The World is a Stage (10 page)

“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.

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.

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?”

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.”

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

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 eas
ier
, 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, 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.

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.”

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 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.”