by Sandra Brown
She looked for telltale signs of duplicity in his eyes. “No?”
He shook his head. “Do you?”
“No!”
“Then we don’t have a problem with that.” He sipped his soda. “Nor am I an alcoholic who’s trying to stay on the wagon.”
“You’re drinking plain soda.”
“Because I took a sinus capsule this afternoon. I have a bitch of a nasal septum.”
Despite his attempted humor, her expression remained serious. “There have been reports to the contrary. About the alcoholism.”
“False reports.”
“You’ve never denied them.”
“Denying them would be tantamount to giving them credence. Besides, I have better things to do.”
“Yes, I’ve read about those too,” she said with a faint smile.
“My sordid romantic escapades? Do you want to know about my love life?”
“No.”
“Does it matter?”
“No, as long as . . . as long as . . .”
“As long as I don’t practice anything too deviate under your roof.”
“I don’t think you would do that.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he said sarcastically.
“Well, what do you expect people to believe?” she exclaimed. “You never grant interviews. If all these rumors are false, you could clear them up if you weren’t so secretive.”
“But those false rumors don’t bother me. Apparently they do you.”
“How can you stand for people to think bad things about you?”
“It goes with my job.”
“Still—”
Before he realized he’d done it, he clasped her hand to stop her arguments and to emphasize what he was about to say. “Look, if I went on ‘20/20’ and cleared up one set of rumors, by the next morning another set would have been started. It would be time-consuming and energy-draining to come along behind them like a poop-scooper and clean them up.” She laughed at his analogy. Smiling, he added, “As long as the people I love are protected, I don’t let what’s written in the gossip columns bother me.”
A shadow crossed her face, dimming her smile. “Uh-oh,” he said. “I see you’re still concerned about my love life. If you want to know my sexual preferences, why don’t you just ask?”
She withdrew her hand from his and mentally, if not physically, put space between them. “As I said, it’s none of my business.”
He drew a deep breath. “I have loved several men, Kirsten.” Her gaze swung up to his. “Relatives. A very few cherished friends. But I’ve never had a man for a lover.”
Somehow his hand was now curved around her elbow. He was stroking the inside of it with an idle thumb. He knew the caress contributed to the trance his lulling voice and steady gaze induced.
“If I were gay, would I have gotten so hard when I touched your breasts this afternoon?”
Her wineglass, slippery from condensation, slid from her grasp and shattered on the deck. At the same instant Alice called her name from the doorway.
The housekeeper was the first to respond to the accident, though for an instant the three of them were held spellbound in the charged atmosphere that immediately followed it. Alice rushed across the deck, avoiding the puddle of liquid that was spiked with ice cubes and shards of glass.
“Kirsten, I’m sorry,” Alice cried. “I was only calling you to dinner. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Kirsten seemed to have difficulty standing. It was as though her knees had forgotten how to do their job. Rylan encircled her waist with his hands and held her steady until she indicated with a slight twist of her body that his support was unnecessary . . . and unwanted.
“It was my fault, Alice,” she said shakily. “The glass was wet and I just . . . let it slip through my hand. Dinner’s ready?”
“Yes. On the table. You two go inside and I’ll clean this up.”
Rylan thought that eating in the dining room was like eating in a goldfish bowl. Three exterior walls of the room were glass. It was supported on a precipice that jutted over a steep rock cliff, which gave one a sense of being suspended in midair. The only furnishings were the dining chairs and a glass slab table resting on two brass rams’ heads, their horns curling backward to form the legs of the table. Crystal candlesticks held burning white candles that filled the room with the scent of frangipani. In the center of the table a bud vase held three stalks of lilies of the valley. It was simple and elegant.
“Smart decorator,” he said, holding Kirsten’s chair.
“I did it.”
“I like your taste.”
After directing a hard glance at him over her shoulder, she seemed to reach the conclusion that his words carried no double meaning and stiffly sat down.
“Thank you.”
She filled their plates with taco salad and their glasses with ice water. After folding her napkin in her lap and passing him a basket of crisp tortilla chips, she began eating. He watched her, knowing that her precise movements were an indication of tension.
“You seem upset. Are you?”
Her fork made a terrible racket as it clattered to her plate. “Yes, I’m upset!” she whispered fiercely, aware of Alice’s mindless humming in the kitchen as she worked. “I don’t want you to talk to me like that.”
“Like what? You mean the reference I made to—”
She held up both hands. “Don’t say it again. I haven’t encouraged you to say . . . think . . . like that about me.”
“No,” he said quietly, laying his own fork on his plate, “you haven’t.”
“Then why did you do it?”
For ponderous moments, he toyed with his water glass while he stared at her. “I’m attracted to you, Kirsten.”
She swallowed convulsively, though she didn’t move another muscle. Even her eyes remained unblinking. Finally she said, “Don’t pull this act with me. Don’t practice scenes.”
“I’m not.”
He could tell that she initially thought he was trying to lure her. But the longer they stared at each other, the surer she became that he was being honest with her. Revealing little gestures—a flicker of uneasiness in her eyes, a darting tongue that moistened her lips—gave her away.
“This is business,” she said.
He was heartened to hear an emotional gruffness in her voice. “Business is why I’m here, yes,” he said. “But my attraction to you has nothing to do with business.”
“You shouldn’t be attracted to me.”
“I didn’t plan on being.”
“Then don’t be,” she said miserably.
He reached for her hand. “I’m afraid it’s not something I can turn off and on at will, Kirsten.”
She pulled her hand free. “You’ll have to. Or live with it in silence. In any event, it won’t do you any good.”
“You’re saying no before I even make my pitch.”
“That’s right. I loved my husband.”
He moved his virtually untouched plate aside and leaned forward, propping his forearms on the table. “Your husband’s been dead for two years. I touched you today.”
“Which you shouldn’t have.”
“Perhaps not. But I did.” He moved even closer. “Believe me, Kirsten, you’re alive. And even if your mind is closed to the thought of another love affair, your body isn’t.”
“I’m not going to have another love affair. Not with you. Not with anybody.”
“You sound positive of that.”
“I am.”
“Why? Because you loved your husband?”
“Yes.”
“All right. I’ll buy that. Temporarily. But tell me, what made your relationship with your late husband so special that it ruined you for other men? What was it like being in love with Charles ‘Demon’ Rumm?”
Three
“Read my book.”
“I have,” he replied evenly. “At least the chapters that were made available to the screen
writer.” He lowered his voice. “The book has been promoted as a ‘tell all.’ I don’t think you’ve told all. I think you’re leaving out some very pertinent information about your relationship with your husband.”
Kirsten removed her napkin from her lap and slapped it on the glass table. “Are you finished?”
“With this subject? No.”
“With dinner.”
“With dinner, yes,” he said, and stood up.
She led him out of the dining room and into one of the spacious living areas. Alice had stacked and lit a fire in the fireplace behind a fan-shaped brass screen. This close to the beach, the evenings were cool enough to have a fire. It was a beautiful addition to the contemporary but cozy room. The shiny tile floor reflected the dancing orange flames.
But Kirsten seemed to regard the fire as a necessity more than an aesthetic contribution. She moved as close to it as she could, as though seeking warmth. Curling into the corner of a plush sofa, drawing her feet up beneath her hips, and hugging one of the bright batik pillows to her breasts, she stared into the flickering firelight.
With no more respect for decorum than he ever showed, Rylan dropped onto the rug in front of the sofa. Lying on his side, he propped himself up on one elbow and stared at Kirsten until his gaze became as warm as the fire.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she said crossly.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m about to start spouting ugly truths like a fountain with rusty water.”
“Are there any ugly truths?”
“No.”
“Then why do you get so touchy when we broach the subject?”
“When you broach the subject.”
“I want to know what kind of relationship you had with your husband.”
“It was wonderful. But, just for the record, I don’t like your prying into my private life with Charlie.”
He raised one knee and casually swung it back and forth. “I find it terribly interesting that you should say that. If you didn’t want people to know about your private life with him, why did you decide to write the book? Isn’t that a contradiction?”
Even the pillow she clutched to her chest like a shield seemed to expand with her heavy sigh. “Sometimes I wish I hadn’t.”
“Why did you, Kirsten? Money?”
She looked down at him scornfully. “Of course not.”
“Glad to hear it. I wouldn’t have approved. Why then?”
“I wanted to preserve Charlie’s image.”
Rylan sat up, Indian fashion, facing the sofa. “How do you perceive his image?”
“Like everyone else. All-American. Strong. Courageous. Moral. He was a good hero for the country’s youth.”
“You’re referring to the antidrug rallies, the commercials against drinking and driving, and so forth?”
“Yes.”
He knew she wasn’t going to like his next question, but he had to ask it anyway. “Did he do one thing and preach another?”
Her eyes narrowed angrily. “No. He was an honest-to-goodness role model.”
“Okay, I’m sorry. I just have this keen notion that you’re protecting his sterling reputation.”
“It doesn’t need protecting.”
“He had critics, don’t forget. Many thought that he encouraged recklessness. He made stunt flying look so easy that he tempted unqualified, weekend pilots to give it a try.”
Kirsten shook her head. “Every time he was interviewed, he stressed the danger involved. He was a nut for taking every conceivable safety precaution.”
“But he glorified speed. That’s right up the alley of a teenager whose parents are harping for him to slow down in the family Volvo.”
“Speed and gravity were Charlie’s challenges. His point was to let kids know that any obstacle, no matter how seemingly insurmountable, can be overcome if one works at it long and hard enough. He encouraged diligence and determination, the good old American work ethic. He didn’t promote irresponsibility and recklessness. In light of some of the subculture heroes kids have, I think Charlie was a positive influence. I want him to be remembered for that and not for . . . for . . .”
“The accident.”
The softly spoken word hung between them ominously.
Kirsten lowered her head until her chin almost touched her chest. “Yes.”
Rylan scooted over to the wood box and added a log to the fire. Once the screen was back in place, he dusted off his hands and returned to sit near the sofa again. This time, he propped his back against it, placing his shoulder near Kirsten’s knees.
“Other than continuing the legend of Demon . . .” he began, then added, “By the way, there was an argument on the set last week about which sports announcer actually dubbed him with that nickname.”
Kirsten laughed. “Once he got so famous, many claimed to have. The fact is, no one really knows for certain. The story goes that someone said he flew his airplane like a demon out of hell.”
“So some very clever person tacked your last name onto that and, voilà, a play on words.” She nodded. “Okay, where was I? Oh, yeah, why did you write the book?”
“I’ve told you.”
“You’ve told me why you did it for him. To preserve his heroism. Why did you do it for . . . or rather to . . . yourself?”
Rylan regretted having to put her through this. If he thought he could get to the heart of Demon Rumm’s character through articles and photographs and film clips, he would have spared his widow this inquisition. But his intuition, which had been the bane of producers, writers, and directors for years, was telling him that Kirsten was the key to the man behind the all-American smile. If he had to probe her until her spirit was sore, he would. He’d gone to much greater lengths before to research a role.
When he had played a Depression-era bum, he had lived like one for weeks, riding the rails and living hand to mouth. When he had played a football player, he had worked out with the L.A. Rams, sparing himself none of the physical punishment a professional athlete puts himself through. When he played a Polish Jew in a Nazi concentration camp, he had had his head shaved and went without solid food for weeks.
He would take whatever measures were necessary to “walk in the shoes” of the character he was portraying on film. Now he was trying to get into Demon Rumm’s skin through his widow. To all appearances, it was a very thick skin. It was going to be extremely uncomfortable for both of them.
“I had to lay it to rest,” Kirsten said in response to his question. Rylan turned his head slightly to look up at her. She was gazing into the fire. “After the accident, there were so many details to take care of. The National Transportation Safety Board’s investigation of the crash, the funeral.” She shuddered. “It was such a circus. Press everywhere. Wailing fans clamoring to get close to the coffin.”
She covered her face with her hands, dainty hands with a fragile tracery of veins and slender fingers with tapering, manicured nails. Her visible suffering affected him deeply. He ached to touch her and, with some small gesture, express his apology for this necessary lancing of her wounds.
But what could he do? Take her in his arms and hold her as he wanted to? No. She might read pity into that, and he knew she was too proud and independent to want anyone’s pity. Holding her head between his hands and covering her incredibly sad face with kisses was also out of the question. He wouldn’t be able to stop with light, comforting kisses. If he ever touched her lips with his, he would kiss her in the way that counted.
He settled for slipping his hand just beneath her skirt to cover her knee. He felt one tiny reflexive motion, a sudden contraction of muscle, but she allowed his hand to remain on her smooth leg.
She lowered her hands. Her eyelashes were wet, but she wasn’t actually crying. “I felt separated from everything. Removed. I went through the motions, but I wasn’t really there. Do you understand what I mean?”
For answer, he applied slight pressure to her knee. Her skin was as soft as sa
tin. He had to will his fingers to remain still and not caress her.
“America grieved publicly, but I couldn’t,” she said. “I had always resented our high public profile, but never more than after Charlie died. I couldn’t even mourn my husband’s death without it being reported on the eleven o’clock news.”
“Writing the book was a way for you to mourn privately, to bury him, to get it all out of your system.”
She murmured an agreement. “When it’s published, when the movie is released, I want to be done with it. I want to live a private life, to be just plain me. I’ll never forget being Mrs. Charles Rumm. I don’t want to. But I wish everyone else would.”
The silence that followed was broken only by the snapping of the burning logs and, finally, by Alice’s inquiry from the wide, arched doorway. “Kirsten? Would you like coffee served?”
Kirsten looked down at Rylan. He shook his head. “Thank you, but no,” she told the housekeeper. “Go on to bed, Alice. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Alice said good night, then let herself out the front door. Rylan had learned earlier that her apartment was separated from the house by a gravel, shrub-lined path. It wasn’t until after she had left them that he wondered if Alice had noticed his hand resting on Kirsten’s knee, partially covered by her skirt.
Perhaps Kirsten was wondering the same thing because she shifted her legs and sat up straighter. It was as though the demarcation lines on the playing field had become smudged and she had to draw them again, should there be any question of his stepping out of bounds.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like something?” she asked courteously to cover the awkward movement. “A drink? Dessert?”
“No thanks. What kind of date was Rumm?”
It took her a moment to assimilate his two unrelated statements. “Date?”
“Was he polite, shy, amorous, aggressive, extravagant, a tightwad, what? Tell me about the night you met him.”
“I’m sure you’ve already read that part of my book.”
“I have. But I want more detail than you went into. What was the first thing he said to you?”
