A Midsummer Night's Fling (Stage Kiss Series Book 1)

by Beth Matthews

  Moment over, Nicola thought as Isabelle stalked into her office, taking it for granted that Nicola would follow. Shaking her head, Nicola shouldered her bag and marched after her.

  Isabelle insinuated herself into her chair and placed the contract on the desk in front of Nicola. Someone knocked on Isabelle's door just as Nicola finished dotting her 'i' and adding the flourish on the 's' in 'Charles'. When Nicola glanced up, Judith O'Fallon stood in the doorway.

  Nicola forced herself to smile and not fidget. "Nice to see you, Ms. O'Fallon."

  "Oh, call me Judith. Were you two done? Shall I walk Nicola out?"

  Please don't. But Nicola kept beaming until her cheeks hurt. Isabelle waved them off and expelled a long, wistful sigh as she stared at the mountains of paperwork stacked on her desk, ringing her round like an ambush.

  In the reception room, Judith glanced at Isabelle's closed door then lowered her voice. "Did Isabelle give you any trouble?"

  Nicola frowned. "No . . . "

  "Oh good. Rita thinks very highly of you. She's a strong ally to have in your corner."

  "The feeling's mutual."

  "Yes." Judith graced this remark with a stiff, polite smile. "I only wanted you to understand: this is the big leagues. I've done shows with the RSF before, and I want to make sure we maintain a high standard of quality this season under my tenure."

  "All right – "

  "The RSF is one of the largest non-profit theaters in the nation. And we're regarded as one of the best, if not the best, classical theater company on the west coast. Audiences come here and expect a certain level of talent. Professionalism." Judith raised her eyebrow at Nicola, a haughty challenge. "You were a little unpolished yesterday, dear. Amateurish. You'll want to work on that with Rita. Shakespeare isn't a Rodgers and Hammerstein musical."

  "I know that – "

  "We need a little bit more depth from our actors."

  Nicola's cheeks burned, and she squeezed her hands into fists to keep from slapping the artistic director. Let's see you dance and sing for three hours straight while living out of a suitcase and eating nothing but bad hotel food day in and day out.

  Having a cat fight with Judith O'Fallon probably wouldn't be the best way to start here, but – Professional my ass. Nicola took a slow breath then released it.

  Judith continued, "What I'm saying is: we expect a lot from our actors. There isn't any hand-holding. Or coddling. It's sink or swim around here." Judith tsked, running her gaze over Nicola. "And, dear, you might want to lose just a few pounds. I understand the fairies won't be wearing very much, and we don't want to horrify our audience with a chunky Titania, do we?" Judith gave a sharp little titter.

  As her body vibrated with suppressed anger, Nicola managed a small nod. You evil, presumptuous, arrogant –

  "Oh, I just remembered I need to speak to Isabelle. Can you find your own way out, dear?" Judith's eyes were slitted with pleasure like a cat's.

  "Of course." Get away from me. Nicola waved goodbye, her mind popping with disquiet, and she turned into one of the empty hallways, wanting as much space between her and Judith O'Fallon as possible.

  What is with that lady? Like most women, Nicola had some issues with her body, but her weight wasn't one of them. She stopped, realizing she'd wandered and managed to get herself lost in the office suite. It was paranoid, but she wondered if maybe Judith had abandoned her on purpose, hoping she'd get lost. She shook her head at herself and started backtracking. Next moment she caught a glimpse of a blurred human figure walking past in the hallway. "Excuse me?" she called, hustling in the direction the person had disappeared.

  Footsteps shuffled in the hall and a man poked his head around the corner, his hair a shock of red against the soft color of the walls. "Well, hullo." He grinned and the effect of his smile nearly floored Nicola – all gleaming teeth and impish dimples and laughing blue, blue eyes. It was a smile of charm and mischief, the sort of smile a siren might use to tempt a sailor to his doom.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "Cou – could you point me toward the costume shop?"

  He stepped forward, and she found herself startled again, blinking as he towered over her. She'd never met anyone as tall as the Fiesengerke brothers before, but this man had to be as tall, maybe even a half inch taller than Max. This guy was more wiry, though, lean muscle instead of ripped bulk like Max.

  The stranger ran a thumb down the line of his chiseled cheekbone, scratching against the red hair of his goatee. "Searching for Tierney, were you?"

  Oh swoo-oon. He had a clipped, beautiful upper class British accent, which matched the rich baritone of his voice. Nicola wondered if the accent was real or if he were putting it on to be more Shakespearean, but then he spoke again and, yup, the accent was real. Score. "I was about to make my own way to the costume shop," he said. "You can follow me."

  "Great."

  "You must be our new Titania," he said, his long, long legs eating up the ground. "Max's . . . friend."

  Nicola grimaced to herself. That minor hesitation said all kinds of things about what information was already circulating through the company grapevine about her and Max. What if anyone from the company had seen them kissing yesterday? For a moment, she wanted to drop her head into her hands and weep with frustration.

  But the two of them were already standing outside the costume shop, and her escort tugged the door open, holding it for her. "After you."

  She beamed at him, feeling kind of fluttery. He was very cute.

  The costume shop was a claustrophobic little room with a long table at the center and cabinets lining every wall. A maze of doors seemed to have bred like bunnies in the room. Nicola frowned, wondering where all the doors could possibly lead.

  "Oh good, actors," Tierney said by way of greeting as they entered her shop, her voice dripping contempt.

  "Yes, quite shocking to find actors in a theater. Hello, my petal, had your caffeine yet?" Nicola's new friend swung around Tierney's work table to kiss the costume mistress on the cheek.

  Tierney batted him away and returned her attention to the pattern she was laying out. "Nicola, I see you've met Lachlan."

  "Not officially." The man, Lachlan, turned to Nicola, a smirk curling his gorgeous mouth. He clicked his heels together and bowed at the waist. "Lachlan Stuart."

  "Nicola Charles." She extended her hand to him.

  As he held her palm, his eyebrows quirked and his mouth crimped at some secret joke.

  Watching him, Nicola was both bemused and amused as she realized he was deciding whether to kiss her hand or not. But, after holding her fingers a beat too long, all Lachlan did was shake. Although his smile did widen as he gazed at her face.

  She, unashamedly, stared back just because he was so very nice to look at. His face was a long oval with a classic Patrician nose, close-set blue eyes and soft, waving red hair with a matching beard to die for.

  He was handsome in that willowy way British guys pull off so well. He'd be right at home in Regency gear proclaiming his love to a Jane Austen heroine, or maybe dying heroically fighting Napoleon. Or really doing anything in that genre of classy, British stiff-upper-lip.

  And with his soft, velvety voice, like Alan Rickman's kid brother or something, he could probably read the phone book and have women fainting in the aisles. Listening to him recite a Shakespeare sonnet just might cause spontaneous orgasm.

  To break herself out of that thought, Nicola gave him a perky grin and pulled up one of the stools around Tierney's work table. "So, Lachlan, who do you play in Midsummer?" Judging by that glint in his eye and the magnetism in his smile, she already had a fairly good guess. Or a fairy good guess. Ha ha.

  "He's your husband's bitch," Tierney put in.

  "Huh?"

  Lachlan's eyebrows tipped up at the inside corners, and he cast a dry glance at Tierney. "I'm playing Puck," he said. "If you don't yet speak Tierney's language." Lachlan fixed all of his somewhat disconcerting attention on Nicola. "And you're our new fai
ry queen. It will be a distinct pleasure to serve you, my lady."

  This time he did kiss her hand, and Nicola giggled. She was used to the overblown personality of actors, but this was a bit much to take on her first day.

  Nicola opened her mouth to reply to him, but Tierney cut in, "Watch out, Nicola. Lachlan's the company slut. Goes through a woman a day, pretty much. Better steer clear of him until you've had all your shots."

  Lachlan bared his teeth, but before the moment could twist to higher levels of conflict, the shop door banged open. Max filled the whole doorway with his frame and height and sheer presence, making Lachlan seem very much smaller. Max started toward Nicola, heat and purpose in his gaze.

  Rita fluttered into the room and cut between the two of them, settling onto a stool next to Nicola. "All right, my darlings," the director chirped out, placing her hands flat on the work table. "Isabelle approved the new fairy costumes yesterday – "

  "Finally," Tierney muttered.

  "So I wanted to talk to you three about what we are going to do for your fairy looks."

  Max folded his arms and made himself comfortable leaning against the wall. Lachlan, perhaps as a reaction to Max's blunt stance, sat on the floor at Rita's feet and pretzeled his long legs into a yoga-like pose.

  "First of all: the hair," Rita said. "We are going to dye both of you – "

  Both men emitted identical roars of disapproval then launched into what could only be termed a bout of whining. Manly whining, of course.

  "Not again – "

  "My face peeled off – "

  "It bloody burns – "

  "We aren't even playing brothers this time – "

  Rita shushed them, flapping her hands. Nicola hid a chuckle behind her palm and looked a question at Rita.

  The director rolled her eyes. "When we did King Lear a few years ago, these two played the brothers, Edmund and Edward – "

  "Edgar," Max growled. His blonde brows were drawn together in a scowl. With his mane of dark blonde hair and the scruff on his face, he resembled a lion. An adorable, pissed off lion. "You are not bleaching my beard," he declared. "Never again."

  "Seconded," Lachlan said, lifting his finger in the air.

  Tierney rolled her eyes. "Oh my God. You pussies. I bleach my hair all the time."

  "Clearly," Lachlan said, "dear heart, you are made of sterner stuff than we."

  "Anyway," Tierney continued Rita's story, ignoring Lachlan. "When we did Lear we all thought it would be cool if these two looked more like brothers. So we bleached their hair. Heads. Eyebrows. Beards." She wrinkled her nose. "In hindsight, the beards were a mistake."

  "You think?" Max rumbled. He cast Nicola a wounded look. "Our skin started to peel. In our Elizabethan gear we looked like particularly well-bred zombies."

  Nicola made a sympathetic moue. "Poor lambs."

  He sent her a dark look, and she caught herself leaning toward him, smiling into his eyes. But when he tilted toward her, shadowing her face, she did a wide turn on her stool to face the table away from Max. Always away from Max. That was the way to go.

  Rita waved her hands in the air, as if wiping clean the white board of their conversation. "No bleach. Do not get any haircuts before we open. I want all my fairies to have long, beautiful hair." She dragged her fingers through Lachlan's luxurious red locks, and he butted his head into her hand like a cat. Nicola laughed at his antics, and he shot her a mischievous glance through his lashes.

  Max shifted in her peripheral vision, and she had to stiffen her muscles to stop herself from peeking at him.

  Again. How was she even supposed to get through a scene with him like this? And with herself like this: hyper-aware, half-turned on, only managing not to think about that stupid kiss through sheer stubbornness.

  "Lachlan, we're going to take you dark. Black hair with some colored highlights. Purple, green, blue. And you'll have to shave the goatee." Tierney was speaking, she'd dug out her sketches and laid them on the work table. Lachlan uncurled from the floor and leaned over to gaze at his Puck costume.

  Max pushed from the wall and loomed over Nicola's shoulder to see his own sketch. She caught a hint of soap and clean male skin, Max's spicy cologne, and mint from his mouth. For a moment, she was too distracted to do anything except breathe.

  "Maxim, my love," Rita said. "No bleach, I promise, but for you we want to take your hair a shade or two lighter."

  "Shit," he said behind Nicola, his voice like a boom of thunder before the lightning comes.

  Tierney poked his shoulder. "Blondes have the most fun, Max."

  Lachlan waggled his eyebrows. "That's because there aren't enough gingers to go around."

  "And, Max," Tierney said, "we want you to keep growing the beard out."

  "Yes," Rita put in, a sour expression on her face. "So often in Midsummer productions they make all the fairies androgynous. Nothing but spandex and leaves." She made a frustrated gesture toward her lap and clucked her tongue in disapproval. "Not in my play. We will have manly fairies. Strong. Handsome." She squeezed Max's bicep, giggling. "Big."

  Max good-naturedly flexed his arm for Rita. Nicola rolled her eyes but her mouth went dry, watching those taut muscles move beneath his golden skin. Rita did have a point about the appeal of more 'manly' fairies.

  Tierney shuffled through more of her sketches. "So. Costumes . . . "

  Nicola could only be grateful as they turned to talk of fabrics, fit, and silhouettes. With Lachlan determined to flirt with her on one hand, and Max all up in her awareness just by standing in the same room, Nicola had more than a little trouble holding up her end of the conversation.

  She was disappointed, though, when the discussion turned to her character but Tierney had no sketch to show.

  The costumer gave an apologetic shrug. "I decided to do something different with Titania after we cast you. Give me a few days. For now, same instructions as the others: don't cut your hair." Tierney narrowed her eyes, gazing with intent at Nicola's hair, her mind obviously clicking through ideas. "I have plans for that hair."

  Nicola wet her lips. "Um, Judith mentioned . . . she thought I should lose a little weight."

  Rita scoffed. "So you can blow over in the middle of performances? No, mija."

  "Judith's crazy," Lachlan muttered.

  Max rumbled his assent too.

  Puffing out her breath, Nicola smiled. "OK." So she wasn't deluded about her own figure; Judith just had a mean streak. Good to know.

  Nicola shook her head, sliding off her stool as the meeting broke up, suddenly nervous again. Rehearsal was about to start. Her first rehearsal. With Max. Her foot caught on the bottom ring of the stool and she bobbled forward.

  Max caught her arm and held her close. "Nic, we need to talk. Alone."

  She swallowed. Oh Lord. A talk. Max never talked. Why did they need to talk? What was there to talk about? Talking could only end badly. And alone-talking . . . that was a recipe for total disaster. She realized how sharply she was shaking her head as a heavy lock of her hair slipped free from her bun. Max's eyebrows climbed upward while he watched her.

  "No. We're fine, Max." She tugged free of his hold and skittered toward the door, shadowing Rita close, almost stepping on the back of the other woman's flats. No talking. Talking was bad. Talking was to be avoided at all costs.

  "Nicola," Tierney called.

  Crap. A perfect escape foiled by the pink-haired girl.

  With what dignity she could scrape together, Nicola did an about-face. "Yes, Tierney?"

  "I still need to do all the measuring for your costume."

  "Right. Of course. See you at rehearsal . . . everyone." Nicola stepped toward the door, bumping into Lachlan as he tried to get through at the same time. He shuffled back, motioning the way for her.

  Max tried to linger, waiting Nicola out, but Rita hollered for him from the hallway. He made his exit, but the glance he sent Nicola on his way out promised he would make her talk later.

  Oh
joy.

  Chapter Seven

  For some reason, Rita was determined to have Max walk her to the stage for rehearsal. She'd linked her arm with his and kept chattering away with all sorts of random thoughts about his character, about the play. Rita was clearly trying to distract him, to keep him from talking to Nicola.

  Fantastic. Because he could always use someone meddling in his life. It was his fucking favorite thing ever. Now Rita had a death grip on his arm, and no way would she let him go if he said he wanted to try to catch Nicola alone.

  So: subterfuge. He tugged his arm free and stepped back. "'Scuse me, Rita, I need to take a leak." With that, he jogged off toward the admin building.

  "Maxim!" Rita called after him, her voice vibrating with frustration.

  Free at last, he bounded back up the hill then bolted the stairs and whipped the door open to the office. He nearly collided with Judith O'Fallon as she stepped out.

  "Oh, hi, Judith," he said, panting from his mini-jog. He craned to peer into the office suite, hoping to catch sight of Nicola, but she wasn't there. Which meant she'd gone out the other way or she was still wandering lost in the labyrinth of the admin building.

  Here's hoping she's totally lost, he thought as he waited for Judith to pass him so he could start combing the hallways for Nicola.

  But Judith lingered in the doorway, one of her brows arched as she studied him. "Good morning, Max."

  He felt an entirely masculine stir at the rich invitation in her voice. Judith was still a knockout with a great figure: ripe breasts, round hips. He'd never been opposed to older women, but he was opposed to sleeping with directors. That could get messy quick; messy with a capital 'M' for: "Max, you're fired." Better not to take the chance.