by Sandra Brown
“Kirsten?”
“Hmm?”
“Did you sit that far away from Rumm while you watched old home movies?” She didn’t answer him, just stared back at him with eyes that made him forget any other woman he’d ever met. “Come here.”
The gruff invitation could have tempted a nun to forsake her vows of chastity. He was slouching on his spine with his neck hooked over the back of the sofa. His long legs were stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed. The scuffed leather Docksiders lay beside his bare feet like debris from a shipwreck. The denim of his jeans, bleached almost completely white, clung to his thighs and molded around his sex. No one, unless he was well acquainted with the fashion industry, would have guessed that his shirt, made of imported Indian cotton, had cost several hundred dollars. That faded, rumpled chic didn’t come cheap. A single strand of dark hair, negligently falling across one of those sleek eyebrows, contributed to the sullen expression that had sold more popcorn and gummy bears than any other screen star past or present.
Kirsten scooted along the cool surface of the leather sofa until she was close to him. He draped one arm around her shoulders and drew her even closer. “I love saying your name out loud,” he whispered.
It pleased him when she tilted her head to one side to accommodate his lips, which were paying homage to the shape of her ear. “You say it correctly,” she said breathlessly. “You have from the beginning.”
“Oh?”
“Uh-huh. Most people pronounce it ‘Cursten’ instead of ‘Keersten.’ ”
“Kirsten, Kirsten.”
He tipped her head back against his bicep and lowered his mouth to hers. His kiss was gentle at first, as soft as the name he breathed against her lips. But after his first taste of her, his lips parted wider. Hers responded. Their tongues touched, flirted, mated. One of his hands slid down the column of her throat, lightly encircling it with strong, tanned fingers.
“Should we be doing this?” she asked during a gasping pause between kisses.
“Oh, yes.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“You know what your problem is?”
“I have several.”
“You’re too intense.” He pecked her mouth lightly. “You don’t play enough.”
“How about a set of tennis?”
“How about some heavy petting?”
The light, teasing kisses melded into another deep, searching one. He glided his fingertips across her soft flesh, following the dipping and rising contour of the upper curves of her breasts.
He murmured love words, his voice throbbing, as he moved his hand down to cover one precious mound. He massaged it gently through her top.
“Rylan?”
“Hmm?”
“Stop.”
“Uh-uh.” He drew strong, passionate kisses from her mouth. “After a while all home movies, no matter how exciting, get repetitious and boring.”
“But . . . ahh . . .” Her voice dwindled to ragged sighs when he lightly pinched the raised center of her breast. Her head lolled against his arm and her neck arched.
“You like that, don’t you?” She made a sound that he took for a yes. “They get so hard. So, so sweet.”
He dipped his head and closed his lips around one of the buds that was trying to poke its way through the stretchy cloth. He raked it with his teeth until Kirsten was writhing.
He pressed her to lie back on the sofa, following her down. He moved one of her legs aside and, reaching behind his back, set her foot on his hip. Then he nestled his body between her thighs and rubbed his hardness against the feminine notch.
Rylan was lost in her. His body knew only one goal, to bury itself into the snug fist of her femininity and let it milk him dry. He ravished her mouth with kisses, then burrowed his head in the hollow of her shoulder and drove himself higher and harder against her.
“Rylan, Rylan.”
Her panting chant finally registered with his clamoring brain. He raised his head and looked down at her. His eyes were glazed with passion, so it took a moment for her features to merge and form her face.
“Not here. Not now.” Her skin was rosy with desire, but her eyes were pleading.
Chagrined over his loss of control, Rylan levered himself up and assisted her into a sitting position. He flung his head back onto the sofa cushions and closed his eyes, breathing like a bellows until his pulse slowed down. Without lifting his head, he turned to look at her.
“I get it,” he said, boyishly ashamed and apologetic. “It didn’t happen here.”
With her sitting close beside him, he’d almost forgotten the purpose of the afternoon. They were supposed to recreate what had happened between Kirsten and her late husband, not initiate anything of their own. Drawing in a deep breath, he ran his finger along her hairline beneath the shaggy bangs.
“Then he must not have touched you at all. He couldn’t have stopped. You smell too damn good. I’m drunk on the way you smell.”
He leaned over and kissed her neck. Her floral perfume blended with the scent of her skin, intoxicating him again. Lifting his head to meet her drowsy gaze, he kissed the backs of her fingers, sponging them with his tongue. “To hell with this fool plan,” he said thickly. “Let’s not stop.”
He carried her hand down below his waist and laid it, open, over his bulging fly. “I want you so bad,” he whispered. Covering her hand with his own, he made several stroking motions over the back of it.
“I want you, too,” she said yearningly. “But this reenactment was your idea.” She pulled her hand away, but not before squeezing him gently.
He almost soared off the couch and was actually amazed when he realized he hadn’t. Laughing self-derisively, he growled, “Keep your distance, will ya?” His scowl was threatening, but it made her laugh.
They kept a safe margin between them for the remainder of the time they stayed in the study watching the videotapes. He did, however, hold her hand. It was impossible not to touch her. He asked questions about the tapes and she offered frequent comments of her own.
When they had exhausted the supply, he switched off the VCR and asked her, “Now what?”
She stood up and worked her feet into her shoes. “Dinner. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
He looped his arm around her shoulders as they made their way through the house. “I offered to help, remember?”
He lit the grill out on the terrace while she made a salad of fresh spinach and put the rice on to boil. When he came in, he impaled the marinated meat cubes and vegetables on the skewers.
“Could I interest you in a wine cooler?” he asked when his chore was done. Kirsten was frying bacon for the warm honey-mustard dressing she planned to pour over the salad.
“That sounds good. Lots of ice, please.”
She licked bacon grease from her fingertips. Rylan caught her in the act. “Need any help there?”
She smiled a siren’s smile. “I can manage,” she said in a seductively low voice, “but I appreciate the offer.”
To keep himself from attacking her and gobbling her up, he opened the refrigerator and took out the wine cooler. “What should I drink?” he asked.
“A beer. No more than two. That was Charlie’s limit.”
“So his stand against drinking too much was sincere?”
“He was sincere about everything.”
Kirsten had sprung to Rumm’s defense so readily that Rylan extended the drink to her like a peace offering. “All right,” he said softly. “I was just checking. There are a lot of closet alcoholics. Especially where I live.”
“Well, Charlie wasn’t one of them,” she snapped. “Why are you always trying to uncover something ugly about him?”
Rylan stared down at the floor and counted to ten. The sexy, mellow mood of the afternoon had been destroyed. They were back to ground zero. He wanted to lash out at her that he knew damn well she was hiding some secret characteristic of Rumm’s. That something was probably the reason he had ki
lled himself. But saying that would be tantamount to calling her a liar. Her reaction would no doubt rival World War II. The thing he did not want to do was spoil their evening.
But damned if he was going to apologize. Avoiding that, he said, “Are these ready for the grill?” He picked up the lacquered tray that held the shish kebabs.
“Yes, but I cooked them that night. Charlie stayed in here and read the newspaper.”
Rylan turned around at the glass door, holding it open. “Come out with me. I’d rather talk to you than read the newspaper.”
When the kebabs were sizzling on the grill and they were seated in deck chairs sipping their drinks, he asked her, “Could there have been something in the newspaper that evening that upset him? Something like a bad write-up that would have distracted him the next morning?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What did you talk about that evening?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You must remember something,” he insisted.
“I think that was the night I told him that I wanted to write a book.”
“The biography of him?”
“No, that idea came later, after . . . after he died.”
Rylan set his beer aside and turned the kebabs. “What kind of book did you want to write?”
“A novel.”
“No kidding? Tell me about it.”
She ducked her head self-consciously, but he could tell his interest pleased her. She outlined her story idea to him and blushed with pleasure when he told her that it had best-seller and hit movie stamped all over it.
“Provided I can play the male lead.”
“You wouldn’t have any fun with it. He’s an embittered Vietnam vet.”
“If I don’t put my bid in now, Pacino will go after it. Who do you see as the leading lady?”
“Rylan,” she exclaimed, “you’re casting the movie and the book hasn’t even been written yet.”
He dismissed her pessimism with a shrug. “You’ll get around to it. As soon as you finish Demon Rumm.” They didn’t pick up the conversation again until they had filled their plates in the kitchen and carried them back to the terrace table to eat. Cutting into a piece of the succulent beef, Rylan asked, “Do you think Rumm felt threatened by your plans to write professionally?”
“I don’t see how he could have. I never was exclusively a housewife. I’d always traveled with him and had some project or another to keep me occupied while he was with the crew.”
“Which encompassed a considerable amount of time, I would imagine.”
“He and the boys were together constantly. They—” Catching his alert stare, Kirsten laid her fork on her plate. “I resent what you’re thinking.”
“Which is?”
“That there was something going on between him and one of his crew.”
“Was there?”
“Charlie wasn’t gay. There was no relationship except friendship, close friendship, between him and any of the men who worked for him.”
“I believe you.”
She picked up her fork and resumed eating, but he could tell she was annoyed. He redirected the conversation. “You say you traveled with him.”
“Yes. Those last few years it slowed down some. He had earned his popularity by then and could be more selective about where he performed. We bought this house and settled down somewhat.”
“Did you ever discuss having children?”
Rylan noted that her fork stopped midway between her plate and her mouth, and that when she completed taking the bite, her movements were halting, as though the fork met resistance in the air. “Yes.”
“And?”
“We discussed it. That’s all.”
“Which one of you resisted the idea?”
“Neither of us.” She set her fork down once again. “I said we discussed it. We didn’t argue about it.”
“You both favored the idea?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t see any children running around, Kirsten,” he observed blandly.
“I never got pregnant.”
“Was one of you sterile?”
“Not that I know of.”
“You weren’t medically checked out?” He was thinking that maybe an argument over children, or the lack thereof, could have precipitated Rumm’s absentmindedness that morning, particularly if he had thought he might be to blame for Kirsten’s barrenness.
“Don’t jump to conclusions, Rylan. You sound like a soap opera. Charlie and I both wanted children. We—we just never got around to having them. Okay? Satisfied?”
He leaned back in his chair and studied her for a moment. “I fathered a child.” The unexpected statement stunned her. Her eyes rounded with astonishment and her lips parted with the breath she sucked in sharply.
“Where is it?”
“Its mother killed it.”
The wrath he had first felt when the young actress told him about the abortion thundered through him again. Unconsciously he clenched his hands into fists. That was the day he had learned that everybody was capable of violence. He’d wanted to kill the selfish bitch with his bare hands. The urge he had felt to destroy her frightened him even now. He thanked heaven that somehow he had kept himself from murdering her for aborting his child.
He blinked away his rage, and discovered that one of Kirsten’s hands was resting sympathetically on his forearm. He covered it with his and stroked his thumb across the smooth skin.
“An abortion?” she asked.
He curtly bobbed his head, detesting the word. “I realize that some terminations of pregnancy are necessary. I’d even go so far as to say feasible. But, dammit, not when it was my baby!”
“Who was the mother?”
He looked at her, loving the concern he read on her face. “She doesn’t matter. She never did.” He squeezed his eyes shut in a moment of anguish. “But my child did. The thought of my baby being denied life still makes me sick.”
“Was having a child that important to you?”
“If there hadn’t been one, no,” he confessed. “But when she told me about the baby, I wanted it very much. I guess because my own family is such a close one. What about you?” he asked suddenly. “Where are your parents?”
“My father divorced my mother when I was very small. I don’t remember him. He remarried and had another family. I don’t hear from him or see him. My mother died several months after I married Charlie.” She smiled gently. “She adored him, and he was fond of her. I’m glad they had a chance to know each other.”
For a long moment they were silent, each buried in his own thoughts as they gazed at the splendor of the sunset. Tall thunderheads on the horizon looked like purple blooms against a field of crimson and gold.
“Boy,” Rylan said, blowing out his breath, “we certainly sank into a maudlin mood, didn’t we?” He stood up and stacked their plates together. “Come on, let’s get this cleaned up.”
When the kitchen was in order, they migrated back to the terrace. The evening was particularly lovely. Kirsten turned on the underwater lights in the pool. Besides a moon, which was almost full, that was the only light they had.
“What did you do after dinner that night?” Rylan asked her.
“We swam.”
“Really? I was just about to suggest the same thing.” He linked his hands behind her waist and drew her close. Kissing her softly first, he whispered, “Thank you for not lecturing me about a woman’s right to choose, et cetera, when I told you about the abortion.”
“I regret the loss for you.”
“I’ve never told a single soul about that.”
“I’m glad you felt you could share it with me.”
“You are?”
“Yes. And this is as far as it goes.”
“I never doubted that.” He kissed her again, using his tongue to part her receptive lips. It penetrated the wet, silky heat beyond them. “Ready?” he asked huskily.
She pulled back qui
ckly. He laughed. “I meant, are you ready to swim?”
“Oh.” There was a lovely, telltale color in her cheeks and a sparkle in her eyes, which were as deep an indigo as the darkening sky. “Yes . . . no . . . It’ll only take me a minute to slip into a suit.”
He tightened his hold when she would have walked out of his embrace. “You could do without. I do.”
“I know. I’ve seen.”
Smirking, he angled his head back. “Oh, yeah? You were watching that first day?”
“I didn’t have much choice,” she replied tartly.
“What did you think?”
“I thought you were quite a peacock to be strutting around buck naked like that.” She wiggled free and stalked toward the bungalow where she kept a selection of swimsuits and towels. His laughter followed her.
Without a smidgen of modesty, Rylan stripped to the skin and dove into the water. His state of undress couldn’t be concealed with the swimming pool lights on, so he was doubly pleased when Kirsten, knowing that he was naked, left the bungalow wearing a jade green bikini, walked straight to the diving board, and executed a graceful dive into the pool.
He swam to the shallow end and reclined on the steps, propping his elbows behind him. She swam several laps before joining him, winded. She turned onto her back too.
When she regained her breath and wiped the water from her face, she glanced over at him. “You aren’t at all self-conscious, are you?”
“Nope. In college I modeled for the advanced art classes.”
“Did your parents approve?”
His grin was unrepentantly mischievous. “We’re close, but I don’t tell them everything I do.” He rolled to his side and splayed his hand wide over her bare middle. “What an erotic picture.”
They stared down through the light-reflecting water at his hand, a shade darker than her skin, pressing against her stomach.
“Kirsten?”
“Hmm?”
“Did you make love with Rumm that night?”
Her hesitation was so slight, he might have imagined it. Staring directly into the dark pupils of his eyes, she nodded.
“Make love with me.”
She made a whimpering sound of surrender a heartbeat before she clasped his head between her hands and drew his face up for her kiss. He half rolled, half floated to position himself above her, bracing himself on stiff arms.