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stature, which was also generous in all the right places.
    Many years of training in the art of handling women were the only things that prevented Michael from turning his back completely on Rachel and shining the full rays of his charm on this new one. To some men, the redhead might have seemed spartan and overgrown. Michael had other ideas. She seemed robust and strong—traits never to be overlooked in someone who might be willing to grapple in the nude.
    “It’s only wasting time if you aren’t enjoying it,” Michael said with a grin and a wide wink in Rachel’s direction. “And I’m enjoying myself immensely.”
    Rachel let out a little giggle at his words, obviously pleased, but the redhead scowled. There was a curl to her lips, and her eyes—a strangely iridescent gray—flashed. His heart picked up a beat as he looked her over again. Where had he seen those eyes before?
    “I’ll bet you are,” the redhead muttered. “Let me guess—when one door slams in your face, another one spreads itself open?”
    “Have you two ladies met?” Michael interposed smoothly. He might not know exactly what kind of sticks were up the asses of all these theater women, but he could at least put a stop to things before they pulled them out and started beating one another. “This is Rachel Hewitt, and I don’t believe—”
    “Don’t be a moron,” the redhead said, crossing her arms over her chest and glowering. “Of course we know each other. You’re the one crashing our cast party, unwanted and uninvited. Not Jillian. She’s been working the lights for years.”
    Michael’s head spun a little, but it didn’t have a chance to do more than one or two whirls before the redhead—Rachel? Not Rachel?—let out a low laugh and turned her mercenary stare on the brunette—Jillian? Not Jillian?
    Not good. That’s what this was.
    “Don’t be too flattered, Jillian. He tried that same smile-and-charm routine with me back at the Odyssey. I guess when I turned him down, he moved on to the next warm body.”
    Correction. Bad. This was very, very bad.
    “Ladies, please.” Michael put his hands up in full surrender and plastered a smile on his face. “There’s more than enough of me to go around. I’m a very substantial man.”
    Both of them turned on him, scowls on their once so promising faces. Wasn’t it Shakespeare who said that bit about a woman scorned?
    “I’m also a very good sharer,” he added.
    “Larson!” Rachel’s shout was loud and final, piercing his heart but not the stirring underneath his kilt. That woman had volume. Michael had always admired a strong pair of…lungs.
    “Larson, get this brute out of the party. He’s preying on the female staff.”
    For the second time in one evening, Michael found himself confronting the hundred-pound usher, his cummerbund replaced with a Mario T-shirt that looked much closer to his actual size. The look of stark fear on his face was the same, though, terror in the white skin with illuminated bursts of teenage acne smattered across his forehead.  
    Unable to help himself, Michael widened his stance and crossed his arms. It was his menacing look. He liked it.
    “Um, Miss Hewitt? Can’t you just get one of the other guys to kick him out?”
    “For crying out loud. This is what you do for a living—just get him out of my sight and make sure he doesn’t try to sneak back in. Do you want to be the one responsible for all the roofies he’s probably slipping into the punch?”
    Great. In addition to a mule and a pig, he was now a rapist. What kind of brownies had Peterson been eating, begging him to take on this woman? He liked a challenge, but this Rachel character was a hell of a lot more than that. She was a lunatic.  
    “Actually, Ms. Hewitt, I mostly help people find their seats,” the usher squeaked. “I’m not qualified for this.”
    “Get him out of here, or you won’t be qualified to do anything remotely connected with the theater ever