Prince of the Playhouse: A MM, Coming Out, Secret Identity, Theater Romance (Love in Laguna Book 3)

by Tara Lain

  Chapter Three

  The water splashed in the fountain on the patio at Shazam as Ru flipped the page of the sketchbook, sipped his iced tea, and created costumes for the play. Okay, so Queen Gertrude needed just the right amount of over the top. She definitely had her sexy side, or she never would have married that idiot. So high-necked gown, but slashed to the waist. He drew bold lines on his pad of paper.

  “Hey, darling, when did you take up the Bard for lunchtime reading?”

  Ru sat back and looked up at Shaz. Got to tell him sometime. “I’ve got, uh, kind of a surprise.”

  “Tell me, tell me.” Shaz flipped his hair, clapped his hands together, and perched on the edge of the chair next to Ru.

  “The board of the Playhouse asked me to do costumes for a special contemporary production of Hamlet. I can pretty much have my way with it. Be as outrageous as I want.”

  “Wow.” A flicker of a crease popped between his eyebrows, then vanished. “Fabulous—and a lot of work. Will this cut into the design time on your collection?”

  Shaz looked worried. Yes. He’d bet the farm—at least a barn or two—on Ru’s first big collection. Ru nodded. “I’m just going to have to work double hard. This is a rare opportunity. It’s got a, uh, famous cast, so the production should receive a lot of publicity.”

  “That’s never a bad thing. Who’s in it?”

  Ru looked down toward the giant collection of Shakespeare he’d borrowed from the library. “Gray Anson.”

  “What?”

  Ru frowned. “Gray Anson. Gray Anson is the star of the damned production, and no, I didn’t manifest this from my frigging dreams, and just don’t give me a hard time about it.”

  “You’re kidding me.” Shaz rocked back in his chair.

  “No, I’m not. The head of the Playhouse board asked me at the fund-raiser.”

  Shaz gave him a look. “That was days ago. You were going to tell me when?”

  Ru tried on his best lopsided grin. “When I got up the nerve to confess I get to touch Gray Anson.”

  “All right, my favorite groupie.” He nodded, eyes narrowing. “You’re right. This will bring every critic in California and maybe New York to see the pretty boy fall on his face.”

  “Just as long as he doesn’t fall on the costumes.”

  “Okay, discounting the obvious, I understand why you want to do it. But seriously, darling, can you do both?”

  Ru drew a breath. “Actually, I’ve decided I’m going to let one inform the other. I’ve been searching for the perfect theme for the collection. I think this may be it. It can give me some real fantasy looks.”

  “What about the pants outfit and the wedding gown you’ve already done?”

  “Not sure, but I’ll work them into the theme somehow. I’m thinking the queen will be really sexy, and Ophelia’s going to look a bit loony from the start. Hamlet—that’s the fun one. A total gangster look, but in very rich fabrics, like the prince who was a rebel.”

  Shaz clapped his hands. “I love that, and I’ve never seen anything like it. The wedding gown could be some kind of dream of Ophelia’s. Her imagining marrying Hamlet.”

  “Wow. Great idea.”

  Shaz’s face lit up. “What if we have a press reception at Shazam? We can invite the cast, the VIPs, and the press. And we’ll dress models in designs from your collection. Give them a preview of what they’ll see at Fashion Week.”

  Ru laughed. “I can’t even imagine something so great. Thank you for thinking of it.”

  Shaz wrapped an arm around Ru’s neck. “You need to imagine more great stuff in your life. So when do you get to meet your paragon of all virtues?”

  “No telling, apparently. He’ll be in and out around his shooting schedule, but I meet the rest of the cast this coming weekend.”

  “You better get to work on designing the collection so we can have pieces made in time for the press reception.”

  “Right.” Ru’s heart beat in his throat. He’d just piled all the cards into one big stack. Hopefully no one wanted the one on the bottom.

  “Ru, this is our director, Arthur Clemson. Artie, meet Ru Maitland, your costume designer. I’ve given Ru the assurance that he can have carte blanche with his designs.” Helena Atchison grinned. “That is, within the context of pleasing our director.”

  Artie Clemson was a middle-aged, wiry, no-nonsense guy Ru had heard great things about. The man had a ton of television to his credit, a number of successful plays, and one or two of Ru’s favorite movies. “Glad to meet you, Mr. Clemson.” Ru stuck out his hand.

  Clemson took his hand but gave Ru an undisguised once-over. “I’ve heard good things, Maitland, but nobody told me you weren’t old enough to drive.”

  “No, darling, just old enough to design.”

  Clemson tossed off a laugh. “Okay, put the old man in his place. Glad to have you on board. I’m looking for outrageous on this, and Helena assures me you’re the man to deliver. Every time an actor comes on stage, I want a gasp. Hell, I want people to come back to watch the show just to see the costumes again.”

  Ru wanted to fall on his back and giggle. “My vision exactly.”

  “Brilliant.”

  Helena took his arm. “Come and meet the cast.” She led him to the group of actors sitting around a wooden table drinking coffee and getting ready for a read-through. “Everyone, this is your costumer, Ru Maitland. Ru’s actually a fashion designer and will be giving this production its look, so cooperate fully, please.”

  Ru smiled. “I’m anxious to hear your ideas about your characters. I want the clothes to either reveal or artfully hide the character’s true nature, so the more I know, the better.”

  Helena pointed to the older of the two women at the table. “I know you’ve seen the great Beverly Howard, who will be our queen.”

  In fact he’d never heard of Beverly Howard, but she looked every inch a sexy monarch. She’d be fun to dress. Ru smiled and bowed. “Your Majesty.”

  Beverly nodded regally and then laughed. Helena pointed to the young woman, pretty, dark, and somber. “This is Tilda Fern, who plays Ophelia.”

  Ru gave her a smile, hoping for one in return, but apparently she was already working on the mad scene.

  “And these two handsome gentlemen are our king, Phillip Fellstone—”

  Ru gave him a hiss as they shook hands, and got a laugh.

  “And this is Merle Justice. Horatio.”

  Ru grinned. “I knew him well.” Merle flinched and Ru said, “I suspect I’m not the first person—today—who’s made that joke.”

  Merle laughed and that made his fair hair and boyish face even handsomer. The guy got a lot of TV gigs with those looks. “Suspicions confirmed.” He shook Ru’s hand. Definite interest flickered in his blue eyes.

  Ru cleared his throat. “So I’m going to start taking some measurements today. I’ll be back in the costume department. If you have a few minutes when you’re not needed for the read-through, could you please stop in and let me size you up, so to speak.”

  By noon, he’d measured Beverly and Phillip and sat sketching ideas for their costumes. Phillip was a handsome guy, but older, with a bit of a pot, and long hair, thinning on top. Good. He’d make his clothes look like a man trying to appear younger—and failing.

  A back door from the alley behind the theater opened. Ru looked up. A tall man with long gray hair, wearing dark glasses and a slouch hat, walked into the costume shop. He glanced around nervously and closed the door quickly. “Uh, hello.”

  “Hi, can I help you?” Ru stared at the man. The cheekbones, the chin. Ru stood. “Is there someone you wanted to speak with?” His heart beat so fast it must have looked like a hummingbird got caught in his throat.

  “Uh, maybe you?”

  “Sure. How can I help?” Take a breath. This guy had to be Gray Anson. No matter the disguise, Ru knew that face like his own—better.

  “You’re making costumes?”

  “Yes.”r />
  “I think you’re supposed to measure me. If you wouldn’t mind.”

  “I’d be delighted.” Ru pulled the tape measure he’d been using all morning from his jeans pocket. Nothing quite made sense. Did Anson think Ru wouldn’t know him? Should he pretend he didn’t recognize him? “Will you take off your jacket, please?” And your wig, and glasses, and pants and— He forced himself not to nervous giggle. The guy pulled off his light jacket, revealing a slouchy flannel shirt. Seriously? “Sorry, you’ll have to remove that too if I’m going to get true measurements.”

  “Oh, okay.” Weird. Nothing about this guy’s deferential manner suggested the Gray Anson Ru knew. Then—he pulled off the shirt. Holy Mother of Jesus.

  His wide shoulders strained the fabric of the thin cotton T-shirt almost as much as the bulge of his biceps. On the screen his body looked huge and hard-muscled. In person it came off as slimmer, maybe the word was leaner, but just as powerful—and even more beautiful. The skin on his arms glowed, the smattering of light brown hair barely showing against his tan.

  Ru cleared his throat. “Just stand relaxed.” Take that advice yourself. He stepped behind him. Gray towered over Ru’s five eleven. The man must be a full six three or four as reported. Stretching his tape, Ru measured the width of those shoulders. Have to do it. He rested a hand against Gray’s arm and let the warmth seep into his bones—and his boner. “Do you usually wear a forty-four long?”

  “Uh, yes, I think so. They tailor it for my, uh, waist.”

  “Um-hm.” Ru wrapped the tape around Anson’s waist, trying not to pass out. “Thirty-three.”

  “Yeah.”

  Though he didn’t really have to, he measured Gray’s chest and hips. “How do you see Hamlet?”

  “Sorry? What do you mean?”

  “What’s your understanding of the character?”

  “Oh.” He shrugged. “I guess he’s confused. Pissed that everybody including ghosts wants something from him.” Whoa. That last boiled with heat. “Sorry.”

  “No, I like your take on him.”

  The edges of his lips turned up. “You do?”

  “Yeah.” Ru knelt to measure the inseam. “Just hold still for a second.” He swallowed hard and snuggled one hand in the general vicinity of Gray’s balls. Some balls they were too, nicely framed by the crotch of a pair of old, worn jeans. Movies often unveiled Gray’s awesome ass, but the balls Ru had never seen. He pulled the tape to the floor. “Thirty-six sound right?”

  “Yes. I guess.”

  If he burrowed his nose in Gray’s crotch and sniffed, could he blame it on the need to gather impressions for his design? His giggle tried to escape again. He stood before he went through with it. “Let me show you what I’m thinking.”

  He didn’t usually share his designs until they were further along, but man, he didn’t want Gray to leave. He leaned over the table he’d been sketching at. Gray rested his perfect forearm on the table and looked over Ru’s shoulder. Warmth from his body slammed into Ru like a day in Jamaica, and Mr. Downtown turned into a heat-seeking missile.

  Ru sucked in a breath. “Uh, what if we dress Hamlet like a sort of ultrafashionable gangbanger? Baggy pants and a combination of wifebeaters and baggy T-shirts. But we’ll do them in fantasy colors and cover your arms and chest in tattoos.” Ru’s fingers flew across the pages as the ideas took shape, bold lines slashing the white paper. “We’ll even tie your head in a bandana.” He looked up and almost choked. Gray’s face was poised only inches from his, and he was smiling, the huge, flashing-teeth, dimples-as-deep-as-craters smile that had made this man a billionaire. All I’d have to do is stand on tiptoe and I could kiss him. Of course, I wouldn’t get to do costumes for Hamlet anymore, but it might be worth it. He smiled slowly at the incongruity of the perfect face surrounded by the ratty gray wig.

  Gray spoke softly. “You really get into this, don’t you?”

  Ru swallowed. “Uh, yes, sorry.”

  “No need to be sorry. I love the idea, and I love your passion.”

  “You—you do?”

  “Yes.” He just kept staring at Ru. “Do you know your eyes are almost the color of a cat’s?”

  “And yours are like the sky before a storm.”

  Stand still, time. Don’t let him move, ever. So close that warm breath from Gray’s perfect lips fluttered over Ru’s cheek.

  The door to the theater opened, and Tilda, the girl playing Ophelia, burst in. “They told me you want to see me next. Can we make it quick?”

  Gray turned instantly away, grabbed his jacket, and headed straight out the back door. “Thanks. See ya.”

  Just like that, the best moment of Ru’s life ended. Maybe he’d costume Ophelia in a fucking garbage bag.

  Gray stood outside the back door to the theater and breathed. Damn, why did I do this? When Mrs. Atchison and the Playhouse board approached his manager, Benson had politely called them crazy, but Gray intervened. He’d been flattered they thought he could do it, and he wanted a challenge. Hell, every critic and reviewer in the country would be clamoring to see it. Now, just staring at the pages of the script made his palms sweat. Who the hell did he think he was? Laurence Olivier? Shit! He got paid to crash and burn, but not like this.

  And now, add in Ru Maitland. Hair like midnight. Eyes like liquid chocolate. So powerful he melted the floor under Gray’s feet—and so dangerous that running back to explosions and gunfire looked like the easy way out.

  Chapter Four

  A week later, Ru sat in a theater seat a few rows behind the director and sketched as the actors, with a stand-in for Hamlet, walked through blocking. He’d draw a few lines, then flip the page and go back to his impromptu portrait of Gray Anson, now that he’d seen that face up close. Ru drew in the tiny lines that popped out around his eyes when he smiled. He must smile a lot, because at only twenty-five, he didn’t have any age lines. Jesus, how could the man be so much prettier than he was on the screen? No fair, dammit.

  “Let’s take a short break, everyone,” the director called from his perch in midaudience.

  Ru flipped the page back to the costume drawings and looked busy, which shouldn’t have been hard to do, since he could start working on them now and not take a break until he turned thirty.

  Merle, the actor playing Horatio, slid in beside him. “Hey, I still need to come back and get measured.”

  Ru grinned. The guy was maximally cute. “Sure, sweetheart. Want to do it now?”

  “Probably not enough time. How about as soon as the blocking rehearsal is through? Will you still be here?” His wide blue eyes looked anxious.

  “Sure. I can be. I have a lot of designing to do, and I can do it here as well as anywhere.”

  “These costumes must be a huge job.”

  “They are, but I’m actually working on a collection for Fashion Week, so I’ve got a couple projects breathing down my neck.”

  “I imagine breathing down your neck would be a lot of fun.” He flashed a wide smile. “I’d love to hear about your collection. Some of us are going out for drinks after the rehearsal. Want to come?”

  Did he? Blue eyes, not gray. Button nose instead of high-bridged and slim. “Uh, that’s nice of you. I probably better get back home and work. I have help, but I still end up doing a lot of sewing myself.”

  “Hey, you gotta take a break sometime. Why not with me—us?” He leaned in. “I’ll tell you all about Horatio.”

  Ru smiled. He really was cute. “It must be hard rehearsing without Hamlet.”

  “It is. But hell, he’s going to bring in the crowds, so why should I care?”

  “I guess if he’s bad, it could be tough on you.”

  Merle laughed. “I earn my bread in a teenybopper heartthrob supernatural TV series. Simply having a copy of Hamlet on the stage will class up the joint for me.”

  Ru grinned. He liked this guy.

  A buzzing sound pierced the soft voices in the theater. Ru looked up. “What’s that?”

/>   Bam. The back doors to the theater opened and through them, holding the arm of a superclassy blonde woman and followed by three men in suits, came the billion-dollar baby himself, Gray Anson. A crease the size of the San Andreas fault carved his forehead. “Why can’t they keep those fucking things away from me?”

  “Sorry, Gray.” The guy replying stood well over six feet and outweighed Gray by at least seventy pounds. “We don’t know where they originate, so we can’t stop them.”

  “I know. Sorry. But they’re so damned intrusive. It’s like being robbed or something. Jesus.”

  Merle leaned over and whispered, “Probably drones. They fly around the guy like mosquitoes. It’s got to be insane.”

  Gray’s chest expanded with an inhale. Then he flashed the pearlies and called out, “Sorry to be late, everyone. I hope I haven’t screwed up the morning for you. These damned paparazzi won’t leave me alone, and I can’t get past them.”

  Artie waved from the front of the house. “Oh, poor baby.” He laughed, and Gray joined in. Still, it didn’t sound like fun.

  His clothes reeked of money—jeans so perfectly tailored they probably had a Dolce & Gabbana label rather than Levi’s, a white silk shirt, and a hammered-leather jacket as thin as tissue that would have bought most of these actors a car. Hell, it would have dressed Ru for a year. If the clothes were rich, they paled next to the woman. Ru had seen her in magazines with Gray lately—Penelope Tisane, a trust-fund baby who regularly appeared on the Best Dressed lists. They said she had a few years on him, but not so you’d notice.

  Merle whispered, “He does make an entrance.”