The World is a Stage

Danger comes packaged in bulging muscles…and a codpiece. Games of Love, Book 2 Highland Games athlete Michael O’Leary is famous for his ability to charm a woman right out of her pants. Maybe a little too famous. When he’s sidelined with a knee injury, his wingman pounces on the chance to take full advantage of Michael’s idle time. Trying out for the local adult-themed Shakespearean production seems simple, but there’s a catch. Michael must woo the notoriously demanding lead actress, Rachel Hewitt, thereby freeing his friend to pursue a courtship of Rachel’s sister. Rachel hates the thought of handing over the lead role in her admittedly scandalous troupe to someone so wholly uneducated in the ways of the Great Bard. But she’s in a bind, and the only one who can step up is a man who looks way too good in a codpiece—and knows it. To add insult to injury, he refuses to take the role until she agrees to take his place in some barbaric warrior race. She’ll do it, but not with a smile. Unfortunately, the hardest part isn’t antagonizing her Scottish foes. It’s resisting the one man who seems determined to line and cue her heart—forever. Warning: This book’s half-naked Shakespearean actors are not approved of or acknowledged by people with actual literary merit. Neither are the dirty limericks.

eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work. This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental. Samhain Publishing, Ltd. 11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B Cincinnati OH 45249 The World is a Stage Copyright © 2012 by Tamara Morgan ISBN: 978-1-60928-953-9 Edited by Linda Ingmanson Cover by Kim Killion All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: June 2012 www.samhainpublishing.com

The World is a Stage Games of Love, Book 2

Tamara Morgan

Dedication

For my parents, who gifted me with a love of reading, a sense of humor, and most importantly, the belief I could do anything I set my mind to.

Chapter One Bardolatry

“That is the third woman tonight who has taken one look at me and run for the hills.” Michael O’Leary dropped onto the stool and pretended to examine his reflection in the shellacked wood-grain surface of the bar. “I think I might be losing my game.” Next to him, Peterson mumbled something incoherent, not paying the least bit of attention to Michael’s current downward spiral. That wasn’t like him. Normally, Peterson’s favorite Saturday night pastime was watching Michael crash and burn—and doing it with unholy glee lighting up his smug little face. But tonight, he’d spent the better part of the last half hour on his cell phone, texting and giggling like it was his first prom. It should have been a killer night for the both of them. Michael was wearing his favorite kilt. Peterson too was all dolled up, his recent buzz cut showcasing a tattoo of a dragon eating the side of his face. The ladies loved the kilt. The ladies loved bad-ass tattoos. These were the laws upon which Michael’s entire world was built. “Seriously, bro. Have you ever seen my luck hide so far up a leprechaun’s ass?” Michael asked. He took in their favorite bar at a glance, the walls flaking with age and grease, the floor packed with bodies. “Something must be wrong. I think Mercury might be in retrograde.” That did it. Peterson looked up and grinned, tucking his cell phone into his pocket and finally giving due attention to the pint of beer in front of him. “You

The World is a Stage

never miss a chance to let us know you had your way with that famous astrologer, do you? What was her name? Madame Butterball?” “Butterfly, you asshole. It’s literary.” “I’ll bet it is.” Peterson swiveled on his stool, facing out, both his elbows propped on the bar. “You still seeing her?” “The Madame?” No way. She’d been a little more unhinged than Michael preferred in a woman, always talking about how the colors of their auras clashed. He didn’t mind when a lady friend brought her work home with her, but there was no way his aura was pink. She had to be making that shit up. “Nah. I’m footloose and fancy free,” was all the explanation Michael offered. “Why? Did you have something in mind?” “Well…actually.” Peterson’s voice was like a little boy’s as he rubbed one hand across the back of his neck. That was where the dragon’s body and impressive male parts were located. The ladies loved that too. “I scored us tickets to a little thing they’re doing over at the Odyssey Theater.” “Really?” “Front-row seats, backstage passes, the works. We might even be able to get our way into the after-party.” “That’s funny. I didn’t even know there was a band in town.” Peterson opened his mouth to reply, but he was interrupted by a woman in a red, low-cut tank top. Unlike every other pair of heels in the bar, she took one look at Michael and brightened, going so far as to pucker her lips and lean in, allowing him a generous glance down the front of her bra. It was a bit forward, but Michael was as agreeable as any other hot-blooded man to such tactics. “Darling, I think maybe you didn’t look in the mirror when you left the house,” she said.

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Pulling back, she dangled a pair of pink panties from her lacquered nail. Michael narrowed his eyes. Those weren’t just any pink panties. They were covered with tiny dancing princesses and cheerful green frogs. Next to him, Peterson let out a strangled laugh. Michael didn’t normally take great pride in his appearance. Sure, he was wearing his kilt tonight—but that was for the attention more than any attempt at fashion. He was the only one of their friends who ever wore the traditional gear off-season, when they weren’t working the Highland Games circuit. No one else had the balls—or the legs—to pull it off. But even he balked at waltzing into the bar with children’s underwear clinging to the back of his T-shirt. No wonder he’d been striking out so bad. He looked like a fucking pervert. “Oh, shit, Mikey. I’m sorry,” Peterson said, grabbing the underwear from the woman in red and shoving them into his back pocket. “I should have noticed before you got out of the car.” “You planted those there,” Michael accused, knowing full well it wasn’t true. When Peterson had swung by to pick him up, there had been a load of laundry in the backseat. With two young daughters at home, Peterson had a hell of a lot of tiny pink things in his laundry. “It happens to the best of us,” the woman said warmly. She made a not-sosubtle glance toward Michael’s empty ring finger. “You tell your wife to try fabric softener next time.” Michael was getting ready to proudly proclaim no affiliations whatsoever with the matrimonial state when he saw Peterson’s face school itself into a mask of bro-code acceptance. Taking this woman home would be easy. Michael could practically taste her tongue playing tonsil hockey with him, and he knew it

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would require only a few words to have her falling for a sob story of single parenthood and long, lonely nights. But Peterson, the poor bastard, got out only a few times a month. He was the real victim of single parenthood and long, lonely nights. “I sure will,” Michael agreed, heroically distancing himself from the impressive, rose-scented breasts. “My wife loves it when I give her housekeeping tips.” The woman, oblivious to the joke, offered a disappointed and cock-shifting smile. “Dude. Those kids of yours are some sort of lady magnet,” Michael said, shaking his head and tearing his gaze from the woman’s ass as it wiggled and shook its way across the bar. So close and yet so far away. “Can I borrow them next week?” “Not on your life. The last time I let you babysit, Sammy spent the entire next week telling everyone what a dingleberry is.” “She asked,” Michael protested, holding up his hands in mock defense. “You know it’s against my nature to lie to women. Especially cute, miniature ones.” “Very funny. Just keep the poop jokes to a minimum next time, okay?” Michael shrugged good-naturedly. Of all the jokes he knew, the ones dealing with bodily functions were by far the most four- and six-year-old appropriate. And they always went over well with his friend’s progeny. If there was one thing Michael knew, it was how to please his audience. “You’re just lucky I didn’t tell them the one about the twin hookers in a cave.” Peterson snorted. “No hooker jokes until they’re at least sixteen. Official orders.”

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“Done,” Michael agreed, rubbing his hands together. “Now. What’s this about a concert tonight?” “Well…” Peterson drew the syllable out, and Michael’s suspicions deepened with each passing second. “It’s Hamlet.” “Never heard of them. And if it’s hipster music, you can count me out. You know how I feel about all those bands no one has ever heard of. There’s a reason, bro. And it’s rarely good.” “It’s not a them, Mikey. It’s Hamlet. You know, Shakespeare? Thee and thou and the most famous playwright of all time?” “I know who Shakespeare is.” Michael crossed his arms. He might have spent the better part of his twenties more focused on building up his body than his brains, but he wasn’t dead. “What I don’t understand is why you got me all hot and bothered if this was what you had to deliver. Where I come from, we call that—” Peterson laughed and held up a hand. “Spare me the description, buddy. I haven’t even gotten to the best part yet.” “Is there sex in it?” “Better.” “A whole orgy?” “If we play our cards right.” Michael laughed. “Okay. Now I’m listening.” “It’s called Shakespeare After Dark. They do the original plays, all Shakespearified and stuff, but the actors are almost completely naked, and they add good parts to the story. You know. The good kind of good parts.” “Define ‘almost completely naked’,” Michael said, instantly wary. Peterson was holding something back. If his friend was about to offer him a stage of half-

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dressed ladies, like any true friend ought, Peterson wouldn’t be so afraid to look him in the eye. “What’s the catch?” Peterson paused and finally looked his way, and Michael felt his skin grow cold. The last one of his friends to have those big, soulful, ridiculous eyes was Julian. Julian, who now put on fancy pants once a month and escorted his girlfriend to a historical re-enactment ball where the women sucked a little bit of his manhood away each time—and he didn’t mean that in the good way. Not that Michael had anything against Julian’s girlfriend, Kate. It was just hard to practice caber tossing on the field knowing his friend had something called a cravat in his practice bag. It was weird. “I got the tickets through a friend of mine who’s in the show,” Peterson began. “A good friend.” “What’s her name?” Michael asked, resigned. “And how does this end with me getting some much-needed naked time?” Peterson’s eyes flashed with humor, but there was a firmness to his mouth that didn’t sit well. “Her name is Molly. Molly Hewitt. She plays Ophelia.” “Good for her,” Michael offered. “Who the fuck is Ophelia?” “It doesn’t matter, Mikey. The point is, she’s got a pair of front-row seats waiting for us at the ticket counter, and I intend to use them. And I need you to come with me.” “So take Pink Panties back there,” Michael suggested, thumbing over his shoulder at the woman in red. “Or Julian. He loves that high-brow shit now.” “Don’t be dumb. I’m not taking a random woman from the bar, and Jules has some big tournament in Seattle this weekend. Besides, I might need someone to help me out a little with a friend of hers. We’ll be man and manlier. Tit and tat. Please, Mikey?”

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There were those eyes again. He could see where Sammy and Pris, Peterson’s manipulative little monsters, got it. “Fine,” he agreed, shaking his head ruefully. If there was an award for being the best wingman in the world, Michael was definitely in the running. Shakespeare—even naked Shakespeare—had to be about as bad as it got. He kicked back the last of his beer and pointed the empty glass at his friend. “But you have to be tat. I want to be tit. I’m not agreeing to anything unless there’s at least one of those involved.”

“What do you mean, you gave away the tickets?” Rachel turned on her stool, pulling the almost nunlike wimple down from around her neck so Molly was sure to see her frown. “I put them at the Will Call booth for a reason.” “Those reviewers you invited aren’t coming, Rachel. You know that as well as I do. There’s no reason to let the tickets go to waste.” Her sister stood as a vision of ethereal youth before her, braids in her long, ashy blonde hair, the sweeping folds of her see-through white gown making her look at least half a decade younger than her twenty-two years. She made a very convincing Ophelia, even with a pair of daisy-shaped pasties over her nipples and nude panties that looked almost invisible under the stage lights. Innocence and sex and melancholy all wrapped up in one of the most talented actresses Rachel knew. The audience would eat her up. Something like pride ticked in her chest, but she tamped it down. This was not the moment for sisterly adoration. “I don’t see what the big deal is,” Molly persisted. “Stop being so dramatic,” Rachel said, turning back to her mirror. Like her dressing room—also known as Former Janitor’s Closet—it was small and poorly

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lit, with someone else’s month-old makeup smeared along the edges. The whole theater was like that, used and dark and smudged. How was she supposed to get her makeup on when she could barely see three feet in front of her? “If your stupid friends wanted to come that bad, they could have paid to see the show. Just like everyone else.” “My friend isn’t stupid. Leaving front-row tickets to sit there, unused, because you’re too stubborn to admit your little intellectual-journal contact isn’t coming—that’s stupid.” Rachel frowned, but she wasn’t defeated. “This friend of yours…is he male?” “Yes.” “How many tattoos does he have?” “That’s not a fair question!” The black pencil Rachel was using to paint on a pair of highly arched brows stilled. “How many?” “I don’t know. Six. Maybe seven. That I’ve seen so far.” Rachel let out a whoosh of breath. She couldn’t tell if it was annoyance or relief—annoyance that her sister was once again being lured by a man whose ineligibility was literally stamped on his skin, or relief that she hadn’t yet had the time or the opportunity to count all his tattoos. “How many piercings?” “Just two,” Molly mumbled, refusing to meet Rachel’s eye in the mirror. She was beginning to falter. “A pair of gauges—small ones, I swear.” “And what does this paragon of ours do for a living?” “I’m not telling you.” Rachel let her sister stand there, nervously tapping her foot, until both brows were finished. When she was satisfied they were perfect, she turned her head a little, marveling at the changes those simple brows wrought.

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She looked fifteen years older, pale and wan with worry. A heavy circlet painted gold covered her head cloth, completely wiping away her hair, and an extra dab of gray face paint in the hollows of her cheeks gave her an eerie pallor. From the neck up, she was the perfect Gertrude, adopting the role of Hamlet’s mother with as much grace as could be expected of a woman still firmly in her twenties. From the neck down, Rachel was much less Queen of Denmark and much more Las Vegas showgirl. A garter belt and a corset that pushed her boobs up to her neck weren’t exactly time-period accurate, but that was the deal. One didn’t work at Shakespeare After Dark, Little Willy’s Jack-Off-Broadway Review, without a bit of cleavage coming into the equation. Times were hard for a stage actress stuck in a midsize Eastern Washington city. Rachel made do. She always did. “I thought Debbie was supposed to do everyone’s makeup,” Molly said, full of petulance, very much in keeping with her attire. “Debbie,” returned Rachel calmly, spinning on her stool and rising to her stiletto-clad feet in a single graceful movement, “is a white-trash hack who thinks it’s okay to apply greasepaint with her bare fingers. Ten dollars says your face breaks out like you’re fifteen again.” Molly’s hand went involuntarily to her cheek. Rachel grabbed her wrist and held it for just a second too long before letting go, immediately contrite. She was doing it again—letting the worry take over everything else. Molly deserved better. “Let me guess,” she said quietly, looking into her sister’s turbulent gray eyes, so very much like her own. It was the only trait they shared outside of the signature sloped Hewitt nose, which everyone assumed was the product of a plastic surgeon’s skilled hand rather than really good genetics. “You met him at a

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bar. He didn’t even try to get you drunk or passed out in his bed. He’s misunderstood, really sweet once you get to know him. Not at all like the last one. I just don’t understand.” Tears filled Molly’s eyes, and she didn’t even try to check them or keep them from running down Debbie’s botched attempt at stage makeup. Rachel’s chest tightened. That was the fundamental difference between the two of them. Never let them see you cry. Never let them see they’ve won. “You two ready?” Dominic, the director of the production, popped his head in through the creaking wooden door and nodded. “I see you’ve turned yourself into a Gorgon again tonight, Rachel. How delightful. That’s exactly what our guests pay to see.” “Shove off, Dominic,” Rachel promptly replied. Most of the cast and crew didn’t dare question Dominic’s superior opinion in all matters Shakespeare and stage. The man, aged gracefully into his late forties with the salt-and-pepper hair that had always been his signature, boasted of the quintessential academic. For years, he’d taught English classes at the local university. This production was his brainchild, a gutsy move to introduce classic literature to the masses by whatever means were necessary. Easy for him to say. He wasn’t the one whose nipples had to be taped down to keep them from popping out of his top. “Five minutes to places. We won’t wait for you, Rachel—I mean it this time.” “I hear you, already. I’m just going to give Molly a quick touch-up.” He paused a beat too long, his gaze lingering on the band of thigh where garter met stocking. “Okay. Break a leg.” As the door clicked shut behind him, Molly sucked in a sharp, excited breath. “Ooooh, he likes you. Are you going to start seeing him again?”

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Rachel’s response was a sharp look and a strong hand that forced her sister to the seat she’d just been occupying. It was no secret she and Dominic had once dated. And by dated, she meant she’d been a starry-eyed drama student and he’d been the bespectacled and patchouli-scented professor of all her college-age longings. There had been a lot of clandestine, locked-office sex. Not a whole lot of nice dinners for two. A real gentleman. Even if he redeemed himself with an entire month of nice dinners, dating a guy like Dominic wasn’t in the long-term plan. Dating anyone wasn’t in the long-term plan. These days, a girl either got a Neanderthal whose knuckles and balls dragged on the ground, or a clean-shaven city boy with retractable testes. It was slim pickings out there. Rachel peered into her sister’s face and quickly worked her over with some powder and an eye pencil. She thought they were done with the conversation, but Molly had more to say. “You’re wrong, you know.” Molly kept her facial movements to a minimum, her voice soft. “Eric is different. You’ll see. He’s coming to the show and to the cast party at Dominic’s tonight. He really wants to meet you.” “Good,” Rachel agreed. She turned away so her sister couldn’t see how hard it was for her to keep a smile plastered on her face. “I can’t wait to meet him too.” “Really?” “Really.” They hurried out of the room and to the backstage area, a fairly large extension of the stage that held all their equipment, changes of costume, and one or two weather-beaten couches that were a welcome respite from their dangerously tall heels. The entire female cast hobbled around in said heels and

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bustiers, the men primarily in pants so tight the little muscular indentation of every one of their butt cheeks within a twenty-foot radius was clearly outlined. Another day, another dollar. Even though it was obvious Molly wanted to keep talking, Rachel expertly maneuvered them to their spots without once mentioning the tattooed and ineligible man of her sister’s dreams. Because Rachel would go ahead and meet this guy, all right. And then she’d get rid of him before he got anywhere near her sister’s soft, malleable and completely patchwork heart.

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Chapter Two A Freckled Whelp

Michael didn’t normally favor hats for casual wear. If you asked him, they had a tendency to move a man firmly up the charts of tool-dom. The jauntier the angle, the more likely the guy was to post pictures of his dick on the Internet. But if there was one thing he learned in high school, it was that a hat provided the perfect cover for long, boring lectures given by long-faced, boring men. He wasn’t taking any chances on this Shakespeare fellow. A wool fedora went firmly over his head, and just to give Peterson something to bitch about, he cocked the hat so it almost covered one of his eyes. He checked his image in the side-view mirror of Peterson’s van. Perfect. “You look like an idiot,” Peterson said. Michael waggled his eyebrows and tipped the brim. “I feel like an idiot. Why are we doing this again?” When Peterson opened his mouth to talk, Michael interrupted. “Oh, yeah. Because you plan on owing me—big-time and for the rest of your pathetic life. I still don’t see why you couldn’t bring someone else in my place, though.” Peterson focused his eyes on the road and didn’t offer a response. Michael took a deep breath and prepared for the inevitable. “What do you want, Peterson? And what’s it going to cost me?” “The thing is, I really like this girl.” “Got it.” Michael held up one hand and placed the other reverently over his chest. “I hereby solemnly swear not to hit up your lady friend with my numerable charms.”

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Even though Peterson concentrated on driving, Michael flexed his arms for good effect, doing his best not to notice how much less impressive the results were these days. A few months off from his regular training schedule for the Scottish Highland Games, where both he and Peterson were regular competitors, and he was withering away like an old woman. It was March, so there weren’t any competitions for a while, but they always did a team Top Warrior Race this time of year, to keep the brotherhood and muscles going strong. One more month. He just needed to give his knee, five months post-surgery and still not fully functional, some time to recuperate before he could get back on his regular track. And then it was back to life. Back to flexing his muscles. Back to being the Michael O’Leary everyone knew and loved. “It’s not just that,” Peterson warned. The blur of trees and shopping malls blended into a kind of static as Michael waited to hear the rest. “I need your help.” “You don’t have to say anything more,” Michael offered, trying to find his footing in the strangely heavy air between them. “She’s got this friend, and your girl won’t go anywhere without her. You need me, and you need my game. Just say it, bro. You. Need. My. Game.” It worked. Peterson grinned. “I might have lied some,” he admitted. “It’s not a friend—it’s her sister. Apparently, she can be high-strung, and I want to make a good impression. It’d be awesome if you could unwind her a little.” “Unwind? Is that what we’re calling it now?” “I’m practically doing you a favor, Mikey.” It was hard to ignore the question in Peterson’s voice. No—not a question. This was out-and-out pleading. “Molly says she’s drop-dead gorgeous.”

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Michael pulled the hat down lower over his head and braced himself for the worst. That’s what they always said.

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” A woman seated behind them in the darkened theater shushed loudly. Michael lowered his voice a few notches and tried again. “Seriously? The woman in red? That’s the sister?” Michael considered himself a lover of women—all women, really. Skinny, curvy, tall, short, smart, dumb… There was ample place in his heart and arms for each one. It was a credo that had turned him into a semipermanent wingman for his friends, and that was fine. He was more than happy to take on the role. After all, someone had to placate the flesh that others left behind. But that up there on the stage hardly qualified as flesh at all. It was as though someone had sucked all the life and vibrancy out of a human being and replaced it with a zombie. A creepy Shakespearean zombie in negligee. “What’s wrong with her?” Peterson protested. “I think she looks nice. Check out those legs.” “Dude. That woman is fifty, if not more. You’ve got to have the wrong one.” Peterson leaned forward in his chair, a fluffy velvet thing too narrow to accommodate the breadth of him. “I’m pretty sure that’s her. Molly said her sister was the queen, and she’s the only one wearing that crown thing. Besides, you’ve got to admit, Mikey—if you squint a little, she’s pretty hot.” Michael squinted, and it did, in fact, help.

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Like most of the other actors and actresses on the stage, the supposed sister wore an almost nonexistent dress, stockings that reached to the middle of her thighs, and a corset that made the most out of an already buxom form. There was a definite appeal to that kind of getup, and Michael was trying his best to enjoy it. Every woman had value. He firmly believed that. “Maybe it’s just the stage makeup?” Michael finally offered. “I bet that’s it!” Peterson shouted, happy to latch on to an excuse. “You’re being rude,” the woman behind them hissed. “I can’t hear what they’re saying.” Michael shot an apologetic look over his shoulder before pulling his attention back to the stage. He had to admit, it was a pretty good production, and the theater was nice enough. It was small and dark and decorated mostly in the deep red draperies whorehouses in Wild West movies always had. Besides, whoever had thought to put all that antiquated dialogue into the mouths of a young, vibrant and scantily clad cast was a genius. Boobs made everything better. True fact. But it was damnably hard to follow what the actors were saying—especially every time that Gertrude character came on stage and stabbed her freakishly high eyebrows right into her hairline. With a little color in her, she wouldn’t be ugly, exactly. Sour was a better word for it, like a schoolteacher bent on punishing him—and not in the good way. Michael didn’t think he’d ever seen a more unhappy person in his entire life. Wooing a shady sex-show actress should have been something a man looked forward to, like a sailor’s first port call. Maybe some intensive tongue-and-voice lessons to start. A whole closet full of those costumes and wild, kinky role-

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playing later on. He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes a little. Maybe that teacher thing wasn’t out of the question. “I’ll say this, Peterson. You’re one lucky bastard to have me for a friend. I’ve never been a man to back down from a challenge. In fact, my motto’s always been the bigger, the better.” He chuckled. “Let’s just hope she feels the same way.” “Will you please be quiet and watch your language?” The woman kicked his seat this time. “This is a family show.” On stage, a pair of men without any shirts on started talking to a human skull. Michael turned and grinned. “Lady, if you bring your kids to something like this, you’re seriously demented.” When he turned back around, it was to face a pair of ushers who had materialized in front of him. Based on the lack of musculature on display, it was obvious they were in their current positions due to an inability to look good without a shirt on. Both men took one look at Michael and Peterson and lost all the blood in their faces—and he sincerely doubted it was pooling anywhere a man liked his blood to go every now and then. “Sir—” one of them began. “Um, we’re so sorry, but the noise—” Peterson, who split his time between being a concert security guard and a bouncer at a nightclub, swallowed a laugh. He could have booted this pair with a single glance. “We’ll keep it down, boys. We promise. No need to get rough.” “It’s not that. We, uh, need to escort you out.” Michael sat up and crossed his arms. “My friend here wants to see the show.” “But we’ve had several complaints, sir. You’re disrupting the patrons.”

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The shorter of the two ushers, who was clad in an oversized dress shirt and blue cummerbund, swallowed heavily. “Due to the nature of the content, it’s the theater’s policy to provide an escort to the lobby in the event of inappropriate behavior.” “If you want us out, you’re going to have to physically remove us.” Michael slapped on his biggest scowl. Between his face and the several hundred pounds of muscle he and Peterson shared, it should have been enough to scare away a whole fleet of knobby-kneed ushers. Unfortunately, Michael made the mistake of using the usher’s scared pause to look up toward the stage, where the woman—the harpy with the eyebrows of death—was glaring at them. That was the problem with front-row seats, whether in a theater like this or at a rock concert that was actually worth a damn. It was close enough to see the blood, sweat and tears. And that woman… Well, Michael saw blood reflecting in her eyes. His own blood. Lots of it. He gulped. “Let’s go, Peterson. I think I’ve had all the culture I can stand for one night.” “You’re worse than my kids, Mikey,” he muttered. The two of them ducked out of the aisle and headed toward the bright green sign of the exit, unable to resist a quick jump at the ushers, who may or may not have loosened their bowels in the process. “I think it was just about to get good,” Peterson added, leading the way out. “I’ll buy you the Blu-Ray version,” Michael promised. “Dude—there is no Blu-Ray version. It’s slutty Shakespeare.” As soon as they were back in the lights of the faded art-deco lobby, away from the eyes of the zombie actress, Michael relaxed. With a hearty slap on Peterson’s back, he directed them both toward the wine and cocktail bar, which

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was small but lit up with a welcoming red glow. He met the bartender’s eyes and flicked two fingers up. “Slutty Shakespeare?” Michael shook his head. “Fifty bucks says there is a Blu-Ray version. With deleted scenes.”

“Aren’t you going to change out of your costume?” Molly’s voice was small as she came up behind Rachel. The backstage area had cleared for the night, most of the crew already out the doors and headed toward the cast party, a celebration they had every few months when rehearsals for the next show were about to begin. Work hard, play hard—it was Dominic’s way of filling his production with highly trained and talented actors. Well, that and a decent salary—at least in terms of stage work. Rachel had earned only half as much last year, when she’d toured with a small but prestigious troupe doing Arsenic and Old Lace to a much older and more sedate crowd. That in itself wasn’t surprising; in the world of entertainment, pay was directly proportionate to the amount of skin showing. Even though Rachel loved this time of night, when the theater seemed to pulse with abated activity and there was an almost quiet reverence to the place, she missed the sense of euphoria that followed on the heels of a great performance. In all her time on this production, she’d never been able to duplicate the soaring sense of satisfaction that had made her get into the field in the first place. But what did she expect? Sullying literary genius with fishnet stockings had a tendency to deflate the ego.

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She sighed. So it wasn’t exactly what she’d dreamed of as a little girl, but it was Shakespeare. Technically, there was a stage and an audience and a regular paycheck too. And Molly. Molly counted for a lot, even if Rachel was tempted to lock her in a chastity belt and swallow the key. For as long as she could remember, they’d only had each other, two lives so intertwined it was impossible not to do or think anything without her sister playing a role. Rachel turned to face Molly, who had changed into her off-stage outfit—a small skirt and even smaller shirt that might as well have been her Ophelia pasties. She bit back a caustic remark. For a classically trained actress, Molly had serious issues with her personal wardrobe. “Everyone else is already at the party,” Molly said. “Looking, you know, like human beings. You can’t show up wearing that.” “Yes, I can.” Rachel extended her leg behind her and examined a run beginning to form along her calf. “Public humiliation seems to be all the rage. I figure it’s my turn to have a go.” Molly caught her meaning and wrinkled her nose. “It’s not as bad as you think it is. It was just a misunderstanding, I’m sure.” Misunderstanding? It was a misunderstanding to show up for an appointment an hour late. It was a misunderstanding to bring home rice cakes when a woman clearly said chocolate ice cream. It was not a misunderstanding to place a pair of thugs in the best seats in the house. Thugs, thank you very much, who not only had no necks to speak of, but who’d dared to heckle them.

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Dominic had one rule—staff was not to be harassed. As far as Rachel was concerned, that was something you rarely got in stage work these days. Some of those ladies at the Arsenic and Old Lace productions had been brutal. “They’ll be here any minute,” Molly pleaded. “Look—you don’t have to like Eric. You don’t even have to be nice to him. But please, just put on some normal clothes and try to act like a human being. Try to act like my sister.” “Unfortunately, this is how your sister acts,” Rachel warned. She knew what Molly was doing—the girl was as easy to see through as her Ophelia costume. Molly thought if Rachel would just play nice for a few days, she would fall in love with the tattooed behemoth and give her blessing to the mismatched pair. Not in a million years. Not even if he had a million dollars. Clenching her jaw, Rachel added, “And I’ll tell you right now, if this boyfriend of yours so much as tries to get his overgrown mule of a friend in here tonight—” “Eric!” Molly squealed. She almost launched herself over Rachel in her hurry to get to the doorway, a blur of miniskirt and tube top that didn’t stop until it hit the wall of man that had somehow found a way through the back entrance. Rachel turned away and examined her nails, unwilling—and unable—to stomach the sights and sounds of so much exuberant saliva making its way into the room. “You must be the sister,” a pleasant voice called, followed by another wall of man. Rachel toyed with the idea of ignoring the guy and hoping he’d eventually disappear, but he was very much in the present, gaping at her like she was a giant sandwich or something. What a charmer. He probably chewed and made love like that too.

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She scowled, sorry she hadn’t followed Molly’s advice and changed, but glad she hadn’t yet started chipping away at her stage makeup. The greasepaint might not cover her chest any, but it was an effective layer of protection just the same. And if there was one thing she’d learned from her family history, it was that it wasn’t good to let men like this get too close. “You,” she said slowly, rolling her mouth around each word, “have the manners of a pig.” “Oh, I’m sorry. I completely forgot.” He extended his hand, a huge, meaty paw of an appendage, coming so close he could have twitched a finger and flicked her nipple. “The name’s Michael. Michael O’Leary. The overgrown mule. Or pig. I’m having a hard time keeping track.” Rachel blinked, looking down at his arm—which contained the image of a tattooed pinup girl dancing brazenly across it—and back up at his face. His smile was wide, bland and unwavering. It suited him, the inanity of it all. Like he was a bull out to pasture, bemused by the glare of the sun. He had light hair, a little too long and too wavy to look the least bit attractive on anyone with a Y chromosome, and blue eyes that crinkled at the edges. And Lord, was he big. She was a tall woman, much more so than her sister, and she liked to think she was built on queenly lines. But she had to look up to meet his expression, and if he put his arms around her, he could have swallowed her whole. He had to be a bodybuilder or something. Maybe ex-military. Possibly a steroid addict looking to sell her sister’s organs for cash. Since his hand wasn’t moving, Rachel took a slight step back and shook it— firmly, with resolution. She did not pay any attention to how warm his grasp was, or how he didn’t shrink at all when she squeezed hard enough to give her

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pinky finger a cramp. And although she did give a second glance to his attire, which was some sort of strange Macbeth-Braveheart montage, she most certainly didn’t notice the legs peeking out from beneath his skirt. Thick, chiseled legs that made no apologies for their presence right there in her dressing room. Thick, chiseled legs that hinted at the kind of powerful thighs a woman could sink her teeth into. “I’m Rachel,” she said, keeping her eyes firmly above waist level. The only interest she had in that man’s legs was how far away they could take him. “I don’t know who you think you are or what kind of a barn you were raised in, but you can’t act like a pair of frat boys when you’re in a theater like this one. Do you know how prestigious the Odyssey Theater is? Do you know what kind of actors and actresses have walked this stage before?” “Old ones, probably.” Michael held a hat in one hand, and he plopped it at a crooked angle on his head, crushing his beach-bum surfer curls. Rachel didn’t bother to hide any of her feelings from crossing her face, but he launched right ahead, oblivious. “I know I acted like a three-legged jerk tonight. If it makes you feel any better, I doubt I’ll be able to sleep a wink tonight, what with the guilt and the shame eating at my soul.” Three-legged jerk? She didn’t even want to ask. Rachel turned to find her sister unwinding herself from around the other man’s waist. “And this is the other one?” she asked, her voice coated with disdain. “I can’t tell which one of you is worse.” “Oh, Peterson is much worse, I assure you.” Michael angled himself by her side like a puppy determined to wedge itself at her heel. He probably wasn’t

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potty trained, either. “I’m definitely the charming one. Are you surprised? You look surprised.” “I didn’t say anything.” He lifted a hand to her brow and, with the wide pad of his thumb—probably unwashed from the last time he peed in a bush—wiped a line along her entire forehead. “What are you doing? Stop that!” She batted at his hands. “Are you insane?” He stepped back and viewed his handiwork, a slight squint in his cherubic eyes. “I missed a spot.” He dove back in, jabbing his fingers into her flesh for a full ten seconds before he finally stopped and wiped his thumbs on his shirt. “There,” he said, grinning. “Now you look like you believe me.” Molly clamped a hand over her mouth and bit off a giggle as Rachel turned to assess the damages in the reflection of one of the spotlights that had been lowered on its rig. Two black smudges existed where her brows had been, almost all the makeup wiped clear of her forehead. People don’t act like this in public. She whirled on her heel. “I’m done, Molly. I’m not about to stand here while this guy mauls me and insults me to my face. We’re going.” “Wait, Rach—you haven’t even met Eric yet.” Molly could barely get the words out between her bursts of poorly muffled laughter. “Eric, huh?” the mule-beast said, his voice also rumbling with laughter. Laughter he had no right to, thank you very much. “I forgot he even had a first name.” Rachel viewed Eric with a cold eye. Like his friend, he had an incredible pair of man hands and large, square shoulders that tapered down to the kind of body that existed only after hours of photo manipulation. But while Michael-the-Mule

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had what lesser women might term classic good looks on top of everything else, Molly’s boyfriend sported a close-cut buzz cut and did, in fact, have six or seven visible tattoos. The only ones Rachel could make out were a scaly monster that took up half of his head and two women’s names, one on each wrist. Samantha and Priscilla. He looked like the type of man who had no nasal septum and tucked used needles into his back pockets. And where, exactly, was Molly’s name supposed to fit? On his ass? “I’m Eric Peterson,” he said, nodding slightly, his voiced clipped but polite. “Molly’s told me so much about you.” A cold silence descended, and Rachel was happy to let it. She could stare a man into oblivion with her hands tied behind her back. She had, in fact, done just that, once upon a time. An ex-boyfriend thought a little bondage might “loosen her up” in the bedroom, and he’d pulled out all the stops with a pair of silk ties and his brass bedposts. It hadn’t worked. No amount of kink would have helped that man understand the basics of female anatomy. She could have sat there, tied up and on display for hours, while he perused a textbook. He still would have been unable to find her clitoris. “I think this is where you’re supposed to say ‘only good things, I hope,’ even though we all know you don’t mean it.” Michael whispered, full of drama and mischief. He was like an imp, except ginormous and seemingly incapable of complex thought. “And if I remember correctly, that’s when we all laugh and pretend we’re clever.” Rachel turned. “Why are you still here? In case I didn’t make myself clear, I’m not interested. You ruined our show, you look like an idiot in that skirt, and

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you smell like the floor of a bar. That’s three strikes and you are way, way out. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Molly and I have a cast party to attend.” “Eric’s riding with me, Rachel. You can come with us, if you want.” Rachel’s stomach clenched. Us. Her sister said it so casually, with so much pride. “Thanks, Molly, but I’ll pass,” she said, her jaw tight. “I’ll just meet you guys at Dominic’s.” There. She’d tried. She’d met the boyfriend and his genius of a friend—and they’d both confirmed the worst of her suspicions. Molly hadn’t learned anything, and she was letting down the walls way too soon. “There is one thing you should know before you go,” the Mule added, still pointing that asinine grin at her. It was only with supreme self-control that she was able to answer without shattering her teeth. “What?” “Everything I’ve heard about you has been good. Just in case you were wondering.”

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Chapter Three

The Old Bait and Switch

Michael pulled up to the address Molly had given him for the cast party and did his best to feel cheerful about it. He’d been reduced to driving Peterson’s embarrassingly soccer-mom-like minivan, and was trying very hard to ignore the smell of what must have been years-old french fries wedged between the seats. Eric, as he was apparently known now, had chosen to ride with his sweet and quiet girlfriend, leaving Michael to make his own way to the producer’s place, a converted firehouse out in the middle of nowhere. If there was a fire pole still inside, he was definitely going to ask if he could slide down it. A man deserved his kicks, especially after a night like this one. It was only through a fierce loyalty to the bro code that he was willing to come at all. “I think I’ve done all I can do here, you two,” he’d said once Rachel made her grand exit, her zombie face halfway wiped off and her ass cheeks fully visible underneath her tiny flared skirt. It was an odd combination of features—one Michael’s poor, confused body had no idea how to handle. He turned to Molly. “A man hates to admit defeat, and I’m sure your sister’s a perfectly doe-eyed peach most of the time, but I’m going to go out on a limb here and say I don’t think I’m her type.” “No—no!” Molly had instantly pleaded, her hands coming together around his. “She’s just overprotective sometimes. It takes her a little while to warm up, but I think she really liked you. Honest.” He’d laughed, thinking she was joking, but Peterson’s mouth was firm as their eyes met over her head. Peterson looked an awful lot like a man in love.

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He looked fucking miserable. “Give her a chance, please?” Peterson had asked quietly. Had he joked or laughed or even cracked a smile, Michael would have abandoned him on the spot, happily and without a single backward glance. But with that face and that plea, Peterson obviously needed him. And Michael never left a man behind. So he’d sighed and agreed, knowing the whole time he would live to regret it. There was more in that small request than just one night of sacrificing himself on the altar of good wingman behavior. Unless he was very much mistaken, that woman planned to cut him up into tiny pieces and feed him to a pet lion. Of course, Michael let none of those fears show as he made his way up the steps to the house, exchanging warm greetings with people he’d never met and gratefully accepting the first red plastic cup of beer that was placed in his hand. He was Michael O’Leary. He wore a skirt, and he smiled in the face of hostility. He stood by his friends through Shakespearean zombies and hissing she-bats. These were the things he knew to be true. It only took him a few minutes to unwind, and he wasn’t the only one. Based on the number of empty cups lying on their sides, he’d say these actors could drink as well as any Scottish Highland athlete after a big game. At last. People after his own heart. Just about everyone had changed into street clothes, and as Michael scanned the crowd, he realized he had no idea what the sister looked like without her creepy face on. He tried searching for someone who looked like Molly, but no one jumped out at him. He decided, about half a beer and a fruitless twenty-minute search in, he’d have probably been better off searching for an unhappy-looking woman with a man’s balls pinned to her chest.

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“So, is there a fire pole somewhere around here?” he asked, giving up the search and directing his conversation toward a pleasant-looking man in a velvet vest and cargo pants. Michael recognized him as one of the guys who’d pranced around the stage in nothing but tights. It was a memory that would burn for a long time, but the guy seemed decent enough now that his clothes were back on. “I’ve always wanted to try one of those.” The man grinned. “I wish. Dominic had it taken out a few years ago. He fell through the hole one night on his way to the john. I hear there’s a rundown fire truck out back, though.” They chatted a little about the possibility of getting the hose to work again. Michael was tempted to go out and give it a try, since he had a knack for breaking down mechanical devices and putting them back together again. It was a skill that came from an adolescence spent working a farm. Out where the wheat whistled and the hills rolled, things had a tendency to break, and no one worth his salt out on the Palouse hired someone else to fix it. A man given to deeper reflection might make the connection between salvaging broken-down hay balers and a knee that refused to hold his own weight anymore. Fortunately, Michael was not that man. He was a wingman, the friend Peterson could count on to woo a slab of stone wrapped in ice. “Do you know if Rachel Hewitt is around here anywhere?” he asked. His companion’s eyes flickered for a moment, something like surprise or amusement or—most likely—gut-wrenching sympathy flitting through. The man nodded toward the direction of the kitchen, which was open to the living room, separated only by a huge granite island covered with bottles of every kind of alcohol known to mankind.

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Good. Maybe she was a little bit…softer when she was drinking. The two scotches he and Peterson had kicked back while the show ended certainly hadn’t improved things on his end. There were several people gathered around that part of the kitchen, but it wasn’t hard to pick Rachel out. She was tall and long-limbed, a woman who looked like she had quite a bit of flexibility in her, if truth and awesomeness be told. She had fairly normal eyebrows once all that face paint was wiped off, her short, dark hair matched by a pair of chunky glasses. Not exactly the beauty her sister was, but he could definitely work with what he saw. “I see you made it here safe and sound,” Michael said. He moved toward her cautiously, his arms down at his sides, his smile wide and warm, the same way he’d approach a Rottweiler for the first time. There was no need to invite attack. “Um. Yeah. I’m a pretty good driver,” Rachel said. Her eyes widened as she looked him over. “Did you want me to get you another drink?” “Oh, no. Not me. I have it on good authority that I smell like the floor of a bar. But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” “O-kay. I guess not.” She drew each syllable out; her brows pulled together as she contemplated him. Michael nodded a little, feeling optimistic. There had been no shrieking yet. No insults. Where he was from, that was called progress. “You’re a lot different without your stage wear on. Much more human, if you don’t mind my saying. I’ve always found that to be a trait I love in a woman.” Her nose wrinkled, and she pushed her glasses up. “That she’s human?” “Well, it’s not a deal breaker, but…” She laughed. Success. When a woman laughed at his jokes, he was as good as in.

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“So, this Shakespeare stuff… Is it a hobby or a job? It looks like your producer director guy does pretty well for himself.” Rachel smiled and leaned against the counter. Her guard slipped down, and Michael found that relaxation suited her. It usually did. Women had no idea how much more attractive they were once they stopped thinking so much and let themselves just be. No one would ever accuse Michael of putting on a show for the opposite sex. He was what he was, no questions asked, no apologies offered. “Who? Dominic?” Rachel asked. “I think he comes mostly from family money. He used to be a professor over at the university, but I think he got fired for taking up with his students. If you ask me, the Shakespeare After Dark stuff is his way to rub it in all those academic faces. It’s a funny story. I actually met Dominic a few years ago at a benefit luncheon—” Michael nodded in all the right places, asked the questions that were expected of him and strove to be as pleasant as possible. Now that Rachel wasn’t railing at him as though he were the boogeyman, she was actually quite chatty. A lot chatty, actually—Michael felt like he should have been taking notes. Iambic pentameter was why they all sounded so funny up there on the stage. The best way to repair a run in a pair of nylons was with clear nail polish. Rachel hated goats but loved feta cheese. She was definitely more of a talker than a listener, which suited his purposes just fine. Michael’s job had been made very clear—keep Rachel occupied and happy for the duration of the party. Talking occupied her, and more than one smile had crossed her face in the last fifteen minutes. He was doing a damn fine job, if you asked him. Hell, if things kept going this well, he might even ask her out on a regular date.

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“So, is this party the end of the road for you, or did you want to maybe go grab a bite somewhere?” Michael asked. “You certainly don’t waste any time, do you?” They were interrupted by a redheaded woman standing at Michael’s elbow. Redhead was the only way to describe her—she wore her hair color like a flag tucked into her back pocket. Long, deep red strands reached toward her midback, and he would have sworn she wore a tight white T-shirt and white pants just to emphasize the hair. She had almost no makeup on, but her skin was clear and smooth, her lashes and brows a shade darker than her bright locks. Her mouth was a bit wide but perfectly in keeping with her stature, which was also generous in all the right places. Many years of training in the art of handling women were the only things that prevented Michael from turning his back completely on Rachel and shining the full rays of his charm on this new one. To some men, the redhead might have seemed spartan and overgrown. Michael had other ideas. She seemed robust and strong—traits never to be overlooked in someone who might be willing to grapple in the nude. “It’s only wasting time if you aren’t enjoying it,” Michael said with a grin and a wide wink in Rachel’s direction. “And I’m enjoying myself immensely.” Rachel let out a little giggle at his words, obviously pleased, but the redhead scowled. There was a curl to her lips, and her eyes—a strangely iridescent gray— flashed. His heart picked up a beat as he looked her over again. Where had he seen those eyes before? “I’ll bet you are,” the redhead muttered. “Let me guess—when one door slams in your face, another one spreads itself open?” “Have you two ladies met?” Michael interposed smoothly. He might not know exactly what kind of sticks were up the asses of all these theater women,

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but he could at least put a stop to things before they pulled them out and started beating one another. “This is Rachel Hewitt, and I don’t believe—” “Don’t be a moron,” the redhead said, crossing her arms over her chest and glowering. “Of course we know each other. You’re the one crashing our cast party, unwanted and uninvited. Not Jillian. She’s been working the lights for years.” Michael’s head spun a little, but it didn’t have a chance to do more than one or two whirls before the redhead—Rachel? Not Rachel?—let out a low laugh and turned her mercenary stare on the brunette—Jillian? Not Jillian? Not good. That’s what this was. “Don’t be too flattered, Jillian. He tried that same smile-and-charm routine with me back at the Odyssey. I guess when I turned him down, he moved on to the next warm body.” Correction. Bad. This was very, very bad. “Ladies, please.” Michael put his hands up in full surrender and plastered a smile on his face. “There’s more than enough of me to go around. I’m a very substantial man.” Both of them turned on him, scowls on their once so promising faces. Wasn’t it Shakespeare who said that bit about a woman scorned? “I’m also a very good sharer,” he added. “Larson!” Rachel’s shout was loud and final, piercing his heart but not the stirring underneath his kilt. That woman had volume. Michael had always admired a strong pair of…lungs. “Larson, get this brute out of the party. He’s preying on the female staff.” For the second time in one evening, Michael found himself confronting the hundred-pound usher, his cummerbund replaced with a Mario T-shirt that looked much closer to his actual size. The look of stark fear on his face was the

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same, though, terror in the white skin with illuminated bursts of teenage acne smattered across his forehead. Unable to help himself, Michael widened his stance and crossed his arms. It was his menacing look. He liked it. “Um, Miss Hewitt? Can’t you just get one of the other guys to kick him out?” “For crying out loud. This is what you do for a living—just get him out of my sight and make sure he doesn’t try to sneak back in. Do you want to be the one responsible for all the roofies he’s probably slipping into the punch?” Great. In addition to a mule and a pig, he was now a rapist. What kind of brownies had Peterson been eating, begging him to take on this woman? He liked a challenge, but this Rachel character was a hell of a lot more than that. She was a lunatic. “Actually, Ms. Hewitt, I mostly help people find their seats,” the usher squeaked. “I’m not qualified for this.” “Get him out of here, or you won’t be qualified to do anything remotely connected with the theater ever again.” Larson’s lower lip quivered. “For fuck’s sake. I’ll go. Don’t break the poor kid into tiny usher pieces.” Michael turned to Jillian and smiled. “It really was nice to meet you. I’m sorry to run off before I could give you those goat-wrangling pointers, but all you really need to remember is to go for the eyes.” Jillian smiled directly at Rachel and gave her shoulders a little shake, obviously feeling the triumph of his kindness and eager to flaunt it. No judgment. If ever a woman needed to be put in her place—a tight, cramped, uncomfortable hole where she’d be forced to smell her own shit—it was Rachel Hewitt. “It’s okay. Give me a call sometime,” Jillian added.

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“Hey, Larson—you want to walk me out? Make it official?” “Sure. Thanks, man. I’m sorry about before.” “You’re just doing your job.” Larson stood up a little straighter. Atta boy. A good three-fourths of confidence was just letting yourself feel it. For the rest, the kid would have to do a few thousand bench presses. “This satisfy you, Your Highness?” Michael smirked, turning back to Rachel. “Or would you prefer to get the cops involved? Maybe just the handcuffs? Some whips and chains?” He had the pleasure of seeing her turn on her heel and storm away, that ass making yet another grand departure to feast his eyes on. A righteous ass, that’s what it was, all mad and stomping and full of motion. He wondered if she did it on purpose. Still. Score. Michael O’Leary: One. Rachel Hewitt: Zero. He cracked his knuckles and allowed Larson to lead the way out the back door. He’d tell Peterson and Molly that he tried, but even Michael O’Leary had to know when to bow out of a fight. It wasn’t fear, of course. Michael just wasn’t keen on losing his balls.

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Chapter Four Cradle Will Rock

In Rachel’s experience, early morning visitors to Evergreen Cemetery took the shape of one of two things. The first were one-half of elderly couples divided by fate. They were the little old men who’d lost their wives to breast cancer, the little old ladies mourning husbands taken by heart disease—coming almost every day, like clockwork, walking slowly and resting along the garden paths. It was as though a lifetime of saying “good morning” to the same person was an impossible habit to break, and there was no way for them to start their day without it. It wasn’t sweet, and Rachel wasn’t about to start cooing and clucking over their devotion the way Molly did. She didn’t approve of any kind of addiction that dictated a person’s actions so heavily. Caffeine. Alcohol. Drugs. Love. Especially love. The second types of visitors were runners, herself included. The gym was too confining, and Rachel much preferred the rustle of the barren tree branches and the crunch of her shoes on brown grass grown stiff and iridescent with cold. She wasn’t the only one. Nodding politely to a woman in a tracksuit, Rachel felt the rush that came when she finally hit her stride. Determination urged her to keep going, past the rows of somber headstones and sad elderly people until fatigue made it difficult to focus on anything but the movement of each leg. Forward, forward, always moving ahead. But she didn’t. She slowed to a walk and wrapped her arms over her stomach. It was fairly chilly out, the morning March air showing little puffs of

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her breath as she ran. Her body was an odd mixture of hot and cold, simultaneously covered with sweat and goose bumps. If she wanted to keep the adrenaline going, she needed to turn and run the rest of the way home. But she couldn’t. One hundred and seventeen rows back from the entrance. Eight places in from the path. The grave to the right of it had a little cherub sculpture that always seemed to Rachel to be too sickly sweet for the rest of the simple rectangle plaques. Someone showing off. Cemeteries were the worst for that. A huge spray of pink carnations, still fresh and wrapped in green tissue paper, were placed on the headstone, and the grass clippings and debris had been wiped clear of the markings. Baby Hewitt March 22 Rachel reached down and placed her hand on the chilly headstone, holding it there until she could no longer feel her fingers. And that was it. That was all she had to offer. One whole year had gone by, and she still couldn’t find any words to describe the way this cold slab of marble made her feel. “I didn’t think you’d remember.” Rachel wrinkled her nose and blinked a few times before turning to answer her sister. “Well, you were wrong.” Molly blew her nose into an already decrepit-looking tissue and came in for a hug. Rachel winced. “I’m super sweaty.” “Geez, Rach. Like I care.” Part of the reason she’d come so early this morning was to keep things simple. Get in, get out. Avoid messy displays of emotion. But Molly must have

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been walking on the far side of the cemetery—she did that sometimes. Usually Rachel remembered to keep an eye out for her. Her sister’s arms tightened, and Rachel relaxed a little, letting Molly add to the dampness on her shoulder with a sudden rush of tears. She ran her hands over her sister’s hair, up and down, tugging through the curls as she went. It felt awkward at first, almost like petting a dog, but she soon gave in to the rightness of it. No matter what else happened, they still had each other. Rachel wished she didn’t have to make a conscious effort to remind herself of that simple truth, but she did. Every day was an affirmation. Every day was her proof that the sacrifice was worth it. “She’d be one today,” Molly eventually said, her voice thick. “A whole year.” “No. She wouldn’t.” The words were automatic, a knee-jerk reaction to a situation that was well outside Rachel’s comfort zone. She was no good at this kind of thing—the laying bare of emotions. The finding a way to talk about what happened. Molly was good at that. Their mother, once upon a time, had been good at that. Molly jerked back as if Rachel had punched her, so she tried again, feebly. “I just meant that she wouldn’t have been born in March. You know. If Justin hadn’t… If you hadn’t…” “Don’t, Rachel. Please stop.” Rachel tried reaching for her sister to resume their hug, but Molly shook her off, stepping back and crushing a few of the carnations under her heel. “You don’t really get it, do you?”

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“I’m trying, Molly. I really am.” And she was. She’d never tried so hard at anything in her whole life. “I know I don’t always have the right thing to say, but—” “That’s just it,” Molly said between sniffles, looking down at the grave with a kind of tenderness that made Rachel shift uncomfortably. “It’s not about you.” “I know it’s not—” Molly held up her hand. “See? You know. You try.” Rachel stood there, her mouth wide open, her mind at a complete blank. Why couldn’t she think of a single sentence that didn’t start with “I”? “For once, it would be nice if we could keep you entirely out of the conversation. Today. Just for today—that’s all I’m asking. Yep. Molly is weak and useless and has bad judgment in men. Yep. Molly killed her own baby.” Her eyes filled again. “Can you just allow me the luxury of not feeling guilty for twenty-four hours so I can be sad?” “I didn’t mean to say it like that.” Molly let out a scream, one so loud the groundskeeper walking by asked if she needed some help. With gritted teeth, she offered the man a light pleasantry, wishing him a good day and even calling him by name. Rachel wasn’t fooled. There was nothing light or pleasant about her sister in that moment. But she knew better than to try again. Clamping her lips shut, she did her best to stand there, silent and strong or whatever it was Molly wanted her to be. “Please go away. I know I owe you a lot, but I can’t really look at you right now. I just want to be alone.” Gone. Molly wanted her gone. “Sure thing.” It was shameful and weak, but she wanted herself to be out of there almost as much as her sister did. It was too hard, seeing the baby and

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Molly like this—the only way they could ever be together. “Will I see you? I mean, will you be home later today? Before work?” “No. Eric invited me over for this afternoon.” She said it as a challenge. A dare. Rachel clamped her mouth shut again and flipped the volume on her iPod— the Bitchin’ Workout Mix—as high as it could go. Running and loud music were all that was left to her. She wasn’t allowed to scream her frustration into the air like Molly, and her own inadequacies as a human being meant she could never find a way to give voice to all the things she felt. Don’t go, she wanted to plead. Don’t let that man do what the others have done. Use your brain for once. Use it for the four-months-too-early child frozen in the ground. Her sister’s judgment in men was awful. Not just break-her-heart awful, but break-her-bones awful. Break-her-body-and-her-spirit-and-the-tiny-little-soulgrowing-inside-her awful. Rachel couldn’t understand why Molly kept turning to the same type of guys, why she kept turning into the same type of girl with them. She was irrevocably drawn to bad boys, and no amount of begging and pleading on Rachel’s part could change her mind or give her the backbone she needed to stand up to them. And the worst part was, she expected Rachel to do nothing more than stand by and watch her make the same mistakes again. Didn’t her sister have any idea what that did to a person? This new guy, Eric, was the poster boy for everything that wasn’t good for Molly: big and mean and much too old for her. And his giant Nordic demon of a friend wasn’t helping matters any. Brainless brutes, the pair of them, targeting Molly because she was sweet and trusting and completely clueless when it came to guys like them.

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As Rachel made her way along the trail out of the cemetery, one of the little old men raised a hand in farewell, his papery hand cheerful despite the fact he hunched over the grave of a wife gone ten years. Add it to the list. Caffeine. Alcohol. Drugs. Love. Men. Rachel didn’t need any of it. Especially that last bit.

“Nope. No way. No how. Never again.” Michael tested his leg before lifting the empty wooden keg. So far, so good. Other than a tightness along the back of his knee, he was fine. With a roar, he hefted the barrel so it was level with his chest and started running, making it a good fifty feet through the shorn field before turning around and heading back. “Good speed on that one, Mikey,” Julian said. Then he promptly stepped up and beat Michael by at least ten seconds. “Show-off,” Michael said with a laugh. “I was hoping all that sitting for magazines in your underwear you’ve been doing now that you’re some fancy Scottish Games mascot would slow you down. Some guys have all the luck. You’re up, Peterson.” “Won’t you even think about it?” Peterson stretched his arms and bent at the knee to get his arms around the full width of it. The barrel wasn’t in the lineup of their usual tricks—the hammer throw, the caber toss and the weight over bar— but it was one of the events in the upcoming Top Warrior Race. Also, it was really fun. “Wait—wait.” Michael paused, watching Peterson make his round, the barrel falling to his feet about halfway so that he had to resort to a roll for the rest of the lap. That was ten points off. Already, Peterson was slipping.

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“Okay. There. I thought about it.” “And?” “Still no.” Julian laughed as he watched the way Peterson’s face fell. “I still don’t understand how you could have failed that bad, Mikey. What exactly did you say to this woman?” “It wouldn’t have mattered. I was full of compliments and charm, but she was wound up tighter than a nun’s habit—and a hell of a lot less fun to talk to. I think Peterson is trying to have me killed. Oh, I’m sorry. Not Peterson. Eric. He goes by Eric now.” Peterson flipped him the bird before leaning heavily on his barrel, the bottom of it digging a circle into the hard-packed dirt. “It’s only for a few weeks. All you have to do is show up and volunteer to be a bouncer with me. You saw those ushers Dominic hired—there’s no way they could stop some jerk trying for a little more than a peep show.” It was true. But Michael was not a man to stick his nose in other people’s business. “Come on,” Peterson persisted. “They could use the help. I could use the company. And Molly says you’re the perfect distraction.” “More like the perfect sacrifice,” Michael said. “Why should I be the moving target for that woman’s rage while you and your girlfriend go make out in all those dark corners backstage?” “I already explained it, Mikey.” Peterson looked pained. “Molly’s sister is crazy overprotective, and she’s hell-bent on getting me out of the way. Apparently, she’s the sort of woman who will hire a private investigator…and dig up enough dirt to bury me alive. Molly says Rachel’s done it before.” His

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voice lowered. “You know I can’t risk stirring that up. Not with Sammy and Pris at home.” It wasn’t fair, and Peterson was all too aware of it, the bastard. He wouldn’t even look Michael in the eye. They were none of them saints, but Peterson’s sins ran a little bit deeper and darker than the rest of theirs. Michael didn’t know all the details, but there had been something across state lines in Idaho a few months ago involving Peterson’s brother, Nick, and a bar fight that sent a man to the hospital for weeks. If he remembered correctly, no arrests had been made, but not for lack of trying. He’d have to ask Peterson about that later. “Molly and I just need you to distract her sister,” Peterson added. “Keep her occupied until I can find a way to win her over, explain away a few things so she won’t turn around and go batshit crazy all over my life. Please, Mikey?” “This girl means that much?” First Julian, now Peterson. His bros were falling, one by one. Peterson nodded, and Julian clapped him heavily on the back, sharing a look that seemed a lot like a giant pussy whip dipped in romantic comedies and trimmed with lace. Turning to Michael, Julian added, “How bad can it be? All you really have to do is be nice to a woman who, according to Peterson here, is pretty fucking hot.” Michael perked up a little. She was pretty fucking hot. He wasn’t going to lie—he’d much rather sleep on a bed of nails with that Jillian woman than poke Rachel with a stick from a distance of a hundred feet, but he could still appreciate the finer points of a well-built woman. And it had been fun making her so angry the muscle along her temple looked like it was going to explode. He gave it one last try.

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“But volunteer for a naked Shakespeare play, Peterson? For a woman who wants to eat my soul and shit it out in bricks? I do have a reputation to uphold.” Not to mention a lively interest in keeping all his favorite parts intact. Julian laughed. “What reputation? This is the first time I’ve seen you near a field in weeks, and Kate says you never called back that friend of hers she set you up with. What else have you got going on right now?” “You can tell Kate it was not my fault,” Michael said mulishly. “That woman she set me up with only wanted me for my body. I refuse to be treated like a piece of meat.” He got the obligatory laughs, glad when the men’s conversation moved in the direction of an action flick they’d all been to see the day before. The sad truth of it was he wasn’t doing a whole hell of a lot of anything right now. A gentle workout that didn’t strain his knee. Food. Sleep. Repeat. A few more weeks of this and he’d be begging for a woman to spit in his face and trample him in stiletto heels. “You’ll do it, right?” Peterson asked later as they packed up their stuff, ready to call it a day. Michael wanted to go out for beers, but Julian had a date, and Peterson had mumbled something about a babysitter and exorbitant rates. “They’re starting the tryouts for Antony and Cleopatra next Monday. Dominic already likes you, and we can offer to do it for cheap. Please? I need this.” Michael sighed. “Yeah, man. You know I’m there.” Peterson grinned. “But I refuse to wear one of those pointy hats.” “Of course.” “Or tights.” “I’m pretty sure bouncers don’t wear costumes.”

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“You better hope you’re right, Peterson.” With those weird theater people, Michael wasn’t taking any chances. “Or I’m making you eat the tights. After I wear them.”

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Chapter Five An Ass-Head

Rachel loved the first day of a new play. Because the Shakespeare After Dark production catered to a rather debauched crowd, it showed only four nights a week, which meant it could be a year-round production and not strain the actor’s limits. They mixed up the shows every couple of months to keep things fresh. Hamlet had gone well, aside from the debacle the other night, and the next show they were doing was Antony and Cleopatra, one of Rachel’s favorites. She was a shoo-in for the lead role. Sexy Cleopatra. She could totally pull that off. “Well, well. If it isn’t my favorite redhead.” Rachel’s eyes closed at the sound of that voice. That voice. Mocking, condescending and so supremely full of self-importance she wanted to scream just to cover it up. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to ask any obvious questions about drapes and the rug. I can tell you’re a natural.” With more control than she thought was humanly possible, Rachel opened her eyes and smiled, her lips spread about as thin as they could go. Michael-theMule stood just inches away, all casual and at his ease, actually looking halfway decent in a white polo shirt and tastefully faded jeans, his arms crossed over his chest. Rachel felt her heart pick up and her body growing warm at the sight of him. It wasn’t her fault. They were big arms. It was a big chest.

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“I think you might be lost,” she said coldly, forcing herself to look up at his big, bovine eyes instead. “Auditions here are by invitation only.” “Oh, I know. I’ve been invited. It’s just about the best day of my life—well, aside from that time I had a layover in Denver. Did you know that when you’re at higher elevations, a man can actually—” “Stop right there. I don’t want to hear another word.” Rachel flipped through the pages of her clipboard until she came to the end, where Dominic had scrawled in the last-minute entries. Michael O’Leary. Eric Peterson. The Mule and the Skeazy Boyfriend. God help her. They were little better than stalkers, infiltrating Molly’s life, taking over everything until all her ties to the outside world were severed for good. She knew that story. It didn’t end well. Eric came up behind Michael until he caught sight of her and veered a wide path in the opposite direction. At least he knew what was good for him. “Who did you sleep with to get on here? You can’t just waltz in and expect to be treated as an equal.” Michael thumbed over his shoulder to where Dominic bent over a stack of screenplays near the front of the stage. “Oh, Peterson thought it might be fun, so we stopped by a few days ago to have some beers at Dom’s house. I even got his fire hose up and running again.” Rachel narrowed her eyes. “Is that a euphemism?” “If by euphemism you mean completely awesome, then yes,” Michael said with a grin. God, he had a lot of teeth when he smiled, all flashy and…there. Just like a mule. “Did you know the manual hydraulics on one of those older models can get the water just as far as the pump systems today? It’s amazing.” “So let me get this straight.” Rachel tucked the clipboard under her arm and did her best to look like the authoritarian backstage manager she technically

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wasn’t but might as well be. “You got asked to participate in a professional Shakespeare production without a scrap of experience because you played squirt guns with the producer?” He chuckled and spread his arms wide. He must have had the wingspan of a raptor. “I might not know all those fancy words you love to spout, Red, but I believe the kids today call that networking.” “Aaaarrgh!” was all she could come up with on short notice. Her jaw clamped down so hard she felt something pop up near her temple as she tried again. “You know this doesn’t make you an actor, right? You’ll most likely end up moving a few pieces of scenery and sitting around chewing your cud all day.” “That sounds right up my alley,” he said, grinning harder—if such a thing was possible. “It just so happens I like to keep my mouth in good shape. You have no idea how much better a man is at—” Rachel didn’t stay to hear the rest of his low-brow and most likely off-color statement. Throwing the clipboard on the ground with a resounding and satisfying slap, she stormed toward the bathrooms. The ladies room, at least, was one place the Mule couldn’t follow her. Although she wouldn’t put it past him to try.

“This is going better than I hoped.” Molly let out a squeal and wrapped her arms around Michael’s midsection. Her arms didn’t go all the way around, but that didn’t stop her from giving him a warm squeeze. “I can’t thank you enough for agreeing to do this. She hasn’t been like this in a long time.” “Throwing things and screaming is a good sign?” Michael was confused. He’d come over here expecting Molly to yell at him for pissing her sister off in

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less than fifteen minutes, not look at him with those adoring eyes, the same color as her sister’s but oh so very different in the way they measured a man. “It’s the best sign. I don’t think I’ve seen so much emotion out of her in, well, about a year.” Molly’s smile faltered a little, but she tucked her arm confidently in his and led him toward Dominic. “She didn’t even look twice at Eric being here. It’s like when you’re around, every last bit of her rage is funneled right into you.” It was a dubious honor, and Michael was about to say so, but she gave his arm another squeeze. “It won’t be forever, I promise. She just needs to take a little time to get to know Eric, that’s all.” “Hey, Michael. Molly.” Dominic nodded absentmindedly and handed them both a fat stack of papers. “Find the part you want to read for and tell Gretchen, who’s coordinating all the auditions this time around.” When he saw Michael’s stricken face, he laughed. “Don’t worry too much about it. Just say the lines how it feels natural. I have a good idea about casting already, so this is a formality.” “But I’m here to help with backstage and security stuff. You know, the muscle?” He flexed. “Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Molly’s face was stricken. “We have such a small production crew that everyone has to have an acting role. Even if it’s just as an understudy.” Michael stopped. Acting? Understudy? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so thoroughly taken in by a woman he wasn’t either sleeping with or hoping to sleep with within the week. “Peterson promised me no tights.”

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Molly let out a gurgled laugh. It was amazing to think she was related to Rachel. The only reason that woman would gurgle was if she was brushing her teeth—or if Michael gave in to temptation and tossed her into the nearest creek. “You’re a really great guy, you know that? Not many people would do all this just to help a friend out.” Michael let out a theatrical sigh. “I know. Put me in a diaper and give me a crossbow, and I’m the baddest-ass cupid on the block.” She punched him playfully in the arm. “I’m serious. Thanks for this. Things haven’t been great for me in a long time. And Eric—he’s kind of great.” From across the room, Peterson came into view, looking, Michael had to admit, happier than he’d been in a long time. Even his dragon looked like it was smiling. “He’s not half bad,” Michael agreed. “I just wish there was a way to get Rachel to see him like you and I do,” Molly said wistfully. “We need to stage an intervention or something.” “A stop-acting-like-a-royal-bitch intervention? You can count me out of that one.” She gave a soft laugh and shook her head. “No. A relax-and-give-people-achance intervention.” “Where I come from, we call that a party.” “Rachel doesn’t party. She broods.” Michael laughed. That sounded about right. “That’s probably because she’s never been to a party at Casa O’Leary.” Molly’s eyes lit up, and no amount of playing dumb would give Michael the out he needed to pretend he didn’t catch her meaning. Her hands came together and she hopped up and down. “Would you…?” He tried to be strong. He tried to resist.

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He failed. Closing his eyes, Michael did what he always did when faced with someone who needed his help. He said yes. “One party, O’Leary-style, coming right up. I think if we do it Tuesday, Peterson can even bring the Two Terrors. Has your sister met them yet?” Molly let out a squeal and reached up to peck him on the cheek, almost bringing a damn blush to his face. At least it was getting easier to see what Peterson saw in this chick. Such easy adoration had its charm. “That would be so awesome of you, Michael. You’re the best! It’ll be so great for her to see you guys in, you know, your natural element.” Michael smiled. Seeing as how their natural element was closer to being halfwasted on Red Bull and Jaeger shots and decked out in full Highland gear, underwear optional, he doubted Rachel was ready for the full effect of the Peterson-Michael-Julian tornado. No woman was. “But, um, there’s just one thing.” Michael kept the smile going strong, his jaw fixed. “Oh?” he managed. “She won’t come unless you hide the invitation.” “Hide it?” “Yeah. You know, make her an offer she can’t refuse? She won’t want to come, but if you can just get her there, she won’t actually up and leave. She’s too polite for that. Well, maybe not polite—but she’ll do anything to avoid making herself look like she’s not on top of everything. She hates being made to look like a fool. You can always count on that.” Alarm bells sounded in every nerve ending of Michael’s body. He couldn’t think of a single thing that existed on earth that Rachel wouldn’t have been

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happy to refuse. Denying other people pleasure seemed to make her as content as a pig rolling in its own shit. But he let none of his hesitation show—he didn’t have the heart to crush Molly’s wide-eyed hope like that. “What sort of offer were you thinking of?” “Um…I don’t know. I’m sure you can think of something. I don’t know why, but you’re ten times better at handling her than I’ve ever been in my whole life.” And that was it. The clincher. The sealing of the deal. The superglue between the ass cheeks. Molly thought he could tame her sister. Molly thought he could win. “No problem. I’ll figure it out.” Molly gave him another peck before running off to tell Peterson the good news. Her enthusiasm was infectious only in a roughly five-foot radius around her, because as Peterson flashed him a hearty thumbs up, Michael realized with a heaviness that he was in this for the long haul. All he needed was to find something Rachel wanted enough to get her to agree to come. Other than offering up his own body, dead and prostrate at her feet, he had no idea what he was going to come up with.

Rachel heard her mother’s voice long before she saw her appear in the auditorium. Once a great actress in her own right, she had the kind of voice that carried over audiences with clarity and panache. That was, her voice used to have clarity and panache. These days, it was mostly loud and obnoxious, the consonants slurred together in a way that was recognizable to just about everyone.

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“I’ve come to see my daughters,” her mother announced to no one in particular. “They do a sex show here.” That sex show of yours. Since the day they’d signed on to be a part of this, that was what their mother had insisted on calling it. Never mind that her mother had been on the chorus line of a traditional burlesque back in her heyday. Never mind that Shakespeare After Dark played to sold-out audiences and there was even talk of one or two Broadway reviewers showing up to the opening night of Antony and Cleopatra. To their mother, it would never be more than a sex show, and her daughters would never be more than pseudo-literary strippers. Molly, who had been just about to do her reading for the part of Octavia, glanced immediately at Rachel, their eyes meeting over the top of several heads all turned in the direction of the disturbance. That was all their mother was anymore. A disturbance. It bothered Molly a lot more than it did Rachel. Molly believed their mother had good intentions, believed that the sixth in a long line of embarrassingly public divorces was going to be the last, and that she’d stay home long enough to actually have a stake in her children’s lives this time. Rachel had long since given up on the woman, and the only emotion she felt at seeing her here was irritation. Irritation and an overwhelming urge to get her out of here before Molly broke down in tears. Molly wasn’t strong like she was. Molly still cared. It was her job to protect her sister. It always had been. “Darlings!” Their mother stumbled onto the aisle and beamed up at them, her arms spread wide. She’d done a fairly good job dressing herself that morning, although she’d chosen a dangerously high pair of heels and had lipstick smudged a good half an inch beyond her lip line. Divorce always did that to her. The second she met a potential husband, she was a teetotaler, giving

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up all substances except the heady rush of new love. But the second the charm wore away and the ring was on her finger, it was back to the booze. That was always the beginning of the end. What they were looking at right now was something closer to the finish line. “I’m early, aren’t I? How shameful. One ought never be too early to the theater. It isn’t done.” Rachel hopped down from the stage, avoiding the curious stares. Those who knew her family history looked politely away. Those who didn’t know the history invariably recognized the slightly puffy face of Indira Hewitt (née Longfellow), and gave audible gasps of delight. “You aren’t dressed as a prostitute!” her mother called by way of greeting, taking in Rachel’s striped boatneck tee and slacks with a frown, her brow puckered as she tried to work it out. “Haven’t you got a part in tonight’s performance?” “First of all, it’s eleven o’clock in the morning,” Rachel said coolly, taking her mother by the arm and trying to swivel her on the tips of her heels in the opposite direction. “Second of all, there is no show tonight. It’s a weekday and we’re in auditions.” “Auditions? But I came to see my girls perform. I took a taxi all this way— and you know how I feel about public transportation.” “Taxis are not public transportation, Mother,” Rachel said through her teeth, though she was grateful to hear that she hadn’t attempted driving herself. “And I’ll be happy to take you home.” “Nonsense!” With a surprising burst of agility, her mother twisted loose and ducked right under her arm, wobbling quickly to the stage and trying, unsuccessfully, to climb up it. “Help me up, young man, will you?”

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Larson, the most useless security personnel on the face of the planet, obeyed, his eyes wide as Rachel’s mother grunted her way to two feet. “Who’s in charge here?” she demanded. By now, even the most adoring Indira Longfellow fans had taken her measure. Molly was nowhere to be seen, and Rachel could only assume she was off pouring her heart into her boyfriend’s shoulder. For once, Rachel was grateful to him. Getting rid of a post-divorce decaying actress returned to the scene of her former glory wasn’t going to be pretty. Her mother had somehow leeched herself onto Dominic’s arm and was peering into his too-close-together eyes as if to take the measure of his soul. That was what she’d always taught them growing up, in place of more worthy conversations regarding birds, bees and the propagation thereof. “A man’s worth lies not in his heart or in his pants,” she would announce. “It’s in his eyes.” Which meant, of course, that she pressed her face up against the nose of every man she ever met, reading his irises like they were folio paper. As a Tony Award winning actress, it had been a quirk, an eccentricity. Charming, even. As a poorly aging divorcee with breath this side of Hades, it was only the good manners of the men she met that kept them from vomiting onto her shoes. “I think I like you, young man,” she announced some awful minutes later. “All right. I’ll do it. I’ll be in your show.” Rachel rushed forward and disentangled her mother, doing her best not to meet Dominic’s eyes. Could there be anything worse for their show than Indira Longfellow’s bosoms on display, crinkled with age and hanging to her waist? “I’m so sorry, Dominic. I’ll just need about an hour to get her home and get her quiet. I promise this will never happen again.”

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Behind her and to the right, someone laughed. A few feet farther to the left, another person started whispering. Without even turning around, Rachel could place each voice, envision the clusters of people talking and pointing and seeing so much more of her life than they should. No, not just people. Her peers. These were the people she worked with every single day of her life. They looked up to her. Respected her. Okay, maybe not respect. That was hard when they’d all seen each other practically naked. But still. “No, Poppy.” The use of Rachel’s childhood nickname, infantile and flimsy just like the bright red flower, only infuriated her more. Her mother knew how much Rachel hated that name. “I am going to do it, and you can’t stop me. It’s like being alive again. It’s like being young again!” Her mother twirled in circles, her arms opened wide, embracing her audience. Except her audience feared for their safety. People dove out of the way, one woman even tucking and rolling toward the wings. Rachel, on the other hand, couldn’t move. She could only watch, frozen like one of those women in a horror flick who fail to see the gun lying just within arm’s reach. Her mother lost her balance and careered toward the end of the stage. Rachel sprang forward, but she was too late. Indira’s heel caught on the edge of the floorboards and she dove, headfirst, toward the auditorium floor. “Whoa, there.” As if out of nowhere, Michael grabbed hold of her mother and pulled her back to safety, lifting her as if she weighed no more than a child.

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Indira wasn’t even fazed. She immediately looked up into the face of her rescuer and started to read his eyes. Oh, dear God. Not that man. Finally moved to action, Rachel ran over and pulled the two of them apart, as much as a five-foot-nine, one-hundred-fifty-pound woman could move a man made of obstinate stone. He put Indira on her feet, steadying her with one of his giant man hands while holding Rachel back with the other. “She’s all right. Just give her a moment to get her balance.” Rachel’s jaw went tight. He had to be the only man on the face of the planet not able to recognize a woman who was drunk off her ass. He probably preferred them that way. “She’s not all right, but it’s not really any of your damn business, is it?” “Nope. It’s not. My apologies.” He backed away. Finally. At last, he was reading her cues in the manner in which they were intended. Go away. Not interested. In fact, annoyed beyond all recognition. “C’mon, Mom,” Rachel said, quieter this time. “Let’s go home.” “But it’s time for my audition! Young man—young man, surely you won’t turn Indira Longfellow away without giving her a chance to read?” Dominic shrugged apologetically. “We, ah, don’t really—” “You do know who I am, don’t you?” “Of course, Ms. Longfellow. I can’t tell you what an honor it is—” “And you do know that, however retired I may be, I still have friends in high places? Much, much higher than you could ever hope to look?” Rachel’s stomach tightened. Each of her mother’s successive husbands had been a little bit less important, a little bit less rich, a little bit more like Plumber

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Harry, the last one. Even he’d realized his mistake a few months in—and he cleaned septic tanks for a living. Rachel had to get her out of here. She needed Molly. She needed someone. She needed help. “Absolutely,” Dominic said smoothly, his professional charm on high. “Of course you can read for a part. Why don’t you do it right now?” “Yes. Yes, I think I will. What are we doing, anyway? The Tempest?” “Antony and Cleopatra.” “Lovely! Perfect! I’ll read for Cleo, naturally.” Rachel had to grip the back of a nearby chair to keep herself from falling. Her mother, the Nile Queen herself. Rachel could practically see the marquee now. “Of course, Ms. Longfellow. Act I, Scene III? With Antony?” “Excellent!” Indira clapped and hiccupped at the same time. “Who will read with me?” Silence. Crickets. Just about everyone involved in the production was in the room, either circling upstage or standing in the aisles of the auditorium. They watched, like vultures bent on amusement, no one speaking up or volunteering to stand opposite her mother. Not even for the prestige of saying they once read with the great Indira Longfellow. “Kevin?” Dominic asked, indicating one of the men standing in the wings, a nicely formed twenty-something who couldn’t act very well but looked amazing without his shirt on. He wasn’t their lead actor, but he had aspirations headed that direction. Not even a request straight from their fearless leader’s lips moved him from the spot. He shrugged and became intensely interested in his script.

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“Johnson?” “Thanks but no thanks, boss,” the stagehand replied. “Well, hell. I’ll do it.” At the sound of that last voice, pleasant and warm, Rachel’s stomach plunged so far she wasn’t sure it was still attached to the rest of her. Why did that man insist on tormenting her so? “You’ll have to forgive me, Ms. Longfellow,” Michael said, swaggering up like he owned the stage. “I’m a piss-poor actor, and I can’t say that I’ve spent a lot of time reading over Shakespeare’s shoulder, but I’d be honored to try.” “Oh, lovely!” Indira cleared her throat and struck a pose, the wavering of her uplifted arm the only indication that she wasn’t in full possession of her faculties. “Do you, ah, need a script?” Dominic asked. The director had moved to Rachel’s side, creeping closer and closer as if he wanted to wrap his arms around her. Rachel stepped away, her jaw tight. She didn’t want his pity. She wanted the stage to open up and swallow her. “Of course not,” Indira snapped. “I am sick and sullen.” “Would you like to sit for a few minutes first?” Michael asked. “I saw some couches in the back that look pretty comfortable.” Oh, for crying out loud. “It’s a line, Boy Genius. Your cue.” “Is it?” He flipped through the pages, taking his time scrutinizing each line. “Oh, yeah. There she is.” He cleared his throat loudly and took a bow. A debacle. That was what he was turning this into. Not so much rubbing salt onto the wound as shoving the whole salt lick in there. “I am sorry to give breathing to my purpose—” He read, clearly and with a surprising attention to the metrical beat. For a few moments, the entire room was suspended on a breath that swelled achingly inside Rachel’s lungs. She felt herself swaying to the words, entranced

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by the sound of her mother’s voice. She’d fallen asleep to that sound—to tape recordings of Indira’s past shows. It had been a poor substitute for a bedtime story, but it was all she’d ever had. And that was when it became clear: her mother and Michael might actually pull this off. They continued through the lines, Indira faltering over only a few of the trickiest passages, Michael actually nailing most of them. But something—the heat of the stage, the intensity of the moment, or the weariness of a body that had been abused with alcohol for too many years— caused her mother to start sweating heavily, the words no longer light on her lips. She couldn’t do it. At that moment, when Rachel felt the last of her hope ebb away, Michael lost his place on the page. His pronunciation took a dramatic turn for the worse, to the point where every other word out of his mouth somehow rhymed with “penis”. By the time he started reading Cleopatra’s lines, “Oh, never was there a queen so mightily betray’d,” the cast was in an uproar. He paused, as if just realizing his folly, and began mincing about the stage—as much as a man his size could mince, tiptoes and all. If she hadn’t been so mortified, Rachel might have been inclined to crack a smile. There was something about a dodderdly behemoth of a man so light on his feet that was irresistible. But resist it she did. While Michael struck up an impromptu waltz with Doris, the owlish technical director, Rachel got her arm around her mother and moved her toward the emergency exit. The fresh air and bright lights of the noonday sun caused both of them to blink.

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“That went well, didn’t it?” her mother asked, letting out a contented sigh. “It’s been ages since I’ve auditioned for anything. You know, I almost miss those years of paying my dues. What fun we used to have—and how hard we had to work for every single role. Not like you girls. Sometimes I’m not sure you realize how lucky you are to be able to capitalize on my name.” And there it was, the reason Rachel had moved away so many years ago, why it was so painful to continue being home now. Her mother existed in some alternate reality where she was the magic wand that made everything easy, when the truth was she and Molly couldn’t get far enough away from her toxic grasp. Rachel had run to the traveling stage. Molly had run to any man who would take her. And now they were both paying the price. As Rachel led her mother away from the theater, she realized there was another cost to pay too. She owed Michael O’Leary, Mule Extraordinaire and Comedic Distraction Number One, her gratitude. She sighed and got her mother buckled into the back seat of her sensible and understated Honda Accord. She would have rather owed him anything else. Money. A pound of flesh. Her spleen. Just not gratitude.

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Chapter Six Of a Conquest

When Rachel returned to the theater, Michael took one look at her face and got to work. Her expression bounced between a heavy-browed, murderous gleam and the wobbly smile women always got when they were trying hard not to cry. He wasn’t sure which one was worse. “Oh, good. You’re back,” he called, drawing Rachel’s attention before she could run over poor Jillian, who was doing her best to scatter back toward the light rigs. He’d settled comfortably in the director’s chair near the back entrance to the stage, a sort of lordly position that let him see most of what was going on. Dominic had already told him to get out of that chair five times, but it was cozy, and he pretended he needed it for security purposes. Mostly he just wanted to keep an eye on all the entrances. “Why is that good?” There was a hesitancy to her voice that didn’t sit well with him, so he laid the charm on extra thick, just the way she liked it. “Well, it just so happens I have a proposition for you.” “I’m surprised you even know what that word means,” Rachel replied, her back bristling up within seconds, the murderous gleam taking a clear lead over tears. Good girl. “Proposition. Noun. A fancy way to tell a woman you want to see her honey pot.” “You are not seeing my honey pot.”

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“Now, now,” he chided, wagging his finger. God, she was easy to rile up. “We’ll get to that question when we come to it. What I was really asking was if you’ll do me the honor of coming to my house next week.” “No.” She stalked halfway across the backstage area before stopping. “Why? Do you have some secret underground lair or something? Is that your new plan?” He raised a brow. “You mean a sex room? As in, nipple clamps and ball gags and thirty-one flavors of lube?” The vein near her temple throbbed a warning, so he put a hand over his heart and winked. “Not yet, Red. But you say the word, and I promise to dig you one with my own two hands.” “You’re disgusting,” she said, though Michael noted she didn’t actually move away. He launched right ahead. “See, what I figure is you owe me. I’ve been doing some thinking, and I decided how I want you to make it up to me. And you’ll be happy to know it doesn’t involve honey or the pot it comes in. Or nipple clamps. Yet.” She pokered up even more, so much that a light wind would have caused her to go crashing to the ground. Michael was man enough to admit that it turned him on. Big-time. A magnificent redhead, magnificently angry. If he could wind her up with a few breezy words, just imagine what some intense, one-on-one face time would lead to. Rolling. Pinching. Slapping. Teeth. His cock stirred, and his balls shifted. God bless those boys of his. “I’m aware of…of a debt of gratitude,” she’d said stiffly. “But if you think I’m going to—” “You have no idea what I’m talking about. I’ll have you know that director in there offered me the male lead for this naughty little play of yours.” “You’re lying. He wouldn’t dare.”

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Michael went smoothly on. “Oh, he did dare. And for your sake, I turned him down. I know how much it would kill you to stand opposite me up there every day—there are sex scenes in this story of William’s, right? Or is it just kissing? Maybe some heavy petting?” Her eyes grew wide, the color in her cheeks mounting. He knew it must be costing her to remain silent and still. “Well, the point is, I thought about how you might react to such news and said no. I hate to cause a lady’s head to explode. It’s one of my Ten Rules to Live By. Do you want to hear the other nine?” “No. I don’t want to hear another word out of your stupid, oversized mouth.” He held up one finger. “Rule Number One. A gentleman always sleeps on the wet spot. Rule Number Two. A really good gentleman does his best to ensure that there are, in fact, nothing but wet spots. If you know what I mean.” She was unmoved. “Can you be a little bit less revolting for one second? Are you or are you not telling me you turned the role down?” “Of course I turned it down. I’m now officially the Antony Understudy, unlikely to ever see the lights of the stage. And you are so overcome with joy that you will, obviously, say yes to coming to my party. I could probably even make some good headway on our underground love nest by then.” “Wait a minute—you’re using my career to blackmail me for a date?” “Well, shit. I guess I am. A fancy date too—meat and beer at my house, three o’clock. My cousin Jennings will be there, though, and he’s slightly off. I’d wear pants if I were you.” Her brow wrinkled. “And then we’re even?” “As even as my sword of truth.”

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“That doesn’t even make sense,” she muttered. “Fine. Just text me the address later. And for the record—I’m not promising to have fun.” “With Michael O’Leary, baby, the fun is guaranteed,” he said solemnly, the twitching of his lips ruining an otherwise stone-faced remark. “You can always count on that.” “I have never met anyone so unjustifiably enamored of himself than you.” Her words were biting, but there wasn’t a whole lot of energy behind them. “I do my best,” he said, shrugging. “Oh, and Rachel?” “What now?” “My dad was the same way. For years, all while I was a kid, I was up there, walking the tightrope with him. It sucks, you know?” She stared at him for a full minute. “Yeah. I know.”

“What’s the Welcome Home banner for?” Rachel looked up at the decorations—correction, decoration—and did her best to swallow her smile. She was not here to have a good time, and she certainly wasn’t going to admit how welcome an afternoon away from her mother’s house, where the whole happy family lived together, actually was. But that didn’t mean she was above taking delight in the fact that Michael O’Leary was hosting an outdoor barbecue in the melting spring of the first weeks of April. Or that he lived on a working lentil farm, in one of a pair of twin Airstreams parked at random angles at the top of a hill. Not that she’d had expectations, of course, but this—this went beyond ridiculous. The Mule couldn’t even be bothered to live in a house. She would have bet her life savings that the family toilet lay somewhere off in the distance, between a patch of trees in a hole dug just for the purpose.

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“Maybe he just got back from a long trip,” Molly suggested. “I think it looks nice and festive. You’re going to be nice and festive too, right? You promised.” Molly was like a giddy child, and Rachel didn’t have the heart to back down now. She could have, though—promise or not. Contrary to what the Mule might believe, Rachel didn’t technically owe him anything related to the theater, as he’d suggested. Dominic said there had never been a man more aghast than Michael at being invited to star in one of his productions. “His exact words were, and I quote, ‘Awww hell no’,” Dominic had said with a shake of his head. “I think I may need to retire.” No. It was the knowledge that she owed Michael O’Leary for the unspoken favor that was the real driving force behind her actions. Attending a thousand parties of his would be easier than talking to him about her mother, thanking him face-to-face for being a better friend than even her sister was. She’d come. She’d see. Maybe she wouldn’t conquer anything, but she could at least determine if there were any chinks in the Molly-Eric armor she could exploit. Starting with the fact he hadn’t bothered to offer them a ride. Already, the gallantry was wearing off. That was the first step. Next, he’d be texting Molly at all hours of the night and growing possessive whenever she looked at another man. “I’ll be on my best behavior,” Rachel promised. “But, um…is it just me, or is everyone here sort of oversized?” Molly laughed, not the least bit disconcerted that there were giants roaming among them. A few tables had been set out behind the Airstreams, and a huge black grill was already smoking, the scent of various roasted meats filling the air. Men, all of them in incredible shape, stood around, as if awaiting the meat’s eventual arrival to their jaws, most of them in light jackets as though they were

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impervious to cold. Rachel couldn’t help looking around for the woolly mammoth tusks and loincloths. “They’re probably Eric’s teammates. I’m kind of dying to see them in action. Can you imagine all these guys running around in skirts?” “Um…I can now.” She turned her head sideways and took in a particularly nice pair of calves. “What did you say Eric did for a living again?” “I didn’t.” Rachel caught the stiffness in her sister’s voice, but the nice pair of calves turned around, providing the perfect distraction. They were attached to a rather gnarly set of knees and led up to…well, crap. “You made it!” Michael-the-Mule said, his arms wide. Was it just her imagination or were his eyes glinting, mocking her sudden flush? “Of course we did,” Molly said warmly, accepting the hug he offered. He moved as if to do the same to Rachel, but she snarled. “Point taken,” he said easily, backing away. “Rachel Hewitt—not a hugger.” “I just don’t like unsolicited hugs,” Rachel countered. “So I can hug you if you ask?” “I won’t ask.” “Hmm.” His eyes glinted again. “We’ll see about that. So, would you ladies like to see the castle?” “Is that what I’m looking at right now?” Rachel asked, nodding toward the shiny metal mobile homes. “Because I think I’ve seen all I need to.” “Rach, don’t be rude,” Molly whispered, though they all heard her just fine. Louder, she added, “Is Eric here yet, by the way?” “Nah. I think there was an issue with too much juice and a locked gas station bathroom. He had to turn around and grab some clean clothes.”

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“Oh, the poor thing.” Molly clucked. “I hope it’s not going to ruin his evening.” Rachel stared at her. Last week, Molly had been so upset by their mother’s impromptu stage debut she’d left rehearsal early and gone to a matinee of the latest romantic comedy. That was what she did when she was upset—not the regular things like eat or cry or take to her bed with a box of tissues. Oh no. Instead, Molly filled up on sappy plotlines and unlikely happily ever afters. After she’d lost the baby last year, it had been a nonstop marathon of Hugh Grant and his bumbling affectations. Apparently, their mother’s inability to hold her alcohol was a disaster. In Eric, it was a point of sympathy and charm for him to pee his pants on the way to a party. This was worse than she thought. “Well, if my humble abode is a bit much for you right now, can I at least introduce you to a few people?” Michael asked. Rachel thought he was talking to them both, but Molly had bounded away toward a kindred spirit in the shape of a slight, pretty woman with dark blonde hair and the kind of floaty layers that always made Rachel feel like an Amazonian in drag. “You don’t have to play the charming host for my benefit. I’m fine right here.” “I’m sure you are,” he said with a chuckle. “But I didn’t invite you to stand here and stare my guests into submission.” “I’m not staring.” She crossed her arms. “Okay. Maybe I am a little. But you have freakishly large friends.” He puffed up and preened like a peacock spreading its feathers. He probably screamed like a peacock too. The big ones always did. “You should see us in our kilts.”

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Rachel stopped. “That’s the second time someone has said that. Is that what you were wearing the other day? Are you in some sort of fetish club?” “Now, I like the sound of that.” He beamed. “No—the truth is I’m a Scottish Highland Games athlete. Most of the guys here are. You know, caber tossing and stone put. Manly stuff. Do you want me to roar?” Oh, for crying out loud. “You throw rocks and sticks? And you live in the woods? In a tin can?” “Not the woods—a lentil farm. It’s my cousin’s. I bought us the Airstreams a few years ago. I think you’ll like him.” He said the words with an absurd quantity of misplaced pride. What sort of a man bragged about living among legumes and felling trees? He might as well have one hand pounding his chest and the other liberally scratching his balls. “I’m sure any family member of yours is filled with surprises and intellectual insights.” “Stop. You’re making me blush.” “Oh, go on, then.” Rachel rolled her eyes and took a deep breath. This was going to be like being led to the gallows. “Impress me with your incredible bloodlines.” Within half an hour, Rachel was ready to admit she might have been a trifle hasty with her judgment. She’d met quite a few of the men, and they were actually a pretty interesting set of people. The pretty blonde from before was attached to a gorgeous Asian man who had a strangely large working knowledge of historical fashions. Another man named McClellan, who had an affinity for Hammerpants, volunteered to show her the steps of the Highland Fling. “These guys are pretty amazing, aren’t they?” the pretty blonde woman asked after Rachel politely declined the dance. She introduced herself as Kate.

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“You’d think they’re nothing more than overgrown jocks, but they’ve got hearts of gold. Especially Michael.” “It’s the hair,” Rachel murmured, trying not to get caught staring at Michael standing across the party. “The hair?” Kate asked with a smile. Rachel nodded. “It makes him seem nicer than he really is. It’s all floppy and cute and makes you think he’s twelve years old underneath all those muscles. But I’m not fooled. He’s trouble.” Trouble that was doing far too good a job pulling down her defenses. And Jennings, Michael’s cousin, was the biggest defense-destroyer of all. He turned out to be old, somewhere in his early seventies, and was set up on a vinyl lawn chair with a beer in one hand and a corncob pipe in the other. He also turned out to be quite articulate and was explaining Dostoyevsky’s views on nationalism when Michael pulled up a chair to join them. “Are you boring my poor friend here?” he asked. He set a plate of food on Jennings’s lap and exchanged the pipe for a fork. “If that’s the case, then I’m going to tell you the deer are getting into the south field again.” “Bullshit!” Jennings used his fork to stab at the air. “I was down there with my gun this morning.” “I know. I saw the tree you were making target practice of.” “Is that safe?” Rachel asked, taken aback. “Not in the least,” Michael said, laughing. “But Jennings here refuses to do anything half-assed. Including scaring the deer away. Or talking about Russian philosophers.” Jennings reached up and turned off his hearing aid. With a smile that shone just as brightly as Michael’s, he winked and busied himself with his food. Steak cut up into bite-size pieces. Corn cut off the cob.

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Despite herself, Rachel softened. “And you’re really cousins? I find that hard to believe.” “Second cousins. Or maybe third? Removed like eight times?” Michael shrugged. “I can never keep track, but he’s been around for just about ever. I think he’s secretly a vampire. You hungry?” Rachel wasn’t really hungry—she’d eaten ahead of time, unsure what sort of conditions awaited her here—but she nodded, her head swimming. If she didn’t know better, she’d say she was enjoying herself. Maybe even feeling impressed by the Mule himself. That can’t be right. She put a hand on her brow. A car pulled up then, the crunch of tires on the dirt road punctuated by Molly’s squeal. Her sister really had it bad this time around. Rachel looked up, expecting to find a miniature sports car or a truck with a pair of blue balls hanging from the hitch. Instead she saw a maroon minivan with a yellow smiley face bobbing cheerfully from the antenna. That’s Eric’s car? Molly pulled the sliding door open, completely at home and at ease with the strangely paternal vehicle. When she emerged, it was with two small, brownhaired creatures in miniature pink peacoats stuck to either hip. “Oh, good. Peterson’s here. Have you met his little demons?” Michael handed her a plate with enough food to feed a small village and raised a hand in greeting. “They’re cute, but if you know what’s good for you, avoid all topics related to bugs, bears and Twinkies.” “Twinkies?” Rachel echoed. Eric had kids? Two of them? And Molly hadn’t felt that might be a pertinent fact?

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“Yeah.” Michael crinkled his brow. “I may have said something about cockroaches and Twinkies. You know, in case of an apocalypse? I’m pretty sure they think the damn things are made of cockroaches now.” “Rachel, would you like to meet Sammy and Pris?” Samantha and Priscilla. The tattoos on Eric’s wrists. Oh God. The juice. “Um…okay?” Rachel stood there, not all of her bewilderment due to the sudden realization she’d been wrong about Eric. As she took in the pair of them, she was a hundred percent unsure what was supposed to happen next. Did she offer them a handshake? Pinch their cheeks? She might have a piece of gum in her purse. “You’re tall for a lady.” Rachel blinked. She couldn’t tell which one had spoken. They weren’t twins or anything, but there was something about cherubic young faces swathed in pink that blurred inside her head as one. “Yep. I am,” she said when it seemed some sort of response was required of her. “Miss Molly is short.” “I think she’s more average-size. Statistically speaking, I mean.” Behind her, Michael snorted. “What does that mean?” “It means, silly pea, that I’m not short or tall.” Molly was cooing. Cooing. “I’m perfect. Just. Like. You.” “Your hair is like Ariel’s,” one of them continued. “She’s a mermaid. You’re not a mermaid.” Rachel blinked. Apparently, small children liked to make patent observations. She could do that. “You have pigtails. And the other one has freckles.”

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The one with freckles began crying. Rachel was so bewildered she was on the verge of asking the girls if they wanted Twinkies when Michael placed an arm around her shoulder and veered her in the opposite direction. Under any other circumstances, Rachel would have immediately stabbed his arm with the nearest pointed object, but the way his hand gave her shoulder a little squeeze was so…so…comforting. “Don’t worry. They freaked the shit out of me at first too.” A shaky laugh escaped her lips. “Was it really bad?” “Well, it wasn’t good, I’ll be honest. But I doubt you’ve scarred them for life.” “Can I…?” She stopped and turned to look at her sister. Molly had set the girls down, and they were running in circles around her. It was a strange thing to see. Molly had almost been a mother. Rachel had almost been an aunt. But they weren’t, and they’d barely even had time to process it all, both of them still wobbling around on unsteady legs. Picking up another man’s kids and calling them silly names didn’t change what had happened. Molly had to know that. “What?” Michael asked, rubbing his hands together. “Can I show you inside the castle? I knew you’d fold!” “No. I need to talk to Eric.” Her jaw tensed, and she felt a headache coming on. “Just…excuse me for one second.” She didn’t wait for a response. She found Eric leaning against his car, his arms crossed and a smug look on his face. Okay, maybe that wasn’t fair. It might not have been smugness. It might have been a man’s simple pleasure at watching his kids.

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She observed as another man rounded the front of the van and said something in a low voice to Eric. Rachel had seen him milling around the party and thought he looked familiar, but it wasn’t until the two of them were side by side that she realized they were related, both of their faces bearing the same craggy lines of dissipation. They were brothers, probably, though the younger one had a lot fewer tattoos and a messy brown sweep of hair in place of Eric’s signature shorn look. “I know you told me to stay away from that place, but I can’t let them get away with saying that shit about me. I’ll just make a quick trip—” “Not now, Nick. I don’t care what kind of crap they pull. You have to keep your head down and just suck it up for once.” “But you said—” Eric gripped his brother’s arm, fury tightening in the corners of his mouth. “I don’t give a rat’s ass what I said. This is about a lot more than you and me. And I’m not talking about this with the girls and Molly standing right over there. Just play it cool.” “Does she know?” A grimace passed over his face, and Rachel’s blood went cold. “Eric?” Eric looked over at her, and she could tell it was a struggle for him to maintain a semblance of calm. “Hey, Rachel. What’s up?” For the first time, she felt out of her element talking to this man. Granted, she hadn’t been exactly going out of her way to have conversations with him, but she’d always felt assured in what she said and how she said it—tattoos and muscles notwithstanding. But with his face a closed off mask of irritation, his arms crossed over his chest with the veins standing out like twisted ropes, she felt something else. Fear.

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This was not a man to cross. “I just wanted to say your daughters are really cute. Do you have full custody of them?” A tic along his jawline worked furiously. “You want to grill me about my family? Here? Now? Well, here’s an easy answer for you. It’s not any of your damn business.” Fear gave way to irritation. “Molly is my business, and I think it’s a fair question. Are you or are you not responsible for the lives of two human beings that you may or may not intend to foist upon my sister?” “And Molly knows the answer to it. Why don’t you ask her?” He relaxed a little, rubbing his hand over his mouth and letting out a heavy sigh. “Look, Rachel. I get the protective act you’re pulling—I really do. More than you probably realize. But not everything has to be a life-or-death issue here. Yes, the girls are mine and mine alone, though if you feel like digging through their records, you’ll find lots of shit to rub my face in.” She arched a brow. This would be good. “Oh, you want it all? Fine. Their mother was a fucked-up junkie who cared more about her next fix than her kids, but all the judges in this city strongly favor the mother for custody cases. Even more so when the mother is the daughter of a politician and the father looks like I do.” Rachel’s brow fell, but she still didn’t move. Eric took it as a challenge. “What? You want more? You want to know about the dirt I had to sling to get her parents to back down from pursuing their rights? The campaign smear? The photos? Or do you want to go over there and ask my youngest how it feels to know her mommy abandoned her when it turned out she wasn’t going to win the case against me?”

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She did want to know more—a lot more—but she wasn’t about to say it. Rachel could tell when she was being baited. He was practically begging for her to ask questions so he could shove the sob-story answers down her throat. Well, she wasn’t buying it. He might try to mask it behind heroics, but there was more to that story, more to his life. He had baggage. There was also that look of intense anger on his face and the unspoken threat of violence as the two brothers squared off next to the family minivan. “Sorry I asked,” Rachel bit out, turning away. But she wasn’t sorry. She wasn’t sorry at all. If there was one thing Rachel liked, it was knowing what she was up against. She wasn’t one of those women who turned a blind eye to a man’s faults. She liked to name her foe. Look him in the eye. Rip him to shreds. “Hey. Have you had a chance to finish eating?” Michael was waiting for her underneath the Welcome Home sign, supremely oblivious to everything going on around him. “I thought I might show you my lentils.” “You are impossible,” Rachel said through her teeth. Speaking of a man’s faults. “Do you understand the concept of social cues? Do I look like I want to eat your meat and examine your crops right now?” He cocked his head to the side, considering. “Yes. Yes, I think you do. My meat is surprisingly tender.” She stomped her foot, puffs of dirt making a mess of her white pants, realizing as she did it that she should have known better than to wear white to any event hosted by this cretin. “Your party sucks, by the way. Are my obligations done? Can I go now?” Not even that fazed him. Without losing his smile, he spread his arms open wide. “It sounds like somebody might be ready for that hug now.”

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Rachel clamped her jaw so hard she bit her tongue. And then she turned on her heel and left.

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Chapter Seven What Bloody Man

“The quick and dirty answer? Your ACL is shot. Or rather, what’s left of it is.” Michael swore. Those were not a man’s three favorite letters when it came to sports injuries. Especially when his knees already looked like the scene of a recent crime. “What about another surgery?” “Can I be honest?” Dr. Monroe, a slight, thirty-something woman he’d become far too familiar with over the last five years, set aside the chart she was holding and examined the scar tissue along the front of his leg. “As long as your honesty doesn’t include the words ‘early’ and ‘retirement,’ you can tell me anything you want.” The sympathetic look she gave him didn’t fill him with very much hope. “Best case scenario, we could go in there and do another hamstring graft that will hold for three, maybe four months on the field—and you’re looking at twice as much time spent on rehabilitation alone. There’s just not a whole lot left in there to work with. I told you last time to take it easy.” “I did take it easy.” “There are two types of people you can’t lie to in this world,” Dr. Monroe said with a smile. “Your doctor and your mother.” “I took it easier, at least.” In fact, he was starting to get those looks of death from the other guys—the glances at his knee when they thought he wasn’t paying attention, more invitations to work out in the safe, controlled gym rather than taking the cabers out for a spin. Hell—he’d done it himself a few times,

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when it was obvious one of the other athletes had peaked and was on his way down, but no one wanted to say as much to his face. “It might be time to rethink your career.” She shut the chart and held it against her chest. “I hear there’s good money in knee surgery.” Michael smiled and laughed, flirting with the good doctor for a few more minutes before she had to see her next patient. For the first time in a long time, the smile was faked and his laugh forced. He’d never been quite as successful at the Highland Games as the other guys, and that was okay. He didn’t need the money, like Julian. He didn’t really need the glory, either. Sure, it was fun to take home a trophy or two, give the ladies something to swoon over, but he didn’t have to win to enjoy himself. But the Games were a part of him. They were who he was. Michael O’Leary, local caber-tossing champion and national-award-winning stone putter. The easy-going man in a kilt the other guys counted on for a good time. He wasn’t smart and he wasn’t worldly—and he never pretended to be. He was the type of man women like Rachel Hewitt looked down on, even as she stole covert and highly charged glances at his legs when she thought he wasn’t looking. Work hard, play hard. Drink hard, fuck hard. He wouldn’t call himself a simple man, but his needs were few. Now, all of a sudden, he was faced with the knowledge that his knee was done, which meant he was too. That left playing video games and drinking and fucking. And while that might have sounded like a hell of a lot of fun a few years ago, Michael was getting a little too old to build a life around the frat-boy party his life had been for the past ten years. It was a sobering reflection. Michael didn’t like it. As he called out cheerful farewells to the ladies working the reception counter, his cell phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen. It was from Dominic.

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You’re late. Rehearsal 9-1-1. He swore. For the past week, he’d done nothing but stand on the stage for the light guys or move some pieces of wood around for the set guys or go pick up coffee for the entire crew. It wasn’t exactly what he’d signed on for, but Peterson swore things were only going to get better. At least he got to mess with Rachel on a daily basis—that was something to look forward to. Give that woman a fat-free muffin with a wink and a vow to look after her figure for her and the entertainment lasted for hours. “They probably need some lunch,” he muttered, tucking the phone away. Michael O’Leary. Former Athletic God. Current Bringer of Sandwiches. But the smile must go on.

His guess wasn’t that far off. As Michael walked into the backstage area, Dominic rounded the corner, his face pinched so tight it could have been shoved into a bottle and stored for later. “What are you doing?” “That’s a good question. What seems to be the emergency around here? Someone’s corset hook get stuck? Lock themselves out of their car?” If it was possible, Dominic’s face shrank even more. “It’s not my fault! I swear if I could go back in time and remind myself why hiring Rachel Hewitt was a bad idea, I’d do it. That woman is a—” Michael stopped him before he got any further. “That’s what you’d waste time travel on? Hell, no. Not me. I’ve always wanted to be a knight. Armor, jousting, wenches—the whole bit. Don’t tell me you’re not even a little bit curious about the wenches.”

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Dominic shook his head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about half the time. Will you please just go get a latte? Double tall, skim milk, no more than ten percent foam. Got it?” Michael gave a mock salute and did his bidding, errand boy and general theater bitch. The girls at the coffee stand next door were getting pretty familiar with his face these days. He was going to have to have a serious talk with Peterson. There were limits to man’s endurance—even one of Michael’s reputation for longevity. The coffee acquired, Michael hand-delivered it to the director, even going so far as to throw in a mock bow. “Not for me, Michael. Go give it to Rachel. She won’t work on the next scene.” “And you’re bribing her with coffee?” Michael asked doubtfully. “Do you have a better idea?” He did, actually. Pressing the coffee cup firmly in Dominic’s hand, Michael stomped up the stairs toward the dressing rooms so hard the curtains threatened to come tumbling down. He pulled open the door and caught sight of Rachel scowling into the script. She didn’t even look up as she shouted, “I’m not coming down there until he puts the armor scene back in. I don’t care if we are wearing nothing but our underwear and doing the cancan on stage—Dominic is not God, and he doesn’t get to rewrite Shakespeare. I have some artistic integrity left.” “You’re wanted below.” She turned her scowl on him. “You’re not wanted anywhere. And this has nothing to do with you, thank you very much.” He took a few steps forward. She didn’t exactly shrink back, but her hackles definitely went up. The clutch of tension in her jaw and the tic at the side of her

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mouth were unmistakable. He only wished his knee was a little stronger so he could swoop in and carry her down like he wanted to. But Dr. Monroe had been very strict with her warning. Nothing above forty pounds. Period. “And you’re very welcome,” Michael said with a grin. “But the sad truth is I’ve been tasked with your retrieval.” She shot to her feet. “You are not retrieving anything!” “Will you come willingly?” He spread his arms wide and came toward her. She immediately put the chair between them, as if that would stop a man intent on his goal—especially when the goal was her. “Or am I going to have to force you?” “You wouldn’t dare. If you lay a finger on me, I’ll have you arrested for assault.” “I haven’t assaulted anything yet. Believe me, if I wanted to put my hands on you, I would. And you’d love it. Now—are you going to head down there and do the work you’ve been hired to do, or are you going to sit up here and pout like a spoiled little brat? Peterson’s kids have better manners than you.” He couldn’t tell which part of his speech enraged her more, but by the time he’d finished speaking, she looked so mad that only a woman with her monumental pride would still be standing there, refusing to move. “I’m not going out there until Dominic puts the scene back.” She tossed her hair. “And he can stand out there bumbling and rotting—without me—until he does.” “Why?” Michael asked. The hinge of her jaw loosened just enough to leave an enticing part to her lips. He cocked his head to admire the view, imagining no fewer than three ways to capture that mouth before she realized what he was doing and snapped herself back to attention.

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“Why what?” she asked suspiciously, keeping her mouth firmly closed this time. “What’s the big deal about the scene?” He nodded sympathetically. “Does it have a ton of your lines? Are you feeling left out?” A scoffing noise escaped her lips as they fell open again. “Of course not.” She paused. “I mean, I do have lines, but that’s not the point.” “So what is the point?” he persisted. “You really want to know?” He spread his arms wide. “Teach me, O Cleopatra.” Disbelief darkened her brow, and she spoke with hesitancy. “It’s when Antony is getting ready to go to war. Cleo wants to help him into his armor, but she can’t get it quite right. She struggles. It’s one of the only times she has a tangible human weakness.” When he didn’t speak right away, she continued, firmer this time. “I know Dominic is working with limited stage time, but when you have a strong female character like that, it’s important to make sure she’s portrayed sympathetically, you know? She’s not the villain in this story. She’s a person—and she makes mistakes.” Michael waited a beat too long to speak. One second sooner and he could have capitalized on the softness in her voice and the slump in her shoulders. But he wanted to get his words right, and he missed his window. The moment was gone, and Rachel’s own armor slid back into place. “You can get out of my dressing room now,” she said, a sneer curling her lip. The hostility didn’t reach her eyes, though, and there was a heavy sorrow to them that made him want to wrap his arms around her and never let go. He didn’t, of course. He wasn’t stupid.

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Michael knew he had two choices in that moment: retreat or push ahead. He had the feeling that retreat would be permanent, and the ground he’d gained, once lost, would be gone to him forever. So he pushed. He was good at that. Michael heaved a hefty sigh and shook his head. “I was afraid you were going to make this difficult.” She jumped back. “What are you going to do?” He sat on the chair she hid behind, straddling it and resting his arms across the top. She was so close he could have flicked his fingers out and grazed her breasts, but he refrained from doing anything that might give her justifiable rage. “There once was a lass from Nantucket,” Michael began, his voice singsong and light. “Are you kidding me?” “Whose cunt was so small none could fuck it.” “This is not happening.” “Then a man came along, with a tiny-ass schlong.” “Quit it. Quit it right now.” “But, alas, he knew not where to tuck it.” Rachel threw her hands up in the air. “What are you, twelve?” Michael cracked his knuckles and took another deep breath. Five minutes. Five minutes of this and she was done. He’d bet his collection of naked lady mud flaps on it. “There once was a girl from Mayotte,” he began again. Rachel immediately clapped her hands over her ears and started humming a tune he didn’t recognize, but that didn’t faze him. He had a powerful set of lungs hidden underneath his barrel of a chest. He could out-volume this woman any day of the week.

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“Who suffered from nasty crotch rot.” An outraged mewl escaped Rachel’s throat. Good. She was listening. He was just getting warmed up. “She moved to the beach, to showcase her peach.” Rachel’s lips tightened. He finished the limerick with a mighty roar. “Where men loved the smell of her twat.” The door to the dressing room fell open a sliver. “Is, ah, everything okay in here?” came Larson’s quiet voice. He’d obviously been sent against his will, if the sharp whisper at his back was anything to go by. Someone seriously needed to take this boy in hand and teach him to man up a little. “Come in, come in,” Michael called warmly. “We’re just getting started in here. You guys have me surrounded with Shakespeare all the time, so I thought I’d try my hand. It’s not so hard, this poetry thing. I don’t see what all the ruckus is about. Do you want to hear some of my work?” Larson’s eyes grew wide, but he slipped in through the doorway just the same. Michael couldn’t have staged it better if he tried. If there was one thing better than being deliberately offensive to an obstinate woman, it was being deliberately offensive to an obstinate woman in front of an audience. “How about this one? Stop me if you’ve heard it. There once was a man with angina—” “Out!” Rachel yelled. Despite all her cries of assault, she was the first to make a move, both her hands pressed against his chest as she tried to physically move him out the door. Michael got up from the chair and let her push, taking a few small steps so she thought she was making progress. As soon as they were close enough to the door, he let his hand run up her, caressing from forearm to shoulder, which was bare in her filmy sleeveless top.

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In the distance, Larson gulped. “Unhand me,” Rachel said through gritted teeth, but there were goose bumps all along her arm, her skin’s natural reaction to the rough surface of his hand. “You assaulted me first,” Michael replied, his voice low. “I have a witness.” Her lips parted, half temptation, half outrage. It was a temptation he wouldn’t yield to, an outrage he would use to his advantage. Drawing closer, he let his other hand fall along the soft curve of her back, not quite touching, but disturbing so much of the air around them that they both felt the shift. Just as she leaned in, probably unaware of her own body’s betrayal, Michael reached behind him and yanked on the door. The wash of cold air was a shock, and Rachel’s mouth fell the rest of the way open. “There’s coffee down there for you if you want. Dominic ordered it. Double tall. Skim milk. Nothing frothy or sweet about it.” He very purposefully raked his gaze over the length of her. It was a sight he could never tire of, even if he had to do it with mockery shielding his real thoughts. “Huh. Kind of like you, now that I think about it.” With a cry of outrage, Rachel stormed through the door. Larson and Michael watched, side by side, as she grabbed the coffee out of Dominic’s hand and threw it in the nearest garbage can. “I don’t want a stupid latte, Dom. I want you to behave like a professional for once. Do you think you can manage that?” He cast a bewildered look around before finally landing his gaze on Michael. Michael gave him a thumbs-up and then grabbed liberally at his balls. He elbowed Larson and hissed, “You too, buddy. If you ask me, all the men around here could use a little carpe scrotum.”

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“Yes,” Dominic asserted, trying for a stern look. It was better than nothing. “But we do it my way. It’s my show, and I make the editorial decisions.” Rachel stared at the director for an icy-cold minute in which it seemed the entire room might implode. Michael shrugged his shoulders and splayed his hands, hoping Dominic would get the message. She’s right. Don’t let her walk all over you, but at least fucking listen to what she has to say. Rachel wasn’t an easy woman by any stretch of the imagination, but it seemed to Michael she knew her shit when it came to this Shakespeare character. He didn’t understand how the people in her life could be so catastrophically intent at pushing all her wrong buttons. “No,” Rachel declared. She very deliberately avoided looking anywhere within a few hundred feet of where Michael stood. “This scene is too important to Cleopatra’s character development. You know that as well as I do.” Michael cracked his knuckles and settled onto a coil of ropes, his makeshift couch for the past few days, and listened as she repeated much of what she’d said to him in the dressing room. He even bit back a cheer a few times when she made a particularly good argument, Dominic’s face pinching a little tighter each time. She won, of course. There might have even been scattered applause when Dominic finally conceded. And for the rest of the day, Michael proceeded to watch the rehearsals, the armor scene firmly in place, waiting for the next argument to erupt. God help him, even faced with a bum knee and the full force of her wrath, he was actually looking forward to it.

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Chapter Eight In Fair Palouse

“I’m not saying another line until he is out of here.” Rachel strove to keep her voice down, but it seemed every single person in the building had come over to hear her exchange with Dominic. All you had to do was say “private word,” and every ear in the place perked up. “I appreciate your position, Rachel, but you also have to appreciate mine. I can’t throw someone out of the company because you don’t like him.” Dominic was talking down to her, and she could see he thought she was being difficult—they all thought that. She wasn’t stupid. She knew what people said about her, heard the rumors floating around about why Dominic would be willing to keep her on staff after one of their conflicts. A woman wasn’t allowed to have an opinion about the way a business was run unless she was sleeping with the boss. Dominic wouldn’t respect her professional opinion unless she was bumping and grinding offstage, as well as on. What garbage. Rachel knew what her strengths and weaknesses were—and so did the people she stood up to. And she especially knew when she was right. If getting other people to agree with her meant the occasional public quarrel, then so be it. Starting right now. “Did you see her eye, Dominic? He hit her. That asshole hit her, and you’re letting him waltz around here like it doesn’t matter.” “What does your sister say?”

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Rachel gripped the back of a chair so tight she lost all feeling in her fingertips. She didn’t dare let go. The ground was going to collapse beneath her any minute now—she was sure of it. “Of course she’s denying it. That’s what she does.” “And Eric?” “For crying out loud, Dominic. Like he’s going to admit it to me.” She should have known better. After the barbeque, she’d actually thought things between her sister and Eric were cooling off. Molly had spent almost every evening at home recently. One of those nights, they’d even made dinner with their mother, who’d been surprisingly sober for six o’clock in the evening. “No date night with Father of the Year?” Rachel had asked, cutting up tomatoes for their caprese salad. “Is this new boyfriend of yours an older man? How divine. I always loved a sugar daddy.” Indira was never one to labor over a hot stove, and she’d watched her daughters work from the comfort of the kitchen island, grimacing at her cup of iced tea—which Rachel had poured herself. “No, Mom. He has two young kids Rachel doesn’t approve of. And it’s not like me being home is that big of a deal—Eric has just been really busy with work lately, especially since he’s been spending so much time at the theater. He’s a bouncer, you know, when he’s not doing the Highland Games.” “How very upstanding and paternal of him,” Rachel had murmured. But something in her sister’s voice seemed to suggest there was more than work getting in the way. Good. Let it happen before her sister fell any more in love with this man than she already was. Unfortunately, the reprieve hadn’t lasted. Last night, her sister answered a late-night text that any self-respecting woman would recognize as a booty call.

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She’d come home sometime in the middle of the night after the rest of them had gone to bed. If only Rachel had waited up for her. If only she could find a way to convince Molly that she was so much better than the bright-blue-and-purple bruise around the outer rim of her left eye. “Oh, I didn’t jump out of the way in time when Sammy was playing Wii baseball,” Molly had said with a smile. It had looked forced. “She’s going to throw a wicked curveball someday.” “Rachel, there’s nothing I can do.” Dominic ran his hand through his short, spiky hair and sighed. “I understand you’re upset, but if your sister says there’s nothing wrong, I have no choice but to believe her. Eric and I have been talking about putting him in charge of security and the box office—a real position, not just his volunteer work. I can’t cut him loose because of your suspicions. In fact, you’re going to have to go out there and apologize, or it’s you who will be getting sent home.” No. Absolutely not. “I know you think I took it too far, but I respectfully disagree.” “You kicked him in the groin, Rachel. That’s assault.” Rachel’s jaw tightened “If he ever touches my sister again, it’s going to be a hell of a lot worse than that.” Dominic sighed. “You need to work this out with him, and that’s the last thing I have to say on the subject. Between this and your mom—” She cut him off. “Noted.” Eight years. She’d spent eight years going through college and working in fundraising and doing underpaid community theater work and now this. None of her jobs were very prestigious, and they certainly weren’t what she’d set out to do, but not once in all of those years had she been anything but professional. Distanced. Untouchable.

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She was not her mother, slipping vodka into her water bottle and screaming at her third husband in the middle of a New York production. She was not her mother, bringing her young daughters to rehearsal to be raised by Darya, the wardrobe department supervisor who spoke very little English but always had candy in her pockets. “I know it might seem harsh—” “I said I get it, Dominic. It won’t happen again.” “Rachel, it’s okay. In fact, I think you probably already know this production inside and out. Didn’t you say you did Antony and Cleopatra in college? It probably wouldn’t kill you to take the rest of the week off.” “Thanks but no thanks. I’m fine.” Or she would be, once she got Molly safely out of Eric’s brutal hands. “I think it might be good for you.” She suddenly remembered why it had never worked out between the two of them. “Dominic?” “Yes?” He had a tendency to treat her like some wilting violet. “If you ever ask me to take time off again, I’ll kick you in the groin too.” His mouth froze halfway between a laugh and a horrified grimace. A third voice joined the discussion. “In my experience, the only women who dare to manhandle the family jewels as much as you are the ones who’ve never had a really good titty twister. Have you ever had one of those, Rachel?” Her arms went automatically over her chest, but she was much too acquainted with Michael’s untimely arrivals to feel anything other than mild surprise at him standing there, waiting for a chance to insert one of his ridiculous commentaries on Life as a Caveman. Dominic took one look at the pair of them squaring off and ducked into the background.

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That was another reason they’d never lasted. He was kind of a wimp. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” “Well, seeing as how my friend can’t even sit down right now, I’m making it my business. Did it ever occur to you that violence is not the answer?” “Tell that to your friend.” A dark look crossed Michael’s face, all the more meaningful since it was the first time she’d ever seen him anything but sublimely free of intellect or concern. “You’re wrong about him.” “And you? Am I wrong about you too?” She didn’t want to think about Eric Peterson and his fists of fury. She didn’t want to think at all. “No. What you see is what you get.” Michael said. His flippancy was back on in an instant, but Rachel thought the flicker of darker emotion was rather like walking in on your parents having sex. Once witnessed, it could never be taken away. It was imprinted on her memory in a way that was both unsettling and permanent. “So if I close my eyes, you’ll disappear?” “No. If you close your eyes, I’m going to sneak up and give you that titty twister.” She couldn’t help it. She laughed. Her life was falling to pieces around her and she’d failed at the one thing that was more important than anything else in the world—taking care of Molly. And this man was the enemy, a friend of Eric’s, here seemingly to make her life as difficult as possible. “I dare you to try,” she finally said, wiping away a few tears. “I’ll add it to my bucket list,” Michael said with a grin. He looked supremely satisfied with himself. “Now. Can we talk about that fiasco in the other room?” “No.” All the laughter was snatched away. “You’re lucky I don’t press charges on your friend.”

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“For what? Letting his kids play video games?” “Don’t give me that crap. There’s a lot more to that man than meets the eye. I know about his brother. I know about his past.” It was a lie, and Rachel wasn’t quite sure how it slipped out, but someone had to be the voice of reason around here. Someone had to step up and play the responsible adult. As always, it fell to her. Rachel, the default adult, who never wore party dresses or even looked at a cocktail. Rachel, who wore sensible shoes and sucked all the joy out of life. The dark look clouded back into place over Michael’s expression, and this time it was concentrated in the twist of his mouth, which turned down at the corners. Rachel almost missed the flash of his teeth. “I’ll warn you one time, and one time only. Peterson is one of the best men I know. He’s a good friend, a better dad and loyal as hell to the people who matter to him. Now, as far as I can tell, your sister matters to him. A lot. So before you start sticking your nose in his business, you should ask yourself if you’re willing to accept the consequences.” “Is that a threat?” “It’s a promise. Don’t stir up trouble there, Rachel. He has two little girls at home who depend on him. Leave the past where it is.” She was shaking. It came as a surprise to look down at her hands and see the way they wobbled, as though she hadn’t had anything to eat in days or was hopped up on eight cups of black coffee. If Michael thought he was reassuring her, he was wrong. The fact that Eric had two little girls at home only increased her sense of urgency in finding out what was wrong. Children deserved better. Molly deserved better. “Now. I heard Dominic give you the rest of the day off. What do you say we get the hell out of Dodge?”

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Her head spun. Hadn’t this man just been handing her a lecture? Didn’t he know she hated the very sight of him? “What are you talking about?” “You. Me. The open air.” He tucked his hands into his armpits and shrugged. “The alternative is to go talk to your sister. I’m pretty sure she wants to murder you.” Rachel was not a procrastinator. She and Molly needed to take the time to talk about this—really talk about this. Eric. Her abusive ex, Justin. Baby Hewitt, whom none of them dared call by the name lovingly picked out while all was safe and cozy inside Molly’s womb. But the thought of walking in there and facing her sister’s hysterics right now was too much, even for Rachel’s nerves of iron. “Where would you take me?” She had a hard time imagining a cozy lunch with linens, crystal and Michael. Then again, a sedate meal for two was hardly something she wanted to share with this man. “Oho! I’m going to rock your world, woman.” He rubbed his hands together and winked. “You have no idea how hard.”

Rachel stood at the base of the swather, her long red hair whipping in the wind like a heroine in one of those dramatic movies women were always going on and on about. Except instead of letting it look all fiery and exotic, she kept spitting out the strands and glaring at Michael. “I am not getting inside a tractor, and that’s final.” “I already told you. It’s not a tractor. It’s a swather,” Michael said. Technically, Rachel was right. It was a tractor with the swather they used for cutting attached to the three-point hitch, but it was far too much fun making her

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stamp her feet in the dirt to point out the technicalities. “And you’ll like it. It’s neat.” They stood on the eastern slope of the largest field on the lentil farm, rows of pillowy, upturned soil being prepared for the spring planting in every direction. Even after sixteen years out here, it was a sight that filled Michael with equal parts pride and astonishment. Every year, he helped Jennings with the harvest, but he was usually touring the Highland Games or working construction jobs down in Arizona the rest of the year. It had been a while since he’d stuck around for the whole cycle of fertilizing and watering and weeding and something called a wilt complex that made Michael want to weep for the poor half-mast lentils. As a kid, it had been a huge part of his life to work the land under Jennings’s coarse but careful instructions. As an adult, the farm was more of a source of amusement than anything else. “Yeah. I own a lentil farm in Eastern Washington,” was one of his favorite sayings on a first date. It always got a laugh and typically led to more interesting conversations about tumbles in the hay or the size of a workhorse’s package. But actually spend time out here? Give a damn about the harvest? Help Jennings with more than just the occasional muscle? It had been a long time. Too long. Michael gnawed a long piece of grass thoughtfully. Rachel saw it and grimaced, so he loosened his stance and hooked a thumb on his belt. He needed to turn on full Michael Mode, balls to the wall and tits deep. He’d promised Peterson to keep her distracted and direct all of her antagonistic energies his way—at least until they cleared up the issue of the black eye. He understood Rachel’s concern, but Peterson would no more hit a woman than he would slice off his own dick.

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“You promised me fun. Tractors—I’m sorry, swathers—are not fun.” She was pouting now. It was kind of cute. “Have you ever tried it?” “Don’t be ridiculous.” “Then in you go.” Michael grabbed her around the waist before she could protest, hoisting her up and placing her on the top step. As she straightened, he made sure to grab her ankles and hold them down. Her feet were eye level, and he didn’t doubt her desire to plant one of those sharp toes in his face. “It’s not so bad. If you look inside the box under the seat, you’ll probably find some weed. There might be chocolate bars too.” She paused. “Are you trying to lure me into your unmarked vehicle with promises of drugs and candy?” “C’mon. I’ll even let you drive.” As she sighed and rolled her eyes, finally giving in, Michael gave the air a little fist pump, making sure she was able to see his triumph. It worked. She let out an irritated grunt and refused to budge, giving him a perfect reason to wrap his arms around her and load her into the seat. It might not have been a hug, but it was probably as close as he was going to get. And damn, she felt good. There was a whole lot of woman lurking just underneath her high-necked blouse and slacks. Full breasts and small waist and hips that, forgive him, didn’t lie—they were all there, and Michael wasn’t above adopting underhanded measures to explore the details. “How subtle. Are you finished manhandling me now?” Michael lifted his hands in mock surrender as he ducked behind her into the tractor’s cab, which was entirely glassed off and pretty damn lush, if you asked him. “You can’t blame a guy for trying. Will it make you feel better if I let you do the same?”

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God help him, she paused and bit her lip, as if considering. His cock shifted as he took in the exact size and scope of the cab. Yes. It would fit two people quite comfortably, especially if there was some straddling and creative body angles coming into play. But alas. She shook her head and, instead of running her hands over him, gently caressed the black leather seat and large knobby controls. “So you really know how to run this thing?” “Sure.” He indicated for her to have a seat and was just able to shove himself into a semi-erect position in the space behind her. That wasn’t all of him that was semi-erect. Small space. Gorgeous woman. It happened. “Do you know how to drive a clutch?” “Of course.” She seemed insulted. Good. “Is this where you tell me how much better at driving men are than women?” “Well, now. That depends on how well you take control of the shaft.” He felt the slight shake of her laughter. She didn’t release it into the air, of course, but he knew it was there all the same. Somehow, that made it better. “Push in the clutch right there and then the brake there.” He pointed at her legs and then leaned over her to turn the key to the ignition. The tractor roared to life beneath them, the normally heavy rumble of a more than a hundred horsepower engine only a hum and rattle with the door to the cab closed and sealed. “And that’s it?” “Mostly. It’s a lot like driving. Just add the throttle…but not too much.” She added too much, of course, and they lurched forward with enough force that Michael almost toppled into her lap. Slamming the breaks with considerable force, however, sent him the opposite direction.

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“That was…good,” he offered. “Oh, don’t coddle me. I just need a second to get used to it.” He caught a peek at her face, which was screwed up in concentration, the tip of her tongue just poking out from between her slightly glossed lips. They moved forward again, still jerky but much better than before. He was almost afraid to offer her any more direction, so intently did she look back and forth between the steering column and the expanse of plowed field in front of them. As much as he appreciated the sight of a woman mastering a large piece of machinery on her own, he didn’t relish the idea of toppling Jennings’s most prized possession into a ditch. They had a good relationship, he and Jennings, built on a mutual desire to keep out of each other’s shit as much as possible, but the man loved this farm like it was his own child. He kept his comments to a minimum, but even then, she didn’t hear very many of them. If he didn’t know better, he’d say she was having too much fun to notice his occasional remark on hitting the throttle harder or faster or like she was making sweet, passionate love to it. “Hey, nice turn,” Michael said as she veered sharply and let the wheel spin loosely through her hands. “You’re kind of a natural at this.” “Of course I am. But am I killing all your crops?” Despite her apparent concern, she sped up, leaning forward in her seat. “Nah. We don’t plant for a few more weeks. And as long as you stay to the right of the field, you should be fine. You know, when I was a teenager, we used to have tractor races. I was kind of the local celebrity, actually.” For the first time, she turned, something like actual joy sparking in her eye. She allowed the tractor to come to a stop. “Tractor races?”

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“Yeah. Not on these ones, obviously. Jennings would’ve cut off my legs before he’d let me drive any of the good stuff. But the smaller ones, sure.” “And do these tractors still exist?” Michael grinned. This woman had a hell of a lot of faults, but lack of spirit wasn’t one of them. “Why, Ms. Hewitt. Are you challenging me to a duel?” She jumped to her feet, smacking her head on the roof in the process. It didn’t faze her. With one hand pressed to the top of her hair, her lips spread, so slow it was hard to tell it was a smile. But it was good, that smile. It had meaning. It had promise. And it made him feel like he was accomplishing something worthwhile—something that had nothing to do with Peterson or Molly or the stage. “You’re on, Mr. O’Leary,” Rachel said, that smile still in place. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me yet. But one thing you should jot down—I never, ever lose.”

Rachel had her shoes kicked off and her linen slacks rolled up to the knee. Mud splattered over every inch of her calves and even spread up her sides so that her cream-colored blouse looked more like leopard skin than a solid color. But if she looked bad, Michael was five times worse. He had mud reaching up to his knees, and his shirt was damp enough that she could make out each line that chiseled along his back, his muscles moving and dancing to a beat she could almost hear inside her head. The racing tractors they steered around the mud pit were tiny compared to the giant piece of farming equipment she’d driven earlier—these were more like riding lawn mowers than anything else. Hers was a rusted red with a white

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stripe along the side. Michael’s was predictably green and sported a leaping yellow deer. They’d lost track of how many laps they were on about half an hour ago, and were now going head-to-head, trying to force each other off the main stretch of mud and into the stubby weeds on either side. Her hair whipped around in a tangled mess, and she was pretty sure this was how people lost their legs. But she was having fun. She swerved into Michael’s tractor, nudging him away to cross the finish line just as that thought really hit her. Fun. That’s what this was. Rachel turned the tractor off and hopped down, her toes squishing into the mud. It was oddly warm and probably ruining every pedicure she’d had over the past five years. “Winner makes lunch. I mentioned that before, right?” She turned to find Michael smiling at her and immediately broke out into a laugh. He had one muddy handprint on each of his pecs, one more placed very obviously and robustly over the crotch of his khaki shorts. “I have never met a man so blatantly nonchalant about his…assets,” Rachel said, rolling her eyes. “And no, the lunch caveat is new. But since I kicked your ass so royally—” A huge glob of mud, wet and grainy and no longer warm, landed right in the middle of her cheek. She wiped it away, leaving a few diagonal tracks along her cheekbone and toward her brow. Warpaint 101. She hadn’t minored in costume makeup for nothing. “You did not just do that,” she said. Another glob hit the opposite side. The man had impeccable aim. Instead of wiping this one off, she reached down and picked up a mud ball of her own. But she should have known better than to go up against an athlete, because his

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reflexes were about three times faster and a heck of a lot more accurate than hers. Before she even stood up with the ball in her hand, she felt the shock of solid muscle against her midsection. She shot backward like one of those tackling thingies football players used. But it didn’t hurt, and she let out a squeal, feeling like a lion cub must when it was hard at play. The teeth were out, the paws were batting, but there was gentleness to the impact that did much more to rob her of breath than the hit itself. “I let you win,” Michael said, his voice very near her ear. He had her lifted entirely off the ground, and for one electric moment, she was weightless—she was flying. They landed with a weighty squelch. Michael settled on top of her, bracing himself on his arms to prevent the air from being crushed out of her lungs. Still, she couldn’t breathe, and her head felt light and hazy. It should have made her furious, being manhandled, pushed to the mud, the loamy smell of the earth filling her hair and her nostrils. But as Michael reached one hand up to wipe away a strand of hair that had stuck to her cheek, she only felt as though she could remain trapped in this moment forever, if only she knew how to hold on. “Somehow, I get the feeling you’re the type of guy who won’t admit defeat even when it’s staring you directly in the face,” she said the moment her breathing resumed a normal pattern. Michael still hadn’t shifted, but her body was growing accustomed to the heavy, delicious weight of him. It had been too long since she’d participated in this sort of sport, wrestling a man with words while he wrestled her with his body. “Is that what’s staring at me right now?” His finger moved along her cheek, not exactly a caress, but not not one either. “Defeat?”

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She struggled against him, wiggling her legs and hips until she rested on her elbows, face-to-face with him. Oh, geez. If she thought she missed the weight of a man, she certainly wasn’t going to think about how nice it felt to be rubbing against one. Focus on the words. They’d never let her down before. “Does this look like defeat?” She even managed a nicely quirked eyebrow for good effect. “It looks damn good, I’ll give it that.” He leaned in, seemingly unaware that she was inching away, slowly but most definitely surely. “It also looks like it’s in desperate need of this.” Rachel knew what was coming. It was in the shift in his weight, still held suspended so near her. It was in the hitch of breath—hers or his, she couldn’t really tell and didn’t really care. The whole day, all fun and lighthearted and full of Michael’s blatant innuendos, had been heading this direction. What could it hurt? Why, for one delicious moment in the mud, couldn’t she enjoy being a hot-blooded woman pinned underneath an attractive and incredibly hot-blooded man? The kiss was surprisingly tender and resolve-shatteringly soft. In her experience, a man like Michael, who drew attention to his male parts like a baboon, was the kind who treated a woman like she was a piece of spaghetti being thrown at a wall. Attack with tongue, mouth, hands and dick all at once. Eventually, one of them would stick. But his lips on hers were as much a question as they were an answer, and one of those oh, God, so big hands wound up to the back of her head, gripping her hair but not pulling it. There was that lion cub coming out to play again, capable of so much power but restraining it just for her. She wondered if he knew how much that bothered and turned her on all at once. She opened her mouth and deepened the kiss, but still he held back, giving

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her only a small taste of what he was really capable of. Letting out a low growl of irritation, she pushed him away, hoping she could read something in his face other than the bovine satisfaction he was sure to be wearing. Surprisingly, there was a tenderness in his eyes on top of the satisfaction. But it didn’t last long. As soon as he saw her searching glance, he broke out into that aggravating smile. “You,” he said, licking his lips as if tasting what remained of her there. “Are an incredibly gracious loser. Is that what they call a booby prize?” A short bark of a laugh escaped her, and she relaxed. Michael wouldn’t force any sort of soul searching or meaning out of that kiss, and he wasn’t going to go all weird and start touching her every second he got the chance. He was simple and easy, the type of man who took what pleasures were offered him, or, if they were denied, shrugged his shoulders and moved on. How wonderful it must be to care so little, to see everything through a pair of fratboy beer goggles. “I didn’t lose. I distinctly remember passing the finish line a complete five seconds before you.” “Fine. I’m an incredibly gracious loser, then. Lucky for you.” He grinned and jerked his head toward the top of the hill, where the Airstreams were parked. “I’ll even make lunch. You can get cleaned up over at my place, if you want.” “Uh…” She imagined the tiny aluminum can and cringed. “I’m okay.” “Me have shower. Me have electricity.” He laughed and pounded on his chest. “I might even have something you can change into. I promise—it’s not as bad as you think.” She didn’t know how to gracefully bow out without ruining whatever sort of happy time they were having, so she went along.

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She was pleasantly surprised by what she found. No piles of dirty clothes smelling of rancid man littered the floor. No dishes and garbage and other paraphernalia that usually provided the nesting materials for beasts of his nature were scattered about. It was smaller, certainly, than her mother’s house, but the narrow length of it was clean and simple, and shelves all over the walls provided a way for him to store a few movies and personal items with something approaching organization. At one end, a small kitchenette stood, empty and inviting. At the other, a queen-size bed took up quite a bit of space, but the bedding looked clean, if slightly pimped out in black satin. In the center, a couch and a table provided a serviceable living space. “Bathroom’s through there. The shower’s small, but it works.” Michael moved through the space easily, not the least bit ashamed of the place he called home. He reached into a drawer underneath the bed and pulled out a T-shirt and pair of sweatpants. At this, at least, he had the good grace to change his grin from beaming to sheepish. “It’s not as nice as what you normally wear, but it’ll get you home. I’ll be over at Jennings’s if you need anything.” She murmured her thanks and waited a full twenty seconds after the door shut behind him to start poking through his stuff. She was doomed to disappointment, though. Other than an alarming number of farming equipment user manuals and energy bars bought in bulk, there was nothing personal about the space. Few needs, even fewer possessions. Michael was like a hermit. The Happy Troglodyte, a children’s picture book waiting to happen. Rachel suddenly felt over-everything. Over-dressed, over-analytical, overjudgmental of everything and everyone. Eric and her sister’s problems seemed miles away, and that distance was flooded with doubt and uneasiness and the sinking suspicion that Michael and his friend weren’t all that bad.

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She kicked the shower door. How dare he? How dare he take away some of her confidence, strip her of the certainty that made it so much easier to do what she knew to be right? And more importantly—how dare he stop that kiss just as it was getting to the good part?

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Chapter Nine Frailty

Women were changeable. Michael knew that. Accepted it. Played with it, especially when the woman in question was Rachel Hewitt, whose personality was tempestuous and temptress in one increasingly attractive package. In the few weeks he’d known Rachel, he was starting to get a feel for the way she worked. He wasn’t crass enough to compare her to a piece of machinery that he could break down into its individual parts and rebuild from memory, but he could definitely see the parallels. She liked control and power. She liked winning and having the upper hand. The moment any of those were taken away from her, she panicked, lashing out at whatever—or whoever—happened to be standing in the immediate vicinity. Lately, that had been Michael, and he doubted anyone else had put himself so much in the way of her wrath before. Because it was obvious that once her energy was spent, she was soft and pliable and funny and pretty damn great. It was a cycle: fight and fun. Frolic and flail. At some point, he imagined they could introduce fuck into that equation and find a whole new level of entertainment. He sure as hell wanted to. If Rachel fought half as hard in the bedroom as she did in her everyday life, he could die happy. And if her response to him out in the racing field was anything to go by, she was willing.

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The question was, why didn’t he make a move? Why did Michael O’Leary, with his game face on and balls tight with anticipation, bow out of the running after just one kiss? Something was very wrong with him. Even worse, he’d actually enjoyed their afternoon—quiet, comfortable and completely free of dick jokes. After a quick shower, Rachel joined him in the other Airstream with Jennings, and she didn’t even pull a face when confronted with a platter of Fluffernutter sandwiches for lunch. They’d been there several hours once they took into account the three games of Scrabble Michael had been forced to sit through, watching the two of them play. By the time they were done, he was ready to swear she was a different person. Maybe it was the adorable way she’d rolled up the waistband of his sweatpants until they rested loosely on her hips, or the face she’d made when she realized she was wearing a Hooters Vancouver T-shirt, but he’d thought she was really getting into the role of Normal Human Being. As they neared her house, however, all signs of the fun, lighthearted Rachel fled. “You can just drop me off here,” she said. They were at the end of her block, a nice, picturesque street with people mowing the lawns and kids’ toys scattered around. Her fingers drummed against the door in a nervous staccato beat. “Nope,” Michael said casually, peering at the numbers on the houses. What had she said hers was? Ten eighty-eight? “This is a doorside service. I’m a very thorough man—I never skimp on the good parts.” The challenge went unmet, and his heart sank. He was going to have to try harder.

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“And since you won’t ask me what the good parts are, I’m going to have to ask you for my clothes back. Preferably before you exit the vehicle. Or now. Now is good.” She turned to him and scowled. “You’re horrible at reading people, did you know that? I said let me out of your car, not proposition me with poorly timed sexual advances.” That’s better. The quiet, internalized Rachel was scary. He doubted she had any idea how much scarier she was than the irate, yelling Rachel. He didn’t slow the car. At a neighborhood-friendly fifteen miles per hour, she could have easily tucked and rolled her way to safety, but he wasn’t going to make it any easier on her than he had to. “So what you’re saying is that if my sexual advances are better timed, we’re all sails out and ready to go? Damn, woman. Why didn’t you just say so? I can get my mast up and my canvas billowing—” “You are impossible!” The drumming had stopped, and there was a wild, murderous look in her eyes. “For a few hours there, I thought we were having a good time. I think there was even a whole thirty minute stretch where you didn’t mention sex once.” Michael scratched his jaw thoughtfully. “I think it was actually only about twenty minutes. You missed my reference to all the dirty tea bags Jennings had on his kitchen counter.” He didn’t have time to appreciate the low, guttural obscenities she was about to scream in his ear, because they’d reached her house. It wasn’t the clean two stories of Colonial façade that tipped him off to the cause of her anxiety, or even the line of laundry out back that billowed with silky underthings no decent woman would expose to the neighborhood. No. It was the pair of cop cars in the

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driveway and the man in a blue hat escorting a very irate-looking woman up the front steps. Her mother. “I’m serious, Michael. If you know what’s good for you, let me out and drive away.” “I’m a glutton for punishment,” he said with a shrug, slowing. He didn’t have time to add anything about his favorite kind of punishments, since Rachel decided she could, in fact, exit a moving vehicle. He gave her a few seconds to correct the wobble in her step and approach the house before he turned the engine off and got out of the car. He leaned against it as though he hadn’t a care in the world—even though his gaze was sharp under his half-lidded eyes and his crossed arms hid a tension that would have burst into action at the first sign she needed him. It was a familiar scene to him, the real Walk of Shame. There was nothing shameful about having a little too much to drink on a Saturday night and waking up in a stranger’s bed. There was, however, a whole hell of a lot of shame in being escorted home by police officers when you were too drunk to stand straight—and in the middle of the afternoon. It was the shame that had pushed Michael’s own parent even further down the path of his own making, strewn as it was with empty liquor bottles. It was the shame that made Rachel refuse to look back and acknowledge him standing there. Well, he was standing here and would remain that way until he was sure she was okay. Rachel wasn’t a woman who asked for help or admitted to any kind of weakness. Obviously, neither was her mother. But that didn’t mean either of them didn’t need it.

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He’d wait. He had nothing but time.

“I think one of us should stay home tomorrow,” Rachel said, trying to look casual as she brought the fork to her mouth. She wasn’t hungry, but Molly looked about ready to collapse, her eye still puffy and purple, her shoulders slumped. The only way she would eat was if Rachel led by example. “Just to make sure she’s okay.” “I suppose by ‘one of us,’ you mean me,” Molly replied, stabbing at her salad. She looked up. “Oh, don’t get on your high horse, Rachel. I just meant that you were the one here today, so it’s my turn tomorrow. I get it.” Rachel shifted uncomfortably. She hadn’t yet told her sister about all the day’s adventures. The bit about their mother shoplifting a DVD of a movie she’d once had a cameo in, the bit where the cops got called in to escort her home in not one, but two marked police cars that the whole neighborhood had been happy to see—those she shared. But the part where Rachel had not been the worried daughter at home, instead spending the afternoon rolling in the dirt with a man she barely knew and didn’t even like—that she left out. Especially since she still wasn’t sure what to make of his actions. The last thing she’d wanted while she got her mother inside and talked to the police was an audience. So when Michael propped himself up on his car hood and read the user manual from his glove box for a full twenty minutes, never once looking up or offering his help, she wasn’t sure whether to yell at him or say thanks. Only once the police drove away and she finally got everything quieted down inside did he make an attempt at contact.

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“You need anything else?” he’d asked, as if he were her waiter or an overgrown pizza-delivery boy. “From you? No.” “Okay. Call if you change your mind. I’ll see you at rehearsal tomorrow.” And with that, he’d gotten into his car, an old Pacer with a wicked backfire, and drove away. Who did that? It would have been creepy if it hadn’t been so…nice. There was no way she was explaining that to Molly. She couldn’t even explain it to herself. “What do people normally do, Rach? With parents like this, I mean?” That was easy. “They move across the country. Then they get married and have kids and feel guilty for not doing more.” “But you did that. Well, the first part, anyway,” Molly quickly amended. “You had the fancy travel stage job and the cross-country career. But you moved back.” Their eyes met over the table, and both of them began picking up their dinner things, all thoughts of food forgotten. Rachel had come back, and it hadn’t been for their mother’s sake. Indira had been just about to get married at the time, still in the highs and sobriety of her newfound love. The truth—which she and Molly both knew—was that Rachel had done it for her sister. But she’d wanted to see the tour out through to the end, and it was during the final two weeks in Florida that Molly had called, tearful and scared, just hours away from losing her baby. She hadn’t come home soon enough. She’d let Molly down. “Well, I guess I’m going to win daughter of the year award, aren’t I?” Rachel kept her tone light and avoided the elephant in the room, even though it was so

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blaringly white it was difficult to miss. “We could send her somewhere, I guess. They have those rehab facilities in Sedona the stars are always sent to. She’d probably think it added to her prestige.” “Would she go?” Rachel shrugged. She hadn’t yet broached the subject to their mother. It was so much easier to bury herself in work and in Molly’s relationships than it was to think about what to do with the woman who had bred them. Other than living in the house she’d purchased when retirement seemed the only alternative to getting continually thrown off shows, they had very little to do with her. Pick up her empty bottles, pick her up from the bar when she’d had one too many, pick her physically up and place her in bed. Hope another man would come along and pick up the rest. It was awful to think that three modern women would resort to such awful measures, but there it was. They wanted a man to make it all better. “Maybe we should call one of the facilities and see,” Rachel said quickly. She could still fix this. “I’m sure they have intervention steps. I know that stuff is hard on you, so I’ll look into it.” “What about tomorrow, then? I’d just go ahead and stay home, but I was supposed to go out with Eric after work—” Rachel dropped the wooden salad bowl she’d been carrying to the sink, and pieces of glistening lettuce went flying. She busied herself picking them up, but Molly waited for her to finish, her arms crossed and a frown etched into place. Truth be told, she finally looked as though she was going to fight for something in her life. A small part of Rachel cheered. The rest of her wanted to cry. Why, oh, why, did it have to be for that particular man, tattoos and possible criminal activities and all?

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“He didn’t hit me, Rachel. It was an accident with the girls, okay? It happens.” Molly’s foot tapped a warning pattern. “I need you to tell me you understand that.” “Well, I don’t. Even if he didn’t hit you this time…” Molly threw their plates in the sink. Something shattered, but neither one of them flinched. “Oh my God, Rachel. I’m not an idiot, okay? I know I made mistakes before, but that doesn’t mean every man I date from now on is some sort of psycho serial killer. Eric is nice. He cares about me. Why can’t I just enjoy that for a little while?” She stormed off, leaving Rachel to attend to the mess, which she did forcefully. Cups, bowls and silverware clanged together in the sink. It was so patently, painfully typical, and Molly hadn’t even given her a chance to respond. They were always nice. They always cared about her. But it never lasted, and that was when the trouble started. Rachel felt the edge of the broken plate slice into her hand, but she kept picking up the shards and tossing them into the garbage bin. Dots of blood left a trail of perfect circles on the expensive Italian marble floor. Rachel looked at the spots dully, pressing a clean dishtowel to her cut and trying not to let the red seep into her line of vision, not to let the anger welling up in her throat take over. Their mother. Molly. Her own bloody mess. There was so much cleaning to do.

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Chapter Ten O Noble Fool

“I am not putting those on.” Michael crossed his arms and glared at Mary, the wardrobe matron and living voodoo doll. She had at least two dozen pins sticking out of her hat, and he would rather take every last one of them to the eye than squeeze his boys into the pair of tiny gray tights she dangled in front of him. “I was promised I wouldn’t have to wear a costume.” “Direct orders from Dominic. All understudies need to be fitted.” “Do you see my legs?” Mary looked down over the top of her glasses. She seemed unimpressed. “Yes.” “How big around do you think one of them is? Near the top, where it matters?” “I don’t know, honey, but I’m guessing you get a measuring tape up there pretty often. Why don’t you tell me?” “The answer,” Michael said carefully, “is a hell of a lot more than that.” He pointed at the fabric she held aloft. He knew those things were supposed to stretch, but this was taking things too far. A man had his limits. A man had his rights. “Dude, will you just get this over with so we can go to lunch? I thought you said you were so hungry you could eat a horse and chase the jockey?” Michael flipped Peterson the bird. Peterson was not being fitted for tights. Peterson was the understudy to an understudy of the least important part of the play. Apparently, his extensive ink didn’t fit the image of a Renaissance man.

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Lucky bastard. “Mary, I think you’re one hell of a seamstress, but there is no way any woman will get me to shove my man bits where they need to go to make this work. Even if she promised to put them there with her teeth.” “You wear a codpiece.” She dangled something that looked an awful lot like a jockstrap. It didn’t fill him with much in the way of confidence. “Does it come in anything larger?” Peterson groaned. “Seriously, Mikey. Do what the lady says. It’s not going to kill you.” Michael took a deep breath and calmly asked Mary to give them a few minutes. This was it—the wall, the stopping point, the straw that killed the camel or whatever. He was getting damn tired of being told what to do, and it was about time Peterson heard it. He ushered Mary out the door, shutting it firmly behind her with promises of trying on everything in the place as soon as she came back. When he turned, it was to find Peterson standing there with a velvety-looking box open in one hand, a doofy-looking smile on his face. “Why, Eric Peterson—are you finally making an honest man out of me?” he asked. But even as the smile spread on his face and congratulations sprang to the tip of his tongue, his stomach grew heavy. Damn. There went all thoughts of lunch. “The least you could do is get down on one knee.” “What do you think?” Peterson asked, the jokes flying right over his head and lodging into the wall. Michael would never want a woman so much his sense of humor disappeared. That just wasn’t right. “What the fuck do I know? It’s big and glittery. I’ve heard that does the trick.”

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“Not just the ring.” Peterson snapped the case shut and tucked it in his pocket. “Do you think it’s too soon?” Yes. But he wasn’t about to say that. The bro code didn’t exactly cover what to do when a man was willing to shackle himself to a woman after a few short months, but it seemed pretty par for the course that complete and total agreement was in order. Michael gave his friend a hearty hug and finished with a slap on the back. “Congratulations, dude. I mean it,” Michael said. “But…ah…aren’t you forgetting one small thing?” “I’ve got a new tie, reservations at Clink’s, and the lifetime warranty on this baby. The girls love her. What could I possibly be missing?” “Rachel?” Peterson sat heavily in the chair recently vacated by Mary. “Oh, yeah. That.” “Why am I here, Peterson?” Michael asked. He sat opposite his friend and nudged him with a swift kick to the shin. “Ow.” “Why are you so afraid of Rachel, and what exactly is my being here supposed to do? Other than comedic value, of course.” Michael nodded toward the various-hued tights hanging along a clothesline strung across the room. “I mean, I’m having a good time and all…but how long is this supposed to keep going? Until you’ve got grandkids?” For the first time, Peterson showed some emotion other than dopey adulation. He dropped his head to his hands and blew out a long, loud breath. “It’s not me I’m worried about. I’d tell Rachel to back the fuck out of my business right now if I could.” His eyes, when he looked up, were stricken. “That’s not true. I wouldn’t do that to Molly. But it’s more than that—it’s more than just me and her at stake here.”

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“Nick?” Peterson nodded, slowly at first and then gaining momentum. “You remember a few months ago when he got into trouble with those guys across the state line? Those jerks from Hayden Lake?” “I remember it happening, yes. But you never told me what went down.” “There’s a reason. One of the guys messed with Nick’s girlfriend—not just disrespected, mind you. Some serious shit. He convinced me to go to this in-thesticks dive bar called Angelo’s to give them a little scare and teach them how to behave towards a woman.” Michael grinned. That sounded like Peterson to an inch—always the muscle. “You know Jules and I would have been happy to help out.” His smile wasn’t returned. “Be glad we didn’t ask. It turns one of the dickheads Nick took a baseball bat to is the nephew of a hick cop on the force out there. We left before the cops got there, and none of the guys dared turn us in, but the uncle was able to coerce a witness to do an artist’s sketch.” “A baseball bat? That’s not like you.” Peterson groaned. “I know. We were just supposed to rough them up a little, teach them a lesson. I didn’t realize Nick had the bat until it was too late. I stopped him as soon as I could, but the kid spent a few weeks in the hospital. I’m not saying the bastard didn’t deserve it…but if someone IDs us from the sketches and the fight gets filed as a felony, we could both be looking at extradition and jail time.” Michael let out a low whistle. That was a lot worse than he imagined. Roughing up guys in a fair fight was one thing—using weapons was another. “And if someone IDs you?”

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Peterson splayed his hands helplessly. “I can’t let it happen, Mikey. That’s all there is to it. I’ve been talking with a lawyer, trying to figure out if there’s an easy way out of this. I can’t go to jail—there’s just too much at stake.” “Sammy and Pris,” Michael said, nodding. “And Molly. There’s her to think of now too.” Shit. Peterson was a good guy, always had been, but there was a fierce protective streak in him that few people had the mettle to test. His ex, Sarah, learned that the hard way when Peterson came home from work one night to find she’d left their daughters, just two and newborn at the time, alone in their cribs while she shot up with some friends of hers across town. The poor kids had been screaming there for who knew how many hours. The separation and custody battle had been a nightmare—legally and emotionally. Peterson had barely made it through intact. With Nick, Michael knew, the loyalty ran just as deep. It went way beyond bounds to attack a man with a weapon, but Nick was young and green in a lot of ways. Poor Peterson would have a hell of a time choosing between saving his brother’s ass and saving his own—especially with the crew of females he’d accumulated over the years depending on him. Double shit. If there was anyone who deserved some happiness in his life for once, it was Peterson. “Does Molly know?” “Parts. Most of it, anyway.” Peterson reached in his pocket and pulled out the ring box. “She knows there might be a police artist’s sketch of me floating out there in the world somewhere and that any PI worth his salt laying an investigation on me would stumble across it eventually.” Michael crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, so far it tipped over and came to rest against the wall. He hated to resort to such obvious and

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uncreative means, but… “Has it occurred to you to just talk to Rachel? She’s pretty reasonable once you get to know her.” Peterson’s laugh was short and bitter. It was an unusual sound for him. “Did you not hear the part where she kicked me in the nuts and almost pressed charges?” “There was that,” Michael agreed. “But I think you may have a little too much faith in my ability to woo and conquer. As much as Rachel loves insulting me, I don’t think she’d miss her sister buying a wedding dress and ordering white doves.” Peterson sighed. “I know. You’re right.” “And…?” Michael was waiting for the part where he was off the hook. For tights. For theater games. For babysitting Rachel. “And I just need more time. I need to talk to Nick and meet a few more times with the lawyer and figure this out. I won’t propose yet—it’s not right to put my feelings for Molly before the girls. That’s all I can do.” Michael’s look must have contained more of his thoughts than he meant, because Peterson suddenly grinned and narrowed his eyes. “Besides. I think you like her.” “That’s not the point.” Michael picked up the codpiece and examined it. Really, it defied the laws of nature. “This is a matter of pride. Of manhood.” “And your manhood is getting inside there right now, or I’m throwing the lot of you off the show.” Mary stormed through the door, a look of perseverance in her face and an enormous piece of molded plastic in her hand. She tossed the item at Michael. “That’s as big as it’s gonna get, honey.” “Oh, yeah,” he said, holding it up like a trophy. Bigger. Better. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

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Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Peterson tuck the ring box away, one more lovelorn sigh escaping his lips before he put his game face back on. So that was it, then. Their conversation wasn’t over, but Michael had to keep playing. For now.

If Rachel never saw another set of red and blue flashing lights in her life, she would have given up her antagonistic ways and joined a convent or something. “Oh God. What is it now?” Molly cried. “There’s no way…?” “There’s no way,” Rachel said firmly, scanning the exterior of the theater for signs of catastrophe. They’d just left their mom quietly at home. It was a good day today, and neither one of them wanted to dwell on the fact that it was the direct result of actually being on hand to take care of her for once. “I’m sure it’s nothing. One of the interns probably fainted or something.” Despite her calm façade, Rachel was in panic mode. Pretty much the only people in the world she cared about were inside the theater right now. Dominic, Mary, Doris… “Michael!” She slammed the car door shut and blinked, rooted to the spot with a weightiness that scared her. The last person in the world she ever thought to find lying flat on a stretcher was that man, possibilities of extensive steroid use aside. He was like a mountain. Mountains didn’t just fall. Molly reached over as if to grab her hand and provide support, but Rachel pulled away. She didn’t want Molly’s touch or gentle ministrations. She wanted—

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“If you don’t stop treating me like some little old lady with a heart attack, I swear I will throw this bed so far you’ll have to catch a plane to pick it up.” “He’s fine,” Rachel muttered. Of course he was fine. Knocking that man off his high horse would be like felling a tree using a butter knife. Still, her pace was clipped as she made her way over to where he was being loaded into the ambulance, her feet doing a strange wobbly thing she didn’t quite like. “You’re acting like a mammoth of a baby,” she called out. Her hand reached out of its own volition to rest on his leg, which was underneath the thin white sheet but thrashing to get out. He instantly stilled under her light touch. “I should have known. The big ones always cry the hardest.” Michael threw off the bracing arm of a harassed-looking paramedic and sat up. The normally relaxed features of his face were pinched, and his signature blond hair fell in his eyes, which sparkled with something other than mirth for once. “Oh? And you have lots of experience with big ones?” “Like you wouldn’t believe,” Rachel said, her smile wobbly. “Especially at making them cry.” “Excellent.” He rubbed his hands together and bit back a wince, obviously determined to put on a brave front. “Then for the love of all that is holy, get the guy driving this rig to let me out. I’m fine.” Rachel glanced at the paramedic in question, who looked as immovable as Michael. “What happened to him, and what do you need me to do to make him listen?” Sensing a kindred spirit, the man, who was almost as wide as he was tall, allied himself at her side. “He was lifting a piece of the set and his knee gave out under him. Which wouldn’t be a big deal, except he’s had orders to avoid doing exactly that thing.”

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“You,” Michael said, lifting his finger and pointing it at the paramedic as though he were cursing him for all eternity, “are not my doctor. All it needs is a little ice.” Curious, Rachel pulled back the blanket. A strangled sound escaped her throat. “For crying out loud, Michael. Go to the hospital.” She’d seen his knee before, a battlefield of surgery scars and twisted ligaments that he seemed to consider a badge of honor, but when it was swollen like this, pulsating with fluid and God knew what else, she had a hard time finding the shape of a human leg in there. Is there a human leg in there? She poked it. “I, ah, wouldn’t do that,” the medic warned. Rachel quelled him with a glance—one of the sharp ones she saved for special occasions. It worked, of course. “Does it hurt when I do that?” Michael’s lips spread into a thin smile as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Nope. Not a bit.” She poked a little harder, trying not to let even a flicker of sympathy pain cross her face. “What about that time?” “It’s like being gummed by your grandmother,” Michael said. His voice was strained. “I can tell just by looking at it there’s more scar tissue in there than anything else,” the medic said. He seemed to have reached the end of his generosity. “Your boss called nine-one-one, we’re here, and you need medical help. Let’s get you up into the rig.” “Scar tissue is stronger than regular tissue. Everyone knows that.” Michael swung his legs off the edge of the stretcher and used Rachel as a brace as he

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stood up. “This is me, formally denying medical care. You can go ahead and write that down. Hold still, will you, Rachel?” She did, but not easily. The amount of pressure he put on her spoke volumes—this man was clearly in pain and unwilling to admit it. “You’d do well to tell your boyfriend to take it easy, okay? And make an appointment with his doctor. I’m releasing him to your care.” The medic handed Michael a clipboard and showed him where to sign. “Oh, he’s definitely not my boyfriend.” Michael’s weight shifted until Rachel felt like she was being pummeled into the floor. “In fact, I don’t think you should release him to me at all. I’m very untrustworthy.” “It’s a good thing I don’t need either of you,” Michael mumbled. “Oh, and you can tell the other paramedic I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to smack him like that. He should know better than to force a man onto a stretcher.” Dominic came out just as the ambulance drove away at a slow, meandering pace and with its patient standing on the sidewalk waving a cheerful good-bye. “O’Leary—I told you I’m not having you limping around, a liability on my stage. And what are you doing here, Rachel? I thought I gave you the week off.” “I wouldn’t piss him off if I were you,” Michael said under his breath. “He had a nasty-looking brunette here this morning giving him a piece of her mind. Made you look like a kindergarten teacher.” “Ha-ha. Very funny.” Rachel stepped away, leaving Michael leaning on thin air. He stumbled and sucked in a sharp breath before finally righting himself on one leg, not altogether unlike a giant, mutated flamingo. “I’ll take this one home, Dominic, but I’m coming back tomorrow. I don’t trust what you’re doing with the suicide scene. You have a tendency to overdo the dramatic pauses.” “Don’t tell me how to do my job!”

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If the state of Dominic’s hair was anything to go by—spiked up in a dozen different directions—Rachel knew the brunette Michael was thinking of. It was the ex-wife, another faculty member at the college and the woman who’d come right after Rachel and Dominic split up. “Then go do it, you overpuffed snob,” she called back, watching Dominic’s hunched, retreating back. He really ought to go vent on the interns for a while. It always made her feel better. Rachel returned to Michael’s side to act as cane-slash-crutch. He scowled. “You don’t have to. For the ten thousandth time, I’m fine.” “Are you kidding me?” Rachel laughed. “I’m not going anywhere near this place today. Did I ever tell you about the time Dominic’s ex-wife set fire to his entire collection of first-draft Tennessee Williams’ plays?” She doubted Michael had ever heard of Mr. Williams, but he limped along next to her all the way to her car, listening and chuckling in all the right places. “Now.” She watched him as he tried to bend his knee into the front seat of her little Honda. He pushed the seat all the way back and still had to brace his leg up on the dashboard. “You won’t go to the doctor, and I seriously doubt you’ll sit at home and rest quietly. So where are we going?” “I could eat.” “Your knee looks like pulverized sausage, and you want a snack?” “Sausage sounds delicious, actually. Good thinking.” Rachel shook her head and pulled out of the lot. Yesterday, she would have sworn on a stack of Shakespeare textbooks there was nothing she wanted less in the whole world than to have to meet this man’s eyes, her own full of shame. But the tables had turned, and his Achilles heel was showing. There was nothing better in the whole world than seeing a man fall prey to his own weaknesses. “Before we get out of the car, though, you have to tell me one thing.”

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“Anything,” Michael said. “You’re practically my knight in shining armor.” Correction. There was one thing better than seeing a weakness. It was pointing it out. “Why in the world are you wearing a cup?”

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Chapter Eleven Fourth Wall

Rachel and Michael ended up spending the day at the dollar movie theater. There weren’t any sausages there, but they did have wrinkled hot dogs that looked like they’d been out for several days. And Jujubes. Michael loved Jujubes. “Black-and-white movies make me seasick,” Michael warned Rachel as they made their way down the aisle to the handicapped seats. The usher and ticket seller and owner—all one person—had set up a stool where Michael could put up his leg. There were some pretty nice benefits to being the only people at a movie at noon on a weekday. Rachel was loaded down with their food, so Michael played up his injury a little, watching her scowl her way down to the front. “The smell of all this food is making me seasick. So we’re even.” He lifted the tray from her hands and threw himself into his chair. It was a move that cost him—his knee screamed at the careless movement of it, pounding so hard he thought he might have wrenched something else out of place—but it was worth it. It made him look tough. “You don’t get any of my popcorn, then.” “Would you please stop moving your leg?” With the scowl still firmly in place, Rachel showed a surprising amount of tenderness getting him settled and placing a huge plastic bag of ice over his throbbing, heated flesh. It was probably a bad idea to turn down the hospital escort, but Michael couldn’t handle the thought of looking into the doctor’s eyes and seeing the certainty that would be there. He’d been feeling better lately, and the cable reel

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couldn’t have been more than a hundred pounds—less than a regulation caber— but something about the way he’d angled his legs hadn’t boded well. He’d been on the ground almost under the reel in a matter of seconds. The only good thing about it was that neither Peterson nor Rachel had been there to see it. Peterson would have known in an instant what that meant for the Top Warrior Race practice that weekend—and possibly for the Highland Games for good. And Rachel, well… No man liked being caught with his bra strap showing. Last year, he could have easily lifted two cable reels—one in each hand. Someday, he’d have to show her the YouTube clips. “So, what is this we’re watching anyway?” Michael asked, settling into his seat and letting her continue to fuss. One of her hands rested on his thigh, much closer to his package than was strictly necessary. Between the kiss yesterday, her intent focus on the codpiece he had on earlier and this, one might be tempted to call it progress. “The Maltese Falcon. It’s Bogart—Sam Spade? Dashiell Hammett?” She shook her head. “Never mind. You probably only watch movies full of unnecessary violence.” “That’s not fair!” Michael protested. He took a large bite of one of his hot dogs and pointed the remainder of it at Rachel. “I’m also a huge fan of unnecessary nudity.” She stabbed a straw into her soda. “Well, this is one of my favorite examples of noir.” “See, now you’re talking.” He grabbed her soda and took a long sip, watching with pleasure the mixture of laughter and disgust that crossed her features. He’d have thought, as an actress, Rachel would have supreme control over her reactions. Not so. Not so at all. Her expressions could run the whole range of human capabilities in less than sixty seconds, each one as readable as a

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book. “Noir, I know. Cool hats, whisky on the rocks, ladies in red lipstick and tight skirts. This might not be so bad.” The lights dimmed and the show started. Michael was above any of those teenage tricks of hands in the popcorn or accidental brushes of the leg, but he almost reached over and kissed her on the mouth when she handed him two small brown pills about halfway into the movie, just after Sam Spade passed out from the spiked drink. She pointed at her watch and made a motion for him to take the pills. Ibuprofen. It had been four hours since the last two, and the paramedic had suggested them for inflammation. “Thank you,” he mouthed, kicking them back dry. He focused his attention on the screen, trying his best not to steal another glance her way. It had been a long time since anyone took care of him. Years—possibly even decades. His mother had never been terribly maternal, and his father had been good for shit. The best thing they’d ever done for him was send him to Jennings for a little adolescent “straightening out” when he was twelve—he hadn’t looked back since. Jennings, pseudo-relative and ornery bastard, was much more his style. Keep it low-key, keep it light. Keep it fun. One of the pills lodged in his throat, and he reached for the soda. Her hand was there, and his fingers brushed against hers, just as if he’d been planning it all along. Damn. And he’d been so cool up until then. By the time the movie ended, Michael was feeling a lot better. It wasn’t the worst two hours of his life, lack of color notwithstanding, and there’d been an entire thirty minutes or so in there when he was sure Rachel was pressing her leg

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purposely against his. She was warming to him—definitely feeling a bit of the Michael love. It wasn’t a complete surprise, of course. That had been his objective, and he always finished a race once he started it. But he hadn’t expected to actually care that what he was doing for Peterson and Molly was wrong. He was Michael O’Leary, big of swagger and small of conscience. It didn’t matter if Rachel was in the dark about his true motives as long as he was playing his friend card. He was taking care of Peterson. Bros before hos and all that. So why did he feel like those two small painkillers had shifted everything? “What did you think?” Rachel asked, tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear. Maybe it was the monochromatic movie, but everything about her seemed brighter all of a sudden. Especially that hair. Without thinking, he reached out and wound a lock of it around his finger. “It’s no Terminator, but I can see the appeal.” “Really? The Terminator? That’s your gold standard of cinematic excellence?” As always, her words were crafted with careful attention to sarcasm, but there was a hitch to her breath that robbed them of any of their usual acid. “What? In his pre-Junior days, Arnold always had a lot of class.” He crooked his finger, bringing her closer with just that one tiny strand of hair. Her mouth parted, and her breathing came a little faster. Michael was a master at reading the signs. There were signs. Big ones. He really wanted to kiss her again. “There’s something I need to tell you,” he said instead. “Can we talk?” Nobility was getting the best of him, the damn thing. That had always been the hallmark of other men—guys like Julian or even Peterson. They loved the high road, looking down on everyone else from their superior heights. Michael

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preferred it down in the dirt. The dirt was where the filthy women liked to play. It was where things got really interesting. She pulled back, confusion softening the features of her face. “Um…sure. Here?” The lights had come on, illuminating the stickiness coating the walls and floor of the auditorium. It was a far cry from the sleek urbanity of the movie— and a far cry from the setting Michael wanted for this confrontation. He needed people around. He needed witnesses. “I think there’s a coffee shop around the corner,” he suggested. “Can you make it that far?” With a grunt, Michael hurtled himself over the edge of one of the chairs, doing his best to keep one leg moving in front of the other. Almost as an afterthought, he grabbed her wrist, pulling her along behind him. His fingers rubbed a warm, circular pattern on her soft skin, and her pulse leaped in response. “You really are a caveman, you know that?” Every part of skin that was showing on her body was flushed with color. She pulled her arm away and glared at him. “I get it. You’re tough. I won’t insult your manhood ever again.” “Believe me, Rachel,” Michael replied, steeling himself to continue putting weight on his knee despite the grinding of bone on bone, which he could practically hear reverberating in his femur. “When I show you my manhood, insults are the last thing we’ll be exchanging.”

The private investigator Rachel used was housed in a suite of small, neat offices located just outside the main downtown area of Spokane. The first time she’d visited, she’d been disappointed at the lack of gumshoe paraphernalia—

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there were no ashtrays full of half-smoked stubs, and the secretary was an elderly woman with a mustache and three pairs of glasses strung around her neck with glittery glass beads. June had a zillion grandchildren, and, as Rachel had come to learn, all of them were on the honor roll. In fact, the only thing remotely seedy about the place was the bail bondsman who had set up shop across the street. “Miss Hewitt, how lovely to see you again!” June called as the door chime rang heavily to the tune of Beethoven’s 9th. “Can I get you a water? Tea? Coffee?” “No coffee, thanks,” Rachel said, picturing Michael sitting across from her in the café they’d visited after the movie. He’d probably turned her off coffee forever. “I’ve had more than enough for today.” “Sure thing, sweetie,” June said warmly. She scrolled through her computer. “Did Nora forget to tell me you were coming in? I don’t have you down for an appointment today.” “I don’t have an appointment. It’s kind of an emergency.” June looked up over the top of one of her pairs of glasses. Two of them were perched on her nose at varying heights. She must see ten versions of everything—kind of like a bee. “If it’s an emergency, hon, I suggest the police.” “Not that kind of emergency. I was hoping I could get squeezed in.” Rachel did her best to smile and look pleasant. It didn’t use to be such an effort. “How’s that grandson of yours, by the way?” Rachel added when June continued looking at her warily. “The one who was up for the award at school…” As she hoped, the older woman immediately perked up. “You mean Mattie, of course. How sweet of you to remember!”

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Rachel remembered nothing of the kind, but the last time she’d been here, running a background check on the guy Molly had dated for a few weeks back in December, something like twelve of June’s descendants were about to topple over from all the intellect swelling inside their heads. The door to Nora’s office swung open just as June was describing scholarships designed for babies with exceptional drooling skills. There, at least, was a woman who knew how detective work should look. Nora Bean, PI, favored skintight pencil skirts and loose, flowing blouses cut from pure silk. Her hair was gray and black in clearly defined stripes perfected by nature, swept up into an efficient bun. All that was missing to complete the picture was one of those forties nylon seams up the back of her well-toned legs. Rachel had originally come to her to help find out more about the men in Molly’s life, but they’d rapidly become friends. “Hey Rachel—how are you? You didn’t tell me you were stopping by.” Nora leaned forward and did a dual air kiss on her cheeks. On any other woman, it would be an affectation. Nora made it seem perfectly natural and not at all at odds with her hard-boiled profession. “We could have done lunch or something. As it is now, I’m on my way out.” Rachel nodded at the camera bag over her shoulder. “A cheating dirtbag?” “Close. A cheating gold-digger. I’m walking, though, if you’ve got some time. You can be my cover. I was going to pretend to snap photos of the birds in Riverfront Park, but I can pretend I’m shooting your gorgeous face instead.” Rachel laughed and gave her hair a toss. “Do I look model-y enough for it?” “You’re breathtaking, and you know it. June, I’ll be back by four. If Mr. Fielding calls again, tell him I’m still waiting on the federal report. If he doesn’t like it, he can take it up with them.”

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Despite four-inch heels, Nora walked at a brisk pace that made Rachel glad she had long legs and a runner’s gait. They talked a little about the upcoming Shakespeare in the Dark production before Nora turned off the pleasantries and turned on the efficient investigator. “So what’s this really about, Rachel? And don’t try fooling me with any of your niceties. It’s a work day during rehearsal time. You aren’t out shopping.” Nora had once confided to Rachel that her longest relationship had lasted a grand total of three months, and only then because the guy had been trained by the FBI to be able to lie to interrogators. She could see through every other man by the end of date four. Not one of them had ever told her the complete truth. Even with her acting training and experience, Rachel knew better than to try to get anything past Nora. “It’s Molly.” “Stop right there. Not another word.” She stopped her breakneck pace and swiveled to face her. “You told me that even if you offered me a million dollars and wept tears of blood, I was never to take another job from you involving your sister. On pain of death, you said.” “I know I did.” Rachel began moving again. It was better to be distracted by the sweat she was working up in her oversized sweater than it was to focus on just how far she was sinking, propelled by a force that weighed at least two hundred pounds and whose smile filled her with equal parts hatred and hope. “And I’m pretty sure Molly would never speak to me again if she knew I was breaking my promise. But this is bigger than I thought. It’s—” Nora held up one of her hands, the nails long and bloodred. “If you say ‘life and death,’ I swear I will leave you here. I want facts. Not drama.” They’d arrived at the park, Nora none the worse for wear, Rachel feeling as though she’d just finished her first six-minute mile since she was eighteen and

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ran competitively. It was a nice day, clear but crisp, the sun fooling people into stepping out for an afternoon in the city’s largest park despite the thermometer’s cruel mockery. “Over there, please. By the tree. Stop breathing so heavily and strike a pose.” Rachel looked around. “Why? Is the gold-digger here? Which one is she?” “Oh, for crying out loud. Make it more obvious, will you? Just stand and look pretty.” Rachel caught a glimpse of the offending woman, older than she thought and nuzzling a man who was clearly in need of a shave and a leather intervention on a park bench. They were oblivious to anyone around them, so caught up in whatever stolen moment they were having that they didn’t know disaster watched them through a telephoto lens just a few yards away. Rachel cocked her head a little, watching them. She could kind of see the appeal to Leather Intervention over there. There was just something about a man who put his brawn and his balls right there on the table. Snap. Nora took the first picture, and Rachel used the moment to get her thoughts back where they should be. Not brawn. Certainly not balls. Michael’s crudity must be wearing off on her. She allowed herself to relax into the modeling role even though she knew the lens wasn’t pointed her way. The only time she felt silly was when Nora told her to stop looking so cross-eyed. She’d been going for sultry. It only took a few minutes for the whole thing to be done. PI work, much like all jobs, hers included, was a lot less glamorous and fun in real life than it seemed in the movies. “Thanks, Rach,” Nora said when she was done, carefully stowing her Canon 5D in its matching bag. “You’re a lot better than birds.”

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“Gee, thanks.” They turned and began their walk-run back toward the office. “Does this mean you might consider running one itsy bitsy background check for me?” “Spill.” Rachel spilled. Not everything, of course. There was a lot Nora already knew about her life—probably more than Rachel even realized, since she knew there was no one more thorough when it came to her work. But the bulk of it—Molly’s relationship with Justin, the catastrophic consequences, her continued dating record of lowlifes scraped off the bar floor or plucked from a police lineup— they’d already discussed at length. Rachel didn’t have too many female friends, but she counted Nora among those who really mattered. Nora listened and she listened well, but always with the kind of professionalism that precluded tearful nights spent watching Sense and Sensibility and eating ice cream together. “So you think this guy has a record?” “I’m sure of it. But even that might be okay if I hadn’t overheard that conversation with his brother. They’re hiding something, and I don’t like it.” “Molly’s a big girl with big-girl pants. Are you sure you want to start telling her who gets in them?” “She’s falling for this one fast and hard, Nora. And he’s already hit her once.” Rachel paused uncomfortably. “Well, allegedly. She swears it wasn’t him, but you know what she’s like about that kind of stuff.” “And what about the other guy you mentioned? The friend? The one you obviously have the hots for?” Rachel stumbled on a rock. “If you’re talking about the one I want to brain with one of the swords from the costume department, then yes. You should check up on him too. Especially him too.”

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She kept her words level and neutral, but she could see Nora studying her out of the corner of her eye. She schooled her features as best she could. Michael had sat across from her at the coffee shop, all full of himself because he managed to pull her hefty five feet nine inches up the movie theater aisle and out onto the street. Even fuller of himself because she’d let him. It was the moment, nothing more. Sam Spade always made her sentimental. “I think maybe you’re digging your own grave,” he’d announced between mouthfuls of pastry. “With your sister, I mean.” “I beg your pardon?” If his goal had been to antagonize her, that was the fast track to get there. No one told her how to handle her sister, least of all a man she’d known a few weeks and who had the understanding and finesse of a horse. He’d had the audacity to laugh. “Oh, calm down, woman. It’s not going to do you any good to get your fur all riled up for me. I’m not scared of you. In fact, I think it’s kind of cute.” “I think you’re kind of heinous. So we’re even.” “Just hear me out for a minute, will you? I’m not going to pretend to know what goes on inside that pretty head of yours, but your sister is lucky to have a guy like Peterson. Damn lucky. There’s no better man I know, and I would sign my name to that fact.” Rachel had snorted. “You must not know very many people.” He’d instantly sobered, leaning forward as if to try and intimidate her. “Lash all you want at me—to my face, behind my back, with your tongue or with your fists. It doesn’t bother me, and I’d rather take all your anger than have you spreading it around. But be very careful what you say about my friends. Even I have limits.” “I’m not scared of you either.” Rachel refused to look away or back down, even though her heart was thumping painfully, suddenly too big and explosive

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for her ribcage. “And my limits? You’re constantly treading them. Stomping them, actually, with your big, stupid feet.” “That’s better.” He relaxed, though there was still a soberness to his face that unsettled her. “Can I say something serious now?” He’d taken her rigid silence as assent. “Molly and Peterson—they are scared of you. They’re both good people, and they seem to have a nice thing going on. But for some reason, they think if you have even one minute to yourself, you’ll fuck up the best thing either one of them has had in years.” All Neanderthal jokes aside, his brow lowered, and those ridiculously blue eyes of his looked into hers, clouded and troubled. “That’s not true, is it, Rachel?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The conversation had begun to make her feel very uncomfortable. “Me. I’m talking about me.” He’d placed one of his man-paws over her hands then, all warm and comforting and sending pricks of sensation up her spine. “This might come as a surprise to you, but I don’t really like Shakespeare. In fact, I think he’s kind of a tool with all those big words and dramatic, girly men. I do like Peterson, though, and I like Molly. And though you may not believe me, you’re pretty great yourself.” Rachel refused to blink. If this was a declaration of some sort, he sucked at it. Even if her body temperature had risen a few dozen degrees and her head felt suddenly light and unattached to the rest of her. “So?” “So.” Michael shook his head. “Don’t you think it’s kind of…weird that I’m hanging around the stage all day?” “I think you’re a sad, pathetic man without anything else to do.”

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“That’s true,” he’d said with a grin. “But I’m also a man doing a favor for a friend. They want your blessing, Rachel, more than anything else in the world.” She’d sat back, then, the sticky vinyl of the seat too hot and too confining to make her the least bit comfortable. What was this? “What exactly are you saying?” “I’m asking you, as a personal favor, to give them a chance. Lay off, lay low, and let them figure their own shit out. That’s all.” Lay off? Lay low? Michael-the-Mule was telling her what to do? The room grew dangerously quiet, and Rachel could barely see beyond a few feet in front of her. “Are you saying it’s been your job this whole time to make sure I do that?” “No.” He sat back, satisfied. “It’s been my job to keep you from making a mistake until you’re ready to see straight. I think you’re ready. They don’t—but you’re a lot more reasonable than I think people give you credit for.” She felt the impact of his words before they fully registered in her brain. It was odd that her body would acknowledge the blow first, recoiling as though struck. She waited for a moment, expecting the wash of red-hot anger to follow. It didn’t come. According to Michael’s confession, she was being watched. She was being babysat. She was being handled. There was nothing worse than that. Her mother had to be handled, her massive ego stroked even as she was prevented from making a spectacle that would reflect poorly on her brand. But instead of making Rachel so furious she couldn’t see straight, the knowledge fell over her like a numbing blanket. Molly thought she was no better than their mother—when all this time, Rachel had been doing everything, changing her whole life, to try to take care of Molly. And the only person leaping to her defense was Michael.

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“Say something, Rachel,” Michael had said, peering over the table at her. “You’re kind of freaking me out.” “I can’t believe this,” she’d muttered, pulling away so that all contact between them was separated. It was too much. “You want to talk about it?” “Do I look like I want to talk about it?” “Good point. I’m sorry to spring it all on you like this—and believe me, I feel awful about lying to you that whole time. You deserve better. Just…don’t go crazy or anything now, okay?” Surprisingly, she hadn’t. But her stomach still hadn’t fully unfurled itself from its tight knot, and being here with Nora wasn’t helping as much as she’d hoped. This was supposed to be Rachel’s attempt to make things right. If, as Michael insisted, his friend was a good person, then Nora would find it—and Rachel was willing to back off and let Molly do her thing. But if he and Peterson were hiding something, she reserved the right to step in. It was only fair. She couldn’t stop worrying just because Michael told her to. That wasn’t how the real world worked. “Care to share?” Nora asked, snapping her fingers and bringing Rachel’s attention back to the present. “No, I don’t. Will you just do this for me? Please? It will be the last time.” Rachel continued avoiding her friend’s eyes. She just needed to know the facts. That was all. “I don’t like it,” Nora warned. “You don’t have to like it. Just say yes.” Nora waited a full two blocks before she finally stopped, forcing Rachel to come to a halt next to her. “I’ll do it, but I want to know that you’re aware of

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what you’re getting into here. No one has a completely clear past. Not even you. And I need a few weeks. Spring is the worst for affairs. It’s like the second the sun comes out, women and men can’t help themselves.” “I can wait,” Rachel said. Something like relief warred with something like guilt inside her heart. She refused to acknowledge either. This was about protecting her sister. This was about refusing to bend under the pressure of someone else’s command. “I want nothing held back. I want to know who these guys really are.” “What if it turns out they’re actually quite nice?” Rachel blinked. The image of Michael sitting across from her at the coffee shop, his hand on hers, flashed across her mind. What had he said? Give them a chance…as a personal favor? “What is it, Rachel?” Nora asked, interrupting her thoughts. “Change of heart?” No. Never that. She shook her head. Rachel Hewitt was not her mother or her sister, and she didn’t form her decisions or her life around a man. Not even one who kept snagging on her insides like Michael O’Leary. Especially not that one.

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Chapter Twelve Man’s Ingratitude

“You’re a fucking moron, O’Leary.” Michael crossed his arms over his chest and firmed his stance. “Get your ass off the field right this minute, or I will forcibly remove you.” With a snort, Michael planted himself even more firmly into the ground. “I’d like to see you try.” They were brave words, considering how little he was able to back them up. A tussle with his Scottish Highlands brethren—Julian, McClellan and Nick— used to be just another form of practice and camaraderie. Today, the first man to come at him in a linebacker tackle would find him more than willing to take his place on the sidelines. There was no way his knee could take it. “That’s it,” Julian said, shaking his head sadly. McClellan cracked his knuckles for good effect. Of all of them, no one said wall-of-muscle quite like he did. “Pull down his pants.” Michael fended them off the best he could, but at three to one, he barely had a chance to tighten his drawstring to stave off their attack. It wasn’t really his drawers they were after, and Michael knew it. Laughing at their antics, he pulled up the leg of his pants, rolling it slowly to expose his knee. There wasn’t much to it—at least not right now. He’d wrapped the damn thing up in three elastic bandages, layered in between with cold packs and topped off with about ten painkillers. If he were to unwrap it, there would be an entirely different story to tell.

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“See? Fully functional.” “Bend it.” He did. Most of the way, anyway. “Now get up and hop on it.” Michael scowled. “The Top Warrior Race is in a few weeks, and then the Highland Games season kicks off in full force. I’m not about to bow out of either because of a tiny recurring injury in one of my legs. I have two for a reason.” “You are bowing out, at least for today. You can time us instead.” There was little else to do but give in to the guys and accept the gift of a whistle and stopwatch. He couldn’t practice, he didn’t want to stay at home, and Rachel hadn’t returned his phone call. At least he could make the next hour of their lives pretty miserable. Michael went to the bleachers and very purposefully stood next to them rather than taking a seat. “Line up at the end zone. I want four full-length sprints, and then you’re climbing the goal posts. Let’s see how high you can get.” With a holler, all three men set off, Julian taking the lead. He was a good runner, better than McClellan, who had to carry his massive weight, and Nick, who looked as though he’d spent the night passed out underneath his car. At just twenty years old, Nick showed all the signs of wasting his youth on bars and brawls. Poor Peterson. It was hard for him to crack down on his brother when his own youth had looked like something out of a bad cop drama. The Top Warrior Race training was a bit of a change from their normal routine—and a welcome one most of the time. The race was known around the country as a manly man’s obstacle course, five miles of team-focused events that few people finished, let alone mastered. The lengthy run was combined with a

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tire course, a mud pit covered in barbed wire, a series of scalable walls, a barrel roll and a few other challenges that bonded men and put hair on their chests. It toured all the major cities and had been growing in popularity in recent years. The guys signed up as a way to show a kind of Highland Games solidarity— and they did it wearing their kilts. Their team, which had been coined Team Win one drunken night, hadn’t won a single damn time. They always killed it at the barrel roll and axe throw. Distance running and the wall climb were a different story. As if to demonstrate, the guys reached the goal post and tried shimmying up the length of it. If Michael had been in a better mood, it would have been hilarious. He was just about to suggest using McClellan as a step stool when there was a tap on his shoulder. The blow came as a complete surprise, taking first his jaw and then his neck, which snapped back with so much force he almost lost his footing. Almost. There wasn’t a man alive who could knock him all the way off his feet. He barely had time to see who had struck him when Julian came up from behind, holding him across the chest like a man skilled in breaking up fist fights. Which he was. They all were. But Michael’s vision was clearing, if not the dull throb of his right jaw, and he wasn’t going to hit back. No matter how many daggers Peterson might have lodged in his eyes, their tips pointed straight out. “You fucking snitch bastard,” Peterson raged. It was a good thing McClellan was keeping him back, because he looked ready to charge again. “What the hell did you do?” “Step off, Jules. I’m not going to return the punch,” Michael muttered, fingering the swelling along his jaw. “I might have had this one coming.” “You’re damn right you did!” Peterson got an arm out from under McClellan’s iron grip and flailed it in the vicinity of Michael’s face. “I can’t

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believe you told Rachel about our plan. Especially after I told you specifically not to.” “It’s not as bad as you think it is,” Michael tried. He doubted his words would get very far, but he spoke in the soothing undertones he saved for Jennings when he got too riled up over some kids running across his lawn. “I know she probably seems like some kind of crazed serial killer right now, but in a few days—” “Do you have any idea what she did?” Michael had a few guesses. Some of them involved the decapitated heads of beloved household pets in Peterson’s bed. Others included buckets of blood and prom dresses. He took a stab. “She took a baseball bat to your minivan?” “Very funny, Mikey.” Peterson shook off McClellan’s grip. Julian let go at the same time, and Nick lay down on the grass, his shirt pulled up over his head against the early morning glare. “You guys let me know when you’re done.” He groaned. “I’m picking practice time next week.” Peterson turned his wrath on his brother, kicking him in the side with a thud. He didn’t get much of a reaction. “You should know better than to stay out when we’ve got training to do. And you”—he turned to Michael—“you can stop being a smartass. You know what Rachel did? She played the sister card, built up some big sob story about no one trusting her and treating her like a monster.” Michael shrugged. If you asked him, that’s kind of what they’d done. “So what? Start trusting her and stop treating her like a monster.” Rachel was obviously handling the news well if a guilt trip was her only reaction. Any doubts he had about breaking Peterson’s confidence and telling her the truth disappeared.

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Michael knew better than anyone that people lived up to the expectations laid on them by others. His parents hadn’t expected much out of the slightly slow, sports-mad son they never really wanted, but Jennings had. From his first day in the ramshackle old house that stood where the Airstreams were now, Jennings had made demands and forced Michael to meet them. Decent grades, four hours of grueling farm chores every day, treating others with kindness—it never even crossed the old man’s mind that Michael couldn’t do it all. So he did it. All of it. And he was pretty sure the only reason Rachel acted like an entitled pain-inthe-ass at work was because of the way people treated her. Dominic rarely looked her in the eye, though he seemed to spend plenty of time staring at her ass. The rest of the staff never asked her to join them for pizza or beer after rehearsal. As far as Michael could see, no one gave her a chance to be anything other than a social pariah. What did they think was going to happen? Peterson’s expectations were clear, that was for sure. His eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, and he pointed an accusing finger at Michael. “She got Molly tickets to some Big Band concert tonight.” “Harsh, Peterson. Really harsh,” Julian said with a laugh. “Oh, go fuck off. Tonight was supposed to be kind of a big deal for me and Molly.” “Gee, Eric. Are you going to pop your cherry tonight?” Nick asked from his spot on the ground, peeking over the edge of his shirt. He braced himself for another blow. “Forget it. I’m not talking to you morons.” Peterson lowered his voice and focused on Michael. “She’s edging in, Mikey. Now that she knows our game, she’s going to monopolize every second of her sister’s time.” “Dude—couldn’t Molly just say ‘thanks, but no thanks’?”

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The look Peterson leveled on him didn’t say much about his belief in Michael’s overall intelligence level. “They’re sisters,” was all he’d say. “What can I say, Peterson?” Michael splayed his hands helplessly. “It sounds to me like a win-win scenario. The dirty secret is out, Rachel didn’t blow up in your face, and now you get the night off from the old ball-and-chain to come out with me and the boys. If you ask me, it looks like I did you a pretty big favor.” The boys, overhearing Michael’s request, promptly set up a series of cheers. “Not a chance, Mikey. You’re babysitting tonight. Five o’clock. Bring your tutu.” Ominous words. And he actually did have a tutu—Sammy made it for him at preschool out of butcher paper and sparkles. That didn’t mean he liked wearing it. “Can’t they just come to the bar with me while you cut off your manhood and feed it to your girlfriend?” Michael asked helplessly. In no world of his did crashing a girl’s night out seem like a good idea. He was sure Rachel was ninetyfive percent flash, but that didn’t mean she’d take kindly to Peterson’s unwanted arrival. “A tutu and your magic wand, Mikey. And no ice cream this time.” He sighed. Unfortunately, Peterson was ninety-five percent function. If he was off to rescue his girlfriend from her sister’s evil clutches, it was Michael’s job to stay home and take care of the womenfolk. No questions allowed. Michael looked over his friends with a sigh. They’d once been defined by their muscle, might, and pure, hot-blooded machismo. Now, Nick was groaning on the ground, Julian was checking a text from his girlfriend, and Peterson was breaking every rule in the dating playbook. Only McClellan remained, and he’d found a sudden and unyielding interest in removing a giant scab on his elbow. What a bunch of pansies they were turning into.

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Chapter Thirteen Love the Meat

Rachel was not going to cry. She was nowhere near tears—at least not of the sentimental kind. If anything, the moisture in her eyes had more to do with the overpowering perfume of the woman seated next to her, dressed head to toe in soft pink florals and clutching a handbag that looked an awful lot like a dead rat with a clasp. “So romantic,” the woman cooed, leaning in closer and smiling at Rachel. The woman watched as Eric swooped Molly into his arms and headed for the exit. Five guesses what they were headed out to do. “Your sister’s a lucky woman. They just don’t make them like that anymore.” The smile Rachel offered in return was all clenched teeth. “They sure don’t.” If someone had been holding a gun to her head, she might have been inclined to agree with the woman. The concert was one of those old-fashioned crooner shows, where everyone sat at round tables swathed in white linen and waiters served pink cocktails between the songs. A few professional swing dancers had been hired to start out the dancing, and it wasn’t long before a few others followed suit. It was the sort of thing Molly and Rachel used to love to do together. There were low lights, loud music, the chance to be together but not feel compelled to talk. It was perfect for avoiding Eric and all discussions related to the past, perfect for recreating a connection Rachel feared they lost long before Baby Hewitt came into the picture.

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Or it should have been. The band had just been laying into a fast-paced jitterbug when he walked in, suave and debonair in a blue pinstripe suit which even Rachel had to admit he filled out very well. Rachel clenched her jaw, trying to decide whether to sit here and enjoy what was left of the show or slink out into the night, abandoned and alone. Did that man have no respect for anything? Molly had been excited for this, glad to spend a night away from men and all their messes. But the moment Eric reappeared on the scene, it was as though nothing existed in the world but him. It was disgusting. A huge leap back for all womankind. Didn’t Molly realize how ridiculous she was acting? “Is your young man here?” the woman asked, nudging her chair a little closer to Rachel’s. Great. All around her, couples were getting up, swaying to the music, swooping and swooning in time with the beat. Only she and Miss Marple over here were left, a re-enactment of every single wedding Rachel had been forced to attend for the last ten years. “No. I don’t have a young man,” Rachel said, stiff with pride. She sat up a little. “I’m here to enjoy myself. Just me. I’m enough.” “You mean that’s not your young man over there?” A gnarled finger laden with a turquoise ring went up and pointed across the room. There, near the entrance, which was little more than a dark curtain pulled across a doorway, stood Michael, looking not at all suave or debonair in a ratty pair of jeans and a black T-shirt with the word Tool written across the front. At least he got that part right. “He’s not my young man.” Rachel turned her attention to the stage. “Then why does he keep waving at you?”

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Sure enough, he was motioning frantically with one arm. Too bad. She wasn’t going over there. She already had one too many crashers on this evening out with her sister. She wasn’t including another. “He seems awfully upset, dear. Are you sure you don’t want to go help him?” “Oh, for crying out loud.” Rachel grabbed her purse and shot back in her chair. He had to be the only man on the face of the planet who had yet to hear of this little invention called the cell phone. “What is your problem?” she hissed, pushing him through the doorway, one hand flat on his chest. Good Lord, he was hard under there. He yielded to her hand and stepped back a few paces, past a harassed-looking usher who stood clutching a flashlight in both hands. This man certainly had a knack for scaring the crap out of low-paid entertainment-industry employees. Two tiny faces looked up at her at the end of the hallway, one of them crinkled in absolute despair, the other nonchalantly licking at an ice-cream cone. “Oh, hello.” She stopped, feeling as stupid as her words sounded. “You belong to Eric.” To Michael, she added, “You are some kind of moron, you know that? He’s not even here. He and Molly just left.” She turned as if to do the same. “No, wait.” Michael’s hand shot out and gripped her by the wrist. She stared at it, the way the circle of his thumb and forefinger so easily wrapped around her entire collection of bones and muscles and skin. Especially skin, which pricked to life underneath his touch. She yanked herself back. “What do you want?” “I need help. Pris is having some sort of personal crisis.” The little girl in question started wailing louder. “I can see that. What am I supposed to do about it?”

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“I don’t know—that’s the problem. She won’t stop crying, and she actually made herself sick on the way over here. I tried calling Peterson, but his phone must be off.” “Geez, Michael. Take her to the hospital or something. Maybe she ate a rock.” The other one—the one licking at her ice-cream cone without so much as batting an eye—looked up and scoffed. “We’re not dumb. We don’t eat rocks.” “Okay, then, small child.” “Her name is Sammy,” Michael interjected. He sagged against the wall, looking very much like a man on the verge of collapse. It figured. Give him a mountain to move and he’d probably start at it, one stone at a time. But little girls made him look like he was going to cry. How hard could this possibly be? “Okay, then, Sammy,” she said, emphasizing the little girl’s name. “Can you tell me what’s wrong with her?” “Yes.” They waited. Michael groaned and pinched his nose. But Rachel wasn’t fazed. For the first time, she was beginning to understand these creatures. It was a game. It was the “annoy the authority figure game”, and she and Molly had once been the reigning champs. They’d had to leave the small private high school their mom once placed them in because no teacher was willing to come anywhere near them—which was their own fault. If the administrators hadn’t liked the two of them performing a scene from the Vagina Monologues for the talent show, then they shouldn’t have opened the doors by asking for “creativity inspired by your parents”. A stage was a stage, and a show was a show. Even if the school had a strict no-fake-orgasms-in-public policy. “And will you tell me what’s wrong with her?” Rachel asked, squatting so she was eye level with the ice-cream cone.

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“No.” “Is that because you want your sister to cry?” “No.” “Is it because it’s your fault that she’s crying?” “Yes.” She stopped eating her ice cream and a flicker of real emotion finally crossed her little face. Rachel was starting to like this kid. She made sense. “See, Michael?” Rachel shot to a standing position, triumphant. “You just have to talk to her like a human being. Why don’t you go get their dad, and I’ll see what I can work out.” “Umm…” Michael grabbed her by the elbow this time, hoisting Pris under one arm and nudging Sammy with his knee. “It would be awesome if we could avoid getting him involved. He might be kind of mad at me right now.” He didn’t stop prodding them like cattle until they reached the lobby. Rachel was pretty sure she’d have a bruise on her arm tomorrow. “This is not my problem, Michael. You might be worried about what Eric feels, but I’m not. Him or his children.” As soon as Rachel heard the sharp words come out of her mouth, she regretted them. Pris, the one with the tears, started bawling louder, so much so that Sammy dropped her ice-cream cone, giving in to a set of hysterics all her own. “Oh, geez.” She got back down to her knees. “You—the one with the sad face—Pris. Come here.” Pris came over, shuffling her little Mary-Janed feet, snot dripping all the way to her chin. Softening her tone, Rachel asked, “Did your sister make you cry?” “Yup.” She sniffled. It did nothing to ease the river of mucus making its way to the floor. “Will you tell me why? I promise not to get mad at either one of you.”

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Pris paused and caught her sister’s eye. As if sensing a halt to all their progress was imminent, Michael put his hands under Sammy’s armpits and hauled her away. At least the man had the ability to read some social cues. “She…she…she,” sobbed the little girl. Rachel put an arm out to comfort her—and it worked. Perhaps this children thing wasn’t so bad, after all. “She told me Mr. Mikey is going to be our new daddy when real Daddy gets married.” Rachel dropped her hand like the little girl was on fire. Well, like she was on fire and Rachel’s first instinct was not to save her life, which she hoped was untrue. But then that pair of big, brimming eyes looked up, and Pris clutched her hand. “It’s a lie, right? Daddy isn’t going to leave us?” As a woman who’d seen a succession of “daddies” come and go throughout her own childhood, she could understand the poor girl’s fear. Their second stepfather had been the favorite by far. She remembered a jolly, always laughing man whose primary appeal had been his ability to cook incredible, kid-friendly meals at the drop of a hat. Teddy—they’d called him Teddy, but for some reason, she didn’t think that was his real name. Teddy’s entrance into their little lives had been the first time they looked forward to coming home from school. They’d had snack time and story time and time spent as a family in the same room together. It had been great, even if Indira hadn’t been there. Probably because Indira hadn’t been there. When Teddy left in a storm of accusations and insults, it was the first time Molly and Rachel realized their life was not their own, and that the adults in their life—their mother, for better or for worse—had the ability to make disastrous changes without asking them about it. It was the first time Rachel realized men left broken women behind.

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“Of course he isn’t going to leave you,” Rachel murmured, drawing the girl close in a not-too-awkward one-handed hug. “Your father loves you very much, and nothing is ever going to change that, okay?” Her words were calm and soothing, but she was far from feeling either. Marriage? They were already talking marriage? Rachel could see what was happening here. Molly was replacing the life she’d lost with this new one, already established and ready to go. Justin, he of little intelligence and even littler self-control, had been The Love of Molly’s Life. She’d said it over the phone so many times it might as well have been scrolled in hearts all over her script covers. Sure, he hadn’t had a job in several years, and yes, maybe he drank too much, but he loved her. Lurrrved her. After she’d gotten pregnant, the phone calls were less gushing, more emotional. The Molly she knew was being drained away and, several thousand miles to the east, there was little Rachel could do about it. Rachel still didn’t know what argument spurred that fateful blow to her sister’s stomach, the round little belly she’d been watching grow via Facebook with equal parts joy and trepidation. But the moment it happened, the happy family picture Molly had conjured up in her head disappeared, and she’d been doing everything she could since then to recapture it. Take one part douche bag boyfriend. Add two parts little girls, already born and healthy and glowing with snot and tears. It was the perfect instant family. Well, perfect as far as Molly’s ideas went. But her sister was still so young, still so broken from last year’s events. She’d learned nothing from her past and was moving headfirst into something that involved so much more than her and Eric. Rachel’s grip on the little girl tightened.

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Michael appeared in her peripheral vision, an expectant and hopeful look on his face. “You.” His hands went immediately up. “I didn’t make her cry. I’m the fun one. They love me.” “Is what she said true? About the w-e-d-d-i-n-g? Wait—are they old enough to spell? Can you spell, little girl?” Pris shook her head, a grin now in place of the crestfallen, devastated look. Ah, to go back to the days when the firm word of one random adult made everything right with the world. “Silly. I can’t even read yet.” Michael used the momentary distraction to back away, lifting Sammy up in front of him like a shield. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Rachel. I’m the nanny. That’s all.” “Don’t you dare hide behind Sammy. Tell me. Are Eric and my sister”—her voice dropped, low and ominous—“engaged?” Michael waggled Sammy a little bit. She squealed delightedly, eating it up. Of course kids loved him. It was like having a pet pony. Or an ogre. “Think of the children, Rachel.” “Don’t even dare. I asked you a question—” Michael scrambled to scoop up Pris, both of the girls screaming and wiggling with delight. “Won’t anyone think of the children?” he wailed. Rachel shot to her feet and chased after them, but Michael was well on his way out the door. She stopped at the entrance, watching as he spun and twirled and headed toward the infamous family minivan. “That’s it, you jerk? You came here to ruin my night, and now you’re going to run off?”

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He loaded the kids into the car with surprising agility. “You can come with us if you want. It’s just about bedtime. I can read you a story and tuck you in for the night.” The sliding door shut behind him, and he took a suggestive step in her direction. His voice was low as he added, “Do you want me to tuck you in tonight?” Rachel scowled. She did want that—that was the worst part. She wanted him to throw her to a bed and cover her with sheets and blankets and pillows and…him. She shook the image out of her head. No matter how much she might wish it were true, he wasn’t actually here for her. He’d already admitted he was here to distract her, to keep her from finding out what was really going on with Eric and her sister. She would not fall prey to a hard body and smirking smile, even if it did set every nerve in her body on high tingle alert. She was better than a few snapping synapses. “You don’t get to just swoop in and make me fix broken children and walk away,” she said feebly. “Watch me.” He grinned. “Thanks, by the way. Who’d have thought you’d be the one with a real knack for kids? I think it’s because you don’t talk down to them like you do to adults. It’s a nice change.” “I hate you.” It was all Rachel could think to say. “Aw, shucks,” he said, grinning. “You know how to make a guy feel like a hundred dollars all wrapped up in a glittery thong. Will I see you at rehearsal next week?” Her head spun. That sounded suspiciously sincere. “Yeah. I guess so.” “Good. Because you and me, Rachel? We’re not done yet.” She lifted her hand as they drove away, rooted to the spot and unable to do much more than watch them leave. A few weeks ago, Michael O’Leary telling

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her they weren’t done would have filled her with anger enough to have her stomping into the wings. Tonight, though—just for the space of a few breaths—she let his words fill her with hope. She felt buoyant. She felt light. Damn. She felt really good.

Rachel and Molly sat having breakfast—not together, but in the same room, their silence sullen and heavy. Rachel didn’t like it. The last thing Molly needed right now was to be isolated from her family. “You know, it’s not unreasonable to feel hurt because you walked out on me last night,” Rachel pointed out between spoonfuls of cereal. She kept her voice calm, the same way she might discuss the weather or whose turn it was to pick up the groceries. “Despite what you think, I’m not asking you to give him up, Molly. Just lower the intensity a little, okay? Take your time and make sure this is really what you want before you enmesh yourself in his life. That’s all.” And give her time to find out more about him. The idea of a wedding didn’t fit in with what she expected of Eric. That he wanted someone to take care of his kids, sure. That it suited his pride to have a girlfriend considerably younger than him and hot as hell made sense. But wedding bells and church pews? After a few months? Something wasn’t right. “I love you, Molly, no matter how mad you are at me right now.” If nothing else, the hostile silence made it a lot easier for her to say her piece. She nudged Molly a little. “Okay? It’s only fair. Besides, I can’t compete with your boyfriend when he puts on a suit like that.” “He did look really good,” Molly agreed, barely moving her lips.

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“You’re telling me. The old lady sitting next to me threatened to try and steal him.” She didn’t quite get the laugh she was after, but Molly relaxed enough to smile. They had so much to strengthen them, she and Molly. Her sister needed to remember that. “I’m not happy about the way you’ve been reacting to all this Eric stuff. Just so you know.” It was the first bright spot of the day, and Rachel felt it down to her toes. That was fine. She didn’t need her sister’s forgiveness. She just needed her to be okay.

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Chapter Fourteen Fight Captain

Michael spent another Warrior Race practice sitting on the sidelines, eating cold Chinese food and wishing he could rebuild himself with bionic parts. “You guys don’t stand a chance without me,” he called out, not even bothering to fully chew his chow mein first. “You’re too damn sloppy!” “That’s what she said,” Nick said, coming up behind him and dropping to the ground. Michael took one look at Peterson’s younger brother and swallowed a huge chunk of slimy noodles. The kid had a bruise the size of an apple along one square-cut jaw, a cut pasted with a butterfly along the side of his brow. His hair, longer than Peterson’s but still worn short, was greased into dark brown clumps. Of course, he didn’t mention how awful Nick looked to his face. Michael wasn’t stupid. “If your lady friends are saying that to you, you’d best get some pointers from your brother. Sloppy is never a compliment.” Nick finished tying his shoes. His eyes flashed and his brows met in the center of his forehead, and he winced when he forgot that one of those brows was seriously damaged. “Is it bad?” “Your face?” Michael laughed. “It isn’t good.” “He’s going to be pissed.” “Probably,” Michael agreed. “But don’t look at me. I’m not the one who picks fights with guys two times my size. You have some kind of death wish?” Nick’s normally bright hazel eyes darkened. “It’s not my fault.”

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Michael pointed at him with one of his chopsticks and tried to appear nonchalant. With Nick, conversation was always a tricky thing. The least provocation or sign of authority tended to set him off on some kind of cycle of craziness. One of the reasons they’d always gotten along so well was that Michael rarely took to the soap box that had become Peterson’s default position these days. “You know what you need?” “I don’t give a fuck what you think I need.” “I’m sure you don’t. But I think you should stop by the farm tomorrow.” “The farm? You mean like where you grow all those pigs and hay and shit?” “Well, we don’t have pigs. Or hay. Though there’s plenty of shit.” Michael could tell Nick wasn’t amused. “It’s lentils, Nick. People eat them. My cousin even has a mattress made out of them.” “Whatever.” “Do it anyway. Jennings could really use a hand around there, and I have to keep going to your brother’s Shakespeare thing. I worry about Jennings, and I’d owe you big time if you kept an eye on him a little. He’s got both feet in the grave, if you know what I mean. Only thing keeping him alive is the amount of whisky he’s got preserving his insides.” In truth, Michael was pretty sure Jennings would outlive them all. He’d been an ornery old man when Michael was a kid, and other than the deafness, which Michael suspected was mostly for show, he was an ornery old man still. But if there was one thing the bastard was good for, it was putting young men to work and instilling some sort of sense of pride of ownership in them. “You want me to go help an old man grow lentils?” “Yeah. It’d mean a lot to me,” Michael said simply. He resumed his attentions to his takeout carton.

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He heard the rustle of Nick shrugging behind him. “Sure, Michael. If you want.” Michael turned his head and added, “We’ll pay you, of course. Farm work’s a job like any other—I can probably convince the old man to go up to fifteen an hour. You have to show up on time, though. Jennings is a bit of stickler about that.” He was. Michael distinctly remembered carrying buckets of water up and down a hill for an entire hour for every minute he was late coming home on the weekends. “I can show up on time,” Nick grumbled, his eyes snapping. Michael refused to take the bait. That kid was just looking for a reason to fight. “I believe you. But it’s not me you have to convince now, is it? Show up at the old barn at seven. We get up with the cocks down there.” Michael watched Nick bound out onto the practice field, taking a place behind Julian as he swung from rope to rope on a makeshift Tarzan platform he and Peterson had made the day before at the theater. It was a basic frame, nine feet tall and with four sets of ropes about four feet apart from one another. They’d gotten some pretty crazy looks backstage, but no one had questioned them. Men with hammers had a tendency to do that. And the only person who would willingly confront him on his bullshit, Rachel, was avoiding him. Not well, mind you. But she was trying. Just yesterday, he’d finished moving the rope swing when Gretchen, the assistant director, approached him. She was cute in that punk, Run Lola Run sort of way, with the kind of buttoned-up features petite women always had and hair dyed in bright blue streaks. “We’re going out for drinks after rehearsal today. You want to come?”

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The way her hand rested on his forearm, fondling his tattoo in a way that would scar the poor, bosomy pinup for years, would have normally sent him running for his jacket and the nearest bar. But he heard Rachel’s irritated harrumph from all the way across the auditorium and knew she was watching. Half of him wanted to sweep Gretchen into a mind-bending kiss right then and there. Give Rachel something to really make half-irritated, half-sexual noises about. The other half of him, this strange, conscience-wielding creature he’d never before had the chance to meet, immediately put on a bland smile and demurred, tucking his tattoo back under his sleeve. He still went out for drinks, of course. But as Peterson remarked later, it was one of the few times he willingly went home alone. It wasn’t something he planned on dwelling over—especially not right now. He watched his friends from the sidelines, too far away to hear the altercation between Nick and Peterson, but clearly able to see that neither man was pleased with the other. Normally, he would have helped Julian and McClellan, who were heroically inserting themselves between the brothers, but he didn’t want to ruin the headway he’d just made with Nick. Jennings could do good work. He was sure of it. As Nick started stretching under the careful watch of Julian, Peterson trotted over to Michael’s side. His eyes were baggy, and there were extra wrinkles all along the tattooed dragon’s back. The man was in serious need of a few days off from kids and brothers and women of the Hewitt variety. “What’s this about Jennings hiring Nick?” “Don’t look at me.” Michael shrugged and busied himself with his food. “If you don’t like it, you have no one to blame but your own sorry ass. You’ve got me prancing on Shakespeare’s stage five days out of the week, but the farm

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needs muscle to run. This is me, killing birds with stones. Or a bola. I always wanted to try one of those.” “Be serious for one minute. Are you sure this is a good idea? Nick hasn’t kept a job longer than a week in I don’t know how long, and he’s got to have at least five recreational drugs in his system as we speak. I’d hate to think of him taking advantage of your cousin.” Michael laughed. Such a thing wasn’t possible. “Do you remember that first year we met, when I was twelve and there was that whole week where I couldn’t eat anything without puking my guts out?” “Yeah.” Peterson sank to the ground next to him. “Jules and I thought you were faking it to get out of the haggis-eating competition.” “Please. Haggis is delicious.” As if to prove his point, he took a large bite of his food. “That was a few days after I started working with Jennings. My mom was concerned about the fourteen-year-old neighbor girl corrupting me. Oh, man—that was the summer. I’d lay on the ground under her tree for hours as she climbed and swung. She always wore a skirt. No panties.” Peterson sputtered. “You’re making this up.” “Maybe. But that’s what they thought was happening, so my mom shipped me to Jennings to keep for a while. Said I needed toughening up—and let me tell you, Jennings took that shit seriously. That first day, he attached a plow to a harness around my waist and made me work the field like a horse. You wouldn’t believe what that does to a boy’s abs.” “Builds the hell out of them?” Michael raised his cardboard container in a mock toast. “Thank God for Jennings.” Peterson wasn’t convinced. “But that was years ago, Michael. No offense, but you were a golden boy compared to that brother of mine.”

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“Hey, now—I had my corrupt moments. Still do, actually.” “I mean it. He’s not like we were at that age—our shit was done mostly for fun, pranks and the occasional bag of pot. His is… I don’t know, but it’s worse. And it’s coming from some dark place I can’t understand. Besides—can you guys really afford to pay him?” Michael waved him off. “It’s fine. And if it makes you feel better, I’ll take the day off from the theater and make sure Jennings doesn’t beat your brother to a bloody pulp. But believe me—if Nick can even lift up his dick to piss with by the time Jennings is done with him, it’ll be like tits on a duck.” “I’m not even going to ask what that means,” Peterson muttered, but he looked pleased. He cracked his neck with a twist of his head and looked out over the field to where Nick was lying on the ground, flipping Julian off as he counted off pushups the younger man refused to do. “It means trust me,” Michael said confidently. “Nick’s never going to know what hit him.”

Jennings was not the sort of man on whom emotions were clearly visible. Over the years, Michael had come to recognize that his thin, wet lips pursed when he was angry, his left eye ticked when he was really angry and he stroked his thin wisp of a beard when he was thinking. As he leaned against the doorway of the centuries-old barn, Jennings exhibited none of these signs. In fact, he was cackling in untoward glee. That meant exactly what it sounded like. “Fence posts? That doesn’t sound so bad.” Nick looked at the post-hole digger Jennings extended his direction. It was basically a metal shovel with two

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cutting edges at the end—a tool Michael remembered well but not fondly. “I just dig a little hole and shove the wood in?” “Yeah, kid,” Michael said, smothering a few cackles of his own. “It’s as easy as that. All along the eastern field—you’ll know where. The neighbor’s goats have been getting in there for weeks.” “Whatever. I can totally do that. I’m gonna take a quick smoke break first, though.” Jennings and Michael exchanged a glance, the old man’s lips forming their undeniable angry pout. In the grand Jennings tradition, smoking was punishable by manure. Lots of it—usually dumped right over the head. Michael stepped in before Jennings could start yelling. “Not a good idea, Nick. This is an old barn.” “I’ll go outside, then.” “To the acres and acres of new plants poking their tiny heads out? C’mon, Nick. You’re smarter than that. Besides, you’ll need all the lung power you can get. Post-hole digging is hard.” “It doesn’t look hard.” Nick was growing surly. If there was anyone worse than a surly twenty-year-old, Michael had yet to meet him. He’d rather tackle a household of girls Sammy’s and Pris’s ages—with a blindfold on. With a hand out to hold back Jennings, who had grabbed a shovel and was looking for something disgusting to pile in it, Michael took the lead. Nick was too old for the same tactics that worked on teenagers who were facing the end of the line but not old enough to know when Michael was playing him. He had this covered. “It is hard—trust me. I’ve done my fair share. What would you say I averaged that year when the storms blew out the whole west side, Jennings? Fourteen an hour? Fifteen?”

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Jennings tossed aside the shovel and stroked his beard, catching on. “Eighteen, easy. You were one hell of a strong kid, and it wasn’t April when you did it. Ground’s as hard as ice in places, and that kid looks like he still sucks on his mother’s tit. There’s no way he can do half that.” Nick was about to open his mouth to protest, but Michael did it for him. “He’s done the Games for years, Jennings. There’s quite a bit of muscle there. He can hit at least twelve.” “Consistently? For eight hours straight? I’ve got fifty bucks and a bottle of Jack that says he can’t get it done.” Ignoring Nick, Michael stuck out his hand and shook Jennings’s, which the bastard took care to spit on before he offered it. “You’re on, old man,” Michael said with a wink. He turned to Nick, who was standing considerably straighter and taller than he’d been just a few minutes ago. “You better not let me down. You have no idea how much Jennings will rub it in my face if I lose. He’s good at rubbing. He’s had about three hundred years of practice.” Nick grinned and held up the post-hole digger like it was a lance and he was a knight of old. “I’m on it, Mikey. I might even break your record.” Michael laughed. “I’ve got faith in you, but there’s no way in hell you’re doing that.” “Think we should have told him about the automatic auger?” Jennings asked once Nick was on his way out the door, whistling a happy tune Michael guessed would last all of three posts in. Michael just grinned. “Poor kid has no idea what he’s getting into.” “You handled him awfully well,” a voice called from the barn entrance. Michael turned slowly, all too aware of who it belonged to, all too unaware of

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what to expect. “That was classic Irma la Douce. Good cop, bad cop. Noir at its finest.” “Did you just compliment me or call me a douche?” he asked. Rachel rolled her eyes. “Well, I was complimenting you. But I’m retracting it now. Jennings, are you ready to go? The class starts at nine, and I want us to get good seats.” “I just need a few minutes to guss my old self up. Do I need to wear my good hat?” Jennings reached up and patted Rachel on the cheek—one of those warm, grandfatherly caresses Michael didn’t even know the old man was capable of. “I have a tie too. Somewhere.” “Your overalls are perfect.” “Bah!” was the only thing he offered in reply, shuffling out the open door of the decrepit barn and leaving the two of them standing among the odd collection of tools, feed bags and half-broken furniture from the old house. There hadn’t been animals in here for as long as Michael could remember, so the smell was more general mustiness than anything else, but it still seemed an odd place to find Rachel, her hair all pulled back and fancy, a white blouse that looked way too thin for this weather covering her arms. Michael fought the urge to feel it, check it for warmth and durability. “Wait—where are you taking Jennings?” he asked, his tone light. “He’s supposed to be making a man out of Nick today. You know, giving the balls a squeeze and all that.” Rachel’s brow rose. “He didn’t tell you? We’re taking a course at the extended learning center. First class is today. It’s on Russian film.” Michael looked around, searching for some sort of clue or hidden camera. Jennings usually didn’t leave the farm unless someone stuffed him in a trunk or dangled beef jerky in front of his face. Getting him to his annual checkup had

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become something of a personal demon of Michael’s. “Jennings? A class? With you?” “Yes. Yes. And yes.” She smirked. “He’s interested in expanding his horizons. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s tired of reading cereal boxes next to you each morning.” “Well, shit.” Michael shook his head and shrugged, letting her insult roll right over his back. She hated that, which only added to its appeal. “I guess that means I’m on solo Nick-patrol today. I’m going to have a hell of a time keeping him in line all by myself.” “He’s trouble.” It wasn’t a question or a statement—more of an accusation. “No,” Michael said. “He’s young, and he didn’t have a lot of the advantages I had growing up.” “You call these advantages?” she asked, looking around them. “Yes,” he said firmly. “I do.” Before she could respond, he added, “And all I’m gonna say about this class of yours is that you better not send Jennings home with any of those depressing Russian movies. The only DVD player up here is in my house, and it’s a strictly foreign-film-free zone.” He paused, pretending to think about it. “Except kungfu. There’s always room for kung-fu.” “You’re impossible.” “I’m awesome.” Her eyes narrowed. “What’s Nick doing here with you, anyway? Shouldn’t you be at the theater doing squats with the set or something?” “Nah. I called Dominic—told him I had some stuff to do today. I know you’re not a big fan of Clan Peterson, but Nick’s a good kid. He just needs a little whipping into shape. I told Peterson I’d get Jennings on the case, but he wasn’t

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so sure the old man could handle him alone.” He spread his arms and took a small bow. “So here I am, proverbial whip in hand. Why? You want a turn?” He expected some sort of typical Rachel reaction—a toss of the head, the tic along her temple, a scowl and a stomp—but he didn’t get anything of the kind. She cocked her head and studied him. “Don’t you ever do anything just for you?” He blinked. “Have you met me?” His life was one long Michael-fest. He ate and drank and slept and wooed the ladies. It was his life’s goal to enjoy every minute of his day, whether that meant antagonizing women like Rachel or throwing cabers across a field. He didn’t worry about money or spend very much time reading or volunteer at the children’s hospital. He was Michael O’Leary. Life of the party. Selfish bastard. “Unfortunately, I’ve spent quite a bit of time in your company lately,” she said, a small smile twisting her mouth. If he hadn’t been so confused by what was coming out of that mouth, he would have called it charming. “So far, I’ve seen you give up about eight hours of every day to sit around a stage and make me mad—and all at the request of Eric. You take a rare day off from said stage, and your first impulse is to offer to babysit Eric’s brother. And you live in the middle of nowhere to take care of an old man who, from what I can gather, isn’t actually related to you.” Michael shifted uncomfortably and shoved his hands into the pockets of his loose board shorts. “None of it’s a big deal. That’s just life.” Her face softened. “You really believe that.” He shifted again. There was nothing to believe or not believe. Jennings was family. Peterson was too—and both of them mattered a hell of a lot more than anyone who shared his blood. Besides, he knew they’d turn around and do the

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same for him, no questions asked. It was the way it worked. “Well, what about you?” “What about me?” As they transferred the focus to Rachel, Michael felt himself grow more relaxed. “You forget I’ve seen you perform, Red. Even though I might not be as smart as Dominic, it’s obvious you’re more than just a pretty face. You’re a damn talented actress—so why are you wasting your time on slutty Shakespeare in this nowhere city?” She flushed, color rising from the neck of her blouse and working its way up her face until it reached her ears, pink and hot and angry. He could see the anger coming, see her defenses building up. The next step would be an insult or a scream or a kick to his knee. He’d hit a nerve—she only reacted like this when he was right. He loved being right. “But you know what?” he asked, stepping forward, savoring the moment and the tic of anger along her temple. “I think you might be on to something here.” That got her. “I am? What?” “That whole ‘Michael not doing enough for himself’.” He got closer, so much so that he could smell the clean tang of soap and various girly sprays, feel the heat that rose from the surface of her skin. “I think it’s about damn time I do exactly what I want.” Her eyes grew wide, but she didn’t move. Lips parted softly, and he could see the question forming. What does he want? With a growl, he sprang forward, one arm wrapping around her waist, the other wrapping up behind her head, tilting her up to meet him. The last time they’d kissed, it had been an exploration, an examination of the power and

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control that existed between them. This time, it was going to be a clear demonstration of where that control and power rested. Michael smiled against her lips, taking full advantage of that moment of suspended animation when mouths weren’t yet fused into one. And pulled away. Rachel’s squeal of protest was enough to feed his manhood and his pride in one rising swell, and he used her momentary confusion and pliancy to pull her toward the back of the barn. They dodged a stack of chairs with the seats broken out, ducked underneath a lamppost that had been turned onto its side, not stopping until they reached the deepest, darkest corner of the barn. “What are you doing?” Rachel yelled. “Is this another one of your games, Michael? Because I’m not amused, and I don’t like confined spaces.” “Ta-da!” “What is this?” “It’s my arcade game,” he said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He gave the big black box in front of him a loving caress. “You wanted to know my innermost desires. Behold. Frogger.” Rachel sank to an ancient papasan chair set up next to the arcade game, her eyes snapping. The poor light back there made it hard to tell if it was anger or amusement. “This is the culmination of all your hopes and dreams? A video game?” He reached down and hit the power switch, the blinking light of the screen signifying that his heavily jury-rigged electrical system in the barn, which fed from about twenty extension cords, was still up and running. “It’s not just a video game. Have you ever played Frogger?”

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“My mother raised me and my sister in a series of New York dressing rooms, had us watching her from the wings by the time we were able to stand. Do you really think I played video games growing up?” Although her voice dripped with sarcasm, he didn’t miss the reference to her mom. It was the first time she broached the subject willingly and openly—and he felt the impact of it. Rachel wasn’t the type of woman to share things about herself unless they were yanked out when she was otherwise occupied, and even then she did her best to hold on to them for dear life. Her voluntary confession meant only one thing. He was growing on her. Oh, yeah. He rubbed his hands gleefully and got the game started, the menu screen an inviting series of blinking green and yellow lights. “Come on. You’ll love it.” Her face was wary, but she stood, peering over his shoulder as he navigated the pixelated frog through the city streets of equally pixelated cars. “I wasn’t much of a gamer, either,” Michael confessed, trying hard to keep his attention on the screen and not Rachel’s proximity, which seemed to fill the air with charged tension. It was the kind of charge Michael normally plugged himself right into. Huh. How had he never noticed before just how good the prolonged buildup felt? “Jennings bought this for me when I turned thirteen, a few weeks after my parents decided they were done playing Mom and Dad.” “They got rid of you?” “Oh, don’t get me wrong—living with Jennings was a hell of a lot better than trying to tiptoe around my dad all the time. Still. It hurt, you know? They didn’t even ask me what I wanted. I’m not even sure they said good-bye.” “That’s awful.”

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He shrugged and slammed on the joystick. “Like I said—I got advantages out here. Jennings had this game delivered on the morning of my birthday in about ten different pieces. It was a real piece of shit, a broken motherboard and wires poking out everywhere. Jennings took one look at my face and told me to put it back together my damn self.” Michael laughed, remembering how close he’d been to tears at the time. “It was the best thing he could have done. It took me almost six months to finish, and I used to have to hang out at the arcade in town every day so I could follow the repairman around and bum parts.” “You’re saying you built this thing?” Rachel ran her fingers along the surface of the side panel. She might as well have been rubbing his balls for all the movement set his parts on fire. “By yourself?” “Yeah—Jennings is a lot smarter than most people give him credit for. Those whole six months, I didn’t once miss my parents. I was too busy being pissed off at Jennings for giving me a broken birthday present and at myself for not being able to figure out how to make it work right away.” His frog died. Michael stepped back, finally allowing his gaze to meet Rachel’s. “He did it on purpose,” she said. “He’s tricky, that old bastard. But he’s good people. So’s Nick. So’s Eric. Now—do you or do you not want to try?” She seemed to appreciate him changing the subject, nudging him out of the way with her hip, placing her hands over his just briefly as they switched places. “This doesn’t look so hard,” she muttered. “Then do me proud, Red.” Michael took her spot in the chair, leaning back with his hands behind his head, content to watch her for as long as she was willing to stand there.

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Of course, Rachel played the video game like a girl, putting her whole body into every movement. Each time her face got a little bit closer to the screen, her ass stuck out a little bit more, swaying to and fro as she jumped the frog around the screen. This was a side of video games he’d never explored before. He could get used to it. “What in the Sam Hill is going on back here?” Jennings hollered, coming into the little alcove on silent, sneaky feet. “How many minutes are you going to make an old man stand around waiting?” Michael laughed. Rachel jumped back as if caught making porn—or at least viewing it. Jennings took note of the video game and swore again. “I thought I threw that damn thing away when we tore down the house.” “You did. I rescued it,” Michael said. He peeked at the screen. “Not bad. But you’ll have to come back and practice if you want to beat any of my high scores. You’ll want to put a little more ass into it next time, though. That’s where the real points are.” She caught his meaning, flushing heavily and flailing an arm in the general direction of his head. He ducked. Jennings missed none of it, but for once in his life, kept his croaky old mouth shut. “I’m ready if you are, young lady. And you,” he added, turning to Michael. “Something tells me you need to get down to the field where your protégé is working. From the sound of it, he’s using the post-hole digger to murder those goats.” “Well, that’ll put hair on a man’s chest,” Michael said, not the least bit worried.

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“Somehow I get the feeling that’s your biggest accomplishment in life,” Rachel muttered, stalking out into the main area of the barn. More gently, she took Jennings’s arm and led him through the doorway. “What? Growing hair in manly places?” Michael called back after her, hefting a second post-hole digger over his shoulder to head down and give poor Nick a hand. She turned and glared. “I’d be happy to show you someday, Red. You just say the word.” With that, he brushed past her out the barn door, taking care to land a hearty smack on her ass as he went by. But he didn’t stick around long enough to hear more than her sputtered cry of outrage. He had goats and a young man to wrangle.

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Chapter Fifteen Cry Havoc

The tension level in the week leading up to the opening night was always palpable, swirling around them in waves of alternating excitement and anticipation. Everyone was on pins and needles, and tempers flared from the most benign sources. Not so with Rachel. As everyone else mumbled last-minute lines under their breath like continual prayers and made frantic calls to the costume department to get alterations made, she walked among them as calm and cool as could be. It rarely endeared her to the other cast members, but that was hardly the point. She fed off other people’s heightened emotions, using their distress to find her own kind of inner balance. “That makes you an emotional vampire, you know,” Molly said once. “It’s kind of creepy.” Rachel begged to differ. There was something to be said for being the calm in the midst of the storm, the power in the middle of so much downward spiraling self-control. “You’re in an awfully good mood,” Mary said warily, coming at Rachel with a mouth full of pins. “Who’s in trouble?” Rachel laughed and let the seamstress make a few adjustments on a piece of draped gauze. “No trouble. I’m just excited for opening night.” She was. It wasn’t like the opening of her college shows, when success had always seemed just one good review away, when seeing Dominic—Professor

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Taylor, as she’d called him in public—had been enough to fill her with excitement that lasted the whole week. Since then, she’d learned the hard way that success as a stage actress didn’t happen with a bang. It was a long, slow, painful journey that required her to continually look out for her own success. Which was what she’d done, constantly and without fail. Just yesterday her inbox had contained a precious email from the lead critic at the infamous The Shakespeare Review. If she could procure Peter Bloom a pair of tickets to the opening of their next show, he’d fly in from New York to be there. The Peter Bloom, whose articles on the modern variations of Shakespeare were standard textbook reading for every theater student on the planet. Word of their little show was getting around—he’d used the terms “intriguing” and “potentially explosive”. Having that letter printed out and tucked into her purse gave her strength and hope. Excitement, for the first time in what felt like forever. And her good mood had nothing to do with the likelihood of running into Michael today. Nothing at all. “Rachel, could you please step into my office?” She was glad to see that the same frazzled aura had gotten to Dominic too. He looked as though he’d gratefully step off the edge of the stage into an abyss. His hair shot up in every direction, and he had a pair of women’s glasses, complete with rhinestones, tipped on the edge of his nose. If she examined under his pants, she was sure she’d find mismatched socks and underwear that hadn’t been changed in a week. Good thing she didn’t care what went on under his pants. Now that she really examined him, his legs were too narrow and too spindly, his backside a flat landscape with nothing to hold on to. She much preferred a man with some meat there, whose legs and ass were rounded with muscle and might and—

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She chomped down on the inside of her cheek. Best not to finish that thought. “You look like crap,” she said instead. Dominic plopped into his expensive leather office chair, sending layers of paper fluttering into the air. “Do you need me to run point on this? I could stay late tonight, get all the cues solidified, choreograph the backstage movements…” Dominic pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m fully capable of running my own show, Rachel.” She might have pointed to any number of errors he’d made today alone but kept her mouth shut. Dominic had a tendency to break down when criticized. He took everything she said so damn personally. She waited quietly while he finished pushing and prodding at various parts of his face, releasing tension and looking rather like a madman. “It’s Marvin,” he finally said. “It seems there’s been a…situation, and he’s going to have to pull out of the show. For the duration of this run.” “What do you mean, a situation?” She was instantly wary. “He’s in the hospital—” “Oh, that’s awful!” Marvin, their lead actor, had never been her favorite person in the world—he had a tendency to drone on about Texas Hold’em strategies at the worst possible times. He was an amateur player and almost always wore dark glasses and a visor to emphasize his goals of playing in the World Series of Poker. But he was a good actor. A deep baritone voice and the ability to school his face into any number of emotions made him an ideal lead. Most days, she just tolerated him, but she certainly didn’t wish him bodily harm. “What happened?” “Oh, not what you’re thinking. He got an invite to some freeroll tournament aboard a boat, Wild West style.”

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“Did he cheat? Did they break his kneecaps?” Dominic sighed. “For a highly literate woman, you watch an awful lot of television. No—the tournament is in two weeks. Apparently, he gets seasick to the point where he can’t walk straight. He’s having inner ear surgery to try to correct the problem before the tournament begins.” Rachel was having inner ear issues of her own. “So let me get this straight. He voluntarily gave up his lead role and walked away from this production…to play poker?” Dominic pushed back from his desk and wheeled to the opposite end of the room, busying himself with something behind an ancient metal filing cabinet. “What are you doing?” “Well, it’s just—” He cleared his throat heavily and at length. “If Marvin is out, that means Michael is in.” Rachel’s first impulse was, for the first time in her life, not to throw something across the room and into Dominic’s head. For one, he was still hiding. For another, heavy projectiles seemed wholly inadequate for the depth of her current emotions. “No.” Dominic poked his head out and blinked. “No?” “You wouldn’t dare.” She was sure of it. Never mind the sudden burst of activity near the region of her heart, at odds with the sudden lack of sensation in all her limbs. It was too ludicrous to imagine. He scooted out a little more. “It’s not a matter of daring or not. Marvin is out. Michael is the understudy. You know how it works.” “Nope. You’re testing me. This is some kind of prank.” She firmed her lips. “You know as well as I do there’s no way he could handle it. Has he even cracked the script since he’s been here? Are we even sure he can read all the

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words? Every time I turn around, he’s off flirting with the set designers or preening in front of a mirror.” Never mind that she found herself thinking about Michael at odd moments of the day, wishing she could call and share something funny, her breath catching at the sight of any man with unruly blond hair—this was work. This was her work. She recalled all too well the circumstances under which Michael landed the role, her mother’s public disgrace and his oddly heroic moment. Giving him the understudy role had been Dominic’s way to appease the situation, get everything smooth and back up and running without causing any of them to lose face. It had never been in the plan to actually give him a chance. They were already so far removed from the real theater—to what depths would they descend next? Flash mobs? Interpretive dance? Dominic pressed a button on his phone and spoke in low tones. Rachel heard him ask for Michael to be sent in. She steeled herself for what she knew was coming—the man’s grin, his hand firmly on the back of her head as he shoved her face in this. His laughter, full and hearty and completely unchecked. “I fail to see what’s so funny about this,” Rachel muttered as Michael fulfilled her prophecy almost to perfection. “This isn’t a game.” Michael held up a hand while he continued his guttural noises. He was almost doubled over and beginning to wheeze. Please just let him pass out already. “Okay,” he said, ending his tirade as quickly as it began. He looked back and forth between them. “That was fun. Are we done? Can I go now?” Dominic shook his head soberly. “I’m afraid not.” “Wait—are you saying you don’t want to do it?” Rachel was perplexed. Relieved but perplexed. She’d been sure he would jump on this chance to

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complicate her life—it was rapidly becoming a hobby of his. “You’re stepping down?” “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

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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.

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“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?”

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“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.

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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 upsidedown 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.

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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.

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“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

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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-somanly 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

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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.

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“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.”

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She sputtered something unintelligible that only seemed to make him beam even more. “Oh, and Rachel? Wear something tight. I’m partial to spandex.”

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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.” “We’ve got a pile of cow manure the size of a leprechaun’s kingdom over by the storage sheds. Jennings says he has big plans for our next venture.” Peterson shook his head, a smile playing at his lips. “I’ve never understood why you hang on to that man and his crazy farm. I mean, c’mon Mikey—you’re living in a single wide growing lentils.” “First of all, it’s an Airstream. They’re very collectible.”

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Michael took a heavy drink, the bitterness of the beer giving him a moment’s pause. He hadn’t yet mentioned to any of the guys that he was pulling himself out of the Top Warrior Race and possibly the Highland Games for as long in the foreseeable future as he cared to look. They were going to find out, obviously, when he dropped an incredibly spiteful Rachel in their midst, hopefully clad in nothing more than bicycle shorts and a sports bra. But he owed them more explanation than that. “And the farm, well, a man’s got to do something with his life,” Michael continued. “I’m not like you, Peterson. I don’t have the kids and the wife on the way. I can’t keep up the Highland Games forever, and there’s got to be something else to hang my shorts on at the end of the day.” “Your hat,” Peterson interjected, looking up from his glass. “I’m not wearing one.” “The expression, Mikey. It’s something to hang your hat on at the end of the day.” “Well, that’s dumb. I’m not wearing a hat, and I’ve almost always got my shorts handy,” he insisted with a grin. It still amazed him when his friends thought he really was that thick. They were so damn easy to rile up. Peterson shook his head. “I don’t know what we’re going to do with you sometimes.” Michael let the insult fly over his head. “I’ll tell you what you’re going to do. Tomorrow night, you’re going to accept Rachel Hewitt as my replacement for the Top Warrior Race. And you—all of you—are going to be gracious about it.” Peterson’s glass hit the table, the dark brew sloshing over the edges. “Are you kidding me?” “No, my friend, I’m not. I know you think I blew it big time by telling Rachel about our Master Plan, but she’s not all bad. You’re still in one piece, I’m still in

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one piece—from where I’m sitting, the sun is snorting rose petals. In fact, I think what you and Rachel really need is to spend some time together.” “Time together?” “Voilà! I deliver.” Michael held up his glass in a one-sided toast. “Here’s your chance.” “You’re not going to do it with us?” He shook his head. “I told you. I’m hanging my shorts up, like a dog meeting its maker. You know, off to that big, open farmland in the sky?” He poured another glass of beer and took a long, heavy pull, ignoring Peterson’s mouth hanging wide open. “My big, open farmland just happens to be full of shit and lentils. That’s my life now, bro. Shit and lentils.” Which wouldn’t have been so depressing if it wasn’t so true.

On his way out of the bar, Michael noticed the woman sitting on one of the barstools, her perfectly crossed legs, smooth and long and extending for miles, a clear indication she didn’t belong here. This was a man hole, a sports dive that even the hardiest of sports fans shunned unless they had a love of greasy food and greasier men. In his experience, women came here only when they were past caring about things like chivalry, when they wore enough makeup to hide the last two decades of their lives. This woman was drinking an actual beer and seemed intent on the Seattle Sounders soccer game playing on the overhead flatscreen. “What’s the score?” Michael asked congenially, pulling his jacket over his arms and reaching for his keys.

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She turned around on the stool with an otherworldly kind of grace. Older than Michael had first suspected, she was nevertheless as out of place as a condom in a nunnery. Immaculate hair and cold, steely eyes only confirmed it. “Twelve-zero,” she replied smoothly. Michael hid his chuckle by pretending to fuss with the zipper on his jacket. There was no way that woman was actually paying attention to the game. He was as big a Sounders fan as they came, but there was no way they were skunking Portland by that much. “Listen,” he said. “If you want some advice, you may want to find another bar to finish out your night. This place can get pretty rough after ten.” Those cool eyes appraised him. Normally, he’d be able to walk away with some indication of how well—or how lacking—they found him. Not so here. “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” Michael shrugged and pulled open the door, his oxygen levels immediately increasing tenfold with the evening air. “Can I give you some advice back?” she called after him. He turned. “Don’t back down. If you really want a woman, keep pushing even when it seems like the worst thing you could do.” Another woman unable to resist the O’Leary charm. Just as he was about to politely demur, she hopped off the stool and nodded at the bartender before slipping out the back door. “Who the hell was that, Stan?” Michael asked, watching her leave. “Don’t ask me. But she seemed mighty intent on you boys all night.” “Both of us?” The bartender scratched his chin and paused. “You, actually. Most of the time she was looking at you, a big ol’ smile on her face.”

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Michael winked and nodded. It was good to know he still had his game— even if he wasn’t playing it anymore.

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Chapter Seventeen Passing Fair

Indira popped open the champagne and poured it liberally into three tall flutes, each one boasting no more than a quarter inch of orange juice. “Mom, I don’t think this technically qualifies as a breakfast food,” Rachel said, picking it up and eyeing the slightly cloudy mimosa warily. Her mother, never one to back down from a challenge, reached over and plopped a chunk of fresh pineapple into the glass. “There. It’s a whole food group now.” Molly laughed and raised her glass. “To dress rehearsals and family breakfasts.” With a sigh, Rachel added her own crystalline clink to the family moment. It had been a tradition to enjoy a little morning relaxation before the dress rehearsal for as long as Rachel could remember. She had to have been eight the first time she sipped champagne, fascinated by the caramel-colored drink and bubbles rising to the surface. That had been the first of many disappointments involving alcohol. “You’re coming tomorrow, right, Mom?” Molly asked, playing with the stem of her glass. Rachel couldn’t watch. She fished her pineapple out with a little plastic sword and chewed on it, averting her eyes. “Oh, darling, you know I’d love to, but—” There it was, the litany of excuses, each one more outlandish as the words flowed out of her mother’s mouth. The amount of perfume the women in the

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audience had a tendency to wear gave her migraines. The last time she’d seen Antony and Cleopatra had been in London, and she hated to sully her memories of it with an X-rated show, even if it did feature her beloved dears. She was on a diet and had to be in bed by six o’clock or her metabolism would rupture. “But this is nice, right, darling? Our little ritual?” Indira refilled their glasses, not even bothering with the orange juice this time. “Yeah, Mom. It’s great.” Molly’s smile was bright and brave, but Rachel caught the quiver of her lips. She had to get them out of there. “You know what? I’m going for a run this morning, or I think my metabolism might rupture too. Do you want to join me, Molly?” Rachel emptied her drink into the sink, taking the liberty to do the same with her sister’s. Molly was no runner, but she immediately brightened. “Yes. Yes, I think that’s an excellent idea.” Indira waved them off with a benign smile, clearly as happy to see them go as they were to leave. No matter how hard Rachel tried to be generous with their mother, she couldn’t help but feel that they were re-enacting the story of Snow White every day of their lives. Instead of reveling in the fact that her daughters had chosen to follow in her footsteps, she watched them through some distorted mirror, loathing every bright spot, begrudging them every success. “You should come with me for real,” Rachel suggested as she changed into her running clothes. “I have to take it easy this morning anyway. Tonight is the practice with your behemoth boyfriend, and I have the sinking suspicion they plan to murder me with chin-ups.” Molly jumped onto the bed and let herself sink into the piles of pillows Rachel had carefully stacked there. “I can’t believe you’re actually going through with that. I doubt Michael would hold you to the promise you made.”

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Rachel doubted it too, which was precisely why she was going through with it. Nothing motivated her more than someone expecting her to fall and fail. She’d go be his damn warrior. She’d go be the best damn warrior he’d ever seen. To Molly, though, she just shrugged and turned her focus to tying her shoe. “You want me to get to know Eric. I’m getting to know him in all his mud-rolling glory.” Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Molly chewing thoughtfully on her lip. Trying not to let her interest show, she asked lightly, “Uh-oh. Trouble in paradise?” “Not exactly.” Molly put on a bright smile. “He’s just been kind of distracted lately, you know? And for a little while there, I thought he was going to—” Rachel felt a sudden chill. She’d half thought Michael was making up the proposal stuff just to mess with her. “You thought he was going to what?” But Molly shook it off. “Oh, nothing. I think maybe I saw things as more serious than they actually are. But you know men—one step forward, two steps back.” Rachel certainly knew that man. And all other scumbags like him, willing to toy with a woman’s affections like they meant nothing. Which reminded her…she needed to check in with Nora. Other than a brief text message letting her know she was getting started on the case soon, things had been eerily silent on that front. It wasn’t that she thought her friend would keep the truth from her, but Nora might feel compelled to soften the blow. She was one of the only people in the world who knew just how hard it was for Rachel to trust anyone in Molly’s life. Or her own. “Well, I’ll see you at rehearsal, then, yeah?” Rachel sprang to her feet and did a few stretches. “What are you going to do this morning?” Molly paused. “Not much. Are you running at the cemetery?”

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“Probably.” Rachel strove to keep her tone light. “Give her my love, okay?” Rachel leaned over and gave her sister’s cheek a kiss. A splash of salty water hit the top of her lip as she pulled away. That tiny tear, the only one Molly allowed, was enough to strengthen every last one of Rachel’s resolves. There was still too much emotion in that big heart of her sister’s. It needed protecting. “Will do, Molly,” Rachel replied thickly. “And stay away from Mom if you can. I think she might try to tie you up and keep you from showing up for the rehearsal, like Kathy Bates in Misery.” Molly’s laugh was mostly forced, and Rachel felt her sister’s sadness lingering on her lips as she set out for her jog. The morning air, damp and fresh, partially refreshed her and cleared the mimosa fog from her brain. But she didn’t stop at Baby Hewitt’s grave and she didn’t take it easy. Rachel would choose exhaustion over emotion every time.

She couldn’t stop staring at his ass. Every step Michael O’Leary took across the stage was a swagger, a combination of manliness and purpose that worked on her as some sort of hypnosis. He moved his hips like a silver-screen cowboy, a Clint Eastwood daguerreotype in a short leather-plated skirt and nothing else. How on earth was she supposed to remember all her lines? The costume Mary had created for him was something Gerard Butler would go to battle in, but filled in with Michael’s own chiseled abs and a pair of sandals that wrapped around his calves like a woman’s greedy hands. Each line of his stomach was molded as if of clay, a map of perfect twists and turns leading

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downward. And when he turned or bent over, it was as though her eyes glued themselves to his haunches, hoping for a peek at what was going on under there. Her own costume wasn’t half bad either, with low-cut folds of opaque white cotton swathing over a gold lamé two-piece, a slit in the leg going almost all the way up to her crotch. It was a beautiful costume, but she couldn’t swagger or bend or do any of that ridiculous mock swordplay Michael threatened Larson with. Her headpiece had to weigh fifteen pounds at least, and her body was still recovering from her out-and-out sprint that morning. It was all she could do to keep from toppling headfirst to the floor. “So, Cleo, what do you think?” Michael preened as he drew close. “Do I look like I’m going to go kick some Greek ass or what?” “You look good, and you know it,” she said grudgingly. “But the question is, can you pull off the rest of it? You know—the actual acting?” He laughed and flashed his teeth. “Even if I can’t, do you think the crowds will care? Maybe they’ll be happy with the gun show instead.” As Rachel groaned, fully aware of what was coming, he flexed his arms and kissed the curve of each biceps. “I swear, you get more and more classy each time I see you.” “I’ll admit, I might have slipped Mary a fifty in hopes she’d do justice to my manly physique,” he joked. His eyes twinkled, and he reached out to adjust the hair-and-hat-in-one affixed to her head with about sixty bobby pins. “If I slip her another fifty, do you think she’ll let you come to practice tonight in the little gold bikini you’ve got going on under there?” In true Michael form, he didn’t attempt to mask his perusal of her body, his eyes roaming appreciatively over every inch of her. She would not react. She would not let him see how much it affected her.

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“Oh, get over yourself,” Rachel said, trying not to wriggle around to give him a better look. “It’s never going to happen. Not me in a gold bikini, and certainly not you enjoying it. If you ask me, what you really need is a woman with zero self-esteem and no intellect to speak of.” “But I like you,” he said simply. Mule. Mule, mule, mule. She formed a kind of chant inside her head, forcing herself to focus on all the things about him that made her want to scream. And not in that guttural, wanton, delicious way she couldn’t seem to get out of her head—or her body. Fortunately, Molly chose that moment to ask about some last-minute details. Despite a heavy layer of stage makeup—though not, Rachel knew, as heavy as her own—it was easy to see that her sister had spent the better part of the morning crying. Rachel steeled herself against the sadness in the red-rimmed eyes. For Molly, tears were good. They were constructive. They were the slow but steady realization that she was making a mistake. With any luck, the relationship with Eric would end before Rachel had to resort to underhanded means. Then she wouldn’t have to play the cruel older sister. She could just be the sister, the one to hold her and promise it would all be okay. “Well, ladies. Break a leg—that’s what you say, isn’t it?” Molly beamed and grabbed Michael’s arm. “You’re going to be great. Don’t worry about it.” “Oh, I’m not,” he said, puffed with his own vainglory. He put a hand on the hilt of his sword and stood tall, far too much like a true Roman sentinel for Rachel’s peace of mind. “But same to you. You two look spectacular. Is Peterson here, by the way?”

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Molly’s face darkened. “I haven’t seen him yet, but I know they’re hoping he can run point on security. He should be here.” There was a heavy note of accusation in her voice. Before Rachel could ask about it, Dominic entered onto the scene, holding a clipboard and a megaphone and looking like he was ready to murder the next person who didn’t jump when he asked. “All right, people,” he announced. “Here we go. Let’s take it from the top.” Everyone scrambled to their places. At least, everyone except Michael. He sauntered, all eyes in the place watching the flip and flop of those tiny skirt panels bouncing off the backs of his generously muscular thighs. While his back was turned, Rachel lifted a hand and yanked on the neckline of her gown, not stopping until the tops of her breasts visibly swelled over the bikini and out into the audience. The heavy gold-and-turquoise necklace gave them a perfect frame, and for good measure, she went ahead and hiked up part of her skirt and tucked it into the waistband so her entire thigh flashed with the super exfoliated and spray-tanned smoothness that had cost her the better part of the previous week’s salary. If Michael was going to treat the patrons to a gun show, she wasn’t going to be far behind. Never in her entire career on the stage had she been less beautiful than her male lead. And damn it all to purgatory and back, she wasn’t about to start now.

In the end, Michael was glad Rachel hadn’t opted to wear the bikini to practice. For one, it started raining about an hour before they were all scheduled to be out on the field, the cold, stinging pellets like shards of ice on bare skin. Though,

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come to think of it, that might not have been so bad. In his fantasies, a cold, wet woman equaled erect nipples and a need for a warm male body to do something about them. The real problem was just how much fun the guys were having rolling her over the ground, lifting her up over the biggest hurdles and putting their greedy hands everywhere. Even in her sensible sweatpants and T-shirt, it was too much. She was soaked to the skin, her wet hair stuck to her face, her wet clothes stuck everywhere else. And all while Michael stood on the sidelines, blowing his whistle by himself. The men—Julian, McClellan, Nick and Peterson—trailed behind Rachel as they finished a sprint in which she took the clear lead. “Mikey!” McClellan called, his eyes practically glued to Rachel’s ass. His friend, already a mass of musculature that gave him a strangely rounded look, seemed to be growing stronger and bigger every day. Michael’s knee twinged as if jealous. “This was the best idea you’ve had in a long time.” “Who knew you were the brains of the operation?” Julian added with a grin. He threw himself on the ground and panted heavily. “All this time, we’ve been trying to haul your giant ass over the course. What we needed was a lightweight.” While the rest of the men followed Julian onto a groaning heap on the ground, Rachel began stretching. First her arms up over her head, breasts jutting toward Michael in a manner that demanded his complete attention. Then she bent over, touching her toes and twisting her hips in a way that seemed to defy the mechanics of human movement. Nick’s eyes practically rolled out of their sockets until Michael reached over and slapped him on the back of the head.

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“How is it you have any energy at all, kid?” he asked, emphasizing the word kid. Little punks needed to learn their place around here. “I thought you were helping Jennings all this week.” “I am!” he protested, rubbing his head with a scowl. At least he’d taken the hint, though, and turned his eyes elsewhere. “We took it easy today.” “Easy?” Peterson asked. Roared, more like it. The man had been in a pissy mood all day. He’d been late to rehearsal, and when he finally did show up, it was primarily to yell at Larson and sulk in the corner. Most of the crew chalked it up to preshow jitters. Most of the crew except the Hewitt women and Michael, anyway. Michael knew it was the Nick stuff. Something about that situation was really getting to Peterson lately. Fortunately, Molly had acted like a balm on him, and he’d instantly become more calm once she cooed up at him. Rachel had seen the interaction and went from some kind of crazy-hot Egyptian in a sheet to a furious, smoldering bundle of fury. Still hot. Even more so, if that was at all possible. She’d looked very much like a woman in need of a distraction—hard, fast and complete with hairpulling. Michael had provided it, of course. Wardrobe malfunction—worked every time. He’d spent far too many years prancing around in a kilt not to know how to work a skirt to his advantage. As he leaped across the stage about to go to battle, he let his sword clatter to the ground and snag the clasp of his skirt as it went down. He caught it only at the last minute, saving the entire crew from an eyeful of his boys in all their glory. There was something about a vulnerable, almost-naked man that worked magic on a woman. Usually, they swooned or came up with excuses to touch

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him—on the arm, the back, a quick twist of the nipple when they thought no one was looking. Not Rachel. She threw a piece of the set at his head. It wasn’t a heavy piece—it was actually a giant block of foam painted to look like marble—but there was enough force behind her arm that it sailed across the stage and thunked him gently on the forehead. “What was that for, woman?” he asked, adopting the same, dramatic theatrical voice Dominic had coached him on. The trick of it was to use all of his lungs. Fill the damn things up as full as they would go and push it out to the last word. It was a pretty good workout, actually. “Stop showing off,” she returned. Her own voice was overloud to the point where he suspected she wanted an audience. Public spectacles, huh? He could accommodate that. “We’re here to do a job. Not preen.” He’d put on a perplexed look, loving the way her face darkened even more. Playing dumb always seemed to infuriate her. “Isn’t preening when you pull your dress down so everyone can see your cleavage better?” “Oh, like that’s any different than you thumping your chest so everyone is sure to notice your man boobs.” “Fine. If you’re bothered so much by me upstaging you, why don’t you do the same? Whip off your shirt, Rachel. Do it right here. We’ll have a contest. See whose pecs are better.” “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, barbarian? Well, too bad. I didn’t get to this point in my life by taking off my clothes and making friends and pretending to be some overgrown, overly cheerful—” He interrupted her with a loud laugh. “Don’t you worry, Ms. Hewitt. Making friends is something no one here would accuse you of.”

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With each insult, they drew closer and closer to one another, until they were almost toe to toe, gold Egyptian sandal to rough, leather Gladiator wear. Her chin tilted up in defiance, her eyes sparkled with wrath. Peterson and Molly were all but forgotten by this time, and the wrath belonged solely to him. He basked in it. “I’m only here because you asked me to be,” he said. His voice was still loud, but he’d curbed a little of the resonance of it. “If you want me to leave, say the word and I’m gone.” Her eyes narrowed. “That’s not fair. I’m thinking about more than just myself. I’m thinking about the whole production team.” “Are you? Funny. I didn’t know you were aware there were other people here, working extra hours away from their families just to make you look good.” With a heavy snort of breath, Rachel reached up. He thought she might have been going to slap him, so he remained perfectly still, fully willing to let her have her moment. Instead, she ripped off her headpiece, sending little hair pins—and her hair—flying in all directions. “Why, Rachel Hewitt,” Michael said, mockery pursing his lips. “Are you going to try and kiss me?” “No.” She stamped her foot, angling it square on his practically bare foot. He barely even registered it. “This thing weighs a ton, and I can’t look up at your stupid face if it’s going to keep slipping off.” “Here. Let me.” He lifted it gently out of her hand. “You can look at my stupid face all you want now. Is this the point where you’re going to kiss me?” “How many times do I have to say it?” she seethed. “You. Are. A. Cretin.” “Suit yourself,” he replied with a shrug. “But I’m getting tired of having to do all the work around here.”

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He barely gave her enough time to let an irritated mewl escape her throat before putting an arm around her waist and pulling her against him. The mewl turned to a gasp as her entire upper body pressed against his bare chest, which he knew was hot to the touch. He felt hot to the touch, his blood pulsing with the energy of the fight, and now with the sensation of Rachel finally yielding. Amidst a round of applause that echoed through the theater, he brought his lips to hers and captured them in a searing kiss. He let the headpiece clatter to the ground and wrapped his free arm around her back, crushing her to him. The mewls were back now, but they were evident to no one but him as he captured each one and returned it, smoothly and slowly in the way he already knew drove her crazy. The applause turned into catcalls, so Michael pulled away and steeled himself for what he knew was coming. “How dare you!” He hid a smile. There was no other way Rachel could let that kiss end. Saving face, he believed it was called. “Who do you think you are?” she called, turning on her heel and storming away. But she’d left her giant wig thing and had to turn around to get it. He watched, smirking, as she did her best to keep a semblance of control. “And stop looking so smug. You aren’t that good of a kisser.” “Then we’ll keep practicing,” Michael promised. “That is what this was, right? Rehearsal? For our kissing scene?” This time, he ducked out of the way as she swung her helmet up at him. That thing really did look heavy. The rest of the dress rehearsal had gone well—at least from his side of things. He was no connoisseur of the theater arts, but even he had to admit that Rachel

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made a damn good Cleopatra, especially when she looked like she wanted to roast his head on a pitchfork. In fact, she was still reeling with that same anger and irritation now. She looked up from her stretches on the ground and glared at Michael. “So this is how it works? You stand there telling everyone what to do, and they just do it?” Peterson, who up until that moment had been working hard to stay out of her way, agreed. “She’s right. I get that you’re down for the count, buddy, but you can go easy on the coach crap for a little while. And I still haven’t heard an explanation from you, Nick. What do you mean Jennings took it easy on you?” “Lay off, Eric,” Nick muttered. “I don’t need you watching everything I do every minute of the day.” “Trouble, boys?” Rachel asked coolly. “It’s none of your business,” Peterson muttered. To Michael, he added, “Talk to Jennings about this, okay?” Michael forced a calm smile. There were way too many tempers flaring right now. Mud, fists, brothers, a gorgeous woman—he didn’t need to add his own to the mix. “If I know Jennings, this is the calm before the storm. Take it easy tonight, buddy. The old man probably has a whole herd of cows for you to butcher tomorrow. So relax, Peterson, and let me enjoy my brief stint as Master and Commander. And you, woman.” He turned to Rachel with the biggest grin of all. “I want you on the field. I’ve got some one-on-one work I want to do with you.” Everyone seemed far too exhausted to argue, which was fine with Michael. He was getting tired of being everyone’s mother all the time.

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“It’s kind of been a long day, Michael, and tomorrow is opening night,” Rachel said warily. Her eyes were shifty and wouldn’t land anywhere near Michael’s face. That was the look of Rachel avoiding him. He knew it well. “Can’t we do this next week?” she added. “Nope.” Michael blew the whistle around his neck. Loud and very near Rachel’s ear. “A deal’s a deal. If you’re taking my place in the Top Warrior Race, I need to make sure you can fill my shoes. And I don’t know if you’ve looked yet, but I have very big…shoes.” To her credit—and to Michael’s growing sense of respect for the woman— Rachel didn’t back down from the challenge. Nor did she sneak a peek at his shoes or any other measurable portion of a man’s anatomy. In fact, she took his hand in a move that seemed downright friendly, and he pulled her to her feet. “I can give you thirty more minutes, and then we’re done.” “I only need five,” Michael said confidently. The other guys must have known he had the one-on-one combat training planned, because they all remained on the sidelines to watch. He led Rachel to the line of the soccer goal, where the repetitive motions of a goalie had worn the ground down to nothing but dirt and mud and jagged pebbles. They stood practically toe to toe, and Rachel immediately crouched and tensed, her hands up in a very good boxing stance. “What makes you think I’m going to fight you?” Michael asked, looking down on her with some amusement. Cheers from the sidelines changed the direction of his mood, and he swore. Those bastards took all the fun out of things. “Did they tell you this part was coming? Dammit! It was supposed to be a surprise.”

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“Some surprise,” Rachel said, firming her stance. She stole a glance up, and there was laughter in her eyes. “Just so you know. I don’t go down easy.” Michael winked. “As long as you go down, I’m not complaining.” As he’d hoped, she caught the full inflection of his meaning and immediately stood up, outraged. He used the advantage it gave him and shot his hand out, grabbing her by the wrist and twisting it up and behind her back before she knew what was happening. Her position was totally vulnerable. She stood pinned, immobile against the length of him, and he could control her every movement by the amount of pressure he applied to her arm. He wasn’t at full strength, obviously, and had taken care to keep his bad knee out of her reach, but he was still master of the situation. It was hard not to enjoy it in every sense of the word. Mentally, emotionally. Physically. In fact, if she didn’t stop wiggling her ass into his crotch— He released her, and she fell away, panting heavily. When she whirled around to face him, Michael half expected her to rail out at him for taking advantage of his size to fight unfairly. But she steeled her face and stretched the muscles of her neck. “Okay. Do that again, slower this time.” “Really?” The look she gave him was one he’d long since come to recognize—it was the special face she reserved for when she thought he was being a really big idiot. “How am I going to learn if you don’t take me through the steps? So, according to what the guys told me, it’s first man pinned to the ground for ten seconds loses, right?” “Those are the official rules. Points off for foul behavior.”

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Her eyes sparked with a flash that could only signify trouble. “Foul behavior?” Michael instantly shifted and went to cover his groin. “You know what I’m talking about. My man tonsils stay out of this. Official rules.” “Michael—you wound me. I would never resort to such underhanded tactics.” She sobered. “At least not like this. Not in a fair fight.” Before he could reflect on her sudden change, she crouched. “Okay. Do it again.” He did, but it was much more difficult than he expected not to react to her continual nearness. His whole life had been spent grappling with men on the field and with women in bed. Mixing the two parts of his life was new—and the fact that it was Rachel only complicated things. She was a good student, eager to learn and willing to give the workout her entire attention. But she was also someone he was beginning to care much too deeply for, and that was where Michael started to get a little fuzzy. It wasn’t just fun and games. It wasn’t about making her mad and riling her up and watching the sparks fly. It was something else. And Michael knew, with a tightness in his chest, that even several hours of wrestling in the mud with her wasn’t going to be enough. Not for him. Not anymore.

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Chapter Eighteen Opening Night

Rachel crawled out of bed the next morning certain her bones had been surgically removed and implanted into a body that wasn’t quite large enough. Each movement of her arms and legs felt like she forcing them into a vise, and no amount of gentle stretching would stop them from screaming at her to remain immobile. Between the run, the headpiece and the training yesterday, Rachel was pretty sure she’d killed her muscles. All of them. “Good morning!” Molly called brightly, emerging from her bedroom all dewy-eyed and full of happiness. “Morning, Molly,” she said grudgingly. “Your smile is giving me a headache.” Molly linked arms with her and practically dragged her to the kitchen island. At least she had the good sense to prop Rachel up on a stool and bring her a cup of coffee before starting to chatter about the day. Rachel mostly tuned her out. Wrapping her hands around the cup was agony, even her fingers protesting the extra exertion. Talking to her sister was beyond her range of abilities right now. “So I figure we’ll head to the theater around ten and start—” There were plans made, Rachel knew, most of them involving the two of them and details like hair and makeup and costumes and sending a pair tickets their mother would most likely never use. Food was consumed, and Rachel was placed in a car, her seat belt pulled carefully across her lap for her.

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“What did they do to you yesterday?” Molly asked, laughing all the while. Rachel wasn’t sure if she answered or not, but when they walk-hobbled into the theater’s back doors and saw Michael, Molly dissolved into peals of laughter that made Rachel long to fill her ears with cotton. “You guys are the worst pair of leading actors I’ve ever seen in my life!” And then she left, leaving Rachel sinking onto the couch next to Michael, who was so unruffled at the prospect of opening night, he looked as though he’d been sitting there for months, his skin slowly grafting into the upholstery. “You look like shit,” he offered. “Was I too much for you last night?” “Very funny.” She didn’t have the energy to insult him correctly. “I don’t know why I let you goad me into it. I’m supposed to get rest before an opening night, not be beaten to a bloody pulp.” “If it helps, I think you might have actually bruised one of my fingers a little,” he offered. Rachel reached over to shove Michael in the arm, but he moved too quickly, and she toppled over into his lap, unable to do more than just fall like a tree in a forest. To her surprise, he used his free arm to half embrace her, holding her comfortably where she landed. Even more to her surprise, she let him. It was the sort of position that longtime lovers and couples married a zillion times over favored—the sort of thing that was silly and romantic and for people too stupid to know they were never going to last. This, though, with Michael and her—it was neither silly nor romantic. She was simply tired, and he was a perfectly shaped warm and willing pillow. There was nothing more to it than that. Nothing. “You must really be in pain today,” he murmured. “Unless this is some sort of secret plan to murder me?”

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“Can you be not sarcastic for five minutes? I need a nap. I need twelve naps.” She shifted her head so she was peering up at him. “I still say you’re lousy at a lot of things, but you’re a hell of a coach, Coach.” The grin that crossed Michael’s face at the compliment warmed her like she was basking in the sun. And bask she did, letting herself fall into the comfort of his lap—the comfort of him—for a few long, luxurious minutes. The snap of plastic pulled her out of a near sleep. When she opened her eyes, it was to find a little baggie, complete with pills ominously white, small and unmarked, dangling in front of her face. “What are those?” she asked, struggling to sit up. Her stomach muscles protested by igniting a fire that spread outward into her internal organs. She gave up and let herself lie there some more. Weakness and futility—and all in a man’s lap. She hardly recognized herself. “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.

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“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.”

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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

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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.

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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.”

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“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?”

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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?”

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“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?”

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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?

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“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 herself the luxury of an aspirin, she’d forgotten how strongly she reacted to painkillers of that nature—and of a dosage

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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.

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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.” “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 tightfitting 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.”

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“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.”

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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.”

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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.

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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-allover-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

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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.

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“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

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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.”

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“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.

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“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.” “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

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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.

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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? More importantly, her weekly film class date with Jennings aside, what was she doing here? “Penny for your thoughts?” Rachel turned away from the fields to face him standing at the top of his steps. She’d heard him coming, of course. A herd of elephants had more stealth than he did. “Just a penny? You really ought to ask Dominic for a raise.” “Okay, okay.” She could tell from his voice he was smiling. “I can go up to a nickel. But those better be some good thoughts.” “Dirty ones, you mean?” “I’m not picky. Any thoughts that include me with all my body parts intact will do.” She smiled too. It was hard to stay morose in his presence for very long. He stood quietly, and she knew he was waiting for her to share her thoughts or cut him down with an insult or even storm away to go knock on Jennings’s door and hightail it out of there.

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She did none of those things. It was confusing, this wishy-washy sensation inside her that made it impossible for her to hurl accusations at his head. Making decisions and sticking to them was what she did. She should have confronted him about his money, asked him about Eric’s past and the deep, dark secret Nora didn’t want her to know. But then what? What comes after that? She didn’t know. And she didn’t want to find out. “I was just thinking about the show,” she lied. It was neutral territory. It would have to do. “You’re not half bad, you know. You could be an actor if you wanted.” He snorted and moved down the steps. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, his feet bare, hair perfectly tousled, the scruff of a blond beard just beginning to show. He’d probably rolled out of bed when she pulled up. Her heart clenched. Michael in bed. Michael getting out of said bed just to say “hello”. “Stop. You’re making me blush.” “I’m serious.” She crossed her arms over her stomach. “You have a natural gift for it.” His laughter boomed through the morning air, his hand shooting out and resting on her forehead. “Are you sick or something? Delirious again?” “Very funny.” She felt her color rising. She couldn’t remember all of their conversations from opening day, but she knew she’d said too much. “It just seems like a waste, you out here raising crops and playing jailer to Nick.” “I dunno. Being jailer has been an interesting experience. I’ve been giving it a lot of thought lately.” “You? A lot of thought?”

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He draped a loose arm over her shoulder. It was a friendly move, nothing the least bit sexual about it, but it was enough to make every part of her body spring to life. It was like she was twelve and dancing with a boy for the first time. Every smile meant something; every touch was logged into her mental files to be reviewed later. “It’s shocking, I know—don’t tell anyone. But this farm has a way of turning boys into men. Hard work and no bullshit. It does crazy things. And it’s more fun than I thought it would be, whipping Nick’s ass into the ground. I sometimes wonder…” “So do it.” Rachel turned, loosening herself from his arm to face him. His eyes still sparkled with warmth and humor, but there was seriousness there as well. She shifted, overcome with just how intently he looked at her. “Turn this place into a boot camp or something—if you have the resources, I mean. You’re a good coach. You have an incredible way with people. It’s like you see something inside them, and they can’t help but want to please you.” He studied her with an uncomfortable intensity. Rachel launched ahead, eager to fill that awkward space with something. “I can’t tell you how nice it would be to have a place like this to send my mom. Or Molly. Someplace to turn girls into women.” He gripped the back of her neck, but not hard and not with any ill intentions. A warm, callused thumb rubbed along the base of her skull. It felt magical. He felt magical. “There are places you can send your mom, Rachel. They don’t always work, of course—I can think of three programs my dad blew off in my first decade of life alone. But that’s all you can really do. Give them the option, hope they make the right choices.” She stiffened a little as his hand grew firmer, more intense.

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“And you always could try letting Peterson take care of Molly for a little while,” he added. He always ruined it. Rachel’s blood pressure mounted; her head throbbed with an intensity that made her want to cry. She was not handing her sister off to some random guy so she could enjoy a few moments of privacy. She was not going to abandon her family again. It wasn’t that easy—life wasn’t that easy. They didn’t all have bank accounts full of money, no responsibilities other than food and sleep. He must have noticed the shift in her, because his hands went up in mock surrender. “It was just a suggestion. I swear. Don’t kill me. He backed away, almost playfully, his eyes never leaving hers. And then his knee gave out under him. He didn’t fall or crash or anything—it was more like a slow giving way of weight, and he sank to the ground as if the leg simply refused to hold on anymore. It was giving up. Rachel knew the feeling—and any murderous urges she might have been harboring disappeared. “Oh God—are you okay?” she cried, sinking next to him. They were on a fairly grassy area, so the mud wasn’t a problem, but he scrunched his face up the way men did when they were trying not to show pain. It made her heart stop. “I’m fine,” he said, swearing. “I just need a minute. This fucking knee. I never know when it’s going to give anymore.” She stayed crouched there, waiting for some indication that he was ready to go either up or down, when Jennings came nimbly down the steps of his Airstream. Seeing the older man seemed to fortify Michael, because he pressed one hand on Rachel’s shoulder and made it to his feet.

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“Should we skip class? Do you need us to stay?” Rachel asked, not convinced he was all right. She looked to Jennings for confirmation, but he stood there, watching Michael with only a slight crease to his forehead. Michael waved her off. “I’ll be fine. Go and watch your depressing movies. Besides—Nick should be here any minute. I can make him be my errand boy today.” “But—” “I’m fine, Rachel.” “You need—” He turned his back and moved toward his trailer, effectively ending the conversation. As she got Jennings into the car and started the engine, Rachel realized it was the only time she’d ever seen him walk away without trying to get the best of her first.

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Chapter Twenty Cupid Kills

Michael was a firm believer in hard work. The harder a man pushed, the better his chances of winning, whether his finish line was in sports or life or women. Hard work was what shaped his body, and it was what was slowly but surely chipping away at Nick’s layers of angst. But if he had to spend one more minute at the Odyssey Theater, going to staff meetings and emergency rehearsals, having long-winded conversations about cues and queues and all sorts of stage-y things that could have gone unsaid, he was going to smash something. Where Michael came from, things got done through doing, not talking. At first, it had tickled his fancy to run around stage in a skirt, yelling for war and yelling for Cleopatra to stop acting like such a twat. But truth be told, he was getting tired of dying every night for the loss of that woman’s love. It was a stupid way for a man to handle his problems. Antony should have hauled Cleopatra over his shoulder, whisked her away to some little hut on the Mediterranean Sea and fucked her senseless. All that beachfront property, all that skin showing—and they wanted to talk politics? He would never understand why people launched huge campaigns to gain control over a land or riches they would never take the time to appreciate. Between the whole of Egypt and the Cleopatra he faced on stage every night, Michael knew which one he’d pick every time. So what was he waiting for?

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He might not have use of his knee and he might not know what he was going to do with his life anymore, but he was still Michael O’Leary. He was still capable of showing his might and wooing a woman. And he knew exactly what woman needed that wooing. “I hope you’re planning on staying in this afternoon,” Rachel warned as they walked out of the Odyssey, having wasted an entire half a day on something called scrim placement, which was basically shadow puppets they made with their bodies. “You were doing an awful lot of jumping up and down at practice yesterday.” “I don’t need to rest,” he said firmly. Resting meant thinking, and thinking wasn’t doing him any favors lately. “And I don’t want to hear you say one more word about what my body can or cannot do—at least, not unless you want a personal demonstration.” “Pretending your injury isn’t a problem doesn’t make it go away.” “Neither does obsessing about it. Now, come on,” he said, turning toward the parking lot. “Daylight’s wasting, and I always prefer to play with the lights on.” He was at the right angle to catch her first reaction, a wide smile that she immediately suppressed into a scowl. Ninety-five percent flash. He was sure of it. “Funny. I don’t recall you inviting me anywhere,” she said primly. “The rest of the cast was talking about maybe having an extra rehearsal and ordering some pizzas over at Kevin’s house.” “I don’t think so, Red.” He grabbed her hand and started pulling. She fought it at first, but he kept his clasp firm. With a sigh that was more show than anything else, she finally let him win, her fingers falling naturally through his own. “There’s no way I’m going to piss all over this day of freedom. You and I are going to go have some fun. My way.”

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“What kind of fun did you have in mind? And I swear, if you say anything related to your anatomy, I’m walking away right now.” Michael placed his free hand over his chest. “You hurt my feelings, Rachel. I have nothing but honorable intentions in mind.” Her lower lip came out in a pout, and the look she cast up at him was full of promise. Michael’s groin tightened, and before he could stop himself, he pressed his fingers against hers. Something about the way the noonday sun shone on the pair of them transformed her into someone soft and pliable and almost unrecognizable. Almost but not quite. He was growing used to the woman Rachel became around him, not exactly willing to let him in, but no longer fighting tooth and nail to keep him away. She was a continual challenge, a game whose rules he was learning by heart. It was a game he desperately wanted to play. He looked down one more time as he held the car door open, ushered her into the crappy old Pacer he’d gotten working with his own two hands and didn’t have the heart to give away. She no longer looked foreign there. She looked relaxed. Comfortable. His. I’ll give you anything you want, her eyes seemed to say as they met his. There was the challenge. There was the game. But let’s see if you can earn it first. The clock starts now. Oh, he was going to earn it all right. And the clock had started a long, long time ago.

“I don’t understand.”

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Rachel sat in Michael’s car, refusing to get out of the door he held open. Mock gallantry, all of it. He wouldn’t have bothered to play the gentleman at all except she refused to budge from her seat. He probably didn’t know what else to do with her. “It’s easy. Lift a foot, plant it on the ground. Repeat. The rest will come naturally.” “Aren’t you hilarious,” she said, putting both feet on the ground at the same time. It seemed the only way to thwart him. “But I thought you said fun. This place is the antithesis of fun.” Michael laughed. “Oooh, a big word. That’ll put me in my place.” One thing was for sure—she wanted to put him in his place. Badly. Her house—no, correction, her mother’s house—rose up before them, a cutout box of a building containing all the things that were the opposite of what a day spent with Michael should be. Michael was easy-going and carefree and good with his hands. Michael rolled in the mud and thumped his chest and kissed her like he wanted to roll her in the mud and thump on her chest. But this… This was where her family lived, where memories lodged inside every kitchen cabinet and under every shut door. Michael was not this house. He was the temporary answer to a question that had yet to form itself inside her mind. “I showed you mine,” Michael said, strolling up the driveway like he owned the place. “Now it’s your turn to show me yours.” “That’s not fair!” she called, but it didn’t deter him. He just kept moving toward the front door. She trotted a few steps behind him, grateful her mother’s car wasn’t in the driveway. “Yours is a motor home.”

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“Are you saying it wasn’t big enough for you? You shame me. Women are always saying size doesn’t matter.” She laughed. It wasn’t her fault—she couldn’t help it. It was impossible to take this man seriously for any longer than five minutes at a time, and she was beginning to wonder why she bothered trying. If he wanted the grand tour of the infamous Longfellow residence, who was she to say no? “Fine. You win.” She got out her keys and stabbed them in the lock. “Come in and see the highly exotic granite kitchen that almost never gets used and the bedroom I had as a teenager and still have today. It’ll be the height of all my adolescent fantasies. This is really all you had planned?” “Well, to be honest, I was hoping you were going to offer to cook me dinner.” Before she had a chance to figure out an appropriate insult, he waltzed right in, taking stock of the blandly ordinary foyer without a word. It led into a formal living room decorated by the careful hands of Indira’s favorite interior designer, who shared her love of white leather couches and white carpets and all the rest done up in lightly stained woods. “Shall I take my shoes off first?” Rachel asked, stalking past him to the hallway. “Barefoot in the kitchen and all that?” She pointed out various doors like she was reading a shopping list. “Laundry. Storage. Pantry. Closet. Guest bathroom. Don’t go in there; it’s this weird and creepy homage to my mother’s lost career.” “Oh, I like the sound of that,” Michael murmured. When Rachel shot him an inquiring glance, he grinned. “The barefoot stuff. And the homage room. I think I want an homage room.” “What man doesn’t?” Rachel returned breezily.

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She threw open the door and flipped the lights. The walls were like one of those restaurants that prides itself on putting up autographed photos of every celebrity who ate there, except her mother’s face was pulled into a tight smile in each metallic picture frame. Her two Tony Awards were encased behind a solid wall of glass, and on the opposite wall stood one of the costumes from Indira’s first stage production ever, when she’d been nothing more than a chorus-line girl. The sequined one-piece was being modeled by a mannequin whose face had been painted to resemble a youthful Indira Longfellow, and it even had a real wig placed on top of its head. “That is, hands down, the creepiest thing I have ever seen in my life,” Michael announced, staring at it. He looked back over his shoulder at Rachel. “Please tell me you didn’t have to grow up with that thing watching you every day.” “I think I might just like you, after all.” Rachel took a place at Michael’s side and stared up at the faux Indira. Mommy Scariest, she and Molly used to call her. “We used to have this game, Molly and I. We would take turns sitting in here with the lights out, seeing who could stay in the longest. There’s this little security camera up there in the corner, and it has a flashing blue light that illuminates the room every ten seconds or so. When it’s dark in here, it’s like a little flash of lightning, and it lands right on Mommy Scariest’s face.” Michael’s chuckle filled the room with a warmth she didn’t think it had ever contained before. That laugh could have done wonders for their peace of mind when they were girls. It banished fears. It made it seem like everything would be okay. It made her happy.

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“Did you win?” he asked, turning to her. “Oh, wait—that’s a dumb question. I bet you always—” The world went dark, and Rachel jumped, her body inadvertently seeking the warmth and comfort of the one next to her. Michael wrapped an arm around her waist, his fingers pressing into her side so she couldn’t help but move closer. She’d forgotten the lights in here were on a timer. Which meant…four, three, two, one. FLASH. Michael’s arm, still around her, grew tense and tight, pulling her so close she almost lost her footing. “Holy shit,” he murmured. “You were right. That is seriously disturbing.” Rachel felt herself being led purposefully out the door, which Michael slammed behind them. “Promise me we will never go in that room ever again.” “I think I can safely give you that.” The low rumble in his voice was almost indistinguishable—but it was distinguishable enough. “I intend to get a lot more.” “So this is it,” Rachel said, her legs and voice shaky. “Is this the point where you ask me to show you my room, and my mom yells up the stairs to keep the door open?” “No. We can go now if you want.” Her arms came up in a gesture of exasperation, though exasperation was barely word enough to describe it. It was like he was toying with her. She was the puppet on the end of a string, and he threw it around to see how she’d jerk and dance. She didn’t want to dance—at least not like that. It wasn’t her fault—there was just so much of him. Here, in front of her, strong and enticing, capable of doing things to her insides it wasn’t seemly to

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mention. He was everywhere she turned, a constant reminder of what her life was missing. She couldn’t show up anywhere without expecting him to be watching, waiting. She couldn’t go to sleep at night without seeing his face, smiling, as always, but also intent. Wanting her. He wanted her. And, oh, how she wanted him too. “I’m not going anywhere else unless you tell me where it is—and it’s actually someplace I want to go.” “You’re taking all the fun out of this, you know that? Go upstairs and put on something warmer. Is there food in your kitchen?” “You want a snack? Are you kidding? We came here so I could grab a sweater and you could get something free to eat?” Michael pointed first to himself and then at Rachel. “Me. The fun one. You. Ask too many questions.” She hesitated, at which point he lunged toward her, the threat of Mommy Scariest and barricaded doors spilling out of his mouth. “Okay, okay,” she said, laughing, heading toward the stairs. It wasn’t exactly the physical connection she’d been after, but she wasn’t ready to quit. Not yet. “But that’s not really fair. You’ve seen my biggest weakness now—you can make me do almost anything. I think it’s only fair you tell me what yours is in return.” He paused for a moment. Because she was a few steps up, they were head to head, eye to eye. She thought he was going to make a joke, open his mouth and let the cracks fly, but there was nothing humorous about him as he replied, “That’s easy. My weakness is you.”

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Chapter Twenty-One The Expense of Shame

It was the most nauseatingly romantic date she’d ever been on in her life. She should have known that warm clothes and snacks from her house would equal an impromptu picnic out on the range, but she was still so off balance from Michael’s stairwell confession that she saw only stars—the kind that came from a sudden blow to the head. The real tip-off should have been when Michael took one look at her fridge, saw nothing but the green olives and cookie dough that nested there, and announced his intention to hit up the drive-through at Kentucky Fried Chicken. “A bucket of chicken?” Rachel asked. “Are you serious?” “I never joke about fried food,” he returned. With any other man, it would have been a farce of an outing. They sat on a blanket in a field of what he said was wheat but looked more like dirt, snacking on biscuits and diet Pepsi. The temperature seemed to be making a dramatic turn for the worse, and the heavy clouds signaled an impending rain. But she wasn’t uncomfortable, and the charm of it didn’t feel forced. Her feet, which had been slipped out of their low-heeled, sensible pumps, rested casually in Michael’s lap, and he used a half-eaten drumstick to point out the various landmarks of the area. “Why do you keep laughing?” he asked. “I can’t help it,” she said, wiping at her eyes. She was giddy with chicken and freezing-cold picnics and him. She couldn’t remember a single time in her life when she’d been giddy. “You keep saying butte.”

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His smile deepened. He ran a finger along the sole of her foot, his touch light and grazing. “That’s what they’re called.” “I know that. But it’s funny to hear you say it.” He went through a series of poses, each one more ridiculous than the last, each one punctuated with the word butte, which he mouthed slowly and with a mock sensuality that cracked her up every time. By the time he was done, Rachel was laughing so hard she was crying, and the entire bucket of chicken had toppled over into the wheat. He dropped to the ground next to her, rolling onto his back with his hands behind his head. When he relaxed like that, the charming, little-boy features of his face stood out, signaling just how attractive and vulnerable he really was. She preferred this stripped-down version. No gimmicks. No false front. Just him. She felt the urge to lean over and kiss him, but it didn’t seem right somehow. Almost as though she didn’t dare—without the sex jokes and invitations, she wasn’t sure where she stood. “So what happens now?” she asked instead. It was an odd question, she knew, and one she wasn’t used to asking. But she had no idea what to expect from this man and this date, and that made her more uncomfortable than she cared to admit. “The way I see it,” he said, not moving from his supine position, “we can either talk or we can have sex.” She almost spit out her drink as she shot to her feet. “What is wrong with you?” He laughed, watching her. “You asked.” “Geez, Michael. I didn’t mean for you to just barrel in like that.” “Yes, you did.” He got to his feet then, favoring his knee but still managing to look cool and calm as he moved. Rachel felt like a deer in headlights, unable to

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do much more than watch him as he loomed closer. “You like it when I’m in control, but you won’t admit it. You’re waiting for me to make my move so you can either push me away or dive right in. Well, I’m not going to give you that chance. If you want to talk about things—Molly, Peterson, your mom, me—we’ll talk. I’m a really good listener if you give me a chance.” She felt herself stiffen, and it wasn’t from the cold. “And if I don’t want to talk?” “Then I’m afraid I’m going to move to option B. Sex. Lots of it, right here among the buttes.” This time, she didn’t giggle. “What if I pick option C and just leave?” His hand came up, his knuckles tracing a pattern along her cheek. Without thinking, she turned into it, closing her eyes and basking in the seemingly innocent caress. “I think if you really wanted to leave, you would have done it already.” She kept her eyes closed and let her lips fall open in anticipation of his kiss. After one beat too many, her eyelids flew open. He smiled down at her in that arrogant, bewitching way he had. “Are you really going to make me say it?” “Oh, yeah. I want to hear this.” She could have chosen to be embarrassed, to let him win the deadlock of emotion and passion that swirled around them. But she was a classically trained actress, dammit, and words were the tools of her trade. “Consider this a formal invitation to view my honey pot,” she said. Michael laughed so hard he threw his head back and let out a roar. “Oh, Rachel. You are going to pay for that.” I hope so.

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Michael’s mouth on hers was everything she remembered and so much more. He wasn’t greedy, taking his time to explore her lips, to make his mark with the sweep of his tongue and a steadily increasing pressure. That same pressure was everywhere—in the arms wrapped around her, drawing her close, in his body pressing up against hers, in the pull of her belly as the kiss intensified. He was moving too slow. So many of her interactions with Michael had been filled with the promise of what he could do, how hard and how many times he could make her come. The restraint he showed now was practically killing her. She wanted the sex-dungeon master and half-naked Roman soldier. She wanted the Highland athlete and whisky-swilling barbarian. It was almost disappointing to find he was just like every other man she’d ever slept with. Respectful and polite, ready to treat her like a lady. She didn’t want to be a lady—she wanted debasement. She wanted to be sex-slave Leia. With a growl, she pushed him back, ending the kiss but starting a whole lot more. “Take off your pants,” she commanded. “You take off yours,” he returned. “I mean it, Michael. I’m not out here to play games. If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do this right.” Without waiting for a reply, she lunged for the crotch of his jeans. He made a feeble attempt to keep her hands from his fly, but the moment she snuck a hand between the flat plane of his stomach and the soft cotton of his boxer briefs, all his movements stilled. She trailed her fingers lazily along the outer ridge of his lower abdomen, not stopping until she reached her goal.

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Michael’s breath was sharp as she unzipped his fly and nudged the top of his jeans down his hips. Without waiting for him to respond, she slipped her hand past the smooth, hard line of his cock and went straight for his favorite—and oftmentioned—body part. Wrapping her hands around his balls, she gave them a generous tug before cupping him, her fingers continually moving and working. “Holy shit, Rachel,” he murmured. She just smiled and pulled him closer. This man and his testicles. She could have probably used this moment to ask him for all his millions of dollars and he would have signed a check right then and there. But then he removed her hand and pulled away, shaking his head. “Hey, now. That’s not fair.” “How is that not fair? You want me to stop?” “Yes. I mean, no.” He shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. “I know what you’re doing here—I know what you want.” She stared at him, her body growing cold. What she wanted? After all this time, was he about to tell her he couldn’t go through with it anymore, that it was all a lie? But then he touched her again, this time slipping a hand underneath her bulky sweater, inside the edge of her bra. His fingers moved under the thin cotton of it, not stopping until he grazed her nipple. She arched her back, begging him to take it. He did, giving her nipple a gentle tweak, a jolt of pain and pleasure moving through her like an electric chain. “You told me once how you envisioned this. I believe your exact request was that I ‘bend you over the table, pin your wrists to the side and take you from behind’. Am I missing any of it?”

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She shook her head, unable to do much while he still had her nipple between his fingers, playing with it until she was gasping with need. “That sounds about right,” she murmured hoarsely. “I want to do that.” He leaned down and bit her shoulder where the slope of her neck met the rest of her body. His free hand wrapped around and grasped her bottom, pulling her so close she couldn’t mistake the hard need of his body. “And I’m good at that.” “So show me,” she said. Begged, practically, but there was no use dwelling on it at that precise moment. She ran her hands up his arms, the muscles of his biceps round and firm under her touch, even through his clothes. “I will.” He released the grip on her nipple, letting it slide slowly between his fingers, gentle and teasing. “Just not today.” She didn’t have time to analyze his meaning, because he chose that moment to cup the full weight of her breast, his thumb tracing an agonizing pattern over the tip of her nipple. He laid a gentle kiss on her neck, continuing a path up to the jawline. Everything about his movements was gentle and soft, the caress of a lover, not just a sexual partner. The bastard. She was very close to backing away, telling him to stop. This was not what she’d envisioned when she imagined a roll in the hay on the O’Leary farm. This was tender and warm, and the way he moved his hands gently over her stomach filled her with a strange desire to cry. When his hand dipped down, slipping underneath the elastic of her skirt’s waistband, her senses swirled around her even more. Fiery longing urged her to press against his hand—a deeper part of her knew that things were spiraling too far out of control. Control. She wanted it. She needed it.

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She grabbed the front of his jacket and twisted, gripping the fabric with a sense of urgency there was no mistaking. With a gentle push, she managed to get him down onto the ground and pinned him with her legs straddling on either side. He was very strong, but so was she, and she applied force with the clamp of her thighs pressed against his. Even though they were both still fully dressed, she felt wanton and powerful and good. “Are you trying to have your wicked way with me?” he asked, grinning up at her. “Trying being the operative word,” she shot back. “I’m tempted to leave you here with your bucket of chicken.” “I do love chicken,” he confessed. “But even more than that, I love—” She leaned down and captured his mouth with hers before he could say another word. Her legs lost all their strength, having been reduced to something gelatinous and weak, and he used the moment to roll her underneath him. He pulled back, looking down on her with infinite kindness. Her breath caught in her throat, and she longed to be able to look away, but she was trapped. Now he brought out the strength. Now he told her body what to do and how to do it. “Relax, Red,” he said, chuckling softly. “I was going to say that I love the feel of your body against mine.” “You’re impossible,” she muttered, blinking rapidly. “You’re impossible too,” he whispered, wiping at something on her face. His finger was damp as he brushed it across her cheek. “Are you sure you want me to keep going?” Yes. More than anything else in the world, she wanted to retain the feeling of his weight on top of her, feel the hard press of his erection against her belly, keep

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his arms encasing her like she was some sort of precious commodity worth saving. “Only if you promise not to cuddle afterwards,” she finally said, her body rolling underneath his, urging him to get closer, harder, faster. Anything with an -er. “I don’t do cuddling. And if you try to offer me a single nauseating compliment, I’m biting your ear off.” He nipped at the corner of her mouth, and she could feel his smile. “You don’t hug, you don’t cuddle, you don’t sweet talk. What do you do, Rachel?” “Anything, Michael.” She sighed as one of his strong hands gripped hers, forcing it above her head. With his free hand, he lifted her sweater but didn’t go any farther than to place his hand on the bare curve of her belly. It was a promise of things to come, achingly intimate, almost innocent. She arched. “I’ll do everything.” What followed was everything—everything textbook, everything the way they told you sex was supposed to be. Man on top, woman on bottom. Plenty of blankets for warmth. Safety before pleasure. There was even that moment when he first entered her body, their eyes meeting and their voices combined in a single gasp that reached all the way to the sky. And slow, mounting pleasure that never seemed to come—and when it finally did, it never seemed to end. His hands everywhere, on her breasts, between her legs, caressing her stomach and her arms, and finally, when she was too far gone to stop him, through her hair and over her face, endlessly affectionate and warm. And when it was over, when her body felt empty of everything, he murmured a low apology. “Just this one compliment, Rachel. I can’t help it.”

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“What?” she asked warily. Looking up at the sky, she wondered if the clouds overhead were going to open and pour on them the same way the stinging in her eyes threatened to do. He kissed her softly on the forehead. “You’re the most amazing and beautiful woman I’ve ever met. There’s no way a man like me could ever find the words to say it all.” That was when she turned her head away and sobbed.

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Chapter Twenty-Two Overflow of Good

Rachel sat brooding into her breakfast of lime-green Gatorade. Before he’d left after dropping her off yesterday, Michael stocked the refrigerator with several bottles of it, saying something about how many of her electrolytes he’d zapped. It was a dumb-jock thing to say, a completely Michael-like boast designed to put her back at ease. But she wasn’t at ease. What they’d done the day before—that wasn’t sex. That wasn’t a fun whirlwind of hormones she could revel in for hours, only to get up and walk away from it a few hours later. They’d done something else entirely. In her lifetime, she’d had countless one-night stands and an illicit affair with her college professor. She tried almost everything at least once, and rarely with men she cared about. She was free of romantic illusions of any kind, and her inhibitions in the bedroom were a direct reflection of that. But this was the first time she’d ever been mastered by sex, ever lost control. This was the first time she ever felt ashamed to look the man in the eye afterward. “What’s wrong with your drink?” Molly asked, coming into the kitchen behind her. “It’s green, for starters.” Rachel pushed the offending item away and did her best to appear calm. She didn’t want to invite questions she didn’t know the answers to. “You can have it if you want.” “I’m not thirsty.”

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Molly looked as dejected as Rachel felt. Normally, that would have put her on high alert. Today, she just felt tired and unequal to the task of ironing out the kinks in Molly’s life. That had once been her every waking thought. She was slipping. “Where did you end up going after rehearsal yesterday?” Molly asked. “I tried calling, but you weren’t picking up.” Rachel waved her hand. “I was working on a few things for the show.” “Oh.” “What about you?” Rachel asked politely, unsure how else to fill the silence. The only other alternative was to go back to sitting alone, thinking. Remembering. Reliving each touch, each kiss, those agonizing minutes when he held her and let her cry, not once asking why or what he could do to help. She got up and poured the Gatorade down the sink, the slug-slugging of the liquid filling her with an odd satisfaction. When she finally turned around, it was to find Molly gripping the edges of the kitchen island, tears brimming in her eyes. Eric. He’d finally broken her. Every other thought fled, and Rachel had her arms around her sister within seconds. She ran a soothing hand over her hair and murmured things that probably didn’t make any sense. The words didn’t matter, though. The sound of her voice seemed to calm Molly down, and the regular movements kept Rachel from the uncontrollable shaking that threatened to take over her whole body. “What’s wrong, Molly?” she asked as soon as the worst of the crying stopped. “Where were you yesterday? What happened?” Molly blew her nose into a napkin before turning her red-rimmed eyes Rachel’s way. “I was with Lily.” Lily.

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Rachel fell to the stool. They hadn’t said her name in over a year. It had been their girlhood dream name, the name given to every single doll they’d ever had, adopted by whichever one of them happened to be playing Queen of Dress-Up at the time. There had been a pact at some point, sealed in blood from twin pinpricks, that whichever of them was the first to have a daughter could claim sole ownership of the name. Lily Hewitt. Gone before she was here. Loved before she was lost. Rachel reached across the island to grip Molly’s fingers, which were so cold they were almost lifeless. “What happened?” “I’m pregnant.” Rachel was not a woman given to fainting—she had far too much hot blood and hot air running through her. Still, the room tipped on its side, threatening to topple them both over. Rachel clutched at her sister’s hand even harder, afraid if she let go, they’d never be able to find one another again. “How can that be? It’s impossible.” Molly’s laugh, bitter and heart-wrenching, came out a sharp jab that Rachel felt right in the center of her chest. It hurt, but it also jolted her out of her stupor. Molly. Pregnant. Again. “I promise—not only is it possible, it’s true. I saw my doctor yesterday.” Warning bells, which were so loud they made her head ring, told her not to say the words forming on her lips. But she couldn’t help it. How could one woman—a woman she cared about more than anything else in the world—be so careless with her life? “For crying out loud, Molly. Haven’t you ever heard of a condom? For all you know, you could be carrying a heck of a lot more than Eric’s child—you

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could have dozens of his STDs. You’re a grown woman. Please tell me you know better than this.” Rachel braced herself, fully expecting an outburst of tears, but there was nothing. A stifling, heavy nothing. “Stop trying so hard, Rachel. I don’t always have to break down in tears, so you can stop wearing that stupid martyr face. It makes you look constipated.” It most certainly did not, but she wisely refrained from commenting. “How far along are you?” Molly looked down at her stomach, which, as far as Rachel could see, showed no signs of life. “Nine weeks. I’m due in November.” Rachel drew a deep breath. The next question wasn’t likely to yield anything positive and sisterly between them, but she had to ask. “What are you going to do?” “You know the answer to that,” Molly said, not nearly as angry as Rachel had expected. “I’m keeping it, of course. It’s just…” Rachel held her breath. Not screaming her frustrations to the world was going to end up causing some sort of brain trauma. She was sure of it. “…I haven’t told Eric yet.” “Well.” Rachel weighed her words carefully. “There’s time, Molly. It’s still early. You know I’ll do whatever you need me to.” This time, her sister did let out a choked sob, dropping her face so she was just a pair of hands surrounded by bouncy yellow curls. “I meant I haven’t told him about Lily.” Oh, Molly. Rachel bit her lip so hard it bled. This was what Molly did. She tumbled headfirst into love, and nothing else in her life—past, present or future—mattered. She shared the parts of her that were enticing to a man, and all those broken and bleeding parts simply got

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tucked away. Though what was left of her other than the gaping hole between those broken parts, Rachel had no idea. “Does he know any of it? Justin, the hospital—anything?” “No. I didn’t want him to think I’m…” Broken? Bleeding? Anything other than a cute piece of ass? “…too complicated,” Molly filled in lamely. “Look—don’t say anything to Michael, okay? I’ve got to figure things out with Eric first.” “I think I can safely promise that,” Rachel said wryly. She tossed the empty bottle of Gatorade into the recycling bin. “He’s the last man on earth I’m going to divulge the family secrets to.”

Rachel didn’t know why she was surprised when, a few hours later, the telephone rang. Molly’s excitement was palpable from the other end, and she screamed as if her mouth was feet away from the phone rather than inches. “He asked me to marry him, Rachel. Can you believe it? I’m getting married!” “I hear yelling, dear. Who is yelling at your phone?” Indira looked up from the magazine she sat reading on the opposite couch. “It’s Molly, Mom. Hang on a sec.” She dashed from the room, one finger plugging the opposite ear so she could make out the exact words. But Molly must have been in some kind of frenzied delirium, because she just kept squealing and saying married and baby over and over again. Like it was a mantra and only through repetition could it possibly be true. “Don’t you think this is awfully sudden, Molly? How can you possibly have everything worked out already? What about Lily?”

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As she expected, her concerns were ignored. But it wasn’t until Molly sighed, dropped her voice and said, “This is it, Rachel—he’s the One,” that she realized just how big her concerns were. A baby was a big deal, a lifelong association with the Peterson family that could never be erased. That was bad enough. But marriage? The One? As far as Rachel was concerned, that was the end of the line. There had been three Ones before. Each time, Molly allowed herself to be completely absorbed into the man-of-the-hour’s life. She disappeared into a hole where all the air and light and food and joy was centered around and provided by the One. And she loved it in there. It was warm and cozy, and in some deluded sense only she understood, it was safe. But when the One became abusive and mean, treating her body and her soul like they were garbage—she was usually too deep inside that hole to be able to scream for help. “Be careful, Molly,” she pleaded into the phone, though she doubted her words were making any impression at all on the rainbows and cartwheels inside her sister’s heart. She was too far gone, baby and man and family in one package. Molly’s American Dream. “Please.” But she’d already hung up. Rachel fell to a kitchen chair, torn between a strong desire to cry and an even stronger desire to call Michael just to hear his voice. If there was one thing she knew for sure, it was that he could be counted on to make a joke, to make her feel better. The low rumble in his voice was exactly in tune with the timbre of her heart, and she was beginning to fear that the organ inside her chest could no longer function without him near. She felt cold inside and dead. The only person who could get her kick started and going again was him.

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Rachel had gotten half of his numbers punched into her phone before she realized what that meant. Michael was her One. She was deep inside the hole of her own making, and the only way she could see out was him. She was just like Indira. She was just like Molly. No. She was worse, because she knew better. She’d let him get to her—let him rip open her soul out there on the plains yesterday, and all because she couldn’t say no to his soft lips and softer hands. That didn’t deserve tears. That deserved a swift kick to the ass. In the end, she chucked her phone aside and went to her room. And with her hands trembling, she opened the envelope.

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Chapter Twenty-Three No Jot of Blood

Practice was going like hell. For once, Michael had actually been looking forward to it. It was taking some time, but the transition from trainee to trainer wasn’t quite as terrible as he’d thought. Maybe he couldn’t run the sprints alongside the guys, but someday he could probably manage a little distance running. He couldn’t do any of the climbing and crawling and rolling of the barrels, but he could still watch and push and throw insults that kept everyone going. Or rather, he had been able to. Today, Julian was away on a promotional gig, and Peterson was mooning around like a man in love. Nick hadn’t bothered showing up or calling, and McClellan kept checking the scoring updates on his phone. And Rachel… Something was definitely wrong with Rachel. He’d been polite, he’d been affectionate, and he’d called her names right to her face. So far, not a single method got more than a tight smile out of her. She participated in the drills, but she wouldn’t look any of them in the face. Well, except for Peterson. Him she was staring at so closely a less confident man might feel a little intimidated. Not him, of course. “Peterson! Drop and give me fifty!” It was a running gag of theirs, Michael making commands on a whim, but no one seemed to enjoy it today.

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Forget this. He was calling practice early and whisking Rachel off to feed her and force some kind of interaction. He wasn’t a man for talking out his feelings, but people didn’t have mind-blowing sex like that only to ignore each other for days. Where he was from, mind-blowing sex equaled more mind-blowing sex. Lots of it. He sat unabashedly watching Rachel’s ass as she worked through a series of squats, so he didn’t see the squad car pull up until all the color drained from Peterson’s face. When he turned around to see the source, it was as if he was watching through some kind of movie lens. Two uniformed cops, their hands on their weapons, strolled forward. And these were big guys. He’d seen local policemen before, usually scrawling out parking tickets just as he was about to get to his car. They were rarely intimidating—especially to someone like him, and especially when he was around his friends. But these two… They’d been sent knowing what to expect. “Eric Peterson?” the first one asked, planting his feet and fingering the handle of his weapon. He could have been an actor in a spaghetti western, except they were all in color and there was nothing entertaining about the scene. Ghostly fingers ran up Michael’s spine. This wasn’t good. This wasn’t good at all. “Yeah. That’s me.” When Peterson stepped forward, he did so slowly, his hands where they could be seen and interpreted as perfectly benign. “Can I help you?” “We’re here to invite you down to the station. There’s a few questions we’d like to ask.” “I see. Am I under arrest?” His friend’s face was a rock, but Michael knew there was a hell of a lot working just underneath the surface.

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“No,” the first cop started to say, but the second one let out a low growl. “Not yet,” he bit out. “Can I ask what this is about?” “It’s about your brother, Nicholas Peterson. He was picked up this morning in connection with some assault charges. We received an anonymous tip that you might have some information that will help us figure out the details of the case.” Peterson nodded once. “Fine. Michael—will you please call Molly and let her know that I’ll be back as soon as I can? She may need to keep the girls for the night.” “Shouldn’t you just ask Rachel—” Michael started to say, but then he saw her face. She stood behind and to the left of the cops, right within Peterson’s view. It was almost as if she was allying herself with them. She was. Her face had always been open and readable—at least to him—but she wasn’t even attempting to hide what was going on there now. There wasn’t a glimmer of surprise, not a breath of concern. The look she cast over Peterson was one that no man should have to bear. It was hatred, pure and simple. No—it was more than that. There was fear there too. She’s done this. The cops didn’t handcuff Peterson, but he was led away and placed in the backseat of their cruiser with little ceremony and even littler respect. McClellan and Michael watched, perfectly still, as the car pulled out of the parking lot and onto the main road. It wasn’t until the car was a white speck in the distance that he was able to turn to Rachel. “You,” he said. It wasn’t a question. And she didn’t answer.

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“What did you do, Rachel?” He strode to her, taking two large steps only to find that she fully intended to meet him halfway. “What. Did. You. Do?” “I didn’t do anything,” she said tightly, her lips pursed around each word. “I’m not the one who lies. I’m not the one hiding all sorts of secrets about my past.” “What are you talking about? Rachel—this is me.” He opened his arms wide. “Remember me? Your friend? The guy you slept with two days ago? I’ve been honest and upfront with you since almost the beginning—you know that.” “Please. If you were honest and upfront, you wouldn’t have let my sister go out with a man capable of that kind of violence. He put a man in a coma, Michael. You don’t think there’s anything wrong with that?” His breath came short and fast. “You found out about the bar fight?” “Of course I found out,” she snapped. “I’m not an idiot. And I’m not the kind of person who’s going to sit here and let bad things happen to the people I care about.” His hands came up, and it was all he could do to force them back at his sides, balled up tighter than the knot in his stomach. “The people you care about? You mean…Molly.” Her anger fell away then. He could see it in the slight slump of her shoulders, a softening just around the edges of her eyes. They were small cues, but they were there. So he held his breath. He waited. There were a lot of things Michael knew Rachel would never be. She would never be the type of woman who asked for help or admitted weakness. She would never voluntarily open herself up to pain. She would never make things easy.

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These were the things he loved about her—they were the reasons he was falling in love with her. But that didn’t mean he was going to let her get away with this. Personal anguish wasn’t a good enough reason to hurt other people. It wasn’t a good enough reason to hurt him. “Yes,” she finally said. Although she looked in his general direction, her gaze fixed itself a few inches above his head. “It’s always been for Molly.” It was getting harder to wait, harder to breathe. “And that’s all you have to say about it?” “I don’t know what else you want from me, Michael.” She started to turn away but stopped, as if thinking the better of it. This time, when she looked at him, she did meet his gaze full-on. And it was scary. Not because she was angry, but because she seemed so overwhelmingly sad. And even that wasn’t enough. “No. You know what?” she added. “I do have something else to say.” He didn’t move. He didn’t dare. “You can stand there acting like I’m the big bad monster and you’re Mr. Perfect, but that’s not fair. You have secrets too.” “Ask me anything you want,” he said, the words tight and controlled. He wanted her to react. He wanted her to do something to show that she cared. “I have nothing to hide.” “No? Not even that you apparently have enough money to buy your friend’s way out of jail? Or how about that by not turning Eric and Nick in to the authorities when you had the chance, you’re practically an accomplice to their crime?” Her words were rapid-fire, and he didn’t have time to process them before the onslaught continued. “You lied to me and to the police. As far as I can tell, Michael, that makes you the monster. Not me.”

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“You think I’m a monster.” “No. I think we both are.” She took three steps back. It might as well have been a thousand. “Which is why we’re done here, and you know it.” For the first time in his life, Michael didn’t have a glib reply. He didn’t have anything to say at all.

On the surface, Peterson’s lawyer was all business. A matronly woman of around fifty, she had the look of someone who worked in the back offices, researching precedents and answering phones. Michael knew from experience, however, that no one had Peterson’s back more than Laura Bremerton. She’d gotten Peterson his kids and she would get him out of jail. There was no question of it. “I’m working as fast as I can, Mr. O’Leary,” she said from behind piles of paperwork on her desk, her hand scrawling furiously at a yellow notepad. She worked at one of the larger law firms in town, her office a museum of sleek hardwoods and a strange glass paperweight menagerie, but you could barely see the floor through all her files. “We should get bail for Mr. Peterson set tomorrow. Until then, you have to sit tight.” “What about Nick?” She looked up, her pen stilling. “What about him? He’s being tried on different charges. I’ve got a witness willing to testify that Eric was the one who stopped Nick from doing further damages, which is good news and a possible first-time misdemeanor for Eric. It’s not so good for Nick. The kid’s probably looking at felony assault charges and at least a year of jail time. That’s if we’re lucky.”

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Michael bounced his leg—his good one—nervously. He didn’t like this fancy office stuff, and he really didn’t like the button-up shirt and slacks he’d worn to make the visit. But if he was going to undo some of these damages, he needed to play his cards right. It was his fault—all of it. He’d thought he could trust Rachel. He’d been the one to tell her about the plan to distract her, the one to set these wheels in motion. When he’d talked to Molly this morning, she’d said something about a file Rachel showed her containing everything about Peterson, including the police sketch. It also contained everything about him. She’d run background checks, knew everything there was to know about their lives. What Michael wanted to know was if that happened before or after he’d made love to her and told her what an amazing person she was. Before or after he’d come to the realization that her tears on his shoulder hurt more than a thousand knee injuries. “I’m his employer—well, sort of,” Michael explained, pushing all thoughts of Rachel aside. He took a deep breath and forced himself to look the part. Businessman. Upstanding citizen. Man of the World. “See…I’ve got this lentil farm.” “I’m sorry, Mr. O’Leary. A lentil farm?” “I know it sounds stupid, but please hear me out.” To her credit, Laura listened to his entire plan, a haphazard, half-formed idea that had been inspired by Rachel herself. “It does things to a man, that farm. If there was just some way to get Nick released to my care, I could vouch for him. I could be responsible for him.”

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Laura shook her head. “That’s not how it works, Mr. O’Leary. No matter how many lentils you grow.” “But they do it all the time, order people to go to rehab instead of jail. I’m telling you—this farm is a kind of rehab. It’s exactly what young men like Nick Peterson need. Jail isn’t going to do him any favors. This will.” Laura blew out a long breath, locking Michael’s gaze the whole time. Without looking down, she shoved aside a glass hedgehog paperweight and grabbed a business card. “You’re the one posting bail tomorrow, right?” “Yes.” Michael took the proffered card. “Absolutely.” “I’m not a cheap lawyer, you understand. I bill at a heck of a lot more than those Kmart Dockers you’re wearing.” Michael sat up straighter. “Got it.” “Then I can give you this and an appointment next week. It’s probably too late to do anything for your friend Nick, but if you’re serious about turning your farm into a boy’s home, I can help you from a legal standpoint.” “I am serious,” he said, knowing the words were true. The second Nick was released from whatever sentence he got, Michael would have the farm up and running. He’d have a place for him to go. It wasn’t too late, and everyone deserved a second chance. “I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

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Chapter Twenty-Four False Face

Rachel had never seen Molly in such a state. Her sister, always the first to scream at a scary movie, the first to hide when there was an unknown bang at the door, the first to burst into a pool of tears at impending disaster, was doing none of the above. Sammy and Pris swung their legs from the stools at the kitchen island, the pair of them digging into a single bowl of fruity cereal. Rachel wanted to take the conversation to the living room, out of sight and sound of little ears, but Molly had turned herself off. Off to Rachel, anyway. Her sister moved efficiently through the kitchen, grabbing items that might appeal to small taste buds, humming a tune under her breath as though she hadn’t a care in the world. “Are you even listening to me, Molly?” Rachel asked. “You can’t assume the sole responsibility for these kids. You can’t just move into the man’s house.” She tried to keep her voice down, but both girls looked up and studied her intently before resuming their snack. It was like they knew things—saw right through her. She shivered. Molly slapped a package of cookies on the counter, breaking every last one, finally acknowledging Rachel standing there. “Is that a fact?” she asked, her words running hot and cold through Rachel’s spine. “You think I should just chuck these kids into the welfare system after

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you’ve ruined their father’s life? That’s who you are now? That’s who you’ve become?” Rachel felt a roll of nausea move through her, one that made it difficult to draw a deep breath or move her hands without them shaking uncontrollably. It wasn’t the first of such moments that day, and she doubted it would be the last. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. Eric’s folder not only confirmed all of her worst fears, but it went above and beyond them. He didn’t have a criminal record, but his employment record was scattered with sketchy bits, a stint as a bouncer here, a questionable amount of time spent in Mexico there. The documentation from a bitter custody battle for his girls had brought up questions of drug use and abuse. And worst of all had been an artist’s sketch, malingering in some forgotten police file in Bonner’s Ferry, Idaho. It was the spitting image of Eric Peterson, looking more like a thug than she’d ever seen before. Wanted. He and his brother had beaten a man into a coma and then fled the scene of the crime, saved only by the lack of resources in the tiny town and the fact that no one had been willing or able to positively identify the two Peterson brothers. That kind of history went beyond Molly’s feelings and romantic illusions, and Rachel’s phone call to the police was more than a moment’s irritation or anything vindictive. There was no pretending anymore: Eric Peterson had a past. He was a criminal. He was violent. The law was on her side, and she’d merely notified the proper authorities. In any other situation, it would be called being a good citizen. But the way Michael had looked at her when the police came had almost turned her to stone on the spot. It wasn’t the hatred or the anger that affected her most—she was used to that.

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No. It was the disappointment that hurt so much it was a physical ache lodged somewhere in the region of her heart. There was no use pretending she could take any joy in her victory today. Molly had what could only be termed a severe case of Stockholm Syndrome, and Rachel should have been doing whatever she could to get her sister out of Peterson’s almost supernatural grip—not feeling as though the ground were so slippery underneath her that the only way she could move forward was to fall on her hands and knees and crawl. “I’m sorry for them, of course,” Rachel said, avoiding the pair of wide, seeing eyes. She had to stick to what she knew to be true. “But it’s not my fault if Eric was hiding from the law. I didn’t commit the crime. You have to see that it’s better to know now, rather than after you’d gone through with it and married him.” “Oh, I’m still going to marry him, Rachel. Don’t think you’ve accomplished anything here other than making me hate you.” Now the ground tilted, and she was sliding backward into a pool of something dark and murky. “You can’t be serious!” Molly’s eyes flashed with something Rachel recognized. The two of them would never be mistaken for twins, were barely acknowledged as sisters, but in that moment, Rachel saw her own eyes looking right back at her. They were judgmental and cold and angry all in one brilliant burst. Then Molly turned away and smiled brightly, clapping her hands and transforming into Mary Poppins. “Okay, girls! Are we ready to go to the park? Coats and hats, please!” Rachel stared at them as they clamored out of the house, all feet and giggles and toothy smiles. No one turned back to acknowledge her standing there, and no one offered her one of their smiles.

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The silence that descended over the house the moment the door came to a close behind them was almost painful in the way it filled her ears and her chest. “Thank goodness,” her mother said, sauntering into the kitchen in a satin robe with a feathered trim. She had an empty glass in her hand and some kind of shiny facial scrub to hide behind. “Hand me the vodka out of the freezer, will you, dear?” Rachel complied wordlessly. “They remind me so much of you girls at that age. So much noise. So much trouble.” Indira smiled wanly and patted Rachel’s hand. “I’m glad you decided not to bother with any of that love and family stuff. How I wish I’d been half as smart as you are.” The ice tinkled in her glass as she swept broad strokes with her arm. “You remind me of myself at that age, you know. I was prettier, though. I expect that’s hard on you girls.” Rachel blinked, impervious to her mother’s insult but not at all to the compliment. She’d never felt so sick in her life.

Her copy of The Shakespeare Review arrived that afternoon. She opened it with surprisingly calm hands, unsure what to expect. It was midweek, so there hadn’t been any shows lately, no reason to talk to Dominic about what he may or may not have heard about the upcoming article. She preferred to read it alone, of course. News of this kind—whether good or bad—was always better received by herself, so she knew how to school her features the next time she was in public. But sitting in the empty kitchen, a few spilled pieces of cereal on one side, her mother’s empty glass on the other, only made her feel worse.

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Her face, covered in Cleopatra’s makeup, just inches away from Michael’s, covered the front page of the article. Her heart thumped, and she began to read. The Odyssey Theater, historic home of the once-great Indira Longfellow, current seat of Shakespeare’s bastardized, smut-filled orgy of a production, is once again on the map as the place to go for post-modern art that stirs the soul as well as the loins. She read the text quickly, turned the pages even more quickly, the words a blur that didn’t sink in until after she shut the cover. They were good words, complimentary words, even if there was a scathing undercurrent that indicated Peter Bloom wasn’t exactly thrilled to be giving their show positive marks. She knew the feeling. Dominic was a genius, if a bit of a pervert. The article also didn’t hesitate to lay the praise where it was due. Dominic, Mary, Molly, Rachel and even Michael got commendations. It wasn’t effusive— Peter Bloom rarely was—but it was enough. All she had to do was slip the article into her portfolio and she could land an audition anywhere. New York. London. This was it. It was everything she’d been working for and done on her own. Other than the theater reference, there wasn’t a mention of the connection between mother and daughters anywhere. She heard the front door open and shoved the magazine into the first drawer she came across. “I forgot a few things,” Molly said, standing at the entrance to the kitchen. She had her coat on and didn’t look at all compelled to stay and chat. “Do you—do you need me to help?” “No.” She tried again. “Will I see you at the show on Thursday night?” Molly shrugged. “I don’t know. I might ask Jillian to step in from her understudy role. You know, while Eric—” Rachel nodded, her throat tight.

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“What about Michael?” she asked before she could stop herself. “What about him?” “Is he still going to finish?” The thought of standing across from him, sharing that onstage kiss, looking into his eyes for almost a full two hours each night… She shifted uncomfortably. “Why don’t you ask him?” Molly turned on her heel and went upstairs to gather whatever it was she’d forgotten. She didn’t even bother to say good-bye after she was done. “I can’t ask him,” Rachel announced to the closed door, the empty house. She was alone. It was both a relief and a kind of torture. The relief came from being able to lay her cheek on the cool surface of the kitchen countertop, letting her whole body become part of the granite. The torture was everything else—but most especially the realization that she deserved every bit of her loneliness and despair. Molly might have just closed the door on Rachel, but Rachel had practically slammed it in Michael’s face. And she doubted she’d ever be able to open it again.

“I told you this would happen.” Rachel forced her way into Nora’s office, ignoring the box of tissues the woman held out. Rachel didn’t need tissues, and she didn’t need the support, because she was walking taller than ever before. That was what had to be done. Keep walking, keep your head held high. The moment you let them see weakness was the moment the weakness began to exist.

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That kind of thinking was a hundred times more effective than tears. In fact, it was the only way she’d been able to leave the house at all. “I don’t want a lecture right now, okay? What I want is advice.” “Apologize.” Rachel bit down on her tongue. “I haven’t even told you what I want advice for.” “Yet my answer remains the same. Apologize.” Fine. “I’m sorry, Nora. You were right, and I was wrong.” Nora’s laugh, normally something Rachel looked forward to, went on much longer and much more painfully than it needed to. “Oh, honey. I didn’t mean me.” She reached into her bottom desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of scotch. Pouring a good two inches into a coffee cup, she added, “And for the record, that apology sucked. If I was pissed at you—and you’re lucky I’m not—that would have only made things worse.” Nora offered the cup to Rachel, but she shook her head and downed it herself. “I forgot you abstain. Afraid of falling too close to the tree, the sins of the mother and all that. How’s that working out for you?” “Very funny,” Rachel muttered. Only Nora could sit there, cracking jokes while all the world fell down around her. “What I want is advice of a legal nature. I need to know what sort of charges Eric is facing and what the potential outcomes might be.” “Stop right there.” Nora held up a hand. “I have officially taken you off my list of clients.” “What? You can’t do that!” Panic skittered through her chest. “You were the one who put all that information in the file and then pretended like it didn’t matter. Aren’t you obligated to report crimes to the police or something?”

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“I’m neither a doctor nor a priest. I’m paid to keep my mouth shut.” She finished her drink and placed the cup carefully on the table. “I also told you there was more to the story than what I found. You were supposed to talk to one of them first. Come on, Rachel—what’s wrong with you? Why would you do something like that to your friends?” “Eric Peterson is not my friend,” Rachel said. “No. But your sister and Michael O’Leary are.” Rachel’s eyes burned, but she refused to blink. “Not anymore.” Nora leveled her with a stare that, at any other time in her life, would have had her screaming for the hills. But so much hatred from so many people had deadened her to scorn. She was a rock. Their cruel words meant nothing. If she said it to herself enough times, maybe it would even become true. Without losing eye contact, Nora pulled out another manila envelope, this one thin and all the more ominous because of it. “I thought you said you won’t take me as a client now,” Rachel said, mocking her friend’s earlier tone. “I won’t. This is your file.” “You have a file on me?” Rachel reached for it, but Nora held it just out of her grasp. “I have a file on everyone who asks me to do a job for them. I learn a lot more about a case once I know who I’m dealing with. What this contains, my dear, is what you’ve been after all this time—my professional opinion.” Rachel’s stomach knotted. That didn’t sound like good news. She racked her brain, trying to think of what she’d done in the past that might show up and reflect poorly, but there was nothing. She’d always walked the right side of the law, done what she was supposed to do, taken care of everyone else. That was probably why the file was so thin.

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“Does this one come with stipulations too?” “Nope. It’s yours.” Nora pushed herself away from her desk. It was her signature, her this-interview-is-over-you-may-go-now move. “Read away. And Rachel?” She was almost afraid to hear it. “Yeah?” “I’m leaving work at six tonight. You know, if you need to talk. Or drink. Or cry. Strictly off the books. And I meant what I said before…about apologizing. You’d be surprised how many issues can be resolved that way.” Rachel nodded and left, clutching the folder to her chest. But she didn’t open it. She couldn’t. It was like a scab, festering on the car seat next to her as she drove away. Leave it alone or rip it open? It didn’t seem like it would heal either way.

Rachel pulled into the driveway of Eric’s house, trying not to let the sight of the scattered toys in the yard and the artwork taped to the front windows deter her from her goal. She tossed the envelope, unopened, under the seat and pulled open the car door. She didn’t need a professional file to tell her that Molly probably needed help right now. As much as Molly might like to pretend she was capable of instant-mother mode, there was a reason they didn’t have a dog and their household plants were taken care of by a gardening service. Things didn’t like to live in their house. It was as though they sensed the maternal instincts of the Hewitt women and simply gave up. As she got closer to the house, she could hear screams—of delight or death, she wasn’t sure. But she didn’t bother knocking.

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“Molly?” she called. The house had every sign of being a daycare, with toys and bright colors and homemade artwork everywhere. At each new indication of domesticity, Rachel’s shoulders dropped. “Hello?” The younger of the two girls shot around the corner, latching on to Rachel’s legs and squealing. The sounds were delight, then. That, at least, was a relief. “Don’t let him get me!” she cried. “Don’t let the big, bad monster get me!” Rachel twisted and tried to free herself, but she heard the low rumble of a man’s voice coming around the corner. “Fee, fi, fo, fum,” he called, stomping his foot in time to each word. “I smell the blood of a little one!” The girl shot out like a bullet in the opposite direction, leaving Rachel standing there, feeling oddly bereft, as Michael turned the corner. He was hunched over and looked rather like a giant bent on consuming the flesh of little girls. Then he saw Rachel. He straightened and scowled, transforming into a giant bent on consuming her flesh instead. “What are you doing here?” they asked at the same time. “I came to see if Molly needed help,” Rachel said, trying hard not to notice how unhappy Michael was to see her. It had to be the first time since they’d met that he’d offered her anything but that huge, charming grin of his. It really was over between them. “She did need help,” he replied tersely. “That’s why I’m here.” “Oh.” There didn’t seem to be anything else to say. “His case looks good, if you care at all.” Michael said. “It’s his first arrest, so they’re not even going to bother with the extradition.” “Really?” Rachel was rooted to the spot. She was afraid of coming any closer.

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“Yes, really. Assuming the bail goes through, Peterson should be home tomorrow.” “That’s all?” “Of course that’s all. Other than landing a few punches on a guy who had it coming, he didn’t do anything wrong. He was protecting his brother—you know, looking out for the people he cares about?” Michael’s tone mocked her earlier use of those words. He loomed closer, and even though the childish squeals continued in the background, Rachel felt more frightened in his presence than she ever had before. She realized for the first time that he could really hurt her. Not physically—in spite of his big walk and bigger talk, there was a surprising gentleness in the way he touched a woman. But emotionally—that was a different story. If he kept looking at her like that, she was well on the way to a broken heart. Who was she kidding? She was already there. “Why are you really here, Rachel? What do you want?” The other girl came around the corner then, her joy having disappeared in less time than it took Rachel to blink. “Uncle Mike, when is Daddy coming home?” she asked. Her lower lip quivered, and Rachel felt her own starting to droop. On the stage, this was what would be known as tugging at the audience’s heartstrings, playing their emotions through the cheapest trick imaginable. But Rachel very much doubted Sammy was doing anything other than being a sixyear-old, feeling sad because her father was gone and some horrible monster of a lady was doing her best to keep him away.

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“Soon, Monkey. And until then, you’re stuck with me and Miss Molly.” Michael struck a ridiculous pose and batted his eyes. “Who do you think is prettier—me or Molly?” Distracted, Sammy went into peals of laughter, and Michael swept her into his arms and began flying her around the living room. It was as though Rachel ceased to exist, and only then could life continue. And it was. It was continuing all around her, happy and filled with laughter. This was what Molly was being offered—and this was what Rachel had been trying to wrest from her grip. And all in the name of protecting her. “He was protecting his brother… He was looking out for the people he cared about.” Rachel turned and left, shutting the door quietly behind her. Her shoulders began shaking before she reached the end of the front sidewalk, and by the time she reached the car, it had become difficult to see anything at all. She was only able to drive a block before she pulled the car over and ripped open the envelope tucked underneath the seat. She needed to see her life through another person’s eyes, even if they were the cold and calculated eyes of a professional. Because from where she stood, she seemed like the worst person on the face of the planet.

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Chapter Twenty-Five Man’s Ingratitude

The final performance was a welcome relief. Michael suspected the last day of a show was a lot like the day after an orgy, when the lights came pouring in the windows and the alcohol daze ebbing away took all of the polish and shine with it. All of that sexual energy and excitement was gone, leaving a crew of tired actors looking forward to wearing all of their own clothes for a while. “You’ll be back for the next run, right?” Jillian asked, breathlessly returning from her final bow out front. She’d taken on Molly’s role as Cleopatra’s attendant, and even with the near-naked outfit, it was hard to imagine he’d once mistaken this woman for Rachel. There was no one quite like Rachel—in clothes or out of them. Jillian wasn’t the first one to ask him that question, and he was sure she wouldn’t be the last. Michael shook his head. “I’ve had fun, but it’s not for me,” was all he’d say. There had been a moment there, a few months back, when it might have been a possibility. According to Dr. Monroe and his knee, he couldn’t be an athlete anymore, and he’d had a hard time reconciling himself to a life spent on the lentil farm, spitting sunflower seeds into a bucket next to Jennings. But if he’d learned one thing these past few weeks, it was that the joy of acting had very little to do with being on the stage and a hell of a lot to do with being on the stage opposite Rachel.

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It wasn’t the same now, and all the fun had gone. In fact, he might have argued that standing opposite her practically naked, preparing for a chaste kiss that was almost painful to perform, had become a form of torture. He didn’t want to fake his feelings anymore. Rachel had crossed a line and betrayed him, Cleopatra up to the very end. She wasn’t sorry. She didn’t care. He’d be damned if he was going to up and die like Antony for a woman like that. “Without you or Rachel next time, the production is going to seem so empty,” Jillian said. “I can’t say I’ve got a whole lot of love for that woman, but she sure added a touch of class. Dominic’s going crazy trying to convince her to stay.” “She’s leaving?” Jillian shrugged. “Didn’t you know? The Peter Bloom review was a real stroke of luck. I think she’s off to New York. God, I’m jealous. This is fun and all, but it’s hardly living the dream.” Michael must have murmured something encouraging, because Jillian smiled and slipped her number into his pocket. But he was hardly aware of his surroundings, let alone what he might or might not have promised her. It was easy to find Rachel after that. As everyone else wandered around, looking bereft of purpose and pouring tequila into the goblets they’d used as props, he followed the sound of Rachel Hewitt having an argument. It registered in him on a purely visceral level, his body attuned to the frequency of her shouts as though he was made to be their sole receiver. “And that soul patch makes you look like a hipster twat, Dominic—did anyone ever tell you that? You can slap as much facial hair and tweed on as you want, but that still doesn’t elevate this crap to anything other than porn. Shakespearean porn, but still.”

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Dominic’s reply, whatever the poor bastard had to say in his defense, was much more subdued. Michael lifted a hand and knocked on the door to the director’s office. Dominic offered a quick “come in”, while a more irate female voice instructed him what he could do with his ill-timed interference. “Oh, it’s you,” she said quietly when she saw who it was coming in through the door. She’d changed from her costume into jeans and a T-shirt, her hair back in a ponytail, all of her makeup—stage and otherwise—washed off. She looked young and vulnerable and tired. She’d never been more beautiful. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go clear my stuff. You can forward my last paycheck, Dominic. The PO Box from before should still be valid.” Michael let her go. All of him screamed to bar her exit from the room, force her to acknowledge that he still existed, that the something between them had been about more than passing the time. But a man had his pride, after all, and Rachel Hewitt was the type of woman who feasted on it. Just look at Dominic, hunched over his desk, his hair hanging in a way that only served to highlight an unfortunate tendency toward malepattern baldness. “You can spare me the excuses,” Dominic said wearily. “You, at least, I only expected to stay through one run. Care for a drink?” They’d never exactly been best friends, but Michael had slim pickings as far as drinking buddies went these days. Laura Bremerton had been right, and Peterson was out of jail, sentenced to a few weeks of community service. Even though they were talking, Peterson had made it clear that the last thing he wanted right now was to hit the town with Michael. “Yeah. I’ll take whatever you’ve got.”

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Dominic looked up, surprised but pleased. “I always keep champagne for the end of the show. Would it be weird if we shared a bottle of Henriot?” “Not if we drink it without glasses.” Dominic popped the cork and took a heavy pull from the bottle, hesitant for only a second. Michael did the same, his hesitation nowhere in sight. “So what’s this about Rachel hitting the road?” he asked, hoping he sounded uninterested. “She’s heading to New York?” Dominic shrugged helplessly. “So it seems. I thought for sure we had her for the year. That’s what she signed on for—it’s in the contract.” Michael’s heart skipped a beat, which he promptly covered with another swig of champagne. “She’s contractually obligated to stay? Why the hell don’t you enforce it if you want her so badly?” The look in Dominic’s eyes wasn’t one Michael much cared for. It was judgment and understanding all in one, the question unasked but still sitting there between them. Why the hell didn’t Michael fight if he wanted the same? Dominic sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “Did you know that Rachel and I used to date?” “The thought had crossed my mind,” Michael confessed. He seemed like the type she would think was right for her—intellectual, soft-spoken…tweedy. Michael knew better. She didn’t need soft. She needed strong and hard and unyielding. She needed a man like him. “Let me guess…she kicked you in the balls one too many times?” Dominic’s eyes flew open. “Not literally.” Well, obviously. Michael busied himself by taking another drink. “It was just that no matter what I’d suggest—where we went to dinner, what night I was free, where, ahem, it was better to stay the night—she always opposed me.”

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“Fought you tooth and nail,” Michael said, nodding. “Yes. Exactly.” Dominic ran his hand through his hair. “It was like she fought for the fun of it, for the fun of beating me…you know what I mean. I’ve been thinking for quite some time that if anyone can make her stay, it’s you. Can you?” Yes. Michael knew he was a confident man. Some might even call him cocky. God, he hoped they did. He loved that word. A large part of him was sure he could turn Rachel around, force her to acknowledge what she’d done was not only wrong, but mean. Cruel, even. The night she’d stopped by to help Molly, she knew she’d made a mistake—it was clear from the way her shoulders slumped and her face was wiped free of any of its usual tension. She was sorry and might even be willing to make amends. All it would have taken was one classic Michael joke, one beaming, toothy smile. Another part of him was focused on this strange, tugging feeling right in the center of his chest that only expanded as the days progressed. She didn’t care, and she wouldn’t budge. He didn’t want to have to turn on the charm to get an apology out of her. He’d been unwilling to play the role of rogue charmer the night they’d made love—it was too important that she see who Michael O’Leary really was, that she let him catch a glimpse of the real her in return. And it had been incredible. They’d remained under wraps almost the whole time—the April wind was much too strong to cast all the blankets aside and really explore her body the way he wanted to—but never before had he seen a woman so exposed. She’d come to life underneath him, responding to the smallest kindness in his touch, as if no man had ever dared take the time to get to know her before feasting on what her warm and generous body had to offer.

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He’d wanted to know her. He’d wanted to feast on her. He’d wanted to experience just a small piece of the incredible generosity she blanketed over her sister every day. Which was why he was still so unwilling to play the role of rogue charmer now. He was Michael O’Leary, the man who saw sex as a game and a battle and nothing but fun. He was Michael O’Leary, famed for his ability to wrap any woman around his balls. Rachel Hewitt was the woman who crushed all of that. And then she went ahead and crushed the rest of him too. “Can’t you convince her to stay?” Dominic repeated. “Not me, bro,” Michael lied. “I can’t make her do anything. She’s too much for me to handle.” Dominic sighed. “I was afraid of that. I guess I need a new leading lady.” Michael held up the bottle in a one-sided toast. “And a new leading man.” The hell if he was ever going to do this again.

Lily’s grave was covered in fresh-cut flowers, surrounded by a few drawings that had dampened on the early morning grass. It was difficult to make the exact pictures out, but Rachel could see the crayon scribblings of a baby with the wings of an angel making its way up into heaven. So Molly had confessed all, and they’d made a cozy family visit. Rachel really wanted to tear up those pictures. It was a horrifying thought, even to her, but there it was. She couldn’t pretend she didn’t feel it—couldn’t pretend she wasn’t standing here, sobbing over the grave of a child who probably would have grown up to hate her as much as everyone else.

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Rachel was an emotionless monster. It said so right in her file. There wasn’t a whole lot in there that had come as a surprise. She’d gotten good grades in school or with her tutors, depending on where her mother had been touring at the time. Never got into trouble, did no extracurriculars that didn’t involve theater or the arts. College had been much of the same, a list of grades and activities that read like an encyclopedia entry. Top honors, leading role in the school’s senior production of Steel Magnolias, which she’d been mortified to participate in, but it had been either that or nothing. The only indication of any trouble at all was in her relationship with Dominic, which went on school records the day after her graduation. It had been the university’s policy for all faculty members to log relationships with former students. It was a ridiculous policy, especially since they all knew it had started some time before that. All those statistics, those facts—they had been harmless. It was a little mortifying to think she’d gone this long without once rubbing elbows with the wrong side of the law, but she could hardly be faulted for keeping her nose clean. It was the rest of Nora’s findings that had been the real problem. Most of them were just quick scribbles that had been jotted down, small observations that cut right to Rachel’s dead, icy bones. The first one was dated a few days after their initial meeting, when Molly had been a few months post-baby and found solace in the company of a man who had no job but seemingly unlimited funds. Few close female friends. Male friends seem limited to sexual acquaintances. No pets. Constantly on the move for work. Primary address is a PO Box. This is a woman who avoids ties, both emotional and physical. After that first job, Rachel had come back, wanting to look into a friend of Molly’s who she swore she’d seen on “America’s Most Wanted”.

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Fixation on sister’s activities seem to have little to do with actual sister, more to do with Client leveraging self into a position of control. Power-hungry. That was when she’d started considering Nora her friend. Her friend, for crying out loud. Not some psychoanalyst watching her every move. Return visits indicate Client addresses only symptoms, never the deeper problem. Unable to communicate true feelings or motivations to family members or PI, even in social setting. But then came the real knocker. Client purposefully endangers relationships. Unless addressed, antagonistic behavior may require a termination of future services. There it was. Nora’s professional opinion. They were just a few sentences, but they had done more to damage Rachel’s ego than a hundred negative theater reviews could ever do. Rachel Hewitt was a royal bitch. Everything she gave up for her sister didn’t count. She loved no one, and no one loved her. Even Nora had indicated that she was close to done with her. How low did a human being have to sink before a private investigator, someone who saw humanity at its backstabbing, spouse-cheating, drug-trafficking worst, shook her head and said, “I give up on this one”? “Well, Lily,” Rachel said, trying out her almost-niece’s name. It felt wrong coming out of her mouth, like she was an ugly stepsister forcing her feet into Cinderella’s shoes. She reached down and touched the grass instead. It was wet and cold and her fingers numbed almost instantly. She wished it was so easy to turn off the rest of her. “I guess this is good-bye for a while. You tell your mom ‘hello’ for me, okay?”

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Rachel sniffled, the cool morning air and her run combining to do a number on her sinuses. This would be her last visit for some time. Her bags were packed, a measly half-hour task that indicated just how accurate Nora’s observations were. She stuck a handful of rehab pamphlets in the freezer where their mother kept the vodka, along with a note offering to pay for the entire thing. And that was it. Her life was wrapped up and ready to move on in less than twenty-four hours. She was a woman with no ties, emotional or physical, and there was no point in staying here one minute longer. No point at all. Which was why it was so silly that her legs hit the pavement and immediately started going in the opposite direction they were supposed to. She wound out of the cemetery the same way she’d come in, but instead of turning back toward her mother’s house, she found herself looping around one of the busier streets, heading right for the track and field area of the abandoned high school that had become a battle zone of mud pits and outlandish rope climbs. They probably weren’t even practicing right now. With Nick in jail and Eric just getting back on his feet, it would be silly for them to bother. Team Win didn’t stand a chance, and if there was one thing Rachel understood very well, it was knowing when to throw in the towel and move on. She almost skidded to a halt when she turned the corner to find Michael and Julian, Eric and McClellan, all of them on the ground and doing pushups to some strangely Scottish sounding song in a range of deep baritones. “About damn time you got here!” Julian was the first to look up and find her gawking. “We’re officially down a man now, so there’s no sub. We’ve got work to do.”

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He gestured with one of his arms, continuing to push up off the ground with the one he had left. She had no idea human beings were capable of that outside the movies. A blur of pink moved past her peripheral vision. It was the kind of pink fluffiness that could only belong to one of two children. The sound of her sister’s voice calling the pink fluff into order confirmed it. There was a very large part of her that contemplated sprinting away—and she probably could have gotten away with it. No one was going to bother following. She went so far as to turn on her heel and gauge the distance to the street, but the piercing cry of a whistle filled the air, and she was trapped by it, ensconced in a bubble of sound and defeat. “Twenty minutes late means a twenty-lap warm-up. Go.” Michael’s voice shattered any illusions she might have had that she was getting out of there alive. It was his dominant voice, his commanding voice, but it was a lot more than that too. There was no playfulness to it, no joy, and she doubted anything she said or did would wipe the look of cold, hard hatred from his face. “Twenty-one laps,” Michael warned. “The longer you stand, the higher it goes.” It was a ridiculous command, almost six miles that would leave her no time to train with the rest of the team. She’d be here, among them, but ostracized and punished like an old-time harlot in the stocks. Like an old-time harlot who deserved every minute of her punishment, every egg thrown at her face. She had no idea what the men were doing, why Eric wasn’t in her face screaming at her to leave. She’d read too many of Shakespeare’s plays not to know what happened to those who betrayed the people they loved.

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She blew out a long breath. Maybe it meant they’d never loved her. Maybe it meant the worst was yet to come. Screw it. If doing laps meant she could at least be in the same place as Michael for a few blissful minutes, it was worth it. With a deep breath and a resolve not to let her eyes stray from the movements of her feet, Rachel ran.

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Chapter Twenty-Six Not for Such Contempt

“No!” Michael shouted. He grabbed the rope and hooked his good leg around the bottom, lifting himself off the ground as he anchored it in place. “You have to stabilize it first, or you’ll swing too much to get any upward movement. All your strength will be lost in the momentum.” He detached himself and threw the rope at Rachel. “Try again.” After three hours of practice, Michael could see she was barely holding on by a thread, let alone a rope. Her loose gray T-shirt, layered over a black tank top 1980s-style, was drenched with sweat, forming a long and drooping vee down her front and the back. She’d discarded a pair of warm-up pants for some tiny shorts, and even then, he could see the moisture slick along her legs. Finally. He was getting his hot and sweat-soaked vision. Too bad the only interest he had in those legs now was how much further he could push them. How far he could push her. She hooked her leg the way he’d shown her and grunted as she used her arms to try to move her body upward. She got a few feet up the rope, exactly to the point where her ass was at eye level, Michael so close he could lean in and bite it. No, dammit. He would not cave in to the Lycra temptation. “All right. Get down.” Everyone else sprawled out on the grass behind him. Well, everyone except Peterson, who sat up, watching Molly and the girls climb the bleachers over and

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over again. He refused to acknowledge Rachel was working out with them, wouldn’t even look at her unless absolutely forced to. “It’s not going to do any good to start a fight with your kids and Molly watching,” Michael said when Rachel first started doing laps. It was strange, seeing her show up without a word of apology or explanation, but she was there and she was running. That had to mean something. Peterson wasn’t happy about it, continually muttering, “She’s got some nerve, showing up here like this.” Michael couldn’t agree more. Balls of steel, that one. It was a trait he never knew he’d admire quite so much in a woman. If only admiration were enough. None of them were exactly sure what her plan was—if she was seeing her commitment to Team Win through to the end or even if she was trying to find a way to sabotage things even more. Peterson voted for the latter, vehemently and with purpose. “I want her gone, Mikey,” Peterson warned. “I know I should have stepped up to the police a long time ago with the truth, but that doesn’t mean what she did was okay. You don’t rat out the people you love—I don’t care how much you like her. She’s cold.” Michael laid a heavy hand on Peterson’s shoulder and looked him straight in the eye. “I know, Peterson.” “But?” Michael shrugged. He didn’t have the answer to that question. Half of him was so angry that just looking at her made his body tense and his vision blur. Her betrayal had gone above and beyond the ordinary, worse than Cleopatra because Rachel wasn’t playing with politics—her attack was personal.

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But then he’d catch sight of her face when she thought no one was looking, and all of those sensations went away, leaving him with nothing but hurt. His hurt—and hers. There didn’t seem to be any way to tell where one started and the other stopped. “You know I would do anything for you, Peterson. I’ve always stepped up when you asked, and I’d do it all again in a hot second.” Michael dropped his voice. “But it’s my turn to ask the favor.” Peterson’s breath was sharp, the line of his mouth firm. “That’s asking a lot, Mikey. I’m not sure I can do it. Even for you.” “Please, Peterson. I can’t tell her to leave. I’m not saying I expect you to forgive her—or even that I do. I just want to keep an eye on her for a while. I want to make sure she’s okay.” Physically, she was—at least for the time being. She dropped to the grass in front of him, rubbing her hands along her legs to ease the rope burns. She had to hurt. She had to be reaching the end of her endurance. Using the edge of her shirt to wipe the sweat dripping from her face, Rachel stood tall and looked him straight in the eye. “Are we done now?” His heart clenched. He had the distinct impression she wasn’t talking about the workout. “We have two weeks until the Top Warrior Race,” he managed to say. It wasn’t exactly an answer, but it wasn’t not one either. “If we want to stand a chance, you’re going to have to work hard. You’re our weak link. You’re not trying hard enough.” Her eyes flashed. “I’m not weak. And I’m doing my best.” It was the first time Michael thought her best might not be enough.

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The day of Nick’s hearing in Idaho was the first time they took a break from their exercise regimen, which had become pretty much the sole focus of Michael’s days and nights. Peterson hadn’t asked him to come, but Laura Bremerton recommended that Michael familiarize himself with the court system and the local lawyers, judges and officials who worked with these kinds of cases. This seemed as good a place as any to start. “Nothing is going to happen today,” Peterson warned Michael. Like Michael, he looked stiff and uncomfortable in formal wear. Peterson had even gone so far as to cover up his neck tats with a collared shirt and tie. “It’s just a bunch of red-tape bullshit they’ve got to get through before we can finally get his sentence settled.” “I wasn’t expecting to be entertained,” Michael said, sitting near the back of the courtroom. It was small and efficient, a lot more like a regular office than the grand, wood-paneled rooms they always showed on television. “I just want Nick to know I’ve got his back.” “This doesn’t have anything to do with that ranch stuff you’ve been talking about, does it?” Michael shifted on the hard bench. “It’s not just stuff, Peterson. We’re really going to do it, Jennings and I.” “Is this just because of Nick? I know I’ve been pretty hard on you about the whole Rachel thing, but you aren’t responsible for what she did. You don’t have to clean up this mess. I don’t like the way things turned out, but Nick has to face the consequences of his actions some time.”

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Michael raised a hand to still his friend. “It doesn’t have anything to with Nick. Well, it does a little. But it’s more about me. My life. My knee is shot, Peterson.” “I know, Mikey, but you’ll get—” “No, Peterson.” He shook his head. “I mean it’s shot for good.” It was the first time he’d said those words out loud. It was strangely freeing. “Holy shit. You mean no more Games?” “I mean no more anything.” Peterson’s face clouded, and Michael thought for a moment that he was taking the news about his leg pretty hard. But then he hissed, “What is she doing here?” Michael’s pulse picked up as he turned, fully aware of what to expect. But he wasn’t prepared for it. Rachel was there, of course, standing at the doorway of the small courtroom, looking small. It was strange for a woman of her height to be so dwarfed by her surroundings, so unsure of herself or her purpose in being there. Another woman gave her a strong push from behind, propelling her inside. “Where have I seen that woman before?” Peterson asked, his arms crossed. Michael found himself echoing the motions. She was vaguely familiar. Older than Rachel by a few decades and even more severe in the way she dressed, they might have been related. But that didn’t seem right. Rachel never mentioned any other relatives living in the area. “The woman from the bar,” Michael said, finally placing her. “Remember that woman I told you about? The one I said I thought was hitting on me? It’s her. She was the one who kept watching us.” “Watching us?” Peterson faced him. “As in, taking notes and shit? You don’t think…?”

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“What?” “You don’t think Rachel showed up here with her private investigator, do you?” Michael felt an unnatural calm wash over him. It was a misleading feeling, one he didn’t have much experience with lately, but that had been fairly common back when he was a kid. Calmness like this, when the world went white and fuzzy, was the scariest feeling in the world. It was anger. It was rage. Michael didn’t explode like other men, didn’t lash out or yell or thump with his fists. This kind of emotion completely shut him down. She’d had days of facing them, days of sweating over the field with them, ample time to form the words that normal people associated with regret. And always, her reactions were to look away, run faster, continue pretending that it was perfectly acceptable for human beings to coexist with so much animosity lingering in the air. She wouldn’t fucking give. And now was the time she decided to change her mind? “Not even she has that kind of nerve,” Michael muttered. He pushed Peterson aside as he got out of his seat and approached the pair of women. “You.” “It’s nice to see you again, Mr. O’Leary. I see you failed to take my advice from before.” He’d been speaking to Rachel, but the other woman intervened, proffering her hand. He didn’t take it. “Is this some kind of joke?” The woman nudged Rachel again. Rachel’s entire body flushed with color, and she shifted from leg to leg, unable to land her gaze anywhere near Michael’s general vicinity. “I wanted to apologize.”

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“Here? Now?” Michael looked around them. A few other people had entered the room, but he didn’t care. “And you brought your snitch with you?” The woman, the snitch, snorted. “That’s cute. You’re cute.” “Can you give us a minute?” She shrugged and gestured toward the hallway. There was something commanding about her, because both Michael and Rachel moved that direction. “You’re mad,” Rachel said, her eyes lowered. She stared at her hands, which she was wringing together so hard it looked like she was trying to peel off the skin. “I know I shouldn’t have just showed up like this, but I need you to know— I need Eric to know—that I’m sorry. I want to help fix this.” “What exactly do you intend to do about it, Rachel? Any minute now, Nick is going to walk in that door and hear what he can expect from the next year or two of his life—most likely prison time. You think he wants you looking at him while he does?” “No. I… I know.” She finally looked up, her eyes clouded. “I’ll leave. But I need you to know that I didn’t mean for all of this to happen. I thought I was protecting Molly. I made a mistake.” “And that’s what you’re sorry for,” he said flatly. “Yes. I mean, no. I mean—” She grabbed one of his hands. There was a desperation to her grip that might have swayed him if they were anywhere but at Nick’s hearing. “Ask me anything,” Michael said suddenly. “What?” He gestured around the hallway, empty but for a few people far too involved in their own lives to pay attention to the pair of them. “Let’s pretend for one minute that you didn’t go behind my back and hire a private investigator to learn everything there is to know about me. What is it you wanted to know so bad?”

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“It wasn’t like that—” “Is it my money? Did you want to know how I managed to pay all those bills by myself?” “No.” She shook her head, the movements rapid. “I know I kind of threw that at you, but I don’t care about your stupid money.” “Then what? My parents? My family? Where I went to school?” “Of course not.” Explosions of color, red and deep, went off in Michael’s peripheral vision. “Then what is so important that you couldn’t talk to me about it, Rachel? Why is it so hard for you to look me in the eye and just ask?” He crossed his arms and waited. There was no time limit on these kinds of things, but he felt his fuse growing short after a few seconds. Even now, she wouldn’t say anything. She’d show up, fighting and kicking, every day to practice. But actually talk to him? Her hands shook as she reached into an oversized purse. It took a full twenty seconds for her to work the clasp, but Michael didn’t budge to try to help her— no matter how much every nerve ending was straining to do just that. She pulled out a thin envelope and extended it. “Here.” He didn’t move. “What is it?” Her eyes finally met his. They contained all of the answers and questions he’d been looking for, opened her up to all the vulnerability he kept poking at but couldn’t quite seem to grasp. But it wasn’t enough. He needed her to say it. “This is my file,” she whispered, moving it closer to him. “When I hired Nora to be my PI, she made one on me. I know it’s not going to make up for what I did to you and Eric, but I want you to have it.”

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The doors to the courtroom began to close then, and Michael could hear the bailiff’s voice asking people to rise. He was going to miss it. The older woman slipped out between the doors and noticed the two of them standing there, as still as statues, neither one budging. “You’d better get in. They’re starting.” At the sound of the gavel coming down, he swore. Before he could change his mind, he grabbed the folder and slipped through the doors. He took a seat next to Peterson and shook his head. There wasn’t anything to say. Though it was funny how once those damn papers transferred hands, his started shaking too.

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Chapter Twenty-Seven Course of True Love

He should have read it by now. Rachel sat in her unmoving car, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel and trying not to count how many times that exact thought had already popped into her head. Depending on how fast Michael read and how willing he was to open the file, it could take him anywhere from fifteen minutes to a few hours. It had been six hours. She checked her phone again, completely devoid of any and all messages from the outside world, and sighed. The truth contained in her file was so awful he never wanted to talk to her again. He would never forgive her for what she’d done. She’d made her grand gesture but it wasn’t enough. They were finished. There was only one thing left to do—get out of the car and walk up the driveway to her house. Alone. It was the same sorry tale, made all the worse through repetition. Her bags were still packed. All she had to do was find the strength to lift them up, and she could be on her way. She was halfway to the front door when she heard the rattle-rattle-clunk of a car pulling up behind her. Her purse fell to the cement, plopping heavily, and she left it there. She knew that sound—it was Michael’s car. It was the only time in her entire life she’d been so happy to hear that many carbon emissions shooting out into the air. She tried to play it cool, but her entire body thrummed with the anticipation of him drawing near. Had she been Molly or any other petite and feminine

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woman, she would have run at him like one of those beach reunion scenes in slow motion. As it was, she was having a hard time remembering how to move all her limbs in one direction. “You dropped something,” Michael said by way of greeting, his walk slow and stilted. It was hard to tell if he was happy to see her or not, but he had taken the time to change out of the button-up shirt he’d had on at the hearing and put on his favorite Metallica T-shirt and jeans on the point of disintegration. Rachel was glad. Buttoned-up Michael was a little bit scary, cold and distant and formal. She didn’t want those things—not from him. He was the opposite of all that. He was the opposite of her. And she meant that in the best way possible. “It’s only my purse,” Rachel muttered, reaching down to grab the wayward bag. “No. I meant this.” He reached around to his back pocket and withdrew her folder, creased from having been folded and shoved into his pants. It was such a typical thing for him to do, it almost made her able to reach out and touch the loathsome thing. Almost. “I don’t want it,” Rachel said. “It’s yours.” “You think I care about a few pieces of paper?” he scoffed. “Have we met?” She laughed softly and gestured for him to follow her inside. “Thanks, but no thanks,” he replied, shaking his head. “I just came to give you this back.” Her stomach grew tight. This was it. He didn’t want anything to do with her anymore. “Was it that bad?” “Oh, I didn’t read it.” He reached over and shoved it purposefully in her purse, his hand grazing lightly along her arm as he did. The tiny brush of his

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fingers against her skin was full of electricity she knew they both felt. But still he pulled away. “You didn’t read it?” Rachel was confused. Her body was confused. Why had he come all this way if he only meant to toy with what tiny bit of self-respect she had left? “Then why are you here?” “Tell me.” Without any sort of warning or invitation, he dropped to the ground, sprawling himself on her front lawn and looking up at the sky with his head in his hands. He looked like he intended to stay there awhile. “Tell me what’s so important about the file that I don’t already know.” Unsure what else to do, Rachel stood over him, gawking. “It’s everything. Nora was as thorough with me as she was with you—more so, really, because she had time to get to know me as a person.” “Okay, then. Start at the beginning. And sit down. You’re blocking my sun.” “There isn’t any sun.” “Quit arguing and talk.” There didn’t seem any way to counteract that statement, so she sat next to him, busying her fingers by playing with the short, newly emerging grass. This was her chance—she knew that. Michael was giving her a second chance, that forgiving and generous gift he gave just about every person he’d ever met. “There’s my family stuff,” she ventured, ripping harder at the grass. “You know, my mom dragging us all over the country on her shows, no stable father figure, no real home until we were teenagers. All that.” His hand reached out and stilled hers. “Yes. It’s all very Freudian, I’m sure.” She swallowed heavily. “And then there’s my dating life.”

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“Anything good?” He leaned up on one arm and looked at her much too intently for her tastes. But she didn’t look away. She would give him this, no matter what it cost her. “Not really. I dated Dominic for a while back in college—did you know about that?” “Yeah. It’s not that hard to tell. Frankly, I’m a little disappointed.” She frowned. “You are?” He reached out and chucked her chin. “Dominic? Your nerdy English professor? C’mon, Rach. You could have done a lot better than that. A frat boy or two. Maybe even a sorority girl.” Despite herself, Rachel laughed. “I liked the power it gave me. It was like I was better than the rest of the class, the secret lover he chose above everyone else.” Michael nodded. “That makes sense. What else?” She blew out a heavy breath. “Are you sure you don’t just want to read it?” “Rachel,” he warned, and there were layers of meaning in his voice. She set her jaw firmly and launched right into it, afraid if she stopped or halted, he would give up and walk away. Suddenly, that seemed so much worse than opening her heart and just letting it all spill out. So she spilled. Rachel didn’t think she’d ever spoken so much to one person at one time before. On the stage, before an audience, she could talk for hours. It was easy to give voice to someone else’s deep emotions, perfected through verse and time. Her own feelings were stilted and uncertain, and her breath kept hitching whenever she got on the subject of Molly. “And in the file,” she added, “all Nora seemed to take note of was that I was cold and distant and kept pushing people away. At first, I thought she was just

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being mean, or that she didn’t see my true intentions. But it was true—I know that now.” Rachel sniffled. She turned her watery eyes on Michael. There was no point in hiding the tears anymore. “I couldn’t handle the emotional side of things when we lost Lily, so I focused on everything else. Molly’s actions, my actions, what we could do differently this time around. I wanted to keep her away from men like her ex. Who am I kidding? I wanted to protect her from men in general. And I kept pushing and pushing until I forgot what was really important.” “Which was?” he asked, sitting up. It was the first time he’d spoken during her whole outpouring. “That I love my sister.” “And was that in the file?” She shook her head. “I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt, Michael. Not Eric. Not Nick. Not Molly. Not—” He drew in a sharp breath but didn’t move, his eyes trained expectantly on her face. No—on her lips. He was waiting to hear what she had to say next. She said it. “Not you. I especially didn’t mean to hurt you.” He nodded once, firmly, and sprang to his feet. His movements were stiff, his bad leg held out straight in front of him. “Okay, then. Thank you.” She got up too, her movements fast and just as lacking in grace. “Wait— that’s it? You’re going?” He couldn’t go. That wasn’t how this was supposed to work. She’d never felt so raw, so exposed. Wasn’t this the part where he rubbed her belly and told her it would all be okay? Wasn’t this when a strong kiss from a man like Michael transformed her? The power of love and all that? “Yep. I got what I came for.” He didn’t even look back over his shoulder as he moved down the drive. “I’ll see you at practice tomorrow, right?”

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“Of course,” she called back, but he was already getting into his car and turning the key to grind the engine into action. Strangely enough, the sight of his taillights dragging in the distance, so much between them still so unresolved, didn’t make her feel sad. For the first time in a long time, she felt free.

It was a funny thing about apologies. Once she started, Rachel didn’t seem able to stop. She apologized to her mailman for not giving him a Christmas gift that year, something she’d intended to do but kept putting off until it was too late and the New Year glitz wore away. He looked at the twenty-dollar Starbucks card with a puzzled frown for a full minute before finally nodding and smiling. “Thanks, Miss Hewitt,” he said, tucking it into his pocket. “I appreciate the gesture. And tell that sister of yours not to worry—I turned in her change of address form, and she should be getting her mail forwarded to the new house soon.” Rachel promptly burst into tears. It was a funny thing about crying too. No amount of self-control could keep the waterworks from bursting through at the worst possible times. She also apologized to Dominic—thankfully without the tears, though there was a moment in his office, when he shook her hand and thanked her for coming to see him, that things had been looking decidedly misty. The third apology was the hardest one, and Rachel’s feet and heart both filled with lead at the prospect of it. But it had to be done, and she told herself with resolution that even the worst of Eric’s rage was no worse than the feeling she got every time she looked in a mirror.

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“Molly doesn’t want to see you,” he said curtly, shutting the front door firmly behind him as he stepped onto his front porch. Rachel took a deep breath. She was going to need all of her strength to make it through this. “I’m not here to see Molly, actually,” she said, forcing herself to look Eric in the eye. Even though the deep contours of his face were hardened with a cold hatred directed entirely at her, she realized he wasn’t a bad-looking man. He had on light sweatpants and a sweatshirt with a sports logo, his feet shoved into slippers that looked as old as Sammy. The worn lines around his mouth were borne of laughter, and there was a smudge of what looked like chocolate along his jaw. Together, the details made a pretty endearing picture, the picture of a man who didn’t need much beyond his family to feel content in his own home. She hesitated. How had she missed the endearing parts of him? “Then why are you here?” He crossed his arms over the logo of a bulldog’s face, which looked much more cheerful than he did. Rachel forced herself to focus on the endearing side. “I want to tell you how sorry I am.” She held up a quick hand when he began to turn on his heel. “Please. I know you don’t owe me anything, but I just need a minute.” His eyelids lowered ominously, but he stopped turning. “You have sixty seconds.” She didn’t plan on wasting a single one. “No matter what you all think of me, you have to know that everything I’ve done for the past year of my life has been to protect Molly. The spying, the lying, the overbearing act—I’m not proud of it, but my heart was always in the right place.” “This apology sucks.”

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“Let me finish, Eric. Please.” He made a slight motion with his hand, so she continued. “And even though I know you probably don’t want to hear this, I would do most of it again. Maybe I would take a different approach, but I won’t ever apologize for trying to keep Molly safe and for doing it the only way I knew how. She’s everything to me.” “It’s not getting any better.” She ground her teeth. “I know it’s not. What I’m trying to say is that I would descend pretty far for Molly—that I have descended pretty far for her. But nothing I’ve ever done for her is even a tenth of what you’ve done for Nick.” Finally, he softened. Finally, his arms dropped to his sides. “I won’t ever be able to make up for sending him to jail, and I’m not going to pretend that anything I say or do will make a difference in the road he has ahead of him—the road you all have ahead of you. But you have to know that I’m truly sorry for getting in the way of your undeniable right to protect him. I’m truly sorry for preventing you from doing the exact same thing I would have done in your situation.” She stopped, and silence descended on them with the kind of awkwardness Rachel had spent her entire life trying to avoid. If groveling was her life now, she had a feeling she’d have to get used to it. “Okay,” he said finally, breaking the spell. “Thank you.” He turned to leave. “Wait,” Rachel cried, placing her hand on his sleeve as he reached for the doorknob. He stared at her but didn’t shake her off. “Thank you,” she said lamely. “For what?” For listening. For letting her apologize. For loving Molly. “You take good care of her, okay?”

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He lifted her hand then, ending the conversation and, it seemed, her place in his life. “Good night, Rachel,” he said as he shut the door behind him. It wasn’t her most successful apology of the day by far. But it was progress, and that was enough.

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Chapter Twenty-Eight Her Infinite Variety

Michael walked into practice the next day with a purpose in his step and a kilt wrapped around his waist. He had several more kilts in the same pattern of green and black in his hands, and he tossed them at the members of the team one by one. “Put them on.” “Are these our uniforms for this year?” McClellan asked, holding his up. It was enormous. “Sweet. We’re going bare-chested too, right? Rachel included?” “Subtle,” she muttered, but Michael handed her a clear plastic-wrapped kilt of her own, his hand pressing against hers. “Do I really have to do this in a skirt?” “We’re Team Win,” Michael announced. “We may never actually win, but we are always the best-dressed team at the Top Warrior Race. Kilts on.” The guys dropped trouser right there in the field, deftly pinning and adjusting the crisp woolen material around their waists. Rachel shielded her eyes and made her way behind the bleachers, where there was at least a hint of privacy. To her surprise, Molly followed. The girls were with a sitter, so it was just her today, the two of them alone together for the first time in weeks. Rachel missed that. “You need a hand getting it on?” “Um…sure,” Rachel said, hope pinging in her throat. It might not have been a lot to anyone else, but it was everything to her. They’d always helped each

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other with tricky zippers and fasteners in the past. It was a small thing, a sisterly thing. She ripped open the plastic and held up the kilt, and things never felt better than when both she and Molly burst into laughter. “Is he kidding with this?” “I think that might fit Pris if we tried really hard to squeeze her in,” Molly agreed. “You have to put it on, though. He’s going to die when he sees you in it.” “Who? Michael?” Rachel felt absurdly pleased. Molly nodded and grew silent. She paused a beat before saying, “Eric told me you went to the hearing.” “He was pissed.” Molly shrugged and wrapped the tiny scrap of fabric around Rachel’s waist. “He also said you came by last night.” “I did.” Molly moved behind her, her hands working efficiently at Rachel’s waist. She wished she would stop fussing. Rachel wasn’t able to see Molly’s face as her sister asked, “Why didn’t you come in?” There wasn’t an ounce of self-pity in her as Rachel admitted the one fear she’d had that was greater than facing Eric. “I wasn’t sure you’d ever want to see me again.” “Oh, Rach.” They stopped their motions and faced one another, both of them full of words, neither one sure where to start. Rachel forced herself to speak first, determined to reduce any and all strain on her sister. She’d been through enough.

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She took Molly’s hands in her own and squeezed, looking into the gray eyes that weren’t hers, but might as well have been. “Please tell me you know how sorry I am. Please tell me you know I was just trying to protect you.” Her sister ignored her and took in her handiwork. The kilt was secured into place with a giant circular pin. It fit her hips but barely cleared her ass. And from the looks of it, the top was worse, a bandeau of the same fabric that was clearly meant to look like a bikini. “Sheesh, Rachel. Your abs are amazing,” Molly said, watching as Rachel pulled off her shirt and changed into the rest of the ridiculous costume. Her hand reached out to trace a pattern of lines that Rachel was proud to call at least a four-pack. “You try working out under Michael’s watch for a few weeks and see what happens,” Rachel joked. Before she could stop herself or overanalyze the gesture, she reached out and placed a hand on Molly’s stomach. “But I think your tummy is looking a lot cuter these days.” It was. A slight swelling was evident on days like today, when Molly’s tank top stretched tight over her abdomen. Rachel could even see the little indentation of her belly button pushing out. Molly placed a hand over Rachel’s. “It seems so big already. The doctor says that happens a lot with second pregnancies.” Rachel’s hand dropped. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t excited before,” she said quietly. “You deserve this happiness more than anybody I know, and I tried to take it away from you. I don’t have any good excuse for my actions except to say that I was scared. I’m still scared.” “Of what? Eric?”

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Rachel shrugged. “Yes and no. Maybe not him, but what he represents. Do you know how much it hurt me when you lost Lily? Do you know how hard it’s been for me watching you falling into the same patterns time and time again?” “No.” Molly frowned. “How could I? You never said.” Rachel took a deep breath— the only way she knew how to keep standing. So much of her life had been spent not saying the things that needed to be said. She’d always thought it was better to concentrate on what needed to be done, rather than address the intangible, messy emotions that Lily’s death left behind. They never talked, she and Molly. Not about the things that mattered. And now she couldn’t seem to shut up. “I’m saying it now. I only wanted to keep you safe. I only wanted to make sure you don’t have to feel like that again. Our whole lives, it’s been my job to protect you, Molly. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to turn that off.” “It’s never going to go away, you know. The pain of it.” Molly’s voice was surprisingly clear. Odd, when Rachel was having such a hard time speaking around the lump in her throat. “You can’t make feelings go away, Rachel, no matter how hard you try. That’s always been your problem. You think if you work hard enough at it, they’ll just disappear.” “I don’t think that now.” She didn’t. It felt like every emotion she’d ever had was coming roaring to life inside her, and she had to sort through each one like it was brand new. “Did you know I talked to Mom yesterday?” Molly asked, giving Rachel’s hand a warm squeeze. “Oh.” That couldn’t be good. Rachel had officially registered her for a sixmonth stay at a facility on the coast, some fancy converted bed-and-breakfast that overlooked Puget Sound and promised daily serenity. It had taken every last penny in her bank account, but she’d done it. Six months. The exact length of

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Nick’s sentence, which had come through that morning. It seemed a lifetime— and not nearly long enough to begin making the reparations she owed them both. “How did she sound?” “Not happy,” Molly admitted. “But I think she might be willing to give it a try. Do you need help paying for it—you know, now that you’re moving to New York and all?” “Nah.” Rachel shook her head, trying to cover her sudden flush of color. Remembering, she stopped, letting Molly see her face. “I signed back on with Shakespeare After Dark yesterday—even managed to convince Dominic my Bloom review was worth a raise. A big one.” “You did?” Molly’s eyes widened. “I did,” Rachel admitted. “I decided I wanted to be here this time to watch your belly—and that baby—grow. As much as you’ll let me, anyway. Is that okay?” Molly let out a squeal and clapped her hands before drawing Rachel into a crushing embrace. “Of course it’s okay. I can’t do this without my big sister.” They held each other for a moment longer. Rachel hadn’t been lying—she was staying for her sister, and she was staying for herself too. But a huge part of her also hoped there was one more person who might be willing to give her a reason to stick around. “I might need your help getting Mom to the facility, though,” Rachel warned, eventually pulling back. “She’ll fight every step of the way.” “Of course,” Molly agreed, her curls bouncing. “She said something about going only if her Tonys could come with her. We could use them as bait.” “She said that? Well, that would explain why she spent the better part of the evening in the homage room.” Molly shuddered. “You don’t still go in there, do you?”

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“I did once,” Rachel admitted. She surveyed her outfit and laughed, the pair of them heading out from the bleachers back to the field. Training in this thing was going to be ridiculous. “But it wasn’t so bad—Michael was with me at the time. He kind of makes everything better, you know?” Molly rubbed her stomach and beamed. “Yeah. I know.”

“First up, Peterson,” Michael announced. He had to keep moving his mouth in order to prevent it from falling all the way to the ground. Rachel was wearing it. She’d actually put on the kilt and bra and was doing jumping jacks in the middle of the field as though she hadn’t a care in the world. He hadn’t actually expected her to put it on—he’d ordered it with the rest of the uniforms weeks ago, a gag he thought would piss her off, maybe get a good rise out of her. Things were rising, all right. “What am I first up on?” Peterson asked. “One-on-one combat. Against Rachel.” He blew his whistle. The men gaped—there wasn’t a single one of them Peterson couldn’t take with one hand behind his back. Even with her sexy kilt look going on over there, Rachel didn’t stand a chance. “She can’t fight Eric,” Molly cried, bolting up out of the bleachers. “He’ll kill her.” “I think maybe we should ease her into that kind of conflict,” Julian suggested, agreeing with Molly. “Why don’t we start with me?” Even McClellan shook his head. “Seems a bit much, Mikey.”

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Rachel jogged up, delicious parts bouncing, oblivious to the demands Michael was about to place on her. “What’s a bit much?” “You and Peterson in the pit,” Julian said, nodding in the direction of the soccer goal. “Michael wants to work on the one-on-one.” She swallowed heavily, her eyes not quite meeting Michael’s. “And you want me to go up against Eric?” “Yes,” Michael said, resolute. She’d apologized, she’d shown up to practice, and she’d worn the kilt. He wanted to know how far she’d go. “Okay,” Rachel said, shaking her limbs, still avoiding his gaze. “Let’s do it.” With a spring in her step and a defiant toss of the head, she moved to the circle at the goal line where they’d been holding the challenges. She placed her hands on her hips and swung her body lightly, her skirt slapping against the outsides of her thighs. Michael bit back a groan. It had to be all of forty degrees outside today, and most of the guys had put their T-shirts back on after a brief display of manliness. Not her. She was milking it, teasing him. They were half-naked Antony and Cleopatra all over again. Peterson shook his head. “I’m not fighting her, Michael. This is crazy.” “Just stop before you break her neck,” Michael said casually. “It’s not that hard.” “That’s not funny,” Peterson mumbled. “Seriously. I get what you’re doing, but you can stop pushing now.” Michael stood a little bit taller. He was not going to stop pushing. Not until he reached the end. Michael blew his whistle right in Peterson’s face. “I have had it with this whistle,” Peterson grumbled. He pulled it straight off Michael’s neck and crushed it underneath his heel.

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Rachel clapped her hands, slowly at first and then gaining momentum. Eventually, everyone else joined in. “Thank God, somebody finally destroyed that thing,” she called. “For your act of heroism, Eric, I’ll even promise to take it easy on you.” It was the right thing to say. No amount of goading and whistle-blowing on Michael’s part would compel Peterson to face Rachel in the ring. Peterson still had a lot of anger, and he was the type of man who didn’t like to let it go without a fight. But this kind of playful challenge, uttered with confidence and good cheer—it was something none of them could walk away from. It was what they did. They were Team Win. They were brothers. With only a few more grumbles and kicks at the broken pieces of Michael’s favorite whistle, Peterson gave in and joined her inside the circle, lowering himself into a fighting stance and standing opposite her. “Don’t worry,” Rachel said. “I plan on being a much better fighter now. No more kicking in the groin—if there’s something I want said or done, I’ll do it face-to-face, man-to-man.” Michael stared at her, and he could have sworn she stole a glance at him before directing all her attention at Peterson. “I’ve learned a lot,” she added. “About a lot of things.” “I think we both have,” Peterson admitted, meeting Rachel squarely. They shared a mutual nod, sharp and over almost before it began. “Now will someone please start the damn fight?” Bereft of his whistle, Michael let out a high-pitched yell, signaling the starting bell. It was one he was interested in watching, and for more than the skin show. Rachel and Peterson circled one another for a few moments, gauging each other’s reactions. The training they’d given Rachel was mostly about stealth and

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sneak attacks, about using her smaller size against a larger foe. And for a second, he thought it was going to work. But Rachel was still green and slow. Peterson had her flipped over and on her back in a matter of seconds. Michael could hear the heavy thud of her body landing in the dirt, the gasp that could only mean all the air had left her lungs. He hobbled to her side, leaning anxiously over her eyes. They looked all right. Bewildered, maybe, but still intact and seeing things clearly. “Can you sit up?” he asked, placing a gentle hand behind her head. It wasn’t necessary. She took a deep breath and sprang to her feet. “Again.” Peterson’s face spread into a grin at the same time Michael’s did. Thatta girl. The two of them grappled three more times, and each time, Rachel got a little bit closer to landing a blow. The final round, she even got a clean sweep under his leg, bringing him crashing to the ground before Peterson pinned her easily against the dirt. Michael would have liked to have said he was paying attention to her movements, making notes of things to work on, but all he could see was the mud spattering over her bare stomach, her thighs flashing as she sprang and moved and bounced her way around her larger opponent. Even in his stupor, he noticed the change coming over Peterson with each round. It wasn’t forgiveness—that would take a while, especially with a man like that one. But from where Michael stood, it looked an awful lot like respect. And that was the next best thing. Rachel spit out a mouthful of grass when they were done, large chunks of dirt embedded into her teeth as she smiled. Michael had never wanted to kiss her more. “We’re never going to win,” Julian muttered, but he was smiling too.

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“We don’t have to win,” Rachel said, beaming. Her eyes met Michael’s. “We just have to try.”

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Chapter Twenty-Nine My Only Love

Michael wanted a chance to talk to Rachel before she left practice for the night, but she rushed out of there before he could do much more than instruct her on the proper cleaning and care of woolen fabrics. They all made plans to meet the next day for a last-minute strategy session before the Race. And by strategy session, they meant several pitchers of beer and a lot of trash talk that probably wouldn’t come to fruition. Michael figured he’d have to try to take her aside then. Maybe she’d even wear her kilt. It was past eight o’clock, so Jennings was in bed when Michael got home. He was too wound up to watch a movie or consider the possibility of sleep, so he headed out to the old barn to get the Frogger game going. He’d already started researching where he could buy a few more vintage arcade games and maybe even a pool table. A game barn probably shouldn’t have been first on his to-do list for the Second Chance Ranch, as they’d formally named their company on the business license applications, but if there was one thing Michael knew, it was that every man needed somewhere to unwind and let loose. He pulled open the door of the barn and stopped, on immediate alert. It was usually dark in there and smelled of a combination of old things. Jennings’s recent manure purchase added an earthy tang. But a light flickered toward the back, and it actually smelled kind of good. Like food and flowers. His stomach rumbled, and his chest clenched.

Tamara Morgan

Moving quickly through the barely cleared path to the back, Michael realized there was a hell of a lot more than a video game waiting for him. “Rachel? Is that you?” She looked up from the blanket she’d spread on the ground, the soft glow of candles all around her. The flickers made it hard to see the details about her—the stuff Michael didn’t give a damn about anyway, things like clothes and jewelry or anything about her hair other than the vibrant length of it. But he could still make out the important parts. Her face, illuminated on just one side; her hesitant smile all the greeting a man ever needed. The softness around her mouth and eyes, the direct result of a woman who was finally learning to let go. Not to mention… “Is that a bucket of chicken between your legs?” She started to stand to greet him, but Michael sank to the ground in front of her. “Don’t you dare move,” he commanded. “I’ve never seen anything so perfect in my entire life.” She laughed. It was a sound he hadn’t realized he’d missed so much. “My legs or the chicken?” “Both.” He leaned in as if for a quick kiss but thought better of it, going for a wing instead. It seemed safer. “What are you doing here?” “I owe you an apology.” “You already did that,” he said gruffly. His throat felt sore, and it was painful to hold back all the things he suddenly wanted to say. “No, I didn’t.” Her smile was tentative, unsure—but it was still recognizable as hers and hers alone. “I told you what I did and why I did it. I didn’t tell you how sorry I am for it.” Her hands came up and cradled each side of his head, her fingers weaving through the threads of his hair. For a moment, he thought she was going to kiss

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him, but she only held him, keeping their eyes level and locked. “So I want to do this right.” “Okay.” He braced himself, waiting. “You scare the crap out of me.” He laughed, and their foreheads came together with a soft touch. “That’s not an apology.” “I know,” she said, pulling back but not away. “It’s an explanation. That day on the hill, when we were together…I freaked out.” “Yes. I’m happy to report that you did.” “I don’t mean that,” she said, giving his hair a little tug. “I mean no one has ever made me feel like that before.” “You mean, like a woman?” Her shoulder came up in a half shrug, and the thin strap of the tank top she wore slipped down over one arm. “I mean, like I matter.” All jokes fled, and Michael pulled her to him in a crushing embrace. His head rested on top of hers, his hand rubbing up and down her arm, slipping underneath the fallen strap. “Of course you matter,” he murmured into her hair. “You’ve always mattered.” “It’s going to take me some time, Michael,” she admitted. “I’m just now figuring this stuff out—you know, the feelings. The intimacy.” Even saying the words signaled a change in her. Michael gripped her shoulders and drew her near. “And I’ll help. But you have to promise you won’t hide yourself from me anymore. I’m a tough guy, and I can take your emotions, Rachel, all of them. Good and bad, scared and happy. Even with your fists swinging. Even if it’s me you’re mad at. I welcome every single one.” He paused. “But know this—it’s never okay to hurt the people I love.” “I know. I won’t do it ever again.”

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He tilted her chin up. “That includes you.” She let out a sound that was half sniffle, half snort. “Aw, Michael—that was really poetic.” He dipped Rachel down to the blanket and kissed her, stopping just when it started getting good. “My only love sprung from my only hate.” She pulled back, her eyes wide, laughter brimming along the edges. “Michael O’Leary, did you just quote Shakespeare at me?” “Don’t get used to it. It’s the only one I know.” “That’s okay,” she murmured, snaking a hand around his waist and dipping her fingers just under the band. “I’m not really after you for your brains.” “Then we’re equal.” Michael leaned over her, pinning her to the ground. She squirmed and squealed underneath him. “Because I’m not really after you for your body.” But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to enjoy every inch of it.

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Epilogue

All’s Well that Ends Well

They lost the Top Warrior Race, of course. Rachel was under strict instructions to use her body in any way possible to distract the other teams from reaching their goals—and it might have worked if the first challenge hadn’t been the mud crawl under fifty yards of barbed wire. By the time Team Win emerged from out of the ooze, it was impossible to tell they were people at all, let alone half-naked people hoping to distract the opposition. Someone had given Michael a new whistle, which didn’t help matters any. He yelled and blew ineffectually from the sidelines until one of the judges threw him out of the competition for agitating the crowds. He couldn’t even meet up with the team until after the scoring had been finalized and a band of high school students dressed in muddied ninja garb took the first place prize. “Did you at least win the hand-to-hand combat?” Michael asked, whisking Rachel into a hug near the entrance to the race grounds, where he’d been exiled. Rain fell, brown mud and grass clung to every surface, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so happy. Rachel slipped and slid against him, putting her muddied hands and arms everywhere. There had been some mention of the probability of two bodies fitting into the compact Airstream shower later. “Are you kidding?” Peterson said from behind them, his own arms doing a good job of sullying his family. “She nailed it.” Michael pulled back, surprised. “Really? You won that part?”

Tamara Morgan

“What can I say? I learned from the best.” Julian clapped a hand on Michael’s back. “I’m sorry to be the one to break it to you, Mikey. The team we went up against also had a woman—I think she was dressed up as Super Girl. Maybe Wonder Woman? I can never tell the difference.” “What are you saying, Jules?” “In the interest of fairness, the judges put them up against each other.” Michael’s face fell. “Rachel and another chick? In costume? Fighting in the mud?” Rachel put her arm around Michael and gave him a strong squeeze. “You should have seen the way I pinned her down, sweetie. It was just like the way you—” Michael clapped a hand over her mouth and glowered at his friends. “You’re paying for this. All of you. I am officially promoting myself to Scottish Highland Games trainer, and we start Monday. No excuses.” A universal groan went up, but Michael knew he could count on them all to show up. He was Michael O’Leary. He wore a skirt, and he smiled in the face of the woman he loved. He stood by his friends, and they stood by him too. These were the things he knew to be true.

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About the Author

Tamara Morgan is a romance writer and unabashed lover of historical reenactments—the more elaborate and geeky the costume requirements, the better. In her quest for modern-day history and intrigue, she has taken fencing classes, forced her child into Highland dancing, and, of course, journeyed annually to the local Renaissance Fair. These feats are matched by a universal love of men in tights, of both the superhero and codpiece variety. Visit her online at www.tamaramorgan.com or come say hello on Twitter at @Tamara_Morgan.

Look for these titles by Tamara Morgan

Games of Love Love is a Battlefield

It takes a real man to wear a kilt. And a real woman to charm him out of it.

Love is a Battlefied © 2012 Tamara Morgan

Games of Love, Book 1 It might be modern times, but Kate Simmons isn’t willing to live a life without at least the illusion of the perfect English romance. A proud member of the Jane Austen Regency Re-Enactment Society, Kate fulfills her passion for courtliness and high-waisted gowns in the company of a few women who share her love of all things heaving. Then she encounters Julian Wallace, a professional Highland Games athlete who could have stepped right off the covers of her favorite novels. He’s everything brooding, masculine, and, well, heaving. The perfect example of a man who knows just how to wear his high sense of honor—and his kilt. Confronted with a beautiful woman with a tongue as sharp as his sgian dubh, Julian and his band of merry men aren’t about to simply step aside and let Kate and her gaggle of tea-sippers use his land for their annual convention. Never mind that “his land” is a state park—Julian was here first, and he never backs down from a challenge. Unless that challenge is a woman unafraid to fight for what she wants…and whose wants are suddenly the only thing he can think about. Warning: The historical re-enactments in this story contain very little actual history. Battle chess and ninja stars may apply. Enjoy the following excerpt for Love is a Battlefield: “You came!” Kate smiled up at him as they approached, and Julian had to remind himself to smile back. Flash teeth and relax. Laugh and flirt. The serious,

competitive warrior he was on the field had a tendency to take over even when the situation didn’t call for it. And this situation, with a woman like that looking up at him with genuine pleasure in her hazel eyes, most definitely didn’t call for it. She was everything he didn’t know he found attractive in a woman, with a small and delicate build, a nose that turned up just a little at the tip and the kind of softness that normally put him on his guard. Cute but not obvious. Quiet but not shy. He wouldn’t have gone so far as to say she brought out his territorial instincts, but there was a definite urge to protect and serve. So he smiled, pleased to find it didn’t feel quite as forced as he expected it to. “Sorry we’re late. Michael wanted to do his hair.” Michael, whose longish, wavy hair almost always looked like it had been lifted straight off the pillow, grinned widely. “What can I say? I’m a vain man.” The women scooted their chairs to make room for them. Julian sat next to Kate—so close he could smell her slightly floral perfume. She was still wearing the tiny slip of a dress from before, but she’d allowed her brownish-blonde hair to fall down in soft waves almost to the middle of her back and changed to a pair of gold sandals with bands going halfway up her calf, winding and hugging her flesh in ways that seemed almost indecent. He had a hard time looking away. If it was possible to slap sex on a pair of legs, she’d done it. “Do you guys want something to drink?” Kate asked, dangling one of those perfect legs close to his own without even seeming to realize what she was doing. Her friend, Jada, on the other hand, leaned over the table, angling to give both him and Michael a clear view down the top of her bright red dress. “I’m going to bet you two are Scotch men. Neat?”

He let Michael argue the finer points of ice in a drink with her. Jada was the type of woman Michael lived for—flashy, obvious. Julian had dated those types of women before, usually when he was on the job down in Arizona or on the road for the Games. For all their superficial trappings, women like that made great companions for the short term. But right now, a one-night stand was the last thing on his mind. His body was definitely warming for something a bit softer. A bit more real. He turned to Kate. “I hope you weren’t waiting long.” She shrugged, and the thin strap of her dress fell along the gentle curve of her shoulder. He watched it, mesmerized. “A few minutes. It’s not a big deal. There was a blues singer on before the pianos started.” “Oh, it’s too bad we missed it.” Kate wrinkled her nose. “I’m sorry about this place. It’s probably not your thing, pianos, is it?” Julian laughed. People always took one look at him and assumed the worst. “I’m a large man, Kate, but that doesn’t mean I’m a barbarian. A little jazz isn’t going to kill me.” “You never know. Jada is her own force of nature, and I thought maybe you guys got caught up in it against your will. Lord knows she’s made me do one or two things I regretted later.” Julian’s pulse picked up, and he leaned forward. That was a topic he could warm to. “’Like what?” Kate shook her head firmly. “No way. I’m going to need a few more drinks before those secrets start spilling.”

“She’s being modest,” Jada interrupted, watching them both with a smile. “Kate here once drove an entire rugby team off the road. Their van tipped over into a ditch.” “They deserved it!” Kate declared, her eyes dancing. “Don’t believe a word she says. They were trying to cut in line after the rest of us had been waiting for hours to get through a single lane of traffic. I just blocked them from doing it, and they drove themselves off the road. What’s the point of driving a nice big Cadillac if you can’t use it for good?” “Did you stop to see if they were okay?” Julian asked, amused. “They didn’t really tip over. It was more of a gentle lean. You should have heard all the cars in line, honking their approval. I felt like a superhero.” “A vigilante in a Cadillac.” Julian laughed. “Like the Green Hornet,” Kate agreed. Julian settled back in his chair, taking in the scene with a deep breath. There was a gentle ferocity to Kate he hadn’t been expecting. He liked it. “So, you run cars off the road when you’re mad, you grew up in Seattle and you wear pretty shoes. What else should I know about you?” She blushed and lifted one of her feet, examining the appendage as if seeing it for the first time. “You think my shoes are pretty?” “Well, they’re not very functional, that’s for sure.” He fought the urge to rub his hand over her leg to double check how well that footwear was working out. “But nice. Definitely nice.” She toyed with the stem of her glass, avoiding his eyes. “Thank you. But I’m not sure what else you want to know. Birthmarks? Employment history?” “Good call, Kate,” Jada said from across the table. “Always start with birthmarks.”

“How about what it is you want Cornwall Park for?” Julian offered. He doubted he was going to get anything about birthmarks out of her. Yet. She blushed and played with the edges of her cocktail napkin. “It’s this group I’m part of. A historical preservation society—kind of like your Scottish Games, I guess? We do a big annual event, and we need a place to hold it.” “Historical? Like what?” “Umm…Regency. Jane Austen type stuff—the nineteenth century. We wear pretty elaborate gowns, and we do lectures.” Her leg tapped a nervous beat, inching closer to his own. Julian nodded. An academic he was not, but he knew enough of history and women to know what she was talking about. Waist-cinching underthings. Thighhigh stockings held in place with ribbons and silk. A group of women doing Regency playacting—he could get on top of that idea. “That sounds interesting,” he managed to say without giving away the sudden loss of blood in his brain, which was coursing hot and thick toward his groin. “But isn’t that all indoor stuff?” “Well, we hold balls and tea parties, and those are all inside.” She chose her words carefully and watched after each one for his reaction. “But I’m hoping to recreate this big, elaborate outdoor garden thing. And Cornwall Park is the perfect place for it.” “You’re doing this all by yourself?” “Sort of. It’s for the whole group, but I’m in charge of this particular event. It’s a long story, but I’m basically being punished for some…er…misbehavior on Jada’s part. I’m excited to do it, though. You probably think it’s silly, but—” Her leg brushed against his. He reached over and rested a hand on her knee, stilling her nervous movements. “Don’t do that. It’s not silly at all. Recreating

history and honoring the past is important.” He grinned down at her. “I should know. I do it in a skirt.” He hadn’t yet let go of her leg, unable to pull the pad of his thumb and fingers away from the soft skin. Like before, her leg was almost cool to the touch. “I’m sorry,” she said so softly it was almost a whisper. But her gaze was direct, and she didn’t pull her leg away. “For what?” “I’m so used to people making fun of the Regency group that I get weirdly defensive. If I’m not stammering about it, I’m usually up on a soapbox preaching the superiority of my ways.” He nodded. “I get it. I used to get a lot of flak for the Scottish Games when I was younger, but I don’t anymore.” “Of course you don’t. Who would dare?” She cocked her head and raked her gaze over him, appreciation and awe glinting warmly in her eyes. His internal body temperature jumped several degrees. She softened her tone and added, “That’s not a fair comparison. You have extreme powers of intimidation. I don’t.” Julian finally released his hold on her leg, allowing himself to take in the curve of her thigh where it met the hem of her dress, which fluttered higher as she shifted. All of it—the dress, the skin, the promise of what lay farther up— writhed with silken sensuality. “Oh, you have powers too. Believe me.”

The road to heartbreak is paved with honorable intentions…

Fever Cure

© 2011 Phillipa Ashley After a year dealing with her mum’s health scare and the end of a bad relationship, Keira Grayson was looking forward to kicking up her heels at her best friend’s wedding. Until she kicks off her (spare) knickers in front of the trifecta of perfection. Tom Carew. Son of an earl, honorable doctor and possibly the hottest man on the planet. One look at Keira’s delightful embarrassment, and Tom’s hormone meter spins off the charts. Trouble is, his bags are already packed to return to the jungles of Papua New Guinea. He has patients waiting—and amends to make for a terrible choice that left devastation in its wake. They both reason that indulging in a one-time dinner date won’t hurt…until their inhibitions melt away in the heat of their lethal sexual chemistry. Leaving Keira wondering if a sizzling fling is just what the doctor ordered, or another prescription for relationship disaster. And Tom fighting a battle against inner demons that could shatter both their hearts. Warning: This book contains a hot aristocratic doctor, sparky heroine, new uses for a chaise longue, a steamy shower scene and a knicker-ripping encounter in a four-poster bed. Enjoy the following excerpt for Fever Cure: Now why wasn’t there a convenient chasm around when you wanted one? A nice big pit you could disappear into completely. Please don’t tell them about the pants, she pleaded silently. “We bumped into each other before the ceremony.”

Her insides began to liquefy. “Keira mislaid something from her bag, and I picked it up.” Was that strangled sound really coming from her? “Absolutely.” He looked directly into her eyes as she held her breath. “I found her mobile from the church steps.” The tension ebbed away. Her shoulders slumped. It was all she could do to keep from letting out a cry of relief. Carrie beamed. “Wasn’t that nice of Tom?” “Very…noble,” Keira muttered through gritted teeth, still feeling the warm cradling of his palm around her fingers. “Tom’s a GP at the health centre,” offered Carrie. Keira shot him a hard stare. “Really?” Now just what was an aristocrat doing working in the local NHS clinic? It just didn’t figure. But then, Tom Carew was full of surprises. “So you’re a teacher?” he asked. She just couldn’t resist it. Sorry, but it had to be done. He’d enjoyed himself at her expense once too often today. She raised her glass to him. “Well observed.” He gave a mock bow in return. “A teacher and a comedian. It must be my lucky day.” Carrie gathered up her train. “We must go. My new in-laws await. Don’t forget to ask Tom to tell you about his work in Papua. It’s fascinating.” Carrie offered her cheek to be kissed, and Tom duly obliged, brushing her face with his lips and giving a bone-melting smile. It brought brightness to his eyes, a softening of his expression that made him look… The only way of describing it was “at home”. Yes, that was it. Comfortable, rather than edgy and uptight.

“Fancy a pint, mate?” asked Matt. “No, he doesn’t,” said Carrie firmly, laying a hand on her new husband’s arm. “You go ahead,” said Tom. “I’ll join you in a moment.” Keira waved her hand as Carrie dragged Matt off, cringing inside. Why did brides try to fix you up? As if they could somehow inject you with a dose of their happiness and good fortune. Well, fairy tales didn’t happen, especially not to the likes of her, and definitely not with minor aristocracy. She couldn’t help glancing down at her bare toes. What must Tom think of her? No shoes, grubby feet, and he already knew—or thought he knew—what kind of underwear she wore. Well, she thought, two could play at that game, and she’d have bet fifty quid he’d got silk boxers on. They’d be black, of course, and clinging tightly to the contours of his firm backside. Suddenly, the urge to press her legs together was overwhelming. Fire shot through her as the image blew her brain. Tom, slipping his shorts over his thighs, the silk slithering over the powerful muscles she knew lay underneath. “Can I get you some champagne?” he asked. “Um. Oh yes. Yes, please.” So he was staying, then. He was probably just being polite. He called to a passing waiter, completely oblivious that he’d turned her mind to mush. “Could we have some champagne, please?” The waiter held out a silver tray. “Of course, sir.” He was offering her a crystal flute, holding it by the stem to keep the wine chilled. “So, you’re working as a GP at the health centre?” she asked, taking the glass carefully from his scarred hands. A cold bead of condensation slid down the stem and onto her fingertips.

“That’s right,” said Tom, helping himself to an orange juice. Keira took a gulp of her wine. “Are you staying long in the city?” “Not if I can possibly help it.” She was momentarily floored. She hadn’t expected him to be rude; hadn’t seemed his style. She sipped her drink delicately and tried to keep her voice even, giving him another chance. “Is it that bad being back in London?” “No, it isn’t. Look, I’m sorry. I was rather rude just then.” “Yes, you were. In fact, if you were in my class, I’d really have to send you to the naughty corner,” said Keira in between unwisely large gulps of wine. Tom raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure the naughty corner is politically incorrect these days,” he said. Keira downed another large mouthful. “It is, but I think I could reinstate it, especially for you.” He’d done it again. Made her breasts prickle against the lace of her bra. She couldn’t get the image out of her mind. The one that had Tom stripped naked and standing in front of her desk with a half smile on his lips, waiting for her command… What on earth had they put in this champagne? His expression was deadpan. “Okay. I have apologised, but I can go to the naughty corner if you really want me to.” She shifted uncomfortably, trying not to imagine Tom pinning her to the wall of the stationery cupboard, lifting up her skirt, his hands tugging down her knickers, his mouth settling over her nipples. “That won’t be necessary,” she said, sounding prim as triple X-rated fantasies rampaged through her mind. He was a doctor. She might have known he had an understanding of when people weren’t telling him the truth. His face softened. “I should explain. What I meant to say is, it’s not that I have an allergy to the locals. It’s just that I’m only

here for a few months. I’m working a short-term contract at the health centre; then I’m going back to Papua. This situation is merely temporary.” “Oh.” Temporary. Tom had just stood her under the power jet and turned the setting to “icy blast”. She might have known that meeting him was too good to be true. “That will be a loss to your patients.” He set his empty glass down on the table. “I’m sure they can’t wait to see the back of me. I don’t think I’m what they were expecting.” The silence was thick, filled only by the sharp scent of Tom’s aftershave and her heart, beating slow and hard. “You made a nice speech,” she said, trying to shift the conversation to more neutral territory. “It was very…sincere.” “Thank you.” “Short too.” “Now you’re teasing me, Ms. Grayson.” His eyes sparkled sexily, making the blood beat in her head. She gulped down another mouthful of fizz, hoping it would stop her feeling all shivery inside. “I’m not teasing you,” she said as bubbles burst on her tongue. “It really was very good. I mean it was witty and funny, but you managed to avoid any jokes about ex-lovers or tales about the groom dropping his trousers on a boozy night out.” “You know,” said Tom, “I don’t actually recall Matt losing his trousers. Then again, there was plenty of stuff I left out. Theft of traffic signs comes to mind, and there was an incident with a sheep… I didn’t think it would go down well with his new in-laws.” “You’re the soul of discretion, then?” “It is rather useful if you’re a doctor. You have to keep a lot of secrets, Keira, be they great big ones or little tiny ones.”

She felt her cheeks warming again as he gave her that look that felt like an MRI of her innermost thoughts. “So you’ve been working in the rainforest. Carrie said it was in Papua New Guinea, at the station where Matt used to be a doctor?” “That’s right.” He beckoned to the waiter again and selected an orange juice from the tray. Keira shook her head. No way did she need any more stimulants. “How come you got to do that?” she asked. “Was it an exchange visit?” “Absolutely. It was with a medical charity. They send health professionals to places where they’re most needed.” “Papua sounds incredible. All those mountains, the jungle, the tribal culture.” He lifted his eyebrows. “Most people in the UK have never heard of it.” She laughed at his assumption. “There’s no need to sound quite so surprised. I am a teacher. We’ve been studying Melanesia with the children.” Then he paused and looked hard at her. “Really? And what have you discovered?” “Well—” His dark eyes sparkled in the half-light. “I can see I’m going to have to be firm with you, Ms. Grayson, or I’ll never get anything out of you. Come on!” “But…” “No buts. You’re coming with me.” He dumped his glass on a table and grabbed her free hand in his. Not gently, either, but firmly, his hand warm and confident around hers. Her head whirled like disco lights, and her heart thudded out a bass line. All because The Honourable Dr. Tom Carew was dragging her towards a darkened room, her

body was zinging like she’d been rubbed down with a hot chili, and she didn’t want to do a damn thing about it.