Free Demon Rumm by Sandra Brown

nights.”
    “You come down to the beach at night?”
    “Sometimes.”
    “While everyone else is asleep? Why aren’t you?”
    “What, asleep?” They had reached the beach. She withdrew her arm. “I have difficulty sleeping.”
    She didn’t elaborate and Rylan didn’t press her. He’d learned not to back her into a corner. Barefoot, they struck off down the beach, walking at the water’s edge. The surf foamed around their ankles.
    “Let me ask you a question for a change,” she said suddenly, surprising him.
    “Fair enough.”
    “Did you go into this kind of detail on the other segments of the movie? Segments not related to Charlie’s personal life?”
    “Naturally. I spent hours with the crew, chiefly Sam. That guy can put away more beer without falling down than anybody I’ve ever met.”
    Kirsten smiled at the mention of the flying veteran who had been Charlie’s mechanic and friend from the day Charlie left the Navy and dubbed himself a modern barnstormer. Sam’s failing eyesight had prohibited him from flying any longer; he had done it vicariously through Demon Rumm.
    “I’m sure Sam had some wild stories to tell you,” she said, laughing.
    “Didn’t he recount the same stories when you were researching your book?”
    “The censored versions.”
    “You’re probably right. His language is rather salty.” He stopped and said seriously, “He holds you in the highest regard. He had nothing but praise for you.”
    He could tell she was pleased to hear that. It struck him then that she couldn’t have been a detriment to Rumm’s happiness or his best friend wouldn’t have liked and respected her so much. That virtually ruled out the possibility of frigidity. Although, a man would find it hard to admit to another that his wife was frigid. So was she or wasn’t she? Damn! It was still a muddle.
    “The actor who’s playing Sam, is he good?” she asked, snapping him out of his musings.
    “Yeah, he’s good. He’s bawdy enough. But I don’t think he’s tapped into Sam’s sentimental side.”
    “Sam’s crotchety, but it’s a cover-up for his heart, which is as soft as a madonna’s.”
    “It didn’t take me long to figure that out,” Rylan said. Then he laughed, shaking his head. “The ol’ sonofabitch sure ridiculed my flying capabilities though.”
    “Did you learn to fly for the picture?”
    “I already knew how to fly. Sam just talked me through some of the easier stunt flying.”
    “So the rumor about you owning an airplane is true?”
    “It’s not a souped-up 707, if that’s what you mean. Isn’t it supposed to resemble a sultan’s tent?” he asked with an ironic smile.
    “Orgies at thirty-seven thousand feet.”
    He looked at her ruefully. “We can laugh about it now, but that story almost ruined the lady involved.”
    “The actress?”
    “Yeah.” He stopped, picked up a shell, and hurled it far out into the sparkling water. “We arrived in London at the same time to do that picture. What the press failed to point out was that we had arrived in separate airplanes. I’d met her only once, in the director’s office with numerous other people present.”
    The wind tossed his hair playfully, but his mouth was grim and his eyes brooding. There was nothing cheerful in either his stance or his expression.
    “When all that tripe hit the newsstands, it suggested that we were stoned when we got to Heathrow and in the throes of a scorching affair. Her current boyfriend wired her that they were through. Her mother telephoned across the Atlantic to call her a slut. She was so upset she couldn’t work for days.
    “That movie was her first starring role. The director was a bully. She was terrified of him and too damned lenient with her agent and publicist, who were both money-grabbing crooks.” He drew a heavy breath.
    “She was so damned innocent. Now I understand that her brain is fried. She needs pills just to get out of bed in the morning, and more to go to sleep.