A Midsummer Night's Fling (Much Ado about Love #1) (7 page)

A car turned into the space beside Nicola’s, and she jumped at the sound of the door opening.

I need more coffee
. She wheeled away from the theater to get her rehearsal bag out of her own backseat and came face-to-face with Isabelle Elton.

Nicola swallowed. “Good morning, Ms. Elton.”

“Call me Isabelle. Please.” Isabelle flashed her a polite, distracted smile. “Pretty view, isn’t it?”

“Very pretty.” Nicola turned back, drinking in the sights again, admiring the soft gray beauty of the overcast sky, the rustic line of tree and building—mostly so she could avoid looking at Isabelle. The artistic director rubbed Nicola’s nerves raw, as if a 7.0 earthquake were trembling beneath the other woman’s cool façade—a surplus of feeling that could break at any moment.

Isabelle jerked her chin toward the admin building. “If you follow me into the office, we can get your contract signed before you see Tierney for your costume fitting. This way.” The artistic director started toward the admin building. Nicola shrugged the strap of her rehearsal bag onto her shoulder and followed Isabelle up the stairs to the offices.

The interior of the admin building was painted a soft champagne color, with modern light fixtures and plush leather seats in the waiting area. Framed shots from dozens of the RSF’s shows graced the walls, and Nicola had to restrain an urge to linger.

“Look around if you want,” Isabelle said, poised in her office door.

Not needing to be told twice, Nicola dumped her rehearsal bag into one of the guest chairs. The photos were pretty standard fare: record shots from past productions at the RSF showing comical scenes or a stunning tableau, anything that had made a good picture.

She caught a glimpse of Armina Elton’s famous face and leaned nearer to that image, surprised to find herself staring at a shot of the movie star and a young Isabelle onstage together. Isabelle sat at a vanity table, staring shakily ahead as she put on lipstick. Her mother stood behind her, arms waving, a manic expression on her face.

“
Gypsy
,” Isabelle explained. Nicola jumped to find her standing so close. Isabelle nodded toward the frame. “
Gypsy
was the last show Mother did before she retired. The entire run of that show sold out. Only time that’s happened in the RSF’s history.”

“Your parents founded the RSF together, right?”

“Yes. After Mama stopped making films, she got so bored, waiting for parts to come along. And she had this huge estate. The RSF literally got its start when my parents put together a production of
As You Like It
in the barn with a bunch of friends. Rosalind was always Mama’s favorite Shakespeare part. Here.” Isabelle pulled one of the pictures off the wall and handed the frame to Nicola.

The picture showed Armina Elton and her third husband, the famous opera singer Bastian DeMarco, clasping each other in the kind of passionate embrace you only ever saw onstage. Or pirate movies. Armina was in some kind of harem-girl costume as she tried to twist away. Bastian wore a long and very red cape with a matching mask as he held her close to him. “This is from the RSF’s first season ever,” Isabelle said. “My dad made her do
The Desert Song
so he could have a chance to sing. Tierney keeps bugging me to put that show in the season again.” Isabelle let out a small
hmm
, then lifted the picture from Nicola’s hands and stuck the photo back on the wall. “Let’s get your contract signed, eh?”

Moment over
, Nicola thought as Isabelle stalked into her office, taking it for granted that Nicola would follow. Shaking her head, Nicola shouldered her bag and marched after her.

Isabelle insinuated herself into her chair and placed the contract on the desk in front of Nicola. Someone knocked on Isabelle’s door just as Nicola finished dotting her “i” and adding the flourish on the “s” in “Charles.” When Nicola glanced up, Judith O’Fallon stood in the doorway.

Nicola forced herself to smile and not fidget. “Nice to see you, Ms. O’Fallon.”

“Oh, call me Judith. Were you two done? Shall I walk Nicola out?”

Please don’t
. But Nicola kept beaming until her cheeks hurt. Isabelle waved them off and expelled a long, wistful sigh as she stared at the mountains of paperwork stacked on her desk, ringing her round like an ambush.

In the reception room, Judith glanced at Isabelle’s closed door, then lowered her voice. “Did Isabelle give you any trouble?”

Nicola frowned. “No…”

“Oh good.
Rita
thinks very highly of you. She’s a strong ally to have in your corner.”

“The feeling’s mutual.”

“Yes.” Judith graced this remark with a stiff, polite smile. “I only wanted you to understand, this is the big leagues. I’ve done shows with the RSF before, and I want to make sure we maintain a high standard of quality this season under my tenure.”

“All right—”

“The RSF is one of the largest nonprofit theaters in the nation. And we’re regarded as one of the best, if not
the
best, classical theater company on the West Coast. Audiences come here and expect a certain level of talent. Professionalism.” Judith raised her eyebrow at Nicola, a haughty challenge. “You were a little unpolished yesterday, dear. Amateurish. You’ll want to work on that with Rita. Shakespeare isn’t a Rodgers and Hammerstein musical.”

“I know that—”

“We demand a little bit more depth from our actors.”

Nicola’s cheeks burned, and she squeezed her hands into fists to keep from slapping the artistic director.
Let’s see
you
dance and sing for three hours straight while living out of a suitcase and eating nothing but bad hotel food day in and day out
.

Having a cat fight with Judith O’Fallon probably wouldn’t be the best way to start here, but—
Professional my
ass
. Nicola took a slow breath, then released it.

Judith continued, “What I’m saying is, we expect a lot from our actors. There isn’t any hand-holding. Or coddling. It’s sink or swim around here.” Judith
tsk
ed, running her gaze over Nicola. “And, dear, you might want to lose just a few pounds. I understand the fairies won’t be wearing very much, and we don’t want to horrify our audience with a chunky Titania, do we?” Judith gave a sharp little titter.

As her body vibrated with suppressed anger, Nicola managed a small nod.
You evil, presumptuous, arrogant
—

“Oh, I just remembered I need to speak to Isabelle. Can you find your own way out, dear?” Judith’s eyes were slitted with pleasure like a cat’s.

“Of course.”
Get away from me
. Nicola waved good-bye, her mind popping with disquiet, and she turned into one of the empty hallways, wanting as much space between her and Judith O’Fallon as possible.

What is with that lady?
Like most women, Nicola had some issues with her body, but her weight wasn’t one of them.
She stopped, realizing she’d wandered and managed to get herself lost in the office suite. It was paranoid, but she wondered if maybe Judith had abandoned her on purpose, hoping she’d get lost. She shook her head at herself and started backtracking. Next moment she caught a glimpse of a blurred human figure walking past in the hallway. “Excuse me?” she called, hustling in the direction the person had disappeared.

Footsteps shuffled in the hall, and a man poked his head around the corner, his hair a shock of red against the soft color of the walls. “Well, hullo.” He grinned, and the effect of his smile nearly floored Nicola—all gleaming teeth and impish dimples and laughing blue,
blue
eyes. It was a smile of charm and mischief, the sort of smile a siren might use to tempt a sailor to his doom.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Cou—could you point me toward the costume shop?”

He stepped forward, and she found herself startled again, blinking as he towered over her. She’d never met anyone as tall as the Fiesengerke brothers before, but this man had to be as tall, maybe even a half inch taller than Max. This guy was more wiry, though, lean muscle instead of ripped bulk like Max.

The stranger ran a thumb down the line of his chiseled cheekbone, scratching against the red hair of his goatee. “Searching for Tierney, were you?”

Oh
swoo-oon
. He had a clipped, beautiful upper-class British accent, which matched the rich baritone of his voice. Nicola wondered if the accent was real or if he were putting it on to be more Shakespearean, but then he spoke again and, yup, the accent was real.
Score
. “I was about to make my own way to the costume shop,” he said. “You can follow me.”

“Great.”

“You must be our new Titania,” he said, his long, long legs eating up the ground. “Max’s…friend.”

Nicola grimaced to herself. That minor hesitation said all kinds of things about what information was already circulating through the company grapevine about her and Max. What if anyone from the company had seen them kissing yesterday? For a moment, she wanted to drop her head into her hands and weep with frustration.

But the two of them were already standing outside the costume shop, and her escort tugged the door open, holding it for her. “After you.”

She beamed at him, feeling kind of fluttery. He was
very
cute.

The costume shop was a claustrophobic little room with a long table at the center and cabinets lining every wall. A maze of doors seemed to have bred like bunnies in the room. Nicola frowned, wondering where all the doors could possibly lead.

“Oh good,
actors
,” Tierney said by way of greeting as they entered her shop, her voice dripping contempt.

“Yes, quite shocking to find actors in a theater. Hello, my petal, had your caffeine yet?” Nicola’s new friend swung around Tierney’s worktable to kiss the costume mistress on the cheek.

Tierney batted him away and returned her attention to the pattern she was laying out. “Nicola, I see you’ve met Lachlan.”

“Not officially.” The man, Lachlan, turned to Nicola, a smirk curling his gorgeous mouth. He clicked his heels together and bowed at the waist. “Lachlan Stuart.”

“Nicola Charles.” She extended her hand to him.

As he held her palm, his eyebrows quirked and his mouth crimped at some secret joke.

Watching him, Nicola was both bemused and amused as she realized he was deciding whether to kiss her hand or not. But, after holding her fingers a beat too long, all Lachlan did was shake. Although his smile did widen as he gazed at her face.

She, unashamedly, stared back just because he was so very nice to look at. His face was a long oval with a classic Patrician nose, close-set blue eyes, and soft, waving red hair with a matching beard to die for.

He was handsome in that willowy way British guys pull off so well. He’d be right at home in Regency gear proclaiming his love to a Jane Austen heroine, or maybe dying heroically fighting Napoleon. Or really doing anything in that genre of classy, British stiff-upper-lip.

And with his soft, velvety voice, like Alan Rickman’s kid brother or something, he could probably read the phone book and have women fainting in the aisles. Listening to him recite a Shakespeare sonnet just might cause spontaneous orgasm.

To break herself out of
that
thought, Nicola gave him a perky grin and pulled up one of the stools around Tierney’s worktable. “So, Lachlan, who do you play in
Midsummer
?” Judging by that glint in his eye and the magnetism in his smile, she already had a fairly good guess.
Or a
fairy
good guess. Ha-ha.

“He’s your husband’s bitch,” Tierney put in.

“Huh?”

Lachlan’s eyebrows tipped up at the inside corners, and he cast a dry glance at Tierney. “I’m playing Puck. If you don’t yet speak Tierney’s language.” Lachlan fixed all his somewhat disconcerting attention on Nicola. “And you’re our new fairy queen. It will be a distinct pleasure to serve you, my lady.”

This time he
did
kiss her hand, and Nicola giggled. She was used to the overblown personality of actors, but this was a bit much to take on her first day.

Nicola opened her mouth to reply to him, but Tierney cut in, “Watch out, Nicola. Lachlan’s the company slut. Goes through a woman a day, pretty much. Better steer clear of him until you’ve had all your shots.”

Lachlan bared his teeth, but before the moment could twist to higher levels of conflict, the shop door banged open. Max filled the whole doorway with his frame and height and sheer presence, making Lachlan seem very much smaller. Max started toward Nicola, heat and purpose in his gaze.

Rita fluttered into the room and cut between the two of them, settling onto a stool next to Nicola. “All right, my darlings,” the director chirped out, placing her hands flat on the work table. “Isabelle approved the new fairy costumes yesterday—”

“
Finally,
” Tierney muttered.

“So I wanted to talk to you three about what we are going to do for your fairy looks.”

Max folded his arms and made himself comfortable leaning against the wall. Lachlan, perhaps as a reaction to Max’s blunt stance, sat on the floor at Rita’s feet and pretzeled his long legs into a yoga-like pose.

“First of all: the hair,” Rita said. “We are going to dye both of you—”

Both men emitted identical roars of disapproval, then launched into what could only be termed a bout of whining. Manly whining, of course.

“Not
again
—”

“My
face
peeled off—”

“It bloody
burns
—”

“We aren’t even
playing
brothers this time—”

Rita shushed them, flapping her hands. Nicola hid a chuckle behind her palm and looked a question at Rita.

The director rolled her eyes. “When we did
King
Lear
a few years ago, these two played the brothers, Edmund and Edward—”

“Edgar,” Max growled. His blond brows were drawn together in a scowl. With his mane of dark blond hair and the scruff on his face, he resembled a lion. An adorable, pissed-off lion. “You are
not
bleaching my beard. Never again.”

“Seconded,” Lachlan said, lifting his finger in the air.