then he was reluctant to move. The ocean breeze whispered across his bare flesh. Like a woman’s softest touch, it caressed the backs of his thighs, his buttocks. The sun felt wonderful, its rays penetrating his skin, heating his blood. Though heaven knew there were parts of him that didn’t need to get any warmer. Ever since he’d met Kirsten Rumm, there had been a low fire smoldering in his belly and groin.

The lady didn’t like him.

That was a bitter pill to swallow, a hard, cold fact. Or was it? Maybe she liked him okay, but wasn’t receptive to him because she was still steeped in grief over the loss of her husband.

Either prospect was depressing.

He did several push-ups before levering himself off the chaise. The diving board was springy and helped him to execute a perfect dive into the pool. He swam its length, then climbed the chrome ladder out. He reached for the towel and wrapped it around his waist. Because of the outdoor glare, all he could see in the glass wall of the house as he approached it was his own reflection. When he slid open the door, he was surprised, pleasantly so, to see Kirsten bent over her desk.

“Still at work?”

“Uh-huh,” she replied without looking up.

He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. She still didn’t even glance at him. He was annoyed, until he figured out the reason. Did she think he was naked? He smiled a smile that she fortunately didn’t see.

“Do you enjoy writing?” he asked.

“Sometimes.”

“Is it difficult for you to write about your life with Rumm?”

“Parts of it.”

“Which parts?”

She threw her head back and looked at him.

“Well,
that
got your attention,” he said with a sly smile. “Which parts?”

“Would you like to go to your room now?” Standing, Kirsten tossed down her red pen. It was getting quite a workout this afternoon, he thought. She brushed past him and headed toward the double doors to the hall. She stood there tapping her bare foot, the embodiment of impatience, waiting while he picked up his duffel bag, his boots and socks, and followed her.

“I left my jeans out on the terrace to dry,” he said.

“Alice will wash and dry them for you when she gets back.”

“The housekeeper?”

“Yes.”

“Has she always been here? I mean when Rumm was alive?”

“Yes, why?”

“Because I want everything to be exactly as it was when the two of you lived here.” As docile as a puppy, he padded along behind her. “Everything except the sleeping arrangements that is.”

She stopped so suddenly that he almost bumped into her. “What do you mean by that?”

Surprised by her knee-jerk reaction, he studied her face for a moment. “I mean that we won’t be sleeping together. Will we?”

His timing was one thing that made him such a good actor. He was touted for the masterful way he delivered dialogue. Now, between his sentence and the question that followed it, there was a strategic pause. Brief, but obvious enough to drive a Mack truck through.

He had intended to tease her again. But as he watched Kirsten brush back her feathery bangs, he found himself waiting for a serious answer. The fantasy of sleeping with her had been lurking in the back of his mind. Suddenly it had jumped out at him from behind its cover like the spring-triggered monster in a spook house. It was instantly there, unavoidable and vivid and full-blown.

He wanted this woman.

“Mr. North, some women might welcome that remark. I don’t. I’m not at all flattered that you invited me to sleep with you.”

One of his eyebrows arched into its characteristic point. “I didn’t invite you to sleep with me. If I had, it wouldn’t have been so subtle. I would have come right out and asked.”

There was only the slightest breathless pause before she said, “Well, save yourself the trouble.”

Turning, she continued to lead him through the sprawling house. Effectively put down, he followed, remarking on her house, saying how much he liked it.

“Thank you,” she answered. “It was my first choice when Charlie and I started shopping for one. I think he wanted something more traditional, but I talked him into this one.”

Rylan realized now why he liked the house so well. It wasn’t cluttered with carpeting and drapes and furniture. The beauty of the house lay in its starkness, the white walls, the tall ceilings with their bare beams, the terrazzo tile floors. Furnishings and decorating had been kept to a minimum, but every piece was perfect for its setting. Nothing detracted from the spectacular scenery beyond the glass walls.

“Did you always get your way?” he asked.

She stepped aside to allow him to enter the guest bedroom before her. She didn’t quite meet his eyes when she answered softly, “No. Not always.”

“Was the house a concession for an argument you lost?”

Instead of answering she pointed to the mirrored closet doors. “There’s a bureau in the closet. You can either unpack yourself or leave it for Alice to do. The bathroom’s through there.” She indicated the connecting door. At the built-in bookcase, she slid open a louvered panel to reveal a wet bar with a small refrigerator. “I think you’ll find everything you need. If not, let Alice or me know.”

“Why do I feel like I’m being left at camp for the summer? ‘Got your toothbrush? Got your extra blanket? Good, then say good-bye to Mommy.’ ”

Kirsten ignored him. “Mel said you wanted to go through Charlie’s photo albums. I left them out for you in his study. It’s through the door at the end of this hall. If you’ll excuse—”

“Why don’t you like me?”

Dammit, he’d had enough. He could think of a lot of occupations for her mouth to be engaged in, and issuing instructions like a drill sergeant was at the bottom of the list. He didn’t concentrate too hard on what he would put at the top of that list because he was still dressed only in a towel, but he crossed the room in three angry strides to stand directly in front of her.

His bluntness caught her off guard. She kept her eyes on a level with his chest when she said, “I like you fine.”

“You sure have a funny way of showing it.”

“I’ve been hospitable.”

“Hospitality I can get at the Holiday Inn.”

He had backed her up against the glass wall, which ran the width of the room and afforded a spectacular view of the ocean. His body almost went into shock when she eased herself from between him and the glass, by necessity brushing the front of her body against his. He learned two important things: she wasn’t wearing a bra, and, in addition to being teased too hard, she didn’t like feeling cornered.

“What do you want from me, Mr. North?”

If she knew what a loaded question that was, she wouldn’t have asked it. He couldn’t give her the obvious answer, so he latched onto the first thing that came to his mind. “I want you to call me by my name.”

“I do.”

“You call me Mr. North, not Rylan.”

“Is that your real name?”

“No, but it’ll do.”

She turned away to gaze outside at the geraniums blooming profusely in whiskey casks that lined the border of the deck. “All right. And you can call me Kirsten.”

“Thanks. Now, why don’t you look at me?”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I look at you.”

“No, your eyes slide over me occasionally, but you haven’t fully looked at me since I got here.” He was thinking that if he could look at her, her mouth, her figure, her bare feet, and threaten to disgrace himself behind the towel, then she could sure as hell look at him. His desire fueled his impatience with her. “Why don’t you look at me?” he repeated angrily.

“I’m not a groupie. A gawker.”

“I don’t expect you to be, Kirsten.”

She did look at him then. At the sound of her name, she raised those serious blue eyes to his. He felt himself sinking into them.

“Celebrities don’t awe me,” she said. “I was married to one. He was human and so are you.”

He was human, all right, he thought. His entire body was quivering with the desire to demonstrate basic human needs. He wanted to press her cool, white clothes against his sun-warmed skin, to cup her hips in his hands and draw her against that part of him that was tenting the towel despite his efforts to keep it relaxed.

“You resent my being here, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she responded bluntly.

“Then why did you let me come?”

“I was under pressure from Mel.”

“Your attorney?” He laughed shortly. “I only met him once, but it’s obvious that he’s gaga over you. He would take a flying leap out his twenty-story office window if you asked him to.”

“I listen to his advice and this is what he advised me to do.”

“Under the threat that I might leave the picture?”

“You admit that that was a possibility?”

“I’ve done it before.”

“Well, I didn’t want to be responsible for it happening this time. I want the movie to be finished as soon as possible.”

“I see. Your sacrifice was for the sake of the movie.”

“Yes. I’ll cooperate with you, because I want you to get what you came for and leave as soon as possible, but don’t expect me to entertain you.”

She was doing it again, assuming that superior tone that grated on him like a metal file. He’d have to break her of it, but how? She didn’t like to be teased, and the honest and forthright approach hadn’t worked. Shock maybe? He decided to let her talk without interruption, giving her some slack before he yanked the rope hard.

“As I see it,” she concluded haughtily, “the only way we can make the best of this awkward situation is to keep our dealings with each other on a strictly professional level.”

“That’s the way you see it, huh?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Hmm. Then I have a suggestion.”

“Well?”

“Start wearing a bra.”

“Wha—”

“Because I find it hard to think of you on a strictly professional level when I can see your nipples through your shirt.”

He’d gone this far. He decided to go for broke. It would serve to show her that he didn’t respond to bitchiness and at the same time gratify an impulse that had been tempting him all afternoon. He raised both hands and lightly raked the backs of his fingers over her breasts, over the prominent crests of them.

Her reaction was almost violent. She swatted his hands aside and spun away from him, then faced him with her arms as straight and rigid as flagpoles at her sides and her fists clenched. She was breathing harshly. “Don’t ever do anything like that again.”

“You didn’t like it?”

“Obviously I didn’t.”

His gaze moved down to her chest. Her nipples were hard, making dark, pointed impressions against the soft cloth of her shirt. “Obviously,” he said hoarsely.

She marched from the room, but her bare feet were soundless on the tile floor and robbed her royal exit of its impact. She made up for it by slamming the door behind her.

“How long has she been resting?”

“She was in her room with all the shutters drawn when I came home,” the housekeeper, Alice, told Rylan.

“Maybe you ought to check on her.”

The look she gave him was scolding. “I made her take two aspirin for her headache and—”

“She had a headache?”

“That’s what she said. I put a cold compress on her forehead and told her to lie down until dinner.” Alice wagged a carrot stick a few inches from his nose. “She’s working too hard on that book, that’s what’s wrong with her.”

Rylan was unsure that hard work was all that was wrong with his hostess. Hard work and a headache weren’t solely responsible for driving her into the privacy of her bedroom. He was. What he’d done.

Where did he get off, touching her like that? he asked himself. He wasn’t a fanny pincher. Lechery had always disgusted him. It made him embarrassed for the women who had to suffer it. He sympathized with them.

So what had made him touch Kirsten? Granted, he’d been sufficiently provoked on several levels, professionally, sexually, emotionally. Still, he shouldn’t have done it.

She had every right to be spitting mad. Anger he could deal with. What he couldn’t understand, and therefore what disturbed him the most, was the fear he’d seen on her face. Or had it been fear that caused her upper teeth to clamp down on her bottom lip? Dismay perhaps? Over what? His caress? Or her immediate physical reaction to it?

Damned if he knew. The elusive answer had haunted him while he showered and changed and spent an hour in the study looking through memorabilia on Demon Rumm.

Alice had found him there and, hoping to glean some information about Kirsten from her, he had followed her into the kitchen to chat while she prepared dinner. Rylan had taken an instant liking to the housekeeper. Like her employer, she hadn’t fawned over him, but had fussed about the sandy jeans he’d left on the terrace. Her bossiness endeared her to him.

Where the Rumms were concerned, Alice proved to be loquacious, but discreet. She hadn’t betrayed any confidences, if indeed there were any. Avidly curious about movies and moviemakers, she asked him about her favorite actress, whom he had costarred with.