“These are my magic pills,” he said confidently. “One of the benefits of having recurring knee surgery is that the doctors never feel a man has quite enough hydrocodone to survive it. Consider it my peace offering.”
“Your peace offering is expired prescription drugs?”
“Yep.” He shook the bag enticingly. “You want some?”
She forced herself to sit up and imagined the headpiece getting shellacked to her head later that day. All those little stabs of the bobby pins weaving into her head, the extra weight she’d have to hold upright and with good posture for at least four hours. It was torture—that’s what it was. Dominic and Mary had finally decided to do away with her, and they were taking the slow and agonizing route.
“You know what? I think I do.”
Shock crossed Michael’s face, an almost endearing widening of the eyes that made him look cherubic.
“Don’t think this means I’ve forgiven you,” she warned, accepting two of the pills and dry-swallowing them. As a general rule, she was not a user of artificial substances. A lifetime spent watching her mother drown all of her common sense in gin had taught her a little restraint. But there was no way she could function today without a little support.
Even though the drugs had hardly had time to hit her stomach, she swung her legs off the couch and forced herself to her feet.
“Whoa, there.” Michael sprang up next to her and grabbed her arm. “Have you had anything to eat today?”
Right. As if chewing and swallowing were within her range of abilities.
“I’m a big girl, Michael. I think I know what I can handle,” she bluffed. “This isn’t my first time with a few recreational drugs, I’ll have you know. You’ve obviously never been to the drama department at a university.”
“Well, these are a pretty high dosage. You may want to—”
“Gimme another one.” She stuck out her hand. They’d been having such a nice moment. Why did he have to resort to being a jerk who had all the smirking, inappropriate answers to the universe?
“I don’t think so.” He tucked them in his back pocket. “But I do hear we’re wanted in wardrobe.”
She groaned and put a hand to her head. “I can’t face them yet. Can we pretend we’re not here?”
He seemed happy to comply. Cracking his knuckles, he gave her a wink and cast a few furtive glances around. “Where do you want to pretend we are?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Eating a late breakfast at the diner down the street?”
“We’re skipping out of makeup to go get some food?” Michael placed a hand reverently over his stomach. “I think I might just love you, Rachel Hewitt.”
She knew he was mocking her and being his usual flippant self. She knew that was what Michael did—said all the right things and made sex jokes that no one could ever be quite sure weren’t serious. He was all charm and flash, no substance beyond the cheerful front.
Still.
Rachel’s heart skipped a beat. No one—other than her sister, her mother and whatever leading man happened to be placed opposite her on the stage—had ever said those words to her before.
People didn’t love Rachel Hewitt. They accepted her and they admired her talents. They wanted things from her, whether it was sex or a chance to meet the elusive Indira Longfellow or an audition on one of her shows. Love was one of those soft, fragile sentiments that belonged to soft, fragile women—women who were willing to love back, regardless of the consequences.
Molly loved and was loved. Her mother loved and was loved.
Rachel was not.
“Just so you know, I’m not paying for your food,” Rachel joked, swallowing the strange lump that was rising in her throat. She started toward the door, her long legs moving efficiently, the pain a welcome distraction this time. “I don’t think there’s enough money in my savings account to even begin to cover your appetite.”
“It’ll be my treat,” Michael replied warmly, coming up behind her and reaching over her head to hold the door. “A date.”
“It can’t be a date if there are drugs involved,” she retorted. “That’s just weird.”
But even as she said the words, a warm flush rose to the surface of every square inch of her skin. It might have been the hydrocodone taking effect. It might have been the sunshine that greeted them as Michael threw open one side of the double glass doors. It might have even been a purely physical reaction to a man’s interest, easily seen in the reflection of him checking out her ass as they exited.
Rachel was pretty sure it wasn’t any of those simple and easily definable things.
For Rachel, breakfast was a bowl of oatmeal and roughly three pots of coffee. For Michael, it was a small farm’s worth of meat products.
“Steak and eggs and bacon seems a bit like overkill, don’t you think?” she asked, her spoon dangling from her fingertips as she watched him eat. “Mixing all those animals together seems…cruel.”
“It’s not cruelty. These animals are being very appreciated right now. Isn’t that what all creatures want from life? Isn’t that what you want?”
Rachel blinked. Her reactions were slowing down, and she was feeling good. Very good. Very, very good.
“To be eaten?” she asked, wrinkling her brow.
Michael’s eyes sparkled with meaning that no amount of opiates could make her blind to. “Well, that too.”
Some part of her, a distant part, echoing in the base of her skull and inexplicably wearing a schoolmarm’s outfit, warned her to back away. But a foolish smile slapped itself onto her face, and she twirled her spoon around and around her oatmeal.
“Do you want to…eat me, Michael?” she asked.
His fork clattered to his plate, and Rachel was inordinately pleased to see him at a loss for words at least once in his life. No one had probably ever taken his bait before, dangling it right back in his adorable little face.
It was adorable, his face. But not little. The tumbles of blond hair gave him an aura of adorableness, but underneath it all, it was a very masculine face. Strong jaws, a slightly crooked nose. A manly chin, complete with a dimple she wanted to lick.
“You want to lick what?” he asked, his voice faltering.
Oopsies. Did I say that out loud?
“Do you want me to be specific?” she asked, embracing the moment. That was one of the first things they taught you in acting school. When a real actor forgot her lines, she had to embrace the moment. Rush ahead, confident and sure, even if her first response was to run off stage and hide in a pile of props. “About all the places I want to lick?”
He swallowed, and Rachel watched his throat work with fascination. There were a lot of muscles there, more than the average man. The result of all that chest pounding and civilization demolishing, she was sure.
“There. I’d start there.” She reached out and traced the line of his throat, her finger moving down until it hit the point where his T-shirt began. When he didn’t move other than to watch her fingers with the same kind of detachment that had her firmly in its grips, she kept going.
“And then. Next—” She slipped the shoe off her foot and lifted it to the inside of Michael’s knee. As usual, he had a pair of long, casual shorts on, and her toes slipped easily under the hem.
He jumped up, his hands immediately shooting under the table and gripping her ankle. She noticed he didn’t move her foot away—he just held it there, caressing her. Sinking lower in her seat, she let out a contented purr.
“Are you okay?” he asked, his fingers coming to a sudden halt. He peered closely into her eyes. “Shit—I think maybe half a painkiller would have done the trick. You are so stoned right now.”
“Don’t be silly. I’ve never been stoned in my life.”
He laughed. “Yeah. Um…we may need to revisit that statement later. And we should probably be heading back before I get accused of kidnapping. Or worse.”
She scowled, her lips coming together in a pout. “You know what I always
liked about you, Michael? You’re a man who knows what you want. And once you know, you just go ahead and take it. Like a Viking. Or the IRS.”
“Okay, Rachel. It’s probably better if you stop right now—”
“A woman, for instance,” she continued, wriggling her toes higher up on his leg. A groan escaped his lips, and he tried pushing her foot away. But she was strong—a runner, for crying out loud. He had no idea what she could do with these legs. He’d never even bothered to try finding out.
What was up with that? They were good freaking legs.
“If you see a woman you want, you go in and conquer,” she continued, gaining momentum. She liked this topic. “You bend her over the table, pin her wrists to the side, spread her thighs and take her from behind. Right?”
“Um…not exactly,” Michael said. His lips twitched, and he’d just about given up trying to fight off her foot. “I usually ask first.”
“That’s what I’m saying! You know what a woman wants…what a woman needs. None of this darting in and out like a stick insect or asking every five seconds if you’re hurting me.” She blinked. Somewhere, her meaning was getting tangled, and Michael seemed to find it vastly amusing. “Her. I mean if you’re hurting her. You’re a man who’s aware of his strength and knows how he can use his powers for good.”
“And how would you know all this?” he asked, smiling. Out of the corner of her eye, Rachel saw him wave for the bill and mouth something to the waitress. “How would you know what I am or am not capable of doing to a woman?”
Rachel snorted and dropped her foot. She was suddenly very tired. “Women aren’t dumb. It takes about three seconds to determine whether or not a man knows what he’s doing—and don’t forget. You’ve kissed me two times. And both of them lasted longer than three seconds.”
“Believe me, Rachel. I haven’t forgotten.”
“Then why don’t you try it again?” she asked. She let her head fall to the table, the Formica cool and soothing on her forehead. “I like it when you kiss me. I’d like it if you’d do a lot more.”
He murmured something low and unintelligible, one hand resting on the back of her head, his fingers tracing soothing patterns through her hair. By the time she was able to muster enough energy to lift it up again, they were already on their way out the diner doors, her body being propelled by Michael’s arm around her waist.
“You don’t have to help me, you know. I’ve got feet.”
“I know you do,” Michael replied. His voice sounded like it was a million miles away. “But I sometimes wonder if maybe you’ve been standing on them for too long.”
“Whas’that supposed to mean?
He shifted so her head rested on his shoulder. It was a nice shoulder, all round and strong. She liked it there. “Not much. Just that I think you could use someone carrying you for a while. Don’t you ever let anyone in?”
“Into…where?” she asked, grinning widely.
“Believe it or not, I didn’t mean that.” He laughed, pausing for a moment before adding, “It just seems to me like you could use a friend. You spend an awful lot of time and energy on the theater and your mom and sister. But what about you?”
“You mean what about the baby,” Rachel said, her head bobbing a little. A warning fired in her stomach, telling her to stop talking before it was too late. But it was the shoulder making her do it. It wanted all her secrets.
“Baby?” He stopped, pulling her back and peering into her face. “Rachel… What baby?”
She shrugged, doing her best to worm her way back to his side. “Little Baby Hewitt. Molly’s little baby Hewitt. Her boyfriend beat it right out of her. And you know what? I wasn’t there to stop him. That’s the kind of sister I am.”
“I didn’t know,” he said quietly.
“No one does,” Rachel admitted. “It’s our secret shame. When my mom’s relationships end, she drinks. When Molly’s end, she goes to the hospital. Me? I just don’t have any relationships at all. I can’t tell if that makes me the winner or the loser.”
They resumed walking again, and Rachel was suddenly glad for the distraction. Foot forward. Foot forward. Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe. Keep moving. Stop talking.
Michael wasn’t talking either—and he never stopped talking. It made her heart hurt a little.
“I did it now, didn’t I?” she said, shaking her head sadly. “Michael O’Leary is all jokes and fun until the real Rachel comes out to play. Then it’s over. S’okay. If I was being forced to spend time with me, I probably wouldn’t like me very much either.”
His next movements were a blur. One moment Michael was helping her to stand. The next, he was in front of her, both hands clasping hers, his big blue eyes drawing her in with a mesmerizing kind of warmth.
“Don’t you ever say anything like that to me again, do you understand?”
Rachel blinked. He was blurry and watery and it was hard to make his image out. Then he shook her hands, the sensation jolting up her arms. That only made the blurry worse.
“I mean it, Rachel. I might have started this game because Peterson asked me to, but I’m here right now because I want to be.”
“Are you?” she asked, suddenly overcome with a powerful urge to climb into his arms and cry. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”
She got the shoulder back, then. Shoulder and maybe arms and legs too, but that wasn’t right because Michael had a bad knee, and carrying her would only make it worse. Minutes, possibly hours passed, and she jolted out of the pleasant sensation of doing nothing only when Molly shrieked and a million voices rose up around her, all of them murmuring the same thing.
“I’m fine,” she grumbled, flailing around until her legs and arms hit something other than air and Michael’s warm chest. It might have been a couch. It might have been the planked wooden floor, nicked with age and use. It didn’t matter. She was just going to take an eensy weensy nap before curtain call.
The papers called it her finest performance ever.
Even in a bikini, Ms. Hewitt perfectly captures Cleopatra’s haughty reserve.
It was difficult to ascertain if hatred or lust blazed stronger between the title characters.
Never before has a Shakespeare production been so full of unabashed eye candy of both the male and female varieties, leaving this viewer to wonder…is a burlesque Romeo and Juliet in the works for next season?
“These are incredible!” Molly cried, bursting into Rachel’s bedroom in a mountain of fluttering newspaper pages. “I can’t wait to see what Peter Bloom comes up with in next month’s Review. You’re going to be huge!”
“Take them away,” Rachel mumbled. Her face was buried in her pillow, her body floating somewhere a few feet above the bed. “I don’t want to talk about last night ever again.”
“But you were amazing!” Molly talked in all exclamation points, so Rachel opened one groggy eye and turned it toward her alarm clock. Six thirty. Ungodly, no matter how much Peter Bloom might have enjoyed the show.
The show. Ugh.
“What happened, anyway?” Molly asked, calming her tone and focusing her attention on arranging the papers in an artful arc on Rachel’s dresser. She cast a sly look over her shoulder. “What exactly did Michael say to you to get you off that couch and into costume? When you came in all loopy and passed out, we thought you were done for. There was even a betting pool whether or not you’d make it. And how long it would take Michael to get you fired up and ready to go.”
“I can’t believe you people had nothing better to do on opening day.” Rachel groaned and rolled over. The sun streamed through her blinds, announcing the cheerful arrival of the day no matter how much she might loathe it. “Who won? If you tell me Michael, I’m going to scream.”
Molly giggled. “Oh, he wasn’t in on the bet. Dominic was, though. He gave Michael five minutes.”
That, at least, was a triumph. It had taken him a heck of a lot longer than that.
Since Rachel rarely even allowed h
erself the luxury of an aspirin, she’d forgotten how strongly she reacted to painkillers of that nature—and of a dosage probably designed to tranquilize a beast of Michael’s size. She should have known better. He should have known better.
But if he’d felt guilty about it, he certainly didn’t show it when he barged into Dominic’s office, where she’d been quietly and delightfully resting on his overstuffed couch.
“You,” he’d announced, his voice loud and filled with cheer, “are a lightweight. And you also have about twenty minutes to get up and get ready for the show.”
“Go away.”
“I’ve been tasked to get your sorry ass up and into costume. So here. Red Bull. Drink it.”
“What’s it laced with this time?”
He laughed. “Good intentions. Now get up.”
She wasn’t sure which was worse—the pain of a body overtaxed by his idea of exercise or a body still under the influence of a few painkillers. Either way, the body was done. Her limbs felt as though they moved through a thick sludge, her depth perception so far off she might have been in outer space.
“I’m warning you…if you don’t get yourself dressed, I will do it for you.”
She closed her eyes and resumed her nap, sure he’d go away. Why did he have to be the one in here, trying to patch her up? Send Mary. Send Dominic. Send Molly. Send anyone who didn’t fill the entire room with his laughing presence, mocking and delicious and immovable.
She probably napped for a little while after that, because the next thing she remembered was the slide of his palm just at her waistband, where shirt met pants and a slip of stomach must have been exposed. She distinctly remembered arching her back into it for a full minute before finally realizing what was happening.
She shot up, her head following at a lag of roughly five seconds. “Hey—what do you think you’re doing?”
Michael held up a gold bikini and gave it a little shake. “I told you. Get up and get dressed. Or I do it for you.”
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