The World is a Stage (12 page)

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.

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.

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.”

“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?”

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 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.

“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?”

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.

“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.