TOO WISE TO WOO PEACEABLY
An ACT LIKE IT Bonus Short Story
Copyright Lucy Parker 2018
(Set after the epilogues of both ACT LIKE IT and PRETTY FACE, but minimal spoilers for the books beyond the expected happy-ever-after.)
(Or happy-ever-after-with-an-occasional-spat, as the case may be.)
The voices and footsteps from the stage echoed back into the wings, and the familiar nervous exhilaration prickled across Lainie’s skin, raising goosebumps on her bare forearms and rousing butterflies beneath the tight lacing of her gown. She had thoroughly enjoyed her television work this past year, but she’d missed the visceral, bone-deep thrill of theatre. There was nothing quite like performing live.
She inserted the tip of her little finger beneath a ribbon and pulled hard. The Jacobean corsetry, however, she could do without. Her 1920s costumes for Knightsbridge might be hellishly unflattering on anyone with hips, but they didn’t squeeze her internal organs.
A burst of laughter from the audience eased a fraction of the tension from her neck and back. When the crowd was having a good time, and was generous in showing it, the energy was infectious.
It was still surreal that she was standing here, surrounded by so much history that the walls seemed to resonate with words and nerves and ghosts.
She wasn’t kidding herself. She’d been offered this festival role so the public could pay to watch her publicly insult and snog her husband, not because the director had watched her jiggling through the Charleston on telly and been struck with the vision of his ideal Beatrice, but whatever. She hadn’t been about to turn down the most famous theatre in London. And Much Ado About Nothing was one of her favourite plays, so it checked off two career goals in one contract.
Although it might have been better if the production team had picked one of Shakespeare’s bloody, violent tragedies for the gala run. Pressing her palm against the wooden beam next to her, Lainie leaned her cheek against her hand and listened to the faint strains of the deep cadence of Richard’s voice. The butterfly wings beat harder.
He really was a brilliant actor.
Inspiring to every other performer on the stage.
Compelling to even the most fed-up, exhausted members of the audience, the ones who’d bought tickets when they’d been having a better day or had been dragged along by a keen loved one; either way, would now rather be at home in their pyjamas.
Sexy as fuck, to her, and probably to most Brits with good eyesight. Bonus points if they had conversely poor hearing, so weren’t aware of the sort of things that occasionally came out of his mouth when he wasn’t reciting razor-sharp funnies from the Bard.
Onstage, he was still in the heavy denial stage of Benedick’s unlikely journey to true love, when snotty witticisms and cynical pronouncements abounded. In other words, the phase of the play that wouldn’t require much stretch of his acting ability.
It would be a rare role that Richard couldn’t pick up, and inhabit, and breathe life into.
Having said that, there was always just the faintest off-note on these rare occasions when Richard agreed to dip a toe into rom-com territory. His face and general demeanour extended themselves a lot better to playing the sarcastic, saturnine villain than the reluctantly besotted swain. He was indecently handsome, but if you were casting a panto, you’d still take one look at him and consider the role of the hiss-boo Evil Baron filled, and look elsewhere for Prince Charming.
And quite frankly, on this particular night, she’d rather skip the sexually-charged banter and just insert a sword straight into her husband’s jugular.
“How’s the lacing?” Emily, one of the wardrobe team, stopped at her side to check the exuberant cascade of brocade that surrounded Lainie. “Blood still circulating? Lungs still inflating?”
“Just.” Lainie kept her voice similarly low. “Although as much as I enjoy occupying two metres of floor space and feeling like I’m wearing the Queen’s bedroom curtains, getting out of it at the end of the night magnifies the relief of taking your bra off after work by about a thousand.”
“No arguments here.” Emily straightened her skirts. “I got some naughty knickers to spice things up for my man’s birthday, and the fun ended at the corset. I think my ribs ended up somewhere around my clavicle. Happy anniversary, by the way. We were going to get flowers, but faced with the prospect of presenting Richard Troy with a bunch of hothouse daffs, every single assistant threatened to jump ship.” She inclined her head towards the stage. “I do come bearing a message from management.”
Judging by the wince, the management team were not passing along their own congratulations on two years of wedded bliss.
“I’m afraid to ask.” Lainie kept an eye on the electronic screen that was tracking progress on the stage; she had about four minutes until her next cue.
Emily cleared her throat. “I am requested to enquire, politely, as to whether you could please reconcile with your husband before tomorrow night’s performance. They do, and I quote, quite understand the temptation to get into a flaming row with Troy, and their sympathies are entirely with you. However, Richard is a total fucking nightmare when you two are on the outs, and he’s terrifying the interns.”
Richard wasn’t quite so…temperamentally difficult backstage these days, but when they genuinely lost their temper with one another at home — and it would probably astonish a number of people how infrequently that actually happened — she had been reliably informed that he was insufferable to work with. Impatient, irritable, a walking thundercloud.
Her sister-in-law had once said, over Friday night cocktails, that Lainie was like an anchor for Richard. He didn’t know how to handle being distanced from his main source of happiness, Sarah had gone on in an increasingly enthusiastic and drunken declaration. Which would have been more romantic and poetic if it hadn’t followed six Cosmopolitans and been interspersed with hiccups and giggles. It was a good thing Richard had been working that night; he’d have been nauseated into the following week.
It was pretty undeniable, however, that he didn’t handle their more blow-out spats well.
So he should just avoid the whole situation by not being a dickhead.
She heard his voice again.
“Marriage,” she said. “Ninety-five percent of the time, it’s loving someone so hard you’d take a bullet for them. Five percent, wondering if you were having some sort of breakdown when you voluntarily agreed to live with such a complete and utter cock.”
Emily snorted. “Happy marriage,” she said before she continued on through the wings. “I think that’s the definition of happy marriage.”
At her cue, Lainie returned to the stage, crossing paths with the cast member who’d just been verbally sparring with Richard. The man touched the back of his wrist to the sheen of sweat on his forehead. He looked as if he’d appreciate a stiff drink or six.
The wooden boards creaked beneath her feet as she walked, and the audience pressed in a circle around her, like spectators in the Colosseum. She almost expected to raise her eyes to the impassive face of a watching Emperor, waiting to turn his thumb down if she stumbled over her words; but the general atmosphere was relaxed, the crowd carried along into laughter as Richard exercised his comedy muscles, quirking an ironic eyebrow at them after a particularly sardonic line.
His intensely blue eyes locked on hers as Beatrice and Benedick continued dancing around each other, catching each barbed comment and throwing back another twice as charged. There was a gleam in that look that had nothing to do with the character.
A zing of electricity wrapped Lainie’s spine. She stood a little straighter, and let one brow rise slightly. The corner of Richard’s mouth, outlined in a fuller beard than usual, twitched. He was never a habitual shaver, and he was fully embracing the brief for this role.
Actually, she was quite enjoying having his unusually hairy face tucked against her shoulder through the nights. It was cosy. Like an adult-appropriate teddy bear.
The director for this play was adept at utilising body language. He’d choreographed a subtle sequence for them in the confrontation scenes where they circled one another, changing direction with abrupt steps, and never dropping the eye contact. It was as if they were dancing an Argentine tango, to only the rhythm of the dialogue, connected so strongly by the sexual sparks between them that it was irrelevant that they weren’t physically touching.
When they drew closer, Richard’s face so close that ingrained habit and muscle memory almost had her rising onto the balls of her feet to touch her cheek to his, his breath fanned her lips and she swallowed.
The audience was echoingly silent. The tension pressed in around her.
The very tips of Richard’s fingers brushed hers before the pattern of their steps pushed them apart again.
When he finally bent to “stop her mouth”, he laced a provocative edge of poor, long-suffering male into the line. Angling her head to mostly cover the action, she closed her teeth on his lower lip and tugged it sharply as they broke the kiss.
The glint of amusement in his saturnine face ignited into intense heat.
They got a standing ovation.
Back in their dressing room — the production staff had gleefully saved space by assuming that they’d rather get undressed in the same tiny box; usually true — Lainie’s dresser, a middle-aged woman who could give Richard lessons in the art of the silent, intimidating scowl, ruthlessly stripped her out of her costume. As the corset popped open, she took a deep breath and her stomach returned to its usual outward curve. It was almost orgasmic.
Speaking of orgasms--
It was their anniversary. It would be quite nice to have one. Or three. However, if Richard was still in the same mood, it was likely to be a solo one, in her own non-irritating company.
He came in while she was alone and trying to do up the zip on her new black dress. He was still in costume, and he really did do deliciously broad-shouldered, muscled-thigh things with frills and tights. He acted instinctively when he saw her bent forward, struggling to reach her arm up her back; his fingers brushed hers away from the zip and he pulled it smoothly up, his rougher skin tracing a fast, shivery line over the fine hairs on hers.
Their eyes met again, in the mirror, and she saw the tiny reflexive jerk of his body as he started to lower his mouth to her neck and then remembered that the last time they’d spoken off-script, she’d suggested that he…physically romance himself.
Expressed in mostly four-letter words.
He straightened stiffly. “How essential is it that we appear at this event?” He tugged open the billowing white shirt.
Lainie reached for her earrings, sweeping her hair aside to slip one on. Successful suppression of urge to play with the hair on his chest. “You need an opportunity to schmooze Belinda Miller, and you said this was the only time she’d be in London before December.”
Despite that, Richard had still wanted to give the party a miss and have an evening for just the two of them tonight; she was the one who’d accepted the invite and said they could have a private anniversary celebration the night after.
Belinda Miller was set to stage the biggest production of the season next summer, and Richard was being excessively restrained and blank-faced about the whole project, which meant that he really wanted it.
He pulled another white shirt from the wardrobe, this one sans lace. “Could you not put that particular inflection on the word ‘schmooze’?” His tone was faintly revolted. “It sounds highly questionable.” He lifted one dark brow at her as he flicked a comb through his hair. “And the only person I want to schmooze--” he mimicked her intonation exactly, “—is you.”
The comb clattered back onto the vanity, and she felt a wash of warmth through her stomach at the gruff undertone to those last two words.
Maybe they’d be celebrating tonight after all.
“Even when you spoil a perfectly mediocre lunch by flirting with other men.”
…And maybe they wouldn’t.
With an annoyed reflex, Lainie snapped the magnetic closure of the emerald necklace he’d given her last month for no reason at all, and almost caught the tip of her finger. “Look, Othello—”
Someone knocked on the door, and an assistant came in with a bunch of flowers from her family before she could tell the love of her life to piss right off with the unfounded commentary.
The assistant stage manager caught them on their way out, wanting a word about the final performances next week; and they were sharing a car to Claridge’s with Adrian Blair, the actor playing Don John, so it was probably fortunate for Richard that they didn’t get another moment alone before they got to the event. Especially after Adrian, who tended to react to post-show adrenaline by regressing to adolescence, nudged her in the ribs a few times while chuckling through an endless stream of borderline dirty jokes, and Richard reacted like a dragon clutching its hoard.
For God’s sake.
Husbands.
And for that matter, actors.
In fact, actor husbands. Double the trouble.
She curved her fingers under his hand and pried loose the firm grasp on her thigh.
“If you want to squeeze my leg just because,” she murmured in his ear as they walked the paparazzi barricade outside the hotel, inhaling a quick breath of his familiar cologne, “have at it. Feel free to go higher. But stop bloody posturing.” They had to stop at the security check, and she reached up to press the pad of her thumb against his firm chin. His head tipped down, and he looked into her eyes. “It’s annoying, and a complete waste of energy. Come on, Troy.” A small, genuine smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. “After that unforgettable turn in Grease, you ought to recognise when someone is hopelessly devoted.”
Richard grimaced at the teasing reference to his student outing as a slick-haired, leather-jacketed, hip-swivelling Danny Zuko, which her sister-in-law had dug out of the Oxford video archives, but she felt the built-up tension in his warm body start to release. “Never hopelessly, Tig.” The words were murmured into her ear.
She slipped her hand over his, and their fingers entwined.
She hated it as much as he did when they argued.
Inside the event, a well-known band was playing, and it was wall-to-wall famous faces. And a lotof boring small-talk. Fortunately, there was also a lot of booze. And the food was good. With a gin-and-tonic in one hand and a bite-sized cheesecake in the other, she navigated the minefield of former castmates, hopefully future castmates, influential producers, and nosy, lying press, and joined Richard again where he was talking to a tall, dark-haired woman with a clipped voice.
His arm went back around her waist, his touch stroking and arousing this time, as he introduced her to Belinda Miller.
Belinda made no pretence of politeness as she looked her up and down. “Oh,” she said. “Yes. You had a minor role in one of Bennett’s productions. What are you doing now? Television, is it?”
The derision in the other woman’s words made Richard’s reaction to Lainie’s TV ambitions look like an enthusiastic, ringing endorsement. She felt him stiffen at her side.
“Lainie was a principal in our run at the Metronome.” His own voice was glacial. She inwardly winced. She’d once rolled her eyes right around the room at his adept — she was a loving wife now; she hesitated to say smarmy — handling of useful, influential big-wigs, but there was a happy medium. He did want a job from this woman. Probably unlikely to be achieved if he followed through on his obvious inclination to sling her out the window by her hair like the Trunchbull. “And we’re currently doing the same festival stint.”
He sounded like a protective stage mother. She wasn’t sure whether to be more touched or embarrassed.
Embarrassment had the edge.
She shook her head slightly, touching her cheek to his shoulder. She sensed his quick look down at her, but he didn’t bother to modulate his tone. Surprising no one. “Before she goes back to Knightsbridge as a series regular.”
Nobody listening to this frosty conversation would guess that he still thought the period drama was a pile of melodramatic bullshit, not nearly good enough for her, and a symptom of everything that was wrong with modern Britain in its consistently sky-high ratings.
They’d had some really warm and fuzzy conversations on this topic.
It was a particularly sore point after last night’s episode.
Right now, however, he sounded like a card-carrying, DVD-buying fan as he kept talking about her accomplishments in a chilly drawl until he finally clued into why she was repeatedly nudging him in the kidney with her elbow.
Belinda was not looking on the verge of extending a contract offer.
Richard didn’t look like he gave a flying fuck.
They should probably have gone with his initial suggestion for tonight. A shared bath, a bottle of champagne, and a box of condoms.
A couple of unlikely saviours arrived then, to hopefully prevent any further alienation from a West End heavyweight.
Or, to potentially worsen his already fraught relationship with yet another of the Big Cheeses.
Lainie raised a hand at Lily Lamprey, former Knightsbridge bombshell, current theatrical hot property, who was holding hands with her husband, Luc Savage — top director, and emphatically not one of Richard’s admirers.
“Hi, Lily,” she said, with a lot more energy than she felt, trying to dial down the atmosphere from back-alley face-off to polite party talk. “Nice to see you. It’s been a while.”
Lily was a curvy platinum blonde, impossibly pretty, with very shrewd brown eyes that flicked from Luc’s polished, impassive face to Richard’s brooding features. “Too long,” she said, with the same level of desperately false cheer. They probably both had visions of their respective husbands throwing one another the length of the buffet table like a couple of bowling balls. “How are things on set? Steve still being a complete pain in the arse?”
Lainie remembered to check that her director wasn’t actually within earshot before she agreed. Lessons learned the awkward way.
“Luc.” Belinda Miller didn’t look any more pleased to see the new arrivals than she was with Richard.
One of the reasons why Lainie enjoyed theatre so much as a medium was the general camaraderie between cast, crew and management. It was usually one of the most supportive professional environments to work in.
This particular ensemble was not a good example.
“Belinda.” Luc’s deep voice was even, and almost polite. Which only made Belinda bristle more when he added, “Scouting for talent for the new show?”
She was probably silently furious at herself for letting him provoke her when she returned tightly, “Scouting? Hardly. I don’t think it’s any secret that this production is going to knock out box office records next year.”
Luc lazily flicked back the cuff of an immaculately pressed shirt to check his watch. “We’ll see,” was all he said, mildly.
For someone who wasn’t an actor, with just two words and an air of utter confidence he managed to conjure the image of a sword fighter raising his blade and touching it to his forehead in a brief salute.
May the best backstage-dictator win.
“What have you optioned for next year?” Belinda lifted one neatly shaped eyebrow, and accepted the silent challenge. “The new Alistair Glendenning script?”
“We’re still confirming the new season.” Luc looked totally at ease. His hand gently stroked the back of Lily’s head, before he reached down and tucked her fingers through the crook of his arm. Unexpectedly, he looked at Richard. “We’re sending a script to your agent. I think I have something you’ll want to consider.”
To his credit, Luc managed to suppress the despairing groan that could obviously have accompanied the words. They’d worked together in the past, and it was one of the biggest regrets of her career that she hadn’t witnessed that in person.
Richard and Luc had fundamentally different approaches to life with just enough personality points in common that they disliked each other immensely. The potential for entertainment was endless.
She tapped her fingers lightly against Richard’s stomach, momentarily diverted.
Do it, do it.
Studying Luc for a moment without expression, Richard started rubbing his thumb in contemplative circles over the swell of her hip, which had the effect of directing her attention back to her increasing impatience with this fail of a party. They should have brought their own car; it would be even easier to just leave.
And if they made up properly, maybe go do things in the Ferrari that would make Richard lecture her on proper care for leather seats, with the lazy, satisfied grin that made him so handsome her heart hurt.
Belinda snorted suddenly. “What was that rather striking line in the Bulletin after your spectacularly ill-fated run of Oscar Wilde? Richard Troy quoted as saying he’d rather have his front teeth extracted with a rusty saw than work under Luc Savage’s direction again?”
Obviously, the woman wasn’t keen on her potential prize being snatched from under her nose; however, Lainie hadn’t lived with Richard for two years for nothing. She knew his body language, and with one snotty remark directed her way, he’d lost all interest in Belinda’s money-spinner. And he would probably be immovable.
He’d angled slightly away from the other director, dismissively, although his speech was suspiciously pleasant. “I believe I said rusty pliers.” He offloaded his empty glass onto a passing drink tray. “And it was a different body part.”
There was a sustained pause.
“I also,” Belinda continued eventually, and Lainie had to give her credit for not letting her gaze wander southward, “seem to recall rumours of some…loss of temper on the other side.”
“We’ve all been working in the industry for quite some time now. I’m sure we’re capable of putting aside personal differences for the sake of the art.” Luc continued to be a model of bland impassivity. “Some of us may have to try harder than others.”
Richard raised one lazy eyebrow. Really, it was like watching two lions that were happy to take casual swipes at one another but couldn’t quite be arsed moving from their staked-out territory.
It was probably fortunate they’d all come directly from their respective theatres and everyone was too knackered to get too barbed. Brawling at Claridge’s was frowned upon, and if Richard wasn’t going to pursue the role with Belinda’s company, Luc Savage was the next best bet for a high-profile part.
Belinda made a huffing noise and geared up for another passive-aggressive dig.
Lily looked from one opponent to the other, then directed a speaking glance at Lainie and lifted her own eyebrow in exaggerated imitation of the men. “Want to get out of the O.K. Corral and find more gin?”
A woman after her own heart.
Lainie followed Lily to the bar, where they ensconced themselves on a couple of stools, ordered another round of G&Ts, and swapped backstage gossip with increasing amusement and no shame whatsoever.
“Isn’t that your ex?” Lily asked, her words ever so slightly blurry as she peered through the crowd, and Lainie swung around to look. Too quickly. Her left butt cheek slipped off the stool.
“Yes,” she said, scooting back with great dignity and clinking the ice in her drink. She had a moment of doubt, and double-checked. It was Will. Few men used such excessive quantities of gel.
“Is that the girl from Babes in the Wood he’s fondling?”
Lainie eyed them without much interest. “Mm. And her twin.”
“Thank fuck for that.” Lily put down her empty glass. “I thought I was seeing double. I didn’t like to say.” She inclined her head towards Will and his lady friends. “Do you care?”
Lainie snorted inelegantly. “Please. I hope I’m going home shortly for an anniversary shag with Richard. What was that unbelievably sexist quote about steaks and hamburger?”
The potential anniversary shag was contingent on her still being conscious.
Regretfully, she declined the offer of another gin.
“As long as he’s got over the Othello thing,” she added out loud, continuing the heretofore silent commentary in her head.
Lily seemed to be thinking that one over. “I thought you were doing Much Ado.”
“We are. Onstage. But Richard seems to be enacting a character study in his personal life.”
Lily was impressively sharp for someone currently having problems with the letter ‘s’. “Jealous?”
Lainie started to answer, and then stopped, reality intruding through the day of irritation and the night’s booze buzz. In fact, far more clarity than she’d been able to manage earlier in the mutual overreaction of their argument. “Usually? No,” she said slowly. “No. He isn’t. Not unreasonably. He’s got this ultra-smooth and stealthy James Bond way of sending people packing if anyone crosses a line, but—we trust each other.”
Usually.
Lily rested her chin on her balled fist. Her black dress was glittering with scattered sequins under the lights, and the glint off her diamond ring could probably be seen from any circling space stations. “Except?”
“I don’t suppose you still watch Knightsbridge?”
“I didn’t when I was on it. I do now, to support Ash and see how your storylines are unfolding.” Lily’s expression lost most of its gin-induced confusion. “Ah,” she said. “Yeah. We’re referring to last night’s episode, I take it?”
Lainie winced.
“Well. Hmm.” Lily made a so-so gesture with her hand. “It was on the upper end of the racy scale, as Knightsbridge sex scenes go.”
And having played a character who’d banged a vicar and had a fake orgasm in a baptismal font, Lily spoke with some authority.
They’d shot last night’s scene months ago, and she hadn’t been looking forward to it airing. It was by far the steamiest scene she’d ever enacted.
She had kind of hoped Richard wouldn’t actually watch that episode. As fundamentally supportive as he was, despite his occasional scathing criticisms of the scripts she received, he had a low tolerance for managing to sit through entire hours of Knightsbridge.
Bad night to get a jolt of husbandly guilt and sit down with a pint.
She didn’t like shooting sex scenes at the best of times; they were weird, they were uncomfortable for all concerned, and to a certain extent it didn’t matter that it was only acting. She didn’t enjoy being in an intimate situation with another man; and Richard certainly didn’t enjoy witnessing it.
As a seasoned actor himself, he usually didn’t make too big a deal of it, but last night--
“There are a few writers on the show who’ll push your boundaries if they can.” Lily adjusted her position on her stool, crossing one leg over the other, and several men nearby literally stopped talking mid-conversation to stare. There were some aspects to being that attractive that must just be fucking annoying. “For what it’s worth, if Richard wasn’t too pleased about that scene, even if he overreacted, you might want to think about cutting him some slack. Luc’s directed dozens of intimate scenes; he knows how artificial it all is as well as Richard would, and he still has trouble watching re-runs of the show.” She tilted her head in wry acknowledgement. “And I’ve never really dated an actor, I’ve never been on the other side of it, so I have no personal experience, but— I can’t say I’d ever be thrilled about seeing the person I loved pretending to shag someone else. No matter how fake and horrendously unsexy it all is.”
Extremely fair and relatable point.
Lily tapped her supportively, and slightly tipsily, on the hand, and tried to see through the crowd. “I don’t hear any sounds of broken furniture, so I’m assuming that nobody is throwing punches over there.” She pinched her thumb and index finger close together. “I’m only fractionally disappointed. Your company aside—”
“These parties are a complete fucking bore.” Lainie was in total agreement with her on this entire conversation.
And feeling like she needed a sober, serious conversation with Richard as soon as possible.
She jumped when a hand touched her arm, and swivelled on the stool to look up into Richard’s face. His cool air had dissipated into a twitching nerve at the corner of his mouth.
Luc was standing by Lily, looking equally pissed off.
It was actually mind-boggling that both of them had survived that run of The Importance of Being Earnest with their careers, limbs and liberty intact.
She took Richard home before that situation altered and gave the throngs of press an even bigger thrill.
* * *
The gin buzz was well and truly gone by the time Lainie flopped onto their bed in the softly-lit, warm bedroom. Renewed post-show exhaustion had taken hold with a vengeance. She lifted one leg, made a feeble scrabble at the strap of her heel, and decided it was too much effort.
Richard came in, yanking his collar open, and scowled at the head of the bed. “You’ve got exactly ten seconds to remove your corpulent, fuzzy arse from my pillow, or it’s diet rations for the rest of the week.”
She yawned and closed her eyes. “FYI, if you’re talking to me, chances of sex just dwindled from most-likely-in-the-morning to enjoy-your-extra-arm-workout-this-month.”
Richard snorted and leaned over the bed, and she heard an outraged hiss as Cat Richard was prodded away from his comfy perch.
She cracked open one lid when her husband’s warm, solid weight found its own cosy resting place, as he plunked himself straight down on top of her. Bracketing his forearms on either side of her head, Richard dropped his face into the curve of her neck and released a long sigh. She hunched her shoulder at the tickle of his breath.
“Can I help you?” she asked politely, raising a languid arm. She rested her hand on the back of his head and scrunched his black curls between her fingers, feeling the little shudder of his taut muscles in response.
Big, bad, stroppy Richard Troy was a complete sucker for a head rub.
Despite the obvious beginning of an erection against her stomach, his kiss beneath her ear was affectionate, not suggestive.
“Well, make yourself useful, Tig,” he said into the tangled mess of her hair. “Give us a cuddle, then.”
She curled her arms around his neck, feeling the heavy prickle of his beard against her skin, and tucked teasing fingers down the back of his collar. Then, suddenly, she moved one arm to grip around his waist and hugged as tightly as she could.
“Hey,” he said softly, raising his head even as he brought his hand down to rub her arm. All teasing was gone from his voice. “Lainie.”
Lainie moved the arm that was still looped about his shoulders and touched her fingertips to his forehead. “I’m sorry,” she said, and he obviously realised she wasn’t apologising for crushing the breath out of him.
He looked down at her, eyes tired and slightly bloodshot, hair even more dishevelled than hers, angular jaw a shadow of beard and stubble. “No.” He lowered his head again and leaned his brow against hers. “I’m sorry. My behaviour at lunch was completely inappropriate. And unjustified.”
“Your comments about Danny, yes. Abso-bloody-lutely,” she returned bluntly. Not that she actually thought Richard in any way believed she’d been flirting with their co-star.
For one thing, Danny was playing Claudio, and was therefore indelibly associated in her mind with the spineless weasel he was portraying.
And for another, she didn’t flirt with other men.
He’d been out of line at lunch.
He grimaced.
But also exhausted and in a shocking mood, and — whatever some people thought — very human.
“But you had a right to feel how you felt about the scene last night.” She lifted both hands, pushing the curls away from his face. He needed a haircut once they left the Jacobean era. “It was a bit much—”
“You were doing your job, acting to a script—”
“It was too much,” she said again. “For you.” He dipped his head to one side in a quick, abrupt gesture that was almost awkward, for Richard. Perhaps disagreement, perhaps assent. It didn’t matter. “And if the situation had been reversed, I wouldn’t have been happy, either.” With her thumbs, she stroked his temples. “I’m going to get on to Carey about it for next season. I don’t want the writers to push the limits of what I’m — we’re comfortable with.”
Richard’s body stiffened against hers, and not in an interesting way. He lifted his head sharply. “Were you uncomfortable filming that scene? Why didn’t you tell me at the time?”
She shook her head. “No, it was okay. And before you charge off and start knocking heads together, I’m fully capable of standing up for my own rights, thanks. It was all very tactful and totally boring behind the scenes, and Ash was extremely respectful about the whole thing. But— I don’t care if we do this for a living, Richard. We still need to have boundaries. And I never want to do anything that genuinely bothers you.” She ran her thumb over his lips. “You’ve never taken on a role that you know would make me uncomfortable.”
Which was partly because he mostly got offered the bastards, who were too busy plotting and knifing people to get naked, but still.
He was very…protective of her happiness.
Their happiness.
And so was she.
“Dialling back on the intimate scenes,” she said firmly. She smiled up at him. “Hey, I’m starting to have a bit of clout, you know. I can make requests now, and my odds of being dropped like a hot brick have lowered to a very decent thirty-percent. I even got to be part of Rotation A last season.”
Smile lines appeared at the corners of his blue eyes. He smoothed back her own hair with a gentle hand. “Rotation A?”
“First turn in the catering truck.”
He kissed her cheek. “Big deal, is it?”
“There are five teenage boys in the cast. Anything lower than Rotation B and you’re shit out of luck for the pizza.” Lainie locked her hands behind his neck and tugged his mouth fully to hers.
“Scale of one to ten, Tig,” Richard murmured against her lips. “Exactly how tired are you?”
She responded by reaching down to tug open his belt buckle.
Cat Richard responded by flexing his claws and launching himself from the top of the dresser.
Target: the small of Richard’s back.
“For Christ’s sake.”
She inserted the tip of her little finger beneath a ribbon and pulled hard. The Jacobean corsetry, however, she could do without. Her 1920s costumes for Knightsbridge might be hellishly unflattering on anyone with hips, but they didn’t squeeze her internal organs.
A burst of laughter from the audience eased a fraction of the tension from her neck and back. When the crowd was having a good time, and was generous in showing it, the energy was infectious.
It was still surreal that she was standing here, surrounded by so much history that the walls seemed to resonate with words and nerves and ghosts.
She wasn’t kidding herself. She’d been offered this festival role so the public could pay to watch her publicly insult and snog her husband, not because the director had watched her jiggling through the Charleston on telly and been struck with the vision of his ideal Beatrice, but whatever. She hadn’t been about to turn down the most famous theatre in London. And Much Ado About Nothing was one of her favourite plays, so it checked off two career goals in one contract.
Although it might have been better if the production team had picked one of Shakespeare’s bloody, violent tragedies for the gala run. Pressing her palm against the wooden beam next to her, Lainie leaned her cheek against her hand and listened to the faint strains of the deep cadence of Richard’s voice. The butterfly wings beat harder.
He really was a brilliant actor.
Inspiring to every other performer on the stage.
Compelling to even the most fed-up, exhausted members of the audience, the ones who’d bought tickets when they’d been having a better day or had been dragged along by a keen loved one; either way, would now rather be at home in their pyjamas.
Sexy as fuck, to her, and probably to most Brits with good eyesight. Bonus points if they had conversely poor hearing, so weren’t aware of the sort of things that occasionally came out of his mouth when he wasn’t reciting razor-sharp funnies from the Bard.
Onstage, he was still in the heavy denial stage of Benedick’s unlikely journey to true love, when snotty witticisms and cynical pronouncements abounded. In other words, the phase of the play that wouldn’t require much stretch of his acting ability.
It would be a rare role that Richard couldn’t pick up, and inhabit, and breathe life into.
Having said that, there was always just the faintest off-note on these rare occasions when Richard agreed to dip a toe into rom-com territory. His face and general demeanour extended themselves a lot better to playing the sarcastic, saturnine villain than the reluctantly besotted swain. He was indecently handsome, but if you were casting a panto, you’d still take one look at him and consider the role of the hiss-boo Evil Baron filled, and look elsewhere for Prince Charming.
And quite frankly, on this particular night, she’d rather skip the sexually-charged banter and just insert a sword straight into her husband’s jugular.
“How’s the lacing?” Emily, one of the wardrobe team, stopped at her side to check the exuberant cascade of brocade that surrounded Lainie. “Blood still circulating? Lungs still inflating?”
“Just.” Lainie kept her voice similarly low. “Although as much as I enjoy occupying two metres of floor space and feeling like I’m wearing the Queen’s bedroom curtains, getting out of it at the end of the night magnifies the relief of taking your bra off after work by about a thousand.”
“No arguments here.” Emily straightened her skirts. “I got some naughty knickers to spice things up for my man’s birthday, and the fun ended at the corset. I think my ribs ended up somewhere around my clavicle. Happy anniversary, by the way. We were going to get flowers, but faced with the prospect of presenting Richard Troy with a bunch of hothouse daffs, every single assistant threatened to jump ship.” She inclined her head towards the stage. “I do come bearing a message from management.”
Judging by the wince, the management team were not passing along their own congratulations on two years of wedded bliss.
“I’m afraid to ask.” Lainie kept an eye on the electronic screen that was tracking progress on the stage; she had about four minutes until her next cue.
Emily cleared her throat. “I am requested to enquire, politely, as to whether you could please reconcile with your husband before tomorrow night’s performance. They do, and I quote, quite understand the temptation to get into a flaming row with Troy, and their sympathies are entirely with you. However, Richard is a total fucking nightmare when you two are on the outs, and he’s terrifying the interns.”
Richard wasn’t quite so…temperamentally difficult backstage these days, but when they genuinely lost their temper with one another at home — and it would probably astonish a number of people how infrequently that actually happened — she had been reliably informed that he was insufferable to work with. Impatient, irritable, a walking thundercloud.
Her sister-in-law had once said, over Friday night cocktails, that Lainie was like an anchor for Richard. He didn’t know how to handle being distanced from his main source of happiness, Sarah had gone on in an increasingly enthusiastic and drunken declaration. Which would have been more romantic and poetic if it hadn’t followed six Cosmopolitans and been interspersed with hiccups and giggles. It was a good thing Richard had been working that night; he’d have been nauseated into the following week.
It was pretty undeniable, however, that he didn’t handle their more blow-out spats well.
So he should just avoid the whole situation by not being a dickhead.
She heard his voice again.
“Marriage,” she said. “Ninety-five percent of the time, it’s loving someone so hard you’d take a bullet for them. Five percent, wondering if you were having some sort of breakdown when you voluntarily agreed to live with such a complete and utter cock.”
Emily snorted. “Happy marriage,” she said before she continued on through the wings. “I think that’s the definition of happy marriage.”
At her cue, Lainie returned to the stage, crossing paths with the cast member who’d just been verbally sparring with Richard. The man touched the back of his wrist to the sheen of sweat on his forehead. He looked as if he’d appreciate a stiff drink or six.
The wooden boards creaked beneath her feet as she walked, and the audience pressed in a circle around her, like spectators in the Colosseum. She almost expected to raise her eyes to the impassive face of a watching Emperor, waiting to turn his thumb down if she stumbled over her words; but the general atmosphere was relaxed, the crowd carried along into laughter as Richard exercised his comedy muscles, quirking an ironic eyebrow at them after a particularly sardonic line.
His intensely blue eyes locked on hers as Beatrice and Benedick continued dancing around each other, catching each barbed comment and throwing back another twice as charged. There was a gleam in that look that had nothing to do with the character.
A zing of electricity wrapped Lainie’s spine. She stood a little straighter, and let one brow rise slightly. The corner of Richard’s mouth, outlined in a fuller beard than usual, twitched. He was never a habitual shaver, and he was fully embracing the brief for this role.
Actually, she was quite enjoying having his unusually hairy face tucked against her shoulder through the nights. It was cosy. Like an adult-appropriate teddy bear.
The director for this play was adept at utilising body language. He’d choreographed a subtle sequence for them in the confrontation scenes where they circled one another, changing direction with abrupt steps, and never dropping the eye contact. It was as if they were dancing an Argentine tango, to only the rhythm of the dialogue, connected so strongly by the sexual sparks between them that it was irrelevant that they weren’t physically touching.
When they drew closer, Richard’s face so close that ingrained habit and muscle memory almost had her rising onto the balls of her feet to touch her cheek to his, his breath fanned her lips and she swallowed.
The audience was echoingly silent. The tension pressed in around her.
The very tips of Richard’s fingers brushed hers before the pattern of their steps pushed them apart again.
When he finally bent to “stop her mouth”, he laced a provocative edge of poor, long-suffering male into the line. Angling her head to mostly cover the action, she closed her teeth on his lower lip and tugged it sharply as they broke the kiss.
The glint of amusement in his saturnine face ignited into intense heat.
They got a standing ovation.
Back in their dressing room — the production staff had gleefully saved space by assuming that they’d rather get undressed in the same tiny box; usually true — Lainie’s dresser, a middle-aged woman who could give Richard lessons in the art of the silent, intimidating scowl, ruthlessly stripped her out of her costume. As the corset popped open, she took a deep breath and her stomach returned to its usual outward curve. It was almost orgasmic.
Speaking of orgasms--
It was their anniversary. It would be quite nice to have one. Or three. However, if Richard was still in the same mood, it was likely to be a solo one, in her own non-irritating company.
He came in while she was alone and trying to do up the zip on her new black dress. He was still in costume, and he really did do deliciously broad-shouldered, muscled-thigh things with frills and tights. He acted instinctively when he saw her bent forward, struggling to reach her arm up her back; his fingers brushed hers away from the zip and he pulled it smoothly up, his rougher skin tracing a fast, shivery line over the fine hairs on hers.
Their eyes met again, in the mirror, and she saw the tiny reflexive jerk of his body as he started to lower his mouth to her neck and then remembered that the last time they’d spoken off-script, she’d suggested that he…physically romance himself.
Expressed in mostly four-letter words.
He straightened stiffly. “How essential is it that we appear at this event?” He tugged open the billowing white shirt.
Lainie reached for her earrings, sweeping her hair aside to slip one on. Successful suppression of urge to play with the hair on his chest. “You need an opportunity to schmooze Belinda Miller, and you said this was the only time she’d be in London before December.”
Despite that, Richard had still wanted to give the party a miss and have an evening for just the two of them tonight; she was the one who’d accepted the invite and said they could have a private anniversary celebration the night after.
Belinda Miller was set to stage the biggest production of the season next summer, and Richard was being excessively restrained and blank-faced about the whole project, which meant that he really wanted it.
He pulled another white shirt from the wardrobe, this one sans lace. “Could you not put that particular inflection on the word ‘schmooze’?” His tone was faintly revolted. “It sounds highly questionable.” He lifted one dark brow at her as he flicked a comb through his hair. “And the only person I want to schmooze--” he mimicked her intonation exactly, “—is you.”
The comb clattered back onto the vanity, and she felt a wash of warmth through her stomach at the gruff undertone to those last two words.
Maybe they’d be celebrating tonight after all.
“Even when you spoil a perfectly mediocre lunch by flirting with other men.”
…And maybe they wouldn’t.
With an annoyed reflex, Lainie snapped the magnetic closure of the emerald necklace he’d given her last month for no reason at all, and almost caught the tip of her finger. “Look, Othello—”
Someone knocked on the door, and an assistant came in with a bunch of flowers from her family before she could tell the love of her life to piss right off with the unfounded commentary.
The assistant stage manager caught them on their way out, wanting a word about the final performances next week; and they were sharing a car to Claridge’s with Adrian Blair, the actor playing Don John, so it was probably fortunate for Richard that they didn’t get another moment alone before they got to the event. Especially after Adrian, who tended to react to post-show adrenaline by regressing to adolescence, nudged her in the ribs a few times while chuckling through an endless stream of borderline dirty jokes, and Richard reacted like a dragon clutching its hoard.
For God’s sake.
Husbands.
And for that matter, actors.
In fact, actor husbands. Double the trouble.
She curved her fingers under his hand and pried loose the firm grasp on her thigh.
“If you want to squeeze my leg just because,” she murmured in his ear as they walked the paparazzi barricade outside the hotel, inhaling a quick breath of his familiar cologne, “have at it. Feel free to go higher. But stop bloody posturing.” They had to stop at the security check, and she reached up to press the pad of her thumb against his firm chin. His head tipped down, and he looked into her eyes. “It’s annoying, and a complete waste of energy. Come on, Troy.” A small, genuine smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. “After that unforgettable turn in Grease, you ought to recognise when someone is hopelessly devoted.”
Richard grimaced at the teasing reference to his student outing as a slick-haired, leather-jacketed, hip-swivelling Danny Zuko, which her sister-in-law had dug out of the Oxford video archives, but she felt the built-up tension in his warm body start to release. “Never hopelessly, Tig.” The words were murmured into her ear.
She slipped her hand over his, and their fingers entwined.
She hated it as much as he did when they argued.
Inside the event, a well-known band was playing, and it was wall-to-wall famous faces. And a lotof boring small-talk. Fortunately, there was also a lot of booze. And the food was good. With a gin-and-tonic in one hand and a bite-sized cheesecake in the other, she navigated the minefield of former castmates, hopefully future castmates, influential producers, and nosy, lying press, and joined Richard again where he was talking to a tall, dark-haired woman with a clipped voice.
His arm went back around her waist, his touch stroking and arousing this time, as he introduced her to Belinda Miller.
Belinda made no pretence of politeness as she looked her up and down. “Oh,” she said. “Yes. You had a minor role in one of Bennett’s productions. What are you doing now? Television, is it?”
The derision in the other woman’s words made Richard’s reaction to Lainie’s TV ambitions look like an enthusiastic, ringing endorsement. She felt him stiffen at her side.
“Lainie was a principal in our run at the Metronome.” His own voice was glacial. She inwardly winced. She’d once rolled her eyes right around the room at his adept — she was a loving wife now; she hesitated to say smarmy — handling of useful, influential big-wigs, but there was a happy medium. He did want a job from this woman. Probably unlikely to be achieved if he followed through on his obvious inclination to sling her out the window by her hair like the Trunchbull. “And we’re currently doing the same festival stint.”
He sounded like a protective stage mother. She wasn’t sure whether to be more touched or embarrassed.
Embarrassment had the edge.
She shook her head slightly, touching her cheek to his shoulder. She sensed his quick look down at her, but he didn’t bother to modulate his tone. Surprising no one. “Before she goes back to Knightsbridge as a series regular.”
Nobody listening to this frosty conversation would guess that he still thought the period drama was a pile of melodramatic bullshit, not nearly good enough for her, and a symptom of everything that was wrong with modern Britain in its consistently sky-high ratings.
They’d had some really warm and fuzzy conversations on this topic.
It was a particularly sore point after last night’s episode.
Right now, however, he sounded like a card-carrying, DVD-buying fan as he kept talking about her accomplishments in a chilly drawl until he finally clued into why she was repeatedly nudging him in the kidney with her elbow.
Belinda was not looking on the verge of extending a contract offer.
Richard didn’t look like he gave a flying fuck.
They should probably have gone with his initial suggestion for tonight. A shared bath, a bottle of champagne, and a box of condoms.
A couple of unlikely saviours arrived then, to hopefully prevent any further alienation from a West End heavyweight.
Or, to potentially worsen his already fraught relationship with yet another of the Big Cheeses.
Lainie raised a hand at Lily Lamprey, former Knightsbridge bombshell, current theatrical hot property, who was holding hands with her husband, Luc Savage — top director, and emphatically not one of Richard’s admirers.
“Hi, Lily,” she said, with a lot more energy than she felt, trying to dial down the atmosphere from back-alley face-off to polite party talk. “Nice to see you. It’s been a while.”
Lily was a curvy platinum blonde, impossibly pretty, with very shrewd brown eyes that flicked from Luc’s polished, impassive face to Richard’s brooding features. “Too long,” she said, with the same level of desperately false cheer. They probably both had visions of their respective husbands throwing one another the length of the buffet table like a couple of bowling balls. “How are things on set? Steve still being a complete pain in the arse?”
Lainie remembered to check that her director wasn’t actually within earshot before she agreed. Lessons learned the awkward way.
“Luc.” Belinda Miller didn’t look any more pleased to see the new arrivals than she was with Richard.
One of the reasons why Lainie enjoyed theatre so much as a medium was the general camaraderie between cast, crew and management. It was usually one of the most supportive professional environments to work in.
This particular ensemble was not a good example.
“Belinda.” Luc’s deep voice was even, and almost polite. Which only made Belinda bristle more when he added, “Scouting for talent for the new show?”
She was probably silently furious at herself for letting him provoke her when she returned tightly, “Scouting? Hardly. I don’t think it’s any secret that this production is going to knock out box office records next year.”
Luc lazily flicked back the cuff of an immaculately pressed shirt to check his watch. “We’ll see,” was all he said, mildly.
For someone who wasn’t an actor, with just two words and an air of utter confidence he managed to conjure the image of a sword fighter raising his blade and touching it to his forehead in a brief salute.
May the best backstage-dictator win.
“What have you optioned for next year?” Belinda lifted one neatly shaped eyebrow, and accepted the silent challenge. “The new Alistair Glendenning script?”
“We’re still confirming the new season.” Luc looked totally at ease. His hand gently stroked the back of Lily’s head, before he reached down and tucked her fingers through the crook of his arm. Unexpectedly, he looked at Richard. “We’re sending a script to your agent. I think I have something you’ll want to consider.”
To his credit, Luc managed to suppress the despairing groan that could obviously have accompanied the words. They’d worked together in the past, and it was one of the biggest regrets of her career that she hadn’t witnessed that in person.
Richard and Luc had fundamentally different approaches to life with just enough personality points in common that they disliked each other immensely. The potential for entertainment was endless.
She tapped her fingers lightly against Richard’s stomach, momentarily diverted.
Do it, do it.
Studying Luc for a moment without expression, Richard started rubbing his thumb in contemplative circles over the swell of her hip, which had the effect of directing her attention back to her increasing impatience with this fail of a party. They should have brought their own car; it would be even easier to just leave.
And if they made up properly, maybe go do things in the Ferrari that would make Richard lecture her on proper care for leather seats, with the lazy, satisfied grin that made him so handsome her heart hurt.
Belinda snorted suddenly. “What was that rather striking line in the Bulletin after your spectacularly ill-fated run of Oscar Wilde? Richard Troy quoted as saying he’d rather have his front teeth extracted with a rusty saw than work under Luc Savage’s direction again?”
Obviously, the woman wasn’t keen on her potential prize being snatched from under her nose; however, Lainie hadn’t lived with Richard for two years for nothing. She knew his body language, and with one snotty remark directed her way, he’d lost all interest in Belinda’s money-spinner. And he would probably be immovable.
He’d angled slightly away from the other director, dismissively, although his speech was suspiciously pleasant. “I believe I said rusty pliers.” He offloaded his empty glass onto a passing drink tray. “And it was a different body part.”
There was a sustained pause.
“I also,” Belinda continued eventually, and Lainie had to give her credit for not letting her gaze wander southward, “seem to recall rumours of some…loss of temper on the other side.”
“We’ve all been working in the industry for quite some time now. I’m sure we’re capable of putting aside personal differences for the sake of the art.” Luc continued to be a model of bland impassivity. “Some of us may have to try harder than others.”
Richard raised one lazy eyebrow. Really, it was like watching two lions that were happy to take casual swipes at one another but couldn’t quite be arsed moving from their staked-out territory.
It was probably fortunate they’d all come directly from their respective theatres and everyone was too knackered to get too barbed. Brawling at Claridge’s was frowned upon, and if Richard wasn’t going to pursue the role with Belinda’s company, Luc Savage was the next best bet for a high-profile part.
Belinda made a huffing noise and geared up for another passive-aggressive dig.
Lily looked from one opponent to the other, then directed a speaking glance at Lainie and lifted her own eyebrow in exaggerated imitation of the men. “Want to get out of the O.K. Corral and find more gin?”
A woman after her own heart.
Lainie followed Lily to the bar, where they ensconced themselves on a couple of stools, ordered another round of G&Ts, and swapped backstage gossip with increasing amusement and no shame whatsoever.
“Isn’t that your ex?” Lily asked, her words ever so slightly blurry as she peered through the crowd, and Lainie swung around to look. Too quickly. Her left butt cheek slipped off the stool.
“Yes,” she said, scooting back with great dignity and clinking the ice in her drink. She had a moment of doubt, and double-checked. It was Will. Few men used such excessive quantities of gel.
“Is that the girl from Babes in the Wood he’s fondling?”
Lainie eyed them without much interest. “Mm. And her twin.”
“Thank fuck for that.” Lily put down her empty glass. “I thought I was seeing double. I didn’t like to say.” She inclined her head towards Will and his lady friends. “Do you care?”
Lainie snorted inelegantly. “Please. I hope I’m going home shortly for an anniversary shag with Richard. What was that unbelievably sexist quote about steaks and hamburger?”
The potential anniversary shag was contingent on her still being conscious.
Regretfully, she declined the offer of another gin.
“As long as he’s got over the Othello thing,” she added out loud, continuing the heretofore silent commentary in her head.
Lily seemed to be thinking that one over. “I thought you were doing Much Ado.”
“We are. Onstage. But Richard seems to be enacting a character study in his personal life.”
Lily was impressively sharp for someone currently having problems with the letter ‘s’. “Jealous?”
Lainie started to answer, and then stopped, reality intruding through the day of irritation and the night’s booze buzz. In fact, far more clarity than she’d been able to manage earlier in the mutual overreaction of their argument. “Usually? No,” she said slowly. “No. He isn’t. Not unreasonably. He’s got this ultra-smooth and stealthy James Bond way of sending people packing if anyone crosses a line, but—we trust each other.”
Usually.
Lily rested her chin on her balled fist. Her black dress was glittering with scattered sequins under the lights, and the glint off her diamond ring could probably be seen from any circling space stations. “Except?”
“I don’t suppose you still watch Knightsbridge?”
“I didn’t when I was on it. I do now, to support Ash and see how your storylines are unfolding.” Lily’s expression lost most of its gin-induced confusion. “Ah,” she said. “Yeah. We’re referring to last night’s episode, I take it?”
Lainie winced.
“Well. Hmm.” Lily made a so-so gesture with her hand. “It was on the upper end of the racy scale, as Knightsbridge sex scenes go.”
And having played a character who’d banged a vicar and had a fake orgasm in a baptismal font, Lily spoke with some authority.
They’d shot last night’s scene months ago, and she hadn’t been looking forward to it airing. It was by far the steamiest scene she’d ever enacted.
She had kind of hoped Richard wouldn’t actually watch that episode. As fundamentally supportive as he was, despite his occasional scathing criticisms of the scripts she received, he had a low tolerance for managing to sit through entire hours of Knightsbridge.
Bad night to get a jolt of husbandly guilt and sit down with a pint.
She didn’t like shooting sex scenes at the best of times; they were weird, they were uncomfortable for all concerned, and to a certain extent it didn’t matter that it was only acting. She didn’t enjoy being in an intimate situation with another man; and Richard certainly didn’t enjoy witnessing it.
As a seasoned actor himself, he usually didn’t make too big a deal of it, but last night--
“There are a few writers on the show who’ll push your boundaries if they can.” Lily adjusted her position on her stool, crossing one leg over the other, and several men nearby literally stopped talking mid-conversation to stare. There were some aspects to being that attractive that must just be fucking annoying. “For what it’s worth, if Richard wasn’t too pleased about that scene, even if he overreacted, you might want to think about cutting him some slack. Luc’s directed dozens of intimate scenes; he knows how artificial it all is as well as Richard would, and he still has trouble watching re-runs of the show.” She tilted her head in wry acknowledgement. “And I’ve never really dated an actor, I’ve never been on the other side of it, so I have no personal experience, but— I can’t say I’d ever be thrilled about seeing the person I loved pretending to shag someone else. No matter how fake and horrendously unsexy it all is.”
Extremely fair and relatable point.
Lily tapped her supportively, and slightly tipsily, on the hand, and tried to see through the crowd. “I don’t hear any sounds of broken furniture, so I’m assuming that nobody is throwing punches over there.” She pinched her thumb and index finger close together. “I’m only fractionally disappointed. Your company aside—”
“These parties are a complete fucking bore.” Lainie was in total agreement with her on this entire conversation.
And feeling like she needed a sober, serious conversation with Richard as soon as possible.
She jumped when a hand touched her arm, and swivelled on the stool to look up into Richard’s face. His cool air had dissipated into a twitching nerve at the corner of his mouth.
Luc was standing by Lily, looking equally pissed off.
It was actually mind-boggling that both of them had survived that run of The Importance of Being Earnest with their careers, limbs and liberty intact.
She took Richard home before that situation altered and gave the throngs of press an even bigger thrill.
* * *
The gin buzz was well and truly gone by the time Lainie flopped onto their bed in the softly-lit, warm bedroom. Renewed post-show exhaustion had taken hold with a vengeance. She lifted one leg, made a feeble scrabble at the strap of her heel, and decided it was too much effort.
Richard came in, yanking his collar open, and scowled at the head of the bed. “You’ve got exactly ten seconds to remove your corpulent, fuzzy arse from my pillow, or it’s diet rations for the rest of the week.”
She yawned and closed her eyes. “FYI, if you’re talking to me, chances of sex just dwindled from most-likely-in-the-morning to enjoy-your-extra-arm-workout-this-month.”
Richard snorted and leaned over the bed, and she heard an outraged hiss as Cat Richard was prodded away from his comfy perch.
She cracked open one lid when her husband’s warm, solid weight found its own cosy resting place, as he plunked himself straight down on top of her. Bracketing his forearms on either side of her head, Richard dropped his face into the curve of her neck and released a long sigh. She hunched her shoulder at the tickle of his breath.
“Can I help you?” she asked politely, raising a languid arm. She rested her hand on the back of his head and scrunched his black curls between her fingers, feeling the little shudder of his taut muscles in response.
Big, bad, stroppy Richard Troy was a complete sucker for a head rub.
Despite the obvious beginning of an erection against her stomach, his kiss beneath her ear was affectionate, not suggestive.
“Well, make yourself useful, Tig,” he said into the tangled mess of her hair. “Give us a cuddle, then.”
She curled her arms around his neck, feeling the heavy prickle of his beard against her skin, and tucked teasing fingers down the back of his collar. Then, suddenly, she moved one arm to grip around his waist and hugged as tightly as she could.
“Hey,” he said softly, raising his head even as he brought his hand down to rub her arm. All teasing was gone from his voice. “Lainie.”
Lainie moved the arm that was still looped about his shoulders and touched her fingertips to his forehead. “I’m sorry,” she said, and he obviously realised she wasn’t apologising for crushing the breath out of him.
He looked down at her, eyes tired and slightly bloodshot, hair even more dishevelled than hers, angular jaw a shadow of beard and stubble. “No.” He lowered his head again and leaned his brow against hers. “I’m sorry. My behaviour at lunch was completely inappropriate. And unjustified.”
“Your comments about Danny, yes. Abso-bloody-lutely,” she returned bluntly. Not that she actually thought Richard in any way believed she’d been flirting with their co-star.
For one thing, Danny was playing Claudio, and was therefore indelibly associated in her mind with the spineless weasel he was portraying.
And for another, she didn’t flirt with other men.
He’d been out of line at lunch.
He grimaced.
But also exhausted and in a shocking mood, and — whatever some people thought — very human.
“But you had a right to feel how you felt about the scene last night.” She lifted both hands, pushing the curls away from his face. He needed a haircut once they left the Jacobean era. “It was a bit much—”
“You were doing your job, acting to a script—”
“It was too much,” she said again. “For you.” He dipped his head to one side in a quick, abrupt gesture that was almost awkward, for Richard. Perhaps disagreement, perhaps assent. It didn’t matter. “And if the situation had been reversed, I wouldn’t have been happy, either.” With her thumbs, she stroked his temples. “I’m going to get on to Carey about it for next season. I don’t want the writers to push the limits of what I’m — we’re comfortable with.”
Richard’s body stiffened against hers, and not in an interesting way. He lifted his head sharply. “Were you uncomfortable filming that scene? Why didn’t you tell me at the time?”
She shook her head. “No, it was okay. And before you charge off and start knocking heads together, I’m fully capable of standing up for my own rights, thanks. It was all very tactful and totally boring behind the scenes, and Ash was extremely respectful about the whole thing. But— I don’t care if we do this for a living, Richard. We still need to have boundaries. And I never want to do anything that genuinely bothers you.” She ran her thumb over his lips. “You’ve never taken on a role that you know would make me uncomfortable.”
Which was partly because he mostly got offered the bastards, who were too busy plotting and knifing people to get naked, but still.
He was very…protective of her happiness.
Their happiness.
And so was she.
“Dialling back on the intimate scenes,” she said firmly. She smiled up at him. “Hey, I’m starting to have a bit of clout, you know. I can make requests now, and my odds of being dropped like a hot brick have lowered to a very decent thirty-percent. I even got to be part of Rotation A last season.”
Smile lines appeared at the corners of his blue eyes. He smoothed back her own hair with a gentle hand. “Rotation A?”
“First turn in the catering truck.”
He kissed her cheek. “Big deal, is it?”
“There are five teenage boys in the cast. Anything lower than Rotation B and you’re shit out of luck for the pizza.” Lainie locked her hands behind his neck and tugged his mouth fully to hers.
“Scale of one to ten, Tig,” Richard murmured against her lips. “Exactly how tired are you?”
She responded by reaching down to tug open his belt buckle.
Cat Richard responded by flexing his claws and launching himself from the top of the dresser.
Target: the small of Richard’s back.
“For Christ’s sake.”