“You’re bluffing.”
“You think so?” he asked and reached for her. Once again, her reaction times were much too slow. His fingers tucked just under the waistband of her tight-fitting black slacks before she could do more than lift into a better sitting position. He crooked a finger, and she slid right back down, her body compelled toward his in a way that seemed wholly unbecoming. Silly body. It had no idea what it was doing. But Michael’s hands certainly did.
Then he reached for the buttons of her pants, expertly flipping the top one open, letting his fingers graze lower on her belly. Her entire body flooded with warmth, the rush of blood and sensation finally settling heavily between her legs.
In the back of her mind, there was a vague awareness that this was not the most effective way to get a woman in costume. She didn’t want to get dressed. She would much rather lie here, allowing him to slowly undress her, an object for him to explore and caress and enjoy.
She’d been right when she said it before—this was a man who knew what he was doing.
Wait.
“Wait!” She struggled to sit up again. This time, he let her, shifting back onto his haunches and watching her with that damnable grin taking up most of his face.
“You’re taking advantage of me, you bastard.”
“No. I’m getting you in costume. Now, do you want me to finish, or would you rather do it yourself?”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Her words might have been partially slurred, but clarity was coming back in strong bursts of mortification. Her pants were unbuttoned. She might or might not have offered to lick Michael back at the restaurant. Dear God—was the clock on the wall correct?
She tried jumping to her feet, but her head felt light. Michael was there in an instant, all strength and warm arms and deep, rumbling laughter. Did he never stop with the laughing?
She promptly gave him a shove, as effective as a fan against a sandstorm.
As he continued holding her up, a cold can was placed in her hand, and Rachel begrudgingly took a sip of the energy drink.
“Disgusting. It tastes like baby aspirin.”
“Which, by the way, is a much better idea the next time you need a painkiller,” Michael said.
Rachel managed to stick her tongue out. “Very funny.”
“Now—costume time.”
“I can do it.”
“No. You can’t. You can barely hold your head up. We can slap some sense into you during makeup. Right now, we need to get you dressed and out that door.”
“I don’t care how much of a mule you are, Michael O’Leary. You do not get to tell me what to do, and you most certainly do not get to do it for me. I’ll get dressed by myself.”
“Fine.” He let go, and it was only by the grace of the desk right behind her that she was able to remain standing. “Do it.”
She took another deep drink, swallowing at least half of the evil potion and setting the can down with a shudder. “Get out first.”
“No way.” He smirked. “I’ve been sent to help. So I’m helping. Arms up. I’ve been dying to see what you’ve got going on under there.”
She put her arms up, all right. One of them went up in the shape of a fist, the other still clutching the desk to keep her standing. She took advantage of the momentary burst of laughter this gave him and ran around to the other side of the desk, her legs wobbly but functioning. She gripped the wooden surface with both hands, leaning over it and glaring at Michael, who mirrored her stance.
“Go on, then. Take off your shirt.”
She picked up a tin organizer full of thumbtacks and opened her eyes wide in warning. “You are some kind of creep, you know that?”
“That’s not what you were saying this morning. Would you prefer to take your pants off first? I can handle that. But do it nice and slow and give your ass a wiggle.”
She slammed the thumbtacks on the desk and looked for something else that might be a little less damaging on the way to his face, rustling through the drawers with a kind of feverish mania she knew was getting out of hand. But oh, how she longed to do something to scratch his surface, get past the barrier of indifference and humor he wore so well.
“You can stop now. If you really want to hurt me, I’ll go to the prop department and grab my sword. Would that help?”
“It would help if you would get out of here and let me get ready for the show.”
He shrugged and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Of course. Geez, Rachel. All you had to do was ask.”
Michael picked up the bikini with a kind of reverence that made her want to melt and handed it to her, allowing his fingers to graze hers for much longer than was necessary. Her body, as if remembering his series of more intimate touches, grew suddenly hot, her stomach doing flips that thudded in a downward spiral right toward her lady parts. It wasn’t fair—that’s what it was. He knew full well what he was capable of and lorded it over her.
That was the worst part of it all.
She stood there, on fire, a combination of lust and the growing embarrassment of remembering only snippets of her behavior from before. Licking. Legs. An overwhelming sense of longing she couldn’t quite place.
And there he was, as calm as you please, master of the situation.
“I hope you choke,” she sputtered. “On stage. I hope you choke and go down like a massive bundle of flames.”
“Aw, thanks, Rachel,” he replied cheerfully, obtuse as ever. He opened the door. “Is that another one of those theater superstitions? I hope you go down in a fiery blaze too.”
Just as she was trying to get her breathing under control, the door shut, leaving her heaving and alone with her costume and an empty can of Red Bull. She threw the latter in the trash and forced herself to get dressed, her heart pounding in fury.
Only later, as she exited the room, fully capable of walking on two legs and her head clearer than it had been in a very long time, did she realize it had all been on purpose. The warm, creeping fingers she could still feel beating in her belly. The soft caresses as he coaxed her out of her painkiller coma and back to the land of the living.
He’d been trying to get a rise out of her, and it had worked—in more ways than one.
The mortification of it wasn’t any easier to bear this morning. If anything, it was worse.
“I hate you, Molly. And Michael. And everyone associated with that show. Especially Peter Bloom.”
Molly laughed and gave Rachel’s bottom a friendly pat. “Cheer up, sis. Now we know the trick to your lifelong success.”
“Oh?” Rachel rolled over. “What’s that? Hiring an imbecile to play opposite me?”
“Nope. Hiring a hot imbecile you want to have lots of hot imbecile sex with to play opposite you.”
Rachel didn’t bother with a response. She shoved her head under the pillow, determined to go back to sleep.
But sleep, the stupid, elusive thing, didn’t come. All she got was a fevered memory of the on-stage kiss they’d been forced to share the night before and the smile in Michael’s eyes when they’d pulled away, as if there was nothing acted about their interlude at all.
And they only had two months’ worth of shows left to do. Two months’ worth of on-stage kisses and face-to-face interactions and that damn, hands-all-over-his-body armor scene she’d insisted on putting back in.
She groaned. It was going to be a long two months.
“You’re a smart woman, Rachel.”
Nora sat across from her on the other side of her huge mahogany desk, which Rachel had always felt looked perfectly suited for one of those passionate moments in an inappropriate workplace setting. Her friend’s hand rested heavily on two manila envelopes, one a few inches thick, the other so fat it was practically bursting out of its seams.
Her heart sank. Eric probably had a prison record a mile long.
“Thank you,” Rachel murmured, distracted by the amount of space that envelope was taking up. She took a sip of the coffee June had pressed
on her as she’d made her way into the office, telling her she had bags under her eyes bigger than a Birkin.
“But,” Nora held up one of her fingers, the nail long and bloodred. What Rachel would have given to be able to pull off that Cruella DeVille look. “Know that I say this with love—you’re also kind of a bitch.”
Rachel just managed avoiding spraying the coffee in her mouth all over the desk. Swallowing the hot, bitter liquid with a huge gulp, she set the cup down and did her best to appear unfazed.
“Is that your professional opinion?” she managed.
Nora laughed, a deep, throaty sound that contained the aftereffects of years of chain smoking. “No. That’s friend to friend. My professional opinion is a lot worse.” She tapped the envelopes. “I have everything you want, all your dirt and details. Assuming you’ve already cleared the bill with June, they’re as good as yours. I don’t want to, mind you, but the professional oath I swore I’d uphold compels me to give them to you.”
“But you’d rather not? Because I’m a bitch?” Rachel was confused. Not that she thought her friend was in any way being mean. But in the past, she’d always been on Rachel’s side, happy to help her bury the jerks Molly dated under piles of hard evidence. That was why Rachel was willing to pay her exorbitant fees.
This was the first time Nora seemed…reluctant. Her hand gripped the folders like they were little investigation babies she couldn’t bear parting with.
“I’d much rather not,” Nora agreed. “I know you think you have noble intentions and all that, but I think you’re wrong this time. I think you’re making a big mistake.”
“And that’s your professional opinion?”
Nora shook her head, a smile playing on her lips. “You’ll never pry that one out of me. Not without another deposit.”
“You’re worse than a fortune teller,” Rachel said with a groan. “I can’t believe you’d make me pay to hear things about myself I probably already know.”
“A girl’s gotta eat. Now.” Nora tossed the first of the two envelopes—the fat one—in front of her. Rachel reached for it and began tearing at the seal. “That one is Mr. O’Leary’s.”
She stopped, staring at it in some confusion. Michael O’Leary was a lot of things, but dangerous had been wiped off her list of Things Working Against Him a long time ago. Irritating, yes. Persistent, sure. Devoid of reason, absolutely. But a file like this?
“Seriously?” she asked. “This thing is huge.”
“And it’s not what you think. Go ahead. Open it.”
Rachel did, fanning out the first few pages and scanning them greedily. Nora’s files always started out the same way, a snapshot clipped to a basic dossier of stats. Place of birth, age, school records, employers—stuff that rarely interested her. Michael’s information wasn’t all that surprising—a lot of it he’d already told her. He was born in Fairfield, Iowa. Both parents were still alive. Twenty-eight years of age and a Christmas baby, which was nauseatingly cute. Moved to Spokane around age twelve, didn’t do well in school, never even applied to college. And his employment record was spotty, mostly big empty spaces punctuated by a few prize money awards for his Scottish Highland Games.
“You aren’t to the good part yet,” Nora offered, popping a piece of nicotine gum into her mouth. “Try about page five or so.”
Rachel did as she was commanded. But once she reached the area her friend was talking about, she blinked a few times. It was just numbers. Bank accounts, financial statements, investments. Holy cow—what did that many zeroes after a one even make?
“Is this a joke?” She flipped through the pages, but it held more of the same. It was basically a copy of a stock portfolio. A very successful stock portfolio. “Are you telling me Michael’s deep, dark secret is that he’s some kind of gazillionaire?”
“Well, not all of it. You’ll notice that the name Orville Jennings pops up a lot. He’s a distant relation of Mr. O’Leary’s, but he was granted formal custody in 1998. He has no kids of his own, no other family he seems to care for, and it looks like about seven years ago, he made Mr. O’Leary his sole beneficiary and joint partner on just about every investment account he has. The farm is Michael’s outright.”
“And Michael knows this?” That wasn’t possible. The man lived in a mobile home, for crying out loud. She’d seen him in all of three different band T-shirts and the same pair of shorts, and close-toed shoes seemed to be some sort of anomaly. He drove a Pacer. He drank cheap beer. He farmed lentils.
Nora has the wrong man.
Nora laughed. “Don’t look at me with that expression. I don’t have the wrong man. I think there are hidden depths to your friend that you have yet to explore. And if I were you, I’d explore them every chance I got. He’s a cute little thing.”
“He’s not my friend. And he’s not little.” Rachel left the rest of it hanging off of Nora’s well-made-up lips. “There’s really nothing else? No date rape? No stint in juvie?”
“First of all, I don’t think you’re allowed to call it juvie unless you’ve actually been there. And no. Other than a few parking tickets—which he paid—and a few underage drinking episodes, your man is golden. If you ask me, he’s quite a catch.”
Rachel snorted. “Some investigator you are. He’s obnoxious, that’s what he is—the bottom-feeder you throw back. Gimme the other file.”
Nora laid a firm hand over the top of it and shook her head. “This one comes with stipulations.”
“That’s not fair!”
“I’ll give this to you, per our agreement, but I don’t want you to open it.”
Rachel gripped the arms of her chair and did her best not to say something she would regret. Nora was her friend. She liked her. She trusted her.
“I’d like to hear your explanation,” she said, teeth clenched. Her face felt like it was on fire.
“Admirable,” Nora murmured. “A few months ago, you would have slapped me.”
“I’m about to.”
“Unlike your Hercules there in file A, Mr. Peterson has a few blips in his past. Calm down for a minute and just listen, will you? There is enough in there to pull him away from Molly for good. If I give you this, you have all the power and all the cards.”
It was her worst fear, coming to life. Molly was a magnet for those kinds of guys—she could help it no more than all the other women of the world who were too trusting and unable to remember their own fathers.
“But I think you need to talk to him first. Him or Mr. O’Leary—and I’m not handing this over until you can promise me that.”
“What? Why would I do that?”
“Because I’m asking you to—as a friend. As much as I hate to admit it, there are some things a private investigator can’t discover. I can look at patterns and lives and records, and sometimes I can even snag a conversation or two in a seedy bar. But there’s more to this story than what’s on the paper here, and you’re going to have to do the blank-filling for yourself.”
“How can I do that if I don’t even know what the story is?” Rachel’s frustration level was at an all-time high. Nora was being enigmatic on purpose. It was fine for the PI persona she had going on, but it wasn’t good for this situation. Not when they were talking about Rachel’s whole life.
“Here’s all the story you need. I think Mr. Peterson is a good person. I think Mr. O’Leary is a good person too. And more than anything, I think following your instinct—the Rachel instinct that acts before considering the consequences—would rip this thing open and do enough damage to ruin a lot of things. Mr. Peterson and his family. Molly’s happiness. And most of all, your own happiness.”
“What does my happiness have to do with anything?” Rachel bit out.
Nora tapped the fat folder. Michael’s folder. “I believe Mr. O’Leary cares more about his friend than you think. I’m giving you a loaded gun here, Rachel. All I’m asking is that you don’t shoot it without being very sure who’s going to end up taking the bullet.”
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“Does that mean I can have it and go?” She wasn’t sure how much longer she could sit here.
“Promise me. Promise me you’ll talk to one of them before you open it.” Nora’s cold, gray eyes met hers, and Rachel could see the older woman meant business. But then the steel softened a little, just around the edges. “Please? As a friend?”
“Okay.”
Nora cupped her ear. “I’m sorry, what was that?”
“Okay, Nora. I will do everything you say.”
Nora smiled. Rachel did not. It was the best she could do under the circumstances.
She gathered the papers and shoved them into her deep, cream-colored purse, eager to get out of the office and into the fresh air.
This hadn’t exactly gone as planned. It seemed Michael was an obscenely rich liar, and Peterson had dark secrets she wasn’t allowed to know. And she’d paid how much for this information?
“One last thing,” Nora called out as Rachel wrapped her hand around the doorknob.
“What?” she asked warily, not bothering to turn around.
“When you pore over every last detail of Michael’s file tonight over a bottle of cheap Merlot, be sure to examine his medical records.”
“Why?” She perked up a little. Maybe he had some debilitating and infectious illness she could use to keep him from the Shakespeare After Dark production.
“Let’s just say I found his measurements interesting. Very interesting, if you know what I mean.”
Rachel slammed the door behind her, but even the sound of wood on wood, with June’s gasp over it all, wasn’t enough to stifle Nora’s deep-throated laugh.
Chapter Nineteen
Listen to Many
It was strange, standing outside Michael’s trailer, knowing that the rippling hills extending off for acres in every direction were his. The burgeoning plants were his. The machinery was his. If he wanted it, he could probably buy the farm a few miles down the road—or give it all up and take his Airstream on the road before finally settling down with some delicious bevvy of women in coastal Mexico.
What was he doing here?
The World is a Stage Page 21
