“Have a seat, Michael. I don’t think you’re quite grasping the severity of the situation.”
“And I don’t think you realize what you just said. You want me to play Antony? The lead role? Wearing nothing but tights and the gifts God granted me?” Michael shook his head, serious for once. Was it her imagination, or did he look at her when he mentioned his gifts?
“It’s not gonna happen, my friend,” he added ruefully. “Not in this lifetime.”
“I agree,” Rachel said firmly. “There’s no way he could pull it off.”
“Hey, now,” Michael said, his grin coming back. “That’s not what I said. I said it’s not going to happen, not that it couldn’t.”
“Have you even looked at the text yet?”
Michael hooked a finger in his waistband, where a more groomed man might have chosen to wear a belt. “I heard what the Boss Man said from day one. Understudies have to learn all their lines. And what do you know? I done learned them up all good.”
“Ha, ha.” Rachel was tempted to stick her tongue out. “Then why don’t you prove it?”
“Prove it?” Although Michael remained seated, he seemed to expand to completely fill the room. Geez. She should have known a challenge would only puff this man up. “You want me to prove it?”
“That’s what I said, Boy Genius.”
Dominic sat back in his chair, watching them with something approaching a smile on his face. “Go ahead, Michael. Show us what you have.”
For an instant, Rachel thought he was going to storm out the door, out of the theater, out of their lives. But, Lord help her, he was actually employing a really good method she’d learned back in college, schooling his features and bracing himself to transform into his character.
She would not fall for his antics. She would not. He was still a lentil-farming, caber-tossing dolt of a man. And even though he wasn’t lying about the power of his…gifts, that didn’t make him an actor. That didn’t make him her equal.
“All is lost! This foul Egyptian hath betrayed me.”
She frowned. Of course he would pick that scene—the one where Cleopatra is set up as a greedy manipulator and Antony plays the woeful love card. It was also the scene in which he got to say most of the lines. Show-off.
He went for a lot longer than Rachel had anticipated. She said her one line when the time came, though without spirit and with a growing sense of unease. How could a man with no formal training and who probably hadn’t even known how to spell Shakespeare two months ago do this? It was like she could feel his rage, especially when he spit out “of all thy sex; most monster-like.”
When he finished, no one in the room moved or spoke. Of them all, Michael looked the most sheepish. “I’m no Charlton Heston, but I think I get the point. Dude gives up an entire war for a woman. She’s kind of a selfish bitch. They both die.”
Rachel actually sputtered. “Oh my God, Dominic. That’s where this came from—he watched the stupid movie! This does not make him a thespian in any way, shape or form. This makes him a…a…”
“Stagehand?” Michael suggested. “I agree. Can I go now?”
But there was a glint in Dominic’s eye that made Rachel feel very unsettled. He looked a lot less like a man bowing to defeat and a lot more like someone who was about to make her life a living hell.
Both he and Michael looked like that.
“Here’s the deal, kids,” Dominic said, steepling his fingers, exuding cockiness. “I have no choice here. Opening night is in four days, and there’s no time to fit and prep someone else. It’s Michael or it’s no one.”
Michael and Rachel shot to their feet at the same time. They had the same look of panic on their faces, and it was probably the most unified they were ever going to get in their lives.
“You can’t just pull an ultimatum like that. I finally got Bloom from The Shakespeare Review to notice us. He’s coming on Friday.”
The edges of Dominic’s mouth turned down, a sure sign he was thinking. “You did? That’s incredible news.”
“Exactly. We can’t blow this, Dom. It’s the break we’ve been waiting for.”
“Hey, now.” Michael put up both his hands. “If you think some fancy review is going to make me change my mind, you’re wrong. I’m not a show pony.”
“You heard him,” Rachel said. “He’s no pony.”
Beside her, Michael snickered.
“Fine. I’ll make this easy on you both.” Dominic pulled on a gray cardigan sweater with heinous tan elbow patches. “Michael does the show or we’re canceling this run. I’m not fighting this battle—I don’t have the energy any more. Figure it out by tomorrow or I’m pulling the plug. I have never, in all my life, worked with two more stubborn people than you. You’re enough to make me miss freshman English.”
He was inches away from slamming the door behind him as he stormed out.
“Well that sucks for you, doesn’t it?” Michael said cheerfully. “It’s been fun, Rachel. I’ll definitely give you that, but I think this is what they call the end of the line.”
“Are you kidding?” She leaped in front of the door before he could get any closer to it. “You’re going to walk out? Just like that?”
“That was my plan. Why? Did you have something else in mind?” His eyes flashed.
“Don’t you dare.” There was no mistaking that flash. “If you try to turn this into a sex joke…”
“Oh, there’s no joke.”
Both hands came up, and she pushed against his chest as hard as she could. She felt the same jolt she got whenever her hands touched the muscular planes of his body, an overwhelmingly physical connection that made her want to explore all the rest of him.
She forced the feeling aside.
He did not get to make light of this. Not her career. Not when she was so close to finally making this whole thing work in her favor. If there was a way to use this to land a better gig, get Molly out of this city and away from Eric and all the other scumbags she seemed to find here, then Rachel was going to make the push to get it. Literally.
She shoved Michael again. He didn’t actually budge, but it did cause the smirk to leave his face.
“It really matters to you?” he asked.
“No,” she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “I walk the boards in my underwear because it’s fun. Will you please stop looking at me like that for five seconds so we can talk about this?”
“This?” He pointed back and forth between the two of them, finally stopping by gently rubbing his finger along her cheek. “I think talking is probably a good idea. But you know what’s an even better idea?”
His finger moved closer to her mouth. She stood, transfixed, as he traced the outline of her lips, his touch soft and light. She could have stood there forever. Forget Shakespeare. Forget Molly. Forget everything but the way he made her feel, all warm and tingling and happy.
No. A man didn’t erase problems. A man didn’t preclude a lifetime’s worth of goals and dreams.
She pulled away. “Just let me talk to Dominic before you do anything. I’m sure he’s got another option.”
“And what if he doesn’t?” Michael said.
“He will.”
He had to.
“I’ll coach you myself. All day if you want.”
Rachel stood in three inches of mud, the washout of a heavy spring rain covering almost all of the acreage surrounding Michael’s farm. The Airstreams were probably going to be cemented in by the time summer rolled around, obstinate and ungainly.
Just like Michael.
“Tempting. Will you promise to polish my apple after class?”
She lifted one of her feet, trying to ignore the suction that pulled at her wedge sandal, and flicked some of the mud right at Michael’s head. She missed.
He was sprawled on a lawn chair, one of those kinds with bands of plastic across the seat, a throwback to 1980s family barbeques everywhere. The bands were stretched to the breaking point beneath him, his
feet propped on an upside-down bucket that had once contained bulk quantities of mayonnaise.
“I’m serious, Michael. Everyone is just sitting in some sort of rehearsal limbo. Dominic refuses to consider any other option, and half the crew is in hysterics. You can’t disband an entire production because you’re too stubborn to put on some man tights and say your lines.”
“My, my, how your tune is changing.” He arched an eyebrow and leaned farther into his chair. She might have thought he was sunbathing if the sky wasn’t overcast with sagging gray clouds and a wind wasn’t whipping up from the bottom of the hill, at least ten degrees cooler than the air.
“You think I’m incompetent.”
“You are.”
“You once said you would prefer a violent, melodramatic death at a teenage vampire’s hands over standing opposite me on Shakespeare’s stage.”
“I would.”
“And yet here you are…begging.”
Rachel exploded, all respect for her shoes gone in a flash. She stormed over to him and flicked him on the ear. “I am not begging!”
“Ouch,” Michael cried, holding a hand up to his injury. “I don’t know what your mother taught you, but in a physical fight between a male and a female, the male will always win.”
“That’s disgusting and sexist.”
“You have feminist views on flicking?”
She let out an irritated breath that bordered on a laugh. It was impossible to have anything approaching a rational conversation with this man. “You didn’t say anything about flicking. You said fighting.”
“Well, of course that’s what I mean. Do you think I’d actually hit a woman?”
She didn’t have time to duck before his fingers made contact with her, flicking a sharp stab along the lower lobe of her ear. Although she wasn’t wearing any jewelry today, it immediately throbbed and grew hot. Just like the rest of her.
“I can’t believe you just did that!”
He laughed. “Never underestimate how low an O’Leary will go to gain the upper hand.”
She didn’t doubt it. But they couldn’t stand there at an impasse all day, and Rachel had the sinking feeling that no matter what she did, she could never win against a man who considered mayonnaise tubs a type of furniture.
She switched tactics. With a sigh, she ran her hand over her eyes and let her shoulders fall in resignation. “It’s forty people, Michael, whose jobs depend on this. You can’t really keep all those people away from their dreams.”
“Their dreams or yours?”
“Oh, cut the philosophical crap.” Rachel wasn’t sure why, but diverging into this territory seemed a lot more dangerous than a flicking fight. “You might be an idiot, but you’re not mean. Can we just stop playing this game and go?”
She gestured around them, the white trash version of heaven on earth, where Michael was seated as king and master. “You can’t really tell me this is better than helping out your friends. Just do this for us. It’s not like you have anything else going on right now.”
Her gaze landed on his knee and realization dawned. Michael wasn’t basking in the early morning glow of the farmland at all. He was elevating his leg. He was taking it easy.
“It’s not like you can go practice being a barbarian with your friends,” she added softly. “Not with your injuries.”
As she expected, the words landed like blows much more powerful than a man’s fist. But as before, the cloud only grazed Michael’s expression, barely allowed to land before he forced it aside and resumed his normal placidity.
Too bad Rachel was paying attention now, and she knew him well enough to realize what his calm expression cost him. This was a man who could handle being down with cheer and humor but who had never before been faced with out.
“I’ll tell you what,” Michael said, clearly forcing a laugh. He sprang to his feet, giving the appearance all was well with his joints and limbs. Rachel was looking for it, though, and she could see he was favoring his right leg. Like him, she hid her automatic response—pity. She had a feeling pity was the last thing he’d be willing to accept from her.
“You’ll come with me and stop acting like a brute?” she joked lightly.
“Yes.”
Rachel almost fell over into the mud. She caught herself on Michael’s shoulder, which was planted firmly as if expecting her to take a feminine topple at any moment. Which was ludicrous, of course. Rachel never had girly swoons. She was much too strapping to pull it off.
She made a quick recovery. “What’s the catch?”
“Can’t a man jump in to help his friends, no ulterior motive required?”
“Yes. A man can. You, however, I have serious doubts about.”
His chest rumbled, and his eyes met hers. They sparkled with that combination of mischief and gallantry that so marked everything he said and did. It was that same look that made it difficult for her to know if he was being serious or if every one of their interactions was a game—part of the plan to keep her out of Molly’s way.
“Fair enough. You’re right—I do have a price. And only you can pay it.”
Her heart, a traitorous, fickle thing, went crazy. She was not imagining the ways in which a man like Michael could exact payment for services rendered. She was not envisioning him pushing her to the bed and using his big, oh-so-manly hands to keep her there until she gave in to every single one of his testosterone-fueled impulses, inappropriate and debased to the core. And she was most certainly not anticipating her own reaction to each of his demands, the way her body would flood with sensation, pooling heavily between her legs—
“Did you even hear what I just said?”
“Of course I did,” she muttered, her face suffusing with heat. She looked away.
“Well, then?” He grinned. God, she hoped he wasn’t able to tell what she was thinking right now. “Will you do it? Take my place on the Top Warrior Race team, and I’ll be all the Antony you can handle. Oh, and you’ll have to make Dominic put in another kissing scene. A big one. Preferably with tongue.”
“Don’t be crude,” she promptly replied, more out of habit than anything else. That was it? She had to go play in an obstacle course with his little friends? “Is that all?”
“Well…you do have to go to all the practices, no whining allowed. And I want to personally train you. Oh, and if you could win, that would really help the guys out. We have yet to even place—we’ve got the power, mind you, but we’re a little slow on the sprints.”
“Do I really have a choice?” she asked.
“Not a bit. Shall we make it official?” He stuck his hand out and held it there, waiting.
Rachel placed her palm tentatively in his, half-expecting him to crush all of her digits with a hearty up-and-down shake. But his grip was warm and light—and was it her imagination, or was there a slight caressing rub as his thumb moved along the back of her hand? Her breath caught in her throat when he suddenly pulled away.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Here.” And then he promptly spit in his hand and put it back out.
“You’re seriously disturbed,” she muttered. “I think it’s official enough. I solemnly promise to participate in your race if you’ll come back and take the lead role.”
“Excellent.” Michael rubbed his hands—spit and all—together and cackled. “Why don’t you give Dominic a call and tell him we’re on our way?”
“Gladly.”
She pulled out her phone while Michael made a quick stop to tell Jennings he was on the way out. It was with quite a bit of pride that she asked, “Dominic? Guess what?”
“What’s taking you so long? Are you done picking up Michael yet? He said you guys would be here an hour ago.”
“An hour? I’ve only been here for about twenty minutes.”
“Well, hurry up. We need you guys so we can do a full run-through this afternoon. I’ve got everyone else set up and ready to go.”
Understanding dawned hot and fast. “Dominic?”
; “What?”
“How long ago did you know that Michael agreed to play the lead role?”
“Jesus, Rach. I don’t have time for this. He called me last night—I knew if anyone could get him to come around, it was you. Now would you please hang up and drive?”
Oh, she hung up all right. And when Michael took a few jaunty steps down the stairs, calling back to Jennings something about “please drive the boy to the brink of death,” she threatened to kick his shins until they bled.
But Michael just grinned. “Go right ahead. I lost feeling in that part of my leg years ago. But I see you talked to Dominic. I hope you gave him my love. And in case you wanted to get it on your calendar—your first Top Warrior Race practice is Thursday after the dress rehearsal. Five o’clock sharp.”
She sputtered something unintelligible that only seemed to make him beam even more.
“Oh, and Rachel? Wear something tight. I’m partial to spandex.”
Chapter Sixteen
Much Ado
“What the hell did Jennings do to Nick yesterday?” Peterson asked, coming into their favorite bar with one of the least tense expressions Michael had seen on him in weeks, the heavily-lined and wild-eyed look replaced with what might actually be termed calm.
He knew his friend was in love and all that crap, but between handling his brother’s mess, his kids, Molly’s feminine demands and his regular work schedule, Peterson hadn’t been around much at the theater lately. And when he was, he looked pretty wiped out.
He would have sworn the only reason Peterson came as much as he did was to watch Michael’s descent into stage fame whoredom. The bastard always sat in the front row, grinning like he’d somehow masterminded this whole thing on his own.
“I think he’s got Nick moving shit, if truth be told,” Michael offered, pouring a beer from the pitcher in front of him and pushing the glass across the table.
“Shit? That would definitely explain the smell.”
The World is a Stage Page 17
