Demon Rumm Read Free Page B

deeper blue than the sky, he thought sophomorically. They sparkled like jewels. But something dark lay behind them, shadowing that sparkle. He would find out what it was.
    He was here to research the character of Charles “Demon” Rumm, but having met the man’s widow, he was certain that she would be his most valuable source of information, the key to the dead man’s soul.
    Rylan was almost as interested in Mrs. Rumm as he was in her late husband, and he already considered Demon Rumm one of the most complex characters he’d ever portrayed. Why would any man have such an unrelenting death wish when, to all appearances, his life was so damned terrific? Before he left this house, Rylan was determined to know.
    He rolled onto his stomach and, with long arcing strokes of his arms, swam back to shore. The seawater sluiced down his lean, naked body, emphasizing his sleek and supple form. Droplets clung to the dark body hair as though reluctant to fall free of it.
    Rylan grudgingly pulled on his discarded jeans, which he’d left lying on the beach. If the far-from-merry widow had eyed his duffel bag as though it were a loathsome creature that had crawled up out of the ocean, he could imagine how she would look at him if he walked back into her office wet and unclothed. Such an exhibition would probably confirm as truth every sordid, sensationalized story she’d ever read about him.
    Because he kept his private life just that, it was the topic of broad speculation that ran the gamut from drugs to religious cults to sadomasochism. Recently he had been photographed driving away from an alcohol abuse treatment center, where he’d gone to visit a friend. But the story that had accompanied the photograph declared that Rylan North had been in the expensive sanitarium for the last six weeks to dry out after having been evicted from a plush night spot after he became drunk and disorderly.
    Another recent rumor had him dying of AIDS. It was a popular belief that he must be gay and that his well-publicized affairs with a lady governor, his last leading lady, and an Olympic gold medal figure skater were staged to protect his secret life as a homosexual. He was just too attractive not to be, it was said.
    None of the gossip diluted his popularity with either men or women. Indeed, the reverse was true. The tabloid stories only whetted the public’s appetite to know more. And it wasn’t just the moviegoing public that was rabidly interested in him. The mavens of Beverly Hills kept his agent’s mailbox stuffed with invitations. He rarely attended parties. When he did go to one, it was immediately catapulted into
the
social event of the year. Rylan viewed it all with a jaundiced eye and ignored every rumor, except those that were destructive to someone else.
    Even the Hollywood barracudas respected his intelligence, his talent, and his refusal to corrupt either for the sake of a buck. He chose scripts carefully and discussed the director’s interpretation of them before ever penning his name to the dotted line of a contract. Even then he didn’t hesitate to break a contract if he thought the terms of it had already been breached by the director.
    He was indifferent to what the public thought of Rylan North after they left the movie theater. While they were in that darkened arena, he wanted the ticket holders to be enthralled by the character he was playing, not by himself. What the hell difference could it possibly make to the audience if he were gay or bi or straight, or what he ate for breakfast, or whether he wore underwear or not? For their five-dollar ticket, he owed them nothing except a couple of hours of entertainment. His obligation to them ended at the theater’s exit.
    He considered his good looks an advantage to being offered the best roles. That was the only consideration he gave his handsome face and powerful, well-proportioned body. He didn’t fear aging, the curse of most movie stars. Maturity would allow him to play