A Midsummer Night's Fling (Stage Kiss Series Book 1) (20 page)

He slid free of her, but kept them both braced against the wall. They were both slick with a fine sheen of sweat, and heat seemed to pour from his body, as if the gold of his hair and skin were actually radiant sunlight.
 

As the blood in her veins slowed, and the tingles shivering through her body quieted, Nicola thought she saw regret lurking in a corner, like a third person in the room. She closed her eyes and held on to the pleasure for as long as she could.
 

But then Max eased away from her, chilly air from the AC moving to take the place of his warmth, and Nicola felt as if every inch of her naked body had been stabbed with pins. She glanced around the dim interior of the storeroom, eyeing the racks of costumes and feeling, stupidly, as if she had made love for an audience.
 

Had Tierney returned? Had Rita come with her? Had they tried to get in, found the room locked, and figured out what she and Max were doing? Had anyone else tried to get in? Would she be fired? Would everyone in the company be talking about this by tomorrow?

"Hey." Max tucked a finger under her chin, trying to get her to look at him.

Too raw to see him, to see those beautiful eyes, she caught his hand and pulled it away from her face. She hurried into the workshop, hugging herself and wishing for clothes – which was a ridiculous wish since the man had just been
inside
her.
 

Oh God
. She raked her fingers into her hair, horror blossoming in her stomach.
What did I just do?
 

She reached the safety of the dressing room and pulled her own street clothes on with relief. Never had yoga pants been more of a comfort to her. Her panties she would retrieve later. They were wet anyway, drenched from her arousal.
 

Oh
God. She sank onto the dressing room bench and dropped her flaming face into her hands.

The dressing room dimmed, and she glanced up to find Max looming in the entrance, still bare-chested, wearing only the tights, appearing hurt and confused. A wounded lion, a penitent king. "Nic, what's wrong? Did I do something wrong? Did I hurt you?"

"No." Her throat thickened with emotion, and her eyes prickled. "No. It was incredible. I just . . . " She shook her head, having no words to articulate the riot inside her.
 

He crouched, bracing one arm against the doorframe for balance. "I think we have to talk again. About our feelings?"

She had to laugh. The way he said that, like it was some kind of communicable disease. "Oh Maxim." She reached out and patted his cheek. He turned his face into her hand, nuzzling against her palm. The easy intimacy of it, the sweetness, cracked something in her heart, like someone had inserted a crowbar into a chink there. She pressed a fist to her sternum and stood, pushing past him. "Do we need to talk?" she said.

"I'd like to."

The costume shop door rattled, startling them both. Max moved in front of her dressing room, shielding her from whatever was coming through the shop door.

"What the – " Lachlan's voice. He pounded on the wood, making the door shake. "Nicola? Max, you pillock. Let me in."

Max started for the entrance, but Nicola caught his wrist, tugging him back. When he gazed at her over his shoulder, she shook her head. "Put your own clothes on," she murmured, keeping her voice quiet but urgent. "Bury the condom in the trash. And, for fuck's sake,
grab my panties!
"

He grinned –
damn him
– and disappeared into the storage area to change and carry out his other missions.

Nicola tugged her hair out of its half-fallen ponytail and retied it into a straighter knot. Her face was probably glowing with that post-sex radiance she always seemed to have with Max, but nothing she could do about that. She undid the lock and swung the door open to let Lachlan inside.
 

His mouth shaped words, but then he stared at her and stopped. His eyes widened and his nostrils flared. For one brief flash he looked hurt. Then his face became a pale, blank slate. "Where's Max?"

"Still changing. We were both in our dressing rooms when you knocked, that's why – "

"Save it, love." Lachlan snorted. A very well-bred snort.
 

Nicola's cheeks burned.

"What do you want, Lach?" Max emerged, wearing his ratty green t-shirt and gray rehearsal sweats. He dropped his balled up Oberon tights on the cutting table. Her underwear was, she prayed, safely hidden in the pocket of his sweats.

Lachlan worked his mouth, his jaw rigid as he flicked a glance back and forth between the two of them. At last, he folded his arms and glared at the floor. "While you two were
changing
, Rita had a stroke at rehearsal."

"Oh my God."

"What?"

Lachlan's face fell, and his throat convulsed as he swallowed. "We're all heading to the hospital. Tierney went with Rita in the ambulance. She wanted me to grab her purse."

"I'll drive," Max said, hustling out of the costume shop.
 

Shocked, numb, Nicola started after him
. Poor Rita
.
 

As she passed, Lachlan caught her arm and stopped her. "You and Max then?"

She tried to twist her arm free, but he held on, not hurting but not letting go either. "Lachlan."

"Just tell me."

She twitched her arm, and he released her. Nicola wrapped her own arms around herself.
Too fast. Too much
. "It probably didn't mean anything, Lachlan."

Because if it had meant anything then it had to mean
everything
, didn't it? And she . . . couldn't handle that right now. She rushed for the doorway.

And ran right into Max.
 

His eyes were cold, and he cocked his head to the side, as if daring her to repeat what she'd just said to his face.

She flinched.
 

"You two coming?" Max turned without waiting to hear their reply.

Her heartbeats seemed to be spaced too far apart, she felt dizzy, like the world kept body-checking her to knock her flat.

Lachlan glanced at her face, and – perhaps alarmed by what he saw – his manner gentled. "Come on, love. Let's see Rita." He caught her by the elbow and guided her out of the costume shop.

Chapter Twelve

Max wanted to corner Nicola, make her talk to him and tell him what she was thinking. What did it mean?

But Lachlan was in the car, and they should all be focused on Rita anyway. Still, Max's brain kept pulsing with the thought:
What did it mean?

Lachlan was on his cell, getting directions from Tierney on where they should park at the hospital, what waiting room to go to, etc. Once they got there and stowed the car, the three of them hustled through the sterile white corridors, and Max's gut tightened with unease.
 

Isabelle and Tierney sat in the small waiting room. Tierney's face was a shocky white, her eyes red-rimmed, her nose swollen. She sat close to her mother, and Isabelle had her tiny arm snug around her Amazonian daughter's shoulders.

As Max and the others entered the room, both Elton women hopped to their feet. Tierney hugged Max then Nicola then Lachlan. The costume designer actually clung to Lachlan while he patted her back and soothed her. "Here now, poppet," Lachlan said. "Want to go out, have a smoke? Calm you down a bit?"

Tierney sniffed. "Yeah."
 

Isabelle pursed her lips. "It's a hospital, Lachlan."

"It's California, Isabelle. They'll have a smoking area outside."

Isabelle was opening her mouth for another protest, but Max touched her arm. Tierney looked shattered. She could probably use time away from the action to collect herself. Max wasn't even a smoker anymore and he was craving a nicotine fix. Pack-a-day Tierney had to be gasping for a smoke.

Isabelle darted a disapproving look his way then threw her hands up and stalked back to the chairs.

Lachlan chivvied Tierney along, his arm firm and supportive around her shoulders, his perpetual air of lechery momentarily put aside.
 

"You don't want to go with them?" Nicola murmured.

Max frowned. "I. Don't. Smoke." He claimed the chair next to Isabelle which Tierney had vacated. Nicola, after a hesitation, sat in the row of guest chairs opposite the two of them.

"Is Quinn here yet?" Nicola asked. Quinn was Rita's wife.

Isabelle nodded. "Lachlan called her as soon as the ambulance left. Quinnie was at the hospital before Rita was." Isabelle glanced away, her voice thick with tears. "Quinnie's back with Rita and the doctors."

"In the car, Lachlan told us that Tierney saved Rita," Nicola said. "Tierney was the one who figured out it was a stroke."
 

Isabelle swiped a tear away with her thumb. "Damn I'm proud of that kid. Yeah. Tier told me she went down to the stage and noticed Rita displaying the warning signs for stroke. My father died of a stroke. There were signs beforehand and we all missed them. Tierney never wanted that to happen again."

Bile rose in Max's throat. "Rita told me she had a headache. I didn't even think. That's one of the signs, isn't it? And she wasn't using her right arm." He punched his thigh, blazing inside with guilt.

Nicola shook her head faintly. "It's not your fault."

Isabelle bumped his arm with her elbow. "We're in show business, Maxim. I think most of us have a headache twenty-four seven. I know I do. You couldn't have known." Isabelle gusted out a long breath, shaking her head. "I thought
MacBeth
was the cursed Shakespeare play, but this
Midsummer
seems worse. First we lose a Titania. Now Rita in the last week of rehearsal. Did somebody break a fucking mirror?"
 

Max very carefully did not glance at Nicola, and Nicola very carefully did not glance at him. Now was not the time for Isabelle to figure out what they'd been doing in the costume shop.

Quinn emerged. A striking, lithe black woman in her early fifties, her gray eyes were tear-stained and swollen, but she was beaming. "Rita's going to be all right."

"Oh, thank God." Isabelle hopped from her seat and moved to clasp Quinn's hands. There were hugs all around, and some of the sick worry inside Max unknotted. Quinn gave them a brief medical rundown on Rita's condition which Max was too dazed or too dumb – or both – to understand. The gist was: Rita would be OK. And that was the most important bit.

Eventually, Isabelle asked, "When can she come back to rehearsal? When can Rita get back to work?"

Quinn lowered her gaze and shook her head. "Isabelle, the doctors . . . we caught it early. Things look good, but Rita will need recovery time. Physical therapy. It'll be a long time before she can direct." Quinn swallowed, blinking. "She may never be able to work again."

Isabelle hunched, and Max felt himself echoing her posture. Rita was all right. She was alive, but would she ever be
their
Rita again? Flashing, funny, full of bouncy, manic energy and sass. Work was Rita's life. If she couldn't work . . .
 

Quinn clucked her tongue and patted Isabelle's hand. "She's asking to see you, honey."

"All right." Isabelle scraped her palms across her cheeks, erasing the shine of tear tracks. She flashed a practice-smile and donned an air of cheerful optimism as easily as she would shrug into an overcoat. Isabelle, the consummate actress. Always.

After Isabelle disappeared backstage beyond the doors to see Rita, Quinn turned to Max and Nicola. "Excuse me, guys. I need to call some people to make updates. Her mother, her daughter in New York."

"Of course," Nicola said.

Quinn slipped off, leaving the two of them alone.

After a long silence that fell just shy of uncomfortable, Nicola said, "I'm glad Rita's going to be all right."

"Yeah." Max still had trouble believing that he hadn't noticed Rita was sick.

Nicola's fingers brushed the back of his hand, a comforting touch. "Max, there were two dozen people at rehearsal today. Lachlan and I among them. We all missed the signs. We
all
screwed up."

He batted that away, but some of the sour guilt in his stomach eased.

"Max?" Her tone, the brittle desperation in it, made him glance at her face. She was pale, but with a subtle flush fanning her cheeks. Her eyes were wide, but warming to a soft, velvet brown. "I'm sorry for what I said before to Lachlan. In the costume shop. I'm just trying to process all of this."

Max clenched his hands together, his stomach all in knots again. "Nic. The
talk
? Here?
Now
?" He glanced over his shoulder, scanning for Tierney or Isabelle or anyone else from the company.

Nicola eyes went cold. "No. Never mind. There's nothing to talk about anyway, is there?" She shot to her feet and started to storm away.

"Nic." He caught her by the wrist.

"
What?
"

"I
want
to have the talk," he said. "I'm the one who said we should talk, remember? I meant not here, and not right now." He lowered his voice. "Isabelle doesn't forbid show flings, but she's not a big supporter of them either." He breathed out deep through his nostrils, holding onto his temper – as Nicola seemed incapable of doing lately. "Also, can you work on not assuming the worst about me every time we talk? It's like you're looking for reasons to be mad at me."