A Midsummer Night's Fling (Much Ado about Love #1) (25 page)

Lachlan flung his hands up in a very theatrical gesture of despair. “Because I’m
always
the evil brother. Or Max’s servant. In
King Lear,
he was Edgar and I’m the bastard Edmund.
As You Like It
, he’s Orlando and I’m the evil brother Oliver.
Taming of the Shrew
, he was Lucentio the romantic lead, and I was his servant. And now,
now
, he’s king of the fucking fairies and I’m his bitch boy. The hulking, twisted thing in the corner who can’t possibly measure up to his goodness and power. It’s going to be the same thing for
Henry V
. I’ll probably play one of the evil French princes or the herald or some other rubbish part while Max gets to play the bloody King of England. I’m
British
, for fuck’s sake. It’s total bollocks.” A muscle jumped in his jaw as he subsided. He cast her a quick glance from under his lashes. Embarrassed to have said so much?

Nicola sat there for a second, trying to process his rage. “Wow.”

“
I know
,” he said, sounding righteous.

“Lachlan, you’re a freaking crybaby.” She gave him a small kick with her foot. “Listen to yourself! Before I got Titania, I did three musicals in a row where the most I got to do was stand behind the lead and sing backup. I had maybe four lines a show. At best.”
And that’s what you’re going back to?
her brain scoffed.

She chased the thought away, focusing the laser beam of her anger on him. “You’re trying to complain to me about playing some of the greatest parts in the Shakespeare canon? You’re complaining about playing
Puck
? Shit, let’s trade. You can be Titania in the dress with no back, and I’ll take the ‘If we shadows have offended’ speech.”

He shifted in the lounge chair and did not speak, but the glint from his half-lidded eyes told her he was listening.

“Does it occur to you,” she continued, “that even the great Shakespeare parts for women don’t come close to the ones for men? Hamlet. Macbeth. Othello. Henry V. I would
kill
to play Henry V, but I won’t even get to audition for it. So why are
you
complaining?”

“Because Max always wins. He gets everything I want. Everything.” He fluttered his lashes and stared soulfully at her.

She
tsk
ed and rolled her eyes.
Actors
, as Tierney would say. “Lachlan, after I said no to you, did you or did you not work your way through, in order, my best friend, two of my fairy handmaidens, and an intern?”

He closed his eyes, arranging himself primly on the lounge chair. “That doesn’t mean I wasn’t hurt by your rejection.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Anyway, is my cause hopeless? I thought you and Max were casual. A fling. Is it still cheating with me if you’re only flinging with Max?”

“Yes, Lachlan.”

His voice was utterly serene, but the muscles in his face were rigid, like fissures in a marble statue. “And is dear Max aware of your exclusivity?”

“What do you mean?”

He cracked one eye open, like a crocodile watching his prey. “About six years ago, when I first started at the RSF, Judith O’Fallon directed two plays back to back:
Love’s Labors Lost
and
Hamlet
. One chap named Dixon had all of three lines in
Love’s Labors Lost
. He was a young man, good-looking. Not too much experience in the theater, though.”

Stomach churning, Nicola curled her fingers around the lounge chair.
Where is he going with this?

Lachlan pushed himself up on one elbow. “This chap, Dixon, he and Judith started sleeping together during
Love’s
rehearsals. The next we all knew he’d been cast as her Hamlet.”

Nicola swallowed, her body ice-cold now.

“Max is ‘rehearsing’ with Judith tonight,” Lachlan said. “Isn’t he?”

“You’re wrong.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. Max wouldn’t do that.”

“How do you know he hasn’t already done it? He escorted her to the pub that night. He’s got the
Henry V
part, but did he earn it? Or rather,
how
did he earn it?”

“You’re being a real son of a bitch.” She met his eyes and ducked her head to hold his gaze when he tried to look away. “Did
Henry V
matter to you so much?”

“
Yes
. I’ve been in the company longer than Max. I’m never going to get a break.” He tilted his head to stare at her, his mouth a wry twist. “And you chose Max too. Injury on top of insult.”

“Lachlan, Max and I have history. You—”

“Never had a chance against him. It’s all right, love. I already figured that out.” He voiced a bitter laugh.

“
Lachlan
, you are my friend. I like you. I care about you.” She touched his shoulder.

He caught her hand again and pressed it to his cheek.

By gritting her teeth she managed to hold on to her temper. Barely. “Lach, are you messing with me, or are you seriously
hitting on me
right now?” She jerked her hand away. “Are we friends? Or am I just some girl you want to nail?”

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive.” He glanced at her face, then looked again, and he must have seen how angry she was, how hurt, because his own face fell. His cocky mask wobbled out of place, and he reached for her hand.

She pulled out of his reach. He cringed as if she’d slapped him.

“I’m sorry, Nicola.” Lachlan covered his face with his hands and hunched over. “Bollocks. I’m just messed about over the Henry thing.”

Her body trembled, from the cold, from the anger, from the sheer fucked-up-ness of the night so far. “I’m going inside.”

J
udith lived
in a ranch style house in North Hollywood. The house appeared small from the curb, but, once Judith opened the door and let him in, the place seemed to go on forever. “You live alone?” Max asked, surprised she had so much house all to herself.

“No kids. No husband anymore, thank God. Only me.” She slid her arm through Max’s and tugged him deeper into the house. “Do you want a drink?”

“Ah, no. I’m good.” Was it rude to say ‘I’d rather get to work?’ Every other time he’d gone to a director’s house, there had been more people around. Other actors. A spouse. Judith’s house just seemed to echo.

“Ah, Max.” She twinkled up at him. “One drink before we work.”

When a director says jump
… “All right. Iced tea if you have it. Or a soda. Whatever you’ve got is fine.”

“Nothing stronger?”

“No. Thank you.”

“Isabelle told me about you,” she said as she swept in to the kitchen.

“What do you mean?”

“That you were an alcoholic.”

Max swallowed, his skin going cold and clammy.

Judith continued, “Or, at least, you were a very serious drinker.” Dishes clattered in the kitchen. Ice chinked into glasses. “That you’ve been blacklisted. That you can’t get a job outside the RSF. She thinks you’re talented, but she doesn’t trust you to carry a production. Most directors would agree with her.”

Max winced and hunched over. He had suspected that, of course, but it still sucked to hear.

“So,” Judith said and plunked herself onto the love seat beside him, her thigh brushing against his. “I’m going to need a bit more from you to convince me that I should fight for you with Isabelle.” She thrust a drink into his hand, the glass wet and cool against his palm.

“More?” His gut twisted.

Her palm slid along his thigh, and before Max’s brain could catch up, she had her hand on his dick. He yelped and hopped off the couch.

Judith laughed and stood. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Judith, this isn’t—” He retreated from her, seriously alarmed. She flung her arms around his neck and he tried to hold her off, but he was a big guy, he didn’t want to hurt her, which limited how forceful he could be. “Judith, I—this is
not
what I came here for.”

“Maybe not.” She stood on tiptoe, and her lips grazed his mouth, leaving a sticky lipstick print along his cheek as he jerked his face away.

He felt like he was standing on a gravel hill and the whole thing was sliding out from under him. “Judith, I’m with Nicola. It’s complicated, but she and I are together.”

“Max,” she said, sounding amused. “This isn’t a big thing. I’m not trying to start a relationship. This is about fun. A fling.” Judith pressed against him, smooshing her boobs into his chest, and dug her fingers into his hair, tugging. Max wanted to shove her away, and if she were a guy, this would already be over. But he didn’t want to manhandle a woman. He had to see if he could to talk his way out of this.

He swallowed and plucked her arms from his neck. He held her away from him. “I’m sorry, Judith, but I’m not interested in you that way. You are a great director, though, and I was looking forward to doing
Henry V
with you.”

Her mouth flattened to a thin, white line, and her nostrils flared. “I
am
a great director. And if we work together, it could do great things for your career. Reed Dixon won an Ovation award when I directed him as Hamlet. That jump-started his movie career. I could do as much for you. Nicola doesn’t even need to know.”

A great part, future opportunities, the big chance he’d been waiting for. Everything he’d thought he wanted. And he wasn’t tempted at all. Not at that price. “No, Judith.”

Her face twisted with anger. “With your history, Max, there aren’t many directors who’d trust you in a lead part, carrying a production. You said before you’d do anything to win this part.” Her lips curled in a smile as her gaze roamed over him, head to foot. “Prove it. Make it worth my while to cast you.”

Bile coated his throat, and he swallowed with difficulty.

She raised her eyebrow in question.

“Let’s be clear,” he said. “If we don’t fuck, then I’m not playing Henry? Is that the gist?”

“Trust me, Max. You’ll enjoy it. I’m not
just
a great director.” Judith flashed him a warm smirk and pressed her palm to his chest, rubbing his muscles through his shirt. “You’ll be a marvelous Henry.” She popped onto her toes to kiss him.

He stepped back.

Judith staggered, losing her balance a little. As he walked away, she gaped at him. “Where the hell are you going?”

He grabbed his coat and stormed toward the door. “Have a good night, Ms. O’Fallon. I’ll see you Tuesday for
Midsummer
rehearsals.” He slammed her front door on his way out.

* * *

N
icola’s car
was parked in front of the Bunkhouse when he got home, and he was almost sorry to see it. He was still in a rage over the thing with Judith. A casting couch. He still couldn’t believe it. He wondered if Isabelle knew about Judith’s…proclivities. A male director couldn’t get away with this, but Judith was one of Isabelle’s oldest friends. Did Isabelle know, and she was ignoring it? Or did she not
want
to know?

As he walked inside and up the stairs, the Bunkhouse rang with emptiness. Abe was no doubt off with his boyfriend. Lachlan and Peter might have gone off to booze around together. But the bedroom light was on in Max’s room. Nicola was still here.

She sat reading in bed, wearing one of his old shirts and a pair of boxers, which she had rolled at the waist so they’d fit. She appeared so at home in his bed, so warm and comfortable and
right
that his heart ached. How nice would it be to pretend nothing had happened at Judith’s. That he’d been happily rehearsing
Henry V
and not getting sexually harassed.

Something in the book made Nicola chuckle. Max stepped farther in and saw she was reading his dog-eared, much-notated paperback of the
Henry V
script. His chest constricted. “What’s funny?” he asked.

“Oh, hi.” She smiled at him, but she looked hunted somehow, trapped. “I was rereading the first scene. Henry says, ‘take heed how you
awake our sleeping sword of war
.’” She pulled her mouth down in a comic grimace.

“Ah. ‘Sleeping sword of war’
is
kind of dirty, isn’t it?”

“Shakespeare is obsessed with penis.” She dropped the book on the bed. “I have to talk to you.”

Max was enough of a man that his first reaction on hearing those words was a heartfelt:
Oh shit
.
What did I do?
He slumped against the doorframe. “Yeah, we should talk.”

Nicola pressed her palm against the book cover, her fingers going white with tension. “Lach told me—he said Judith…that she…with her male leads—”

“Oh shit.” Max turned into the doorframe and knocked his forehead against it once. Of course Lachlan would tell Nicola about something like that without warning Max in turn.

“You knew about Judith?” Nicola’s voice was cold but with a quiver in it, a tremolo of hurt.

“Not until tonight, when she tried to stick her tongue down my throat.” He crossed to the bed and sank onto the foot of it. He wanted to go to Nicola, hold her, comfort her, but she was so rigid right now, he didn’t dare. “Nothing happened. Judith landed one kiss on me before I figured out what was happening. Then I ran away.
Fast
. Arms pumping.” He demonstrated, jerking his arms like he was jogging.

Nicola laughed a little. “I believe you.”

His muscles had felt like iron before, rigid with fear, but now the anxiety melted. Mostly.

Except Nicola was flipping the pages of his book with her thumb, a nervous tic.

“Nic?”

“Lachlan is upset about the
Henry V
thing.”

“Lachlan’s irritated with me. What else is new?”

“He kind of…sort of hit on me. He didn’t kiss me or anything, and I think he was half joking, but I thought I should tell you.”

“
What?
” His blood was doing that pounding in his ears thing, and a hot, hollow place burned in his gut.

“I think you getting
Henry V
screwed with his head. He didn’t mean it. He apologized. He knew he was wrong.”

“So why did he fucking do it?”

“He
has
been hitting on me since I got here.”

“That was before you and I started… He should know better now. You and I are together. Sort of. If he’s my friend, then he keeps it in his pants.” Max pushed from the bed and paced the room. He wished Lachlan was here. The blood was rushing through Max’s veins.
He needed something besides the wall to punch, and Lachlan’s smug face was perfect.

The bed covers rustled, then Nicola was holding him, her front pressed against his back, her hands banded around his waist. “I’m sorry.”

What a screwed-up evening they were having. He covered her hands and leaned back against her. “What are you sorry for?” he murmured.

“I dunno. For the possibility I might have hurt you.”

“You didn’t.”

“Good.”

“I’m sorry for the Judith thing. If I’d known, I never would have gone over there.”

She pressed her forehead between his shoulder blades. “Max, Lachlan pointed out that with a fling, there isn’t an expectation of monogamy.”

“He
would
point that out.”

“If you had slept with Judith, it wouldn’t technically have been cheating. You and I are having a fling. I can’t get mad if you wander.”

“That’s bullshit.” He turned around and gripped her shoulders. “Is that what you want?”

“I thought it might be what you wanted.”

“I only want you. While we’re doing this fling thing, it’s only you and me. I’m not doing this any other way.”

“Good.” She settled against him again, wrapping her arms around his waist, burying her face in his chest. He bundled her up in his arms, then rested his cheek against the cool silk of her hair. The vise of fear circling his chest loosened, and he could breathe.

She puffed a wry laugh out.

“What?” he asked.

She made a small moue with her mouth, but her eyes were laughing. “Rehearsal on Tuesday is gonna suck.”