Demon Rumm

by Sandra Brown, Staci Snell (Narrated by)

Overview

It was the publicity stunt from hell as far as Kirsten Rumm was concerned. She may have been writing the book about her late husband, aeronautical daredevil Demon Rumm, but she didn't see the need to play host to the arrogant bad-boy actor starring in the film version's title role. Still, for the good of the project, Kirsten agreed to share her beachfront home with the impossibly sexy screen idol.

Any other woman would do anything to be in her sandals, but Kirsten wasn't falling for Rylan North, even if he did play his role of male lead to perfection. His down-home charm, his gentleness and virile charisma, might be seducing her in every sense of the word, but he was an actor, after all. Seducing an audience was his job. Rylan could have any woman he wanted.

So why was he so desperately pretending to want her?

From the moment he saw her, Rylan North knew that Kirsten Rumm was the woman he'd been waiting for all his life to cast as the star in his real-life...

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9780739318249
Publisher:	Books on Tape, Inc.
Publication date:	06/27/2006
Edition description:	Unabridged

About the Author

Sandra Brown is the author of more than fifty New York Times bestsellers, with over seventy million copies of her books in print. She and her family divide their time between South Carolina and Texas.

Hometown:

Arlington, TX

Date of Birth:

March 12, 1948

Place of Birth:

Waco, Texas

Education:

Honorary Doctorate of Humane Letters, Texas Christian University, 2008

Website:

http://www.sandrabrown.net/

Read an Excerpt

One

"I let myself in."

He hadn't known she wore eyeglasses until her head snapped up at the unexpected sound of his voice. She whipped them off and dropped them on the stack of manuscript pages lying on the Queen Anne desk in front of her. Her red pen, too, fell from her fingers onto the manuscript. One hand momentarily covered her left breast as though to still a pounding heart.

"You startled me, Mr. North."

"Sorry. Actually I'm perfectly harmless." Compared to the bright, pristine room, he figured he looked like something that had suckled at the tattooed breast of one of Hell's Angels. Her haughty expression told him he didn't belong here. Smiling covertly, he set his canvas duffel bag down near his feet and slid off his sunglasses. "I knocked on the front door, but no one answered."

"Maybe you should have tried the bell."

She was miffed all right, he thought. One hundred pounds . . . and that was a generous guess . . . of irritated female. Prickly broad, wasn't she? Were these first few moments going to set the tone for the next several weeks? Not if he had anything to do with it.

One of his knees unlocked, throwing his body slightly off center and into that thigh-melting, mouth-drying, heart-stopping stance that had beaten Farrah Fawcett's poster as the all-time bestseller.

"Should I try another entrance?" He curved his sullen mouth into the suggestive smile that was as famous as his arrogant stance. "Obviously my timing was off on this one."

She didn't return his smile. "Why bother? You're in."

"Right."

She stood up and walked around the desk. Not until she had taken a few steps across the terrazzo tile floor did he notice that she was barefoot. She caught him looking at her bare feet, but she didn't apologize for them or go through any of those flustered motions and babbling apologies that women usually do when caught in dishabille.

Her small face was set in an expression that strongly suggested, "If you don't like my bare feet, that's just too damn bad."

What she was better off not knowing was that he liked her bare feet. A lot. So far, he liked everything he saw, from the top of her glossy, dark hair to those ten, tempting toes. She was wearing white jeans, which fitted her a tad too well. In contrast, her white shirt was at least three sizes too large for her, somehow far sexier than a skin-hugging T-shirt would have been. The wide sleeves had been rolled back almost to her elbows, and the hem was brushing her thighs. It looked like a hand-me-down man's dress shirt. He wondered if it might have belonged to her late husband.

In any event, she was adorable.

"Did I catch you at work?" he asked.

"Yes, you did."

"On the book?"

"That's right."

"Forgive the interruption. I know how hard it is to pick up a thought once it's interrupted."

Impatiently, she pushed her fringe of bangs off her forehead. "My housekeeper went to the market, so I'll show you to your room. Where's your luggage?"

"That's it."

He nodded at the ugly duffel bag. One split seam had been haphazardly repaired with silver duct tape. Scuffed, scarred, and stained, it looked like the sole survivor of a baggage handlers' training convention.

"I left my Louis Vuitton at home," he drawled sardonically. "This is all I can carry on my bike."

"Your...

Editorial Reviews

Brown’s novels define the term ‘page-turner.’ "—Booklist

From the Publisher