Theirs by Chance

by Karen Ann Dell

  No. But scary as hell.

  Marjorie injected all the sweet reason she could scrape together into her voice. “We are not in the desert. We are in Blue Point Cove, Maryland, and we are in the middle of a thunderstorm.” Thunder punctuated her statement with a rolling blast of sound that lasted at least three seconds. Thank you, Mother Nature.

  The first shadow of doubt flickered across his face. Lance glanced toward the window, then back at her. She nodded vigorously. “It’s true. Go. See for yourself.” She willed him to walk to the window. “I won’t move an inch. Girl Scout’s honor.” That got her a hard glare. “I’d cross my heart if you’d just let go of my wrists.” Oops. Note to self. Mr. Hyde is not fond of smart-ass remarks. She heaved her own sigh of annoyance. “Where would I go?”

  He hung on to her wrists and dragged her upright as he stood, then marched her over to the window. He jerked the curtain aside and the heavens obliged with a forked spear of lightning. The backyard swam into view through the rain. He stared out the window for a good fifteen seconds until the next flash of light and burst of sound made him shake his head. Then he dropped the curtain and let go of her wrists. “I’m . . . sorry. I . . .”

  You’re sorry? I’m surprised I don’t need a change of underwear. Or two fingers of brandy, at least. She ran her tongue, still dry as dust, across her bottom lip.

  She reached up and brushed her fingers across his biceps where the thorny ink of his tribal tattoo circled it. His entire body appeared slicked with sweat. When he finally met her gaze, she sighed. Dr. Jekyll was back. Thank you, God. “It’s okay. Really.”

  “No. It’s not.” Lance scrubbed a hand over his face, then ran it through his hair. “Did I hurt you?”

  Yes. “No.” She’d been unconsciously rubbing her wrists. They would be bruised tomorrow. Damn. She didn’t want him to feel any worse than he already did.

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “You’ve got a good, strong grip, Lance. But I’ve been through worse.” Much worse. “So don’t worry about it.”

  Thankfully the storm finally seemed to be heading out over the bay. The spaced-out peals of thunder were not so deafening, although the rain continued in a steady downpour. She should have brought an umbrella.

  He must keep the air-conditioning cranked up to arctic, because even though the power had been off for thirty minutes, the room was still ice cold. Or maybe freezing was the temperature of terror.

  Once again, his attention centered on her wet clothes. Noticeably the upper half of her clothes. Her sodden gauze top was nearly transparent. She shivered again. This time more from the heat in his eyes than the chill of her drenched clothing. Her long, flowing skirt clung to her thighs, and she tried to pull it away with trembling fingers.

  “Wait. Let me get you a towel.” He bolted for the bathroom and came back with two. “One’s for your hair.”

  “Thank you.” Her mouth tipped up at the corners. “You’re very kind.”

  Lance rolled his eyes. “Oh yeah. That’s me. Just call me Saint Lance.”

  Her mouth stretched into a grin. “Hmm, maybe I’ll call you Sir Lance . . . a lot.”

  He scoffed. “Don’t. I’m not feeling particularly knightly right now.” He scanned the room, then dropped to the floor to retrieve her flashlight. He stood it upright on his nightstand. The light bounced off the ceiling and dispelled most of the shadows. While she towel-dried her hair, he made a half-hearted attempt to straighten the bed, then glanced over at her and stopped. “Sorry. This place is a mess.”

  It was neat as a pin. Except for the disturbed bed linens.

  “I was taking a nap when the storm rolled in, and I guess that’s . . .”

  “What triggered your flashback?”

  He just closed his eyes and nodded.

  “Are you okay, now?”

  “Yeah.”

  Marjorie stood holding the two damp towels. She didn’t really want to run out into the rain again, but it seemed like an imposition to stay. “I’ll just hang these in the bathroom and get out of your way.”

  “You’re not in my way.” He came over and took the towels.

  Now she had nothing to do with her hands. She pushed her hair back over her shoulders. As it dried, her curls had come back with a vengeance.

  He took the towels to his bathroom, and from the safety of invisibility, he said, “You look different tonight.”

  She glanced down at herself. Much like a drowned rat. Or maybe, considering my hair, more like a drowned poodle. She always wore fluttery, loose fabrics that tended to add a few pounds. It was part of her disguise. Thanks to the rain, there was no fluttering going on right now, other than the bats and butterflies fighting for room in her stomach. Her wet clothing outlined her body quite handily.

  Lance came back into the room. “Smaller.”

  Was that polite speak for thinner? Not so fat? She felt her lips twitching into a smile. She couldn’t help herself. No doubt the hysteria was another result of her panic. “Shorter, you mean?” She was five-seven, but he still towered over her. She’d never seen this much of his skin. That wicked tattoo around his left biceps accentuated its size. Until now she had only imagined the beautifully defined musculature of his shoulders and abdomen. He was well-built but not heavy with overdeveloped muscles. Strength tempered with flexibility.

  He closed the distance and invaded her personal space. Marjorie managed not to back up. She could feel the warmth pouring off his body through her damp clothes. No wonder he keeps the A/C on frigid. He radiates heat like a furnace. His eyes were a remarkable color up close. Light brown shot through with moss green. She felt her cheeks get warm. Other places, too. Oh, boy. She needed to get out of here.

  “No, not shorter. More slender. More . . . delicate.” He tucked a springy curl behind her ear and tilted her chin up so his lips were almost on hers. “Those clothes you wear are camouflage, aren’t they?”

  Yes. She shook her head. “No.”

  “I don’t know why you hide. I like the real you better,” he whispered and closed his mouth over hers.

  Lance knew he had absolutely no business kissing this woman.

  His lust had gradually increased over the past four months. He’d fought against it. Tried to drown it in countless cold showers. Worked himself into exhaustion on his Bowflex just to gain a few hours of sleep. It was no damn good, though. She followed him into his dreams and allowed him to do outrageous things to her lush body, sighing her pleasure at his every touch.

  He had to stop kissing her. She tasted like mint tea and honey, and her lips were unbelievably soft.

  But he had to stop.

  Right now.

  His muscles appeared completely capable of ignoring the dictates of his conscience.

  She was his landlady, after all. She was kind, thoughtful and treated him with respect while she teased him gently about his military mannerisms. She’d taken him in—even after he explained about his PTSD—and given him exactly the kind of space he needed. She gave up the spacious one room and bath apartment she had been remodeling for herself without a qualm. No neighbors close enough to be frightened by his occasional flashbacks. A safe haven for one messed-up guy.

  When the inn was full, she still saved breakfast for him. He couldn’t bring himself to join her guests in the dining room, so she left a plate on the kitchen counter close enough to the back door that he could snag it without coming all the way inside. He suspected the heaping plate was not the actual leftovers she claimed, so in return for the meals, he helped around the place with things she couldn’t handle by herself. Mostly anything that required a ladder. Marjorie wasn’t good with heights.

  He’d taken down, painted, and rehung the shutters on the upstairs windows, changed the light bulbs in the ten-foot-high ceiling fixtures in the parlor and d
ining rooms. He’d repainted all the gingerbread that dripped from the eaves of her thirty-year-old Victorian mansion like the icing on a wedding cake for the Mad Hatter’s tea party.

  Tonight she’d run through the rain to bring him a flashlight because the power was out. As a reward, he’d scared her badly and no doubt hurt her, too.

  Yet now she was letting him kiss her.

  She hadn’t slapped him or pushed him away . . .

  She hadn’t thrown her arms around him either. Maybe she was afraid to reject him. Afraid that might make him mad. Or crazy. Or both. He broke the kiss and stepped back.

  Her brown eyes were round with surprise. That he’d stopped? Or that he’d been brazen enough to kiss her in the first place? Was that a flicker of regret in her eyes? Yeah, right. What woman wouldn’t want to make out with the man who’d nearly strangled her? His wishful thinking had him seeing things. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “It’s fine.” She cleared her throat, no doubt trying to erase the hoarseness his chokehold caused. “I still don’t know a lot about PTSD, but I can only imagine that after a flashback like that, you have to be a little . . . off balance. You don’t need to keep apologizing.” Her mouth twitched. “Next time the power’s out, I’m leaving you in the dark.”

  She tried to lighten the tension but . . . “Yeah, that would probably be best.” He never wanted to scare her like that again. Especially after she’d trusted him enough to give him a key to the inn. Maybe living here wasn’t such a good idea.

  She fidgeted. “Well, I’d better be going back.”

  “Don’t.”

  That stopped the fidgeting. She blinked like an owl in bright daylight.

  “Wait until the rain stops. You just got dried off.” Well, sort of.

  Damn. What was the matter with him? Just shut the fuck up and let her run back to the safety of the big house. Safer for her. Safer for both of them.

  That gauze top still clung to her like a second skin and gave him a good view of the pink bra that barely contained her generous breasts. He’d need three hours on the damn Bowflex in the morning before he’d get any sleep at all. He brought his gaze back to her face. She had the pale, creamy skin sprinkled with freckles that he always associated with redheads, but her hair was light brown with long springy curls that he itched to bury his hands in. Her mouth was wide and full-lipped and now he knew just how soft those lips were . . .

  He racked his brain desperately for something to distract him from cataloging all of her charms. “Do you play cards? Gin? Cribbage?” He gestured to the game of solitaire laid out on the table. He was taking a course in audio engineering and another in program management. When he took a break from studying he played solitaire.

  “I do. A little gin rummy, a little poker, but why don’t we save that for another time? Won’t you need to get ready for work soon?”

  He still had an hour before he needed to shower and change, but that wasn’t the point. She was uncomfortable and wanted some distance. He didn’t blame her. “Yeah.” He gestured toward the window. “I don’t have an umbrella, though.”

  Marjorie went over and pushed the curtain back. “The rain’s slowed down a good bit, and the lightning seems to have moved on, too.” She glanced down at herself, then over her shoulder at him. Mischief danced in her brown eyes. “I’m not too worried about getting my clothes wet.”

  It was his turn to be surprised. She could dredge up some humor after his behavior for the past half-hour? Most women would have told him to pack his shit and get the hell out.

  He couldn’t figure her out. She seemed friendly and open most of the time, but he always sensed a certain reserve in her. An invisible curtain behind which the real Marjorie watched the world around her with caution and played a role so well-rehearsed she never forgot her lines.

  He’d bet this woman was full of surprises.

  And, now that he’d kissed her, he intended to find out all about them.

  Chapter 7

  Marjorie climbed the stairs to the third floor and unlocked the door to her sanctuary. There were currently no guests in residence, so she needn’t have locked it, but the habit was ingrained by now. She stripped off her wet clothes and donned a pair of yoga pants and a threadbare T-shirt voluminous enough to once again hide her torso from neck to knees. A faint bruise shadowed the right side of her neck. It was not particularly noticeable, but she’d take no chances and wear a scarf around her neck tomorrow when she went out. A glance at her wrists told her those bruises would be much more obvious.

  She gingerly rubbed her wrists, remembering the strength of Lance’s grip as he hauled her up from the floor. He could easily have broken her wrists, yet even in the throes of his flashback, he’d kept a leash on his anger. She’d like to find out where his dog fit into those disturbing memories. Maybe she could ask Chris Majewski, but no doubt that topic fell under the umbrella of patient confidentiality.

  When Lance helped her out around the B and B he was always alert, yet still quiet and soft-spoken. Tonight’s episode reminded her that his polite, reserved demeanor hid a whole other side of his personality. She huffed out a breath. Look who’s talking, woman. Keeping your bruises hidden when you go by the gallery tomorrow will only be one more layer to your usual camouflage. Long sleeves and lots of bangle bracelets ought to do it, and she generally wore them anyway. Satisfied she wouldn’t have to answer any questions tomorrow, Marjorie headed downstairs to put on the kettle and make some tea.

  The soft light from the oil lamp on the kitchen table was comforting as she moved around the room to fill the teakettle and get her favorite cup and saucer from the cabinet next to the sink. This was the first time in the two years she’d lived here that the power had gone out. Since she hadn’t thought about, or planned for, a contingency like this, she was glad it hadn’t happened when she had guests.

  In June, she had Amanda’s mom and step-dad for two weeks while she and Dev made hasty plans for their wedding. Dev’s folks had arrived the following week, and between having them as guests and preparing for a casual reception, Marjorie was one busy lady. They’d wanted simple and quiet, but the employees at Dev’s radio station weren’t about to be left out of the celebration, so Marjorie hosted a barbecue out back with Lance manning the grill and Zoe providing the decorations.

  This past week was the Fourth of July holiday week, and all her rooms had been booked. She’d been lucky this storm had hit in the middle of the week when she had no guests in residence. Thank goodness she had a gas stove, she mused, as she poured the hot water into the teapot. If the power stayed off for an extended period, she could at least cook for her guests. Tonight gave her a warning she’d not ignore, so she took a notepad and pencil from her desk to make a list. Oil lamps, matches, flashlights, and batteries, enough for each guest room. Battery-powered radios with weather alert capabilities. Spare charged batteries with USB adapters for those guests who couldn’t bear to be without their cell phones.

  Mental images of Lance kept inserting themselves above her notepad. His incredible body, with its taut muscles sculpted so perfectly she wished she could have traced them with her fingertips. As it was, her back still tingled where he had held her against him. She sipped her tea and tried to ignore the sensation.

  The saucer rattled as she set her empty cup in it. She clasped her trembling hands together and pressed them between her knees. That little episode with Lance had loosened the lid on the ugly memories she kept locked away.

  She jumped as the overhead light suddenly came on and bathed the kitchen in harsh light. Five seconds later, she heard the compressor on the air-conditioner wind up and felt cool air sift through the overhead vent. She peeked out the back window again and thought she saw the corner of the curtain on Lance’s window fall back into place. Could he have been watching her?

  Yeah
, you wish, Matthews. She touched her fingers to her lips, bringing back the feel of his mouth on hers. He had surprised the crap out of her with that kiss, and she didn’t know how to respond. Luckily he backed off before she lost her mind and threw her arms around his neck.

  She turned off the overhead light, poured herself another cup of tea, and returned to her list-making by the softer glow of the oil lamp. The dim light made her feel less . . . vulnerable.

  She’d need to get groceries tomorrow. Three couples would arrive on Thursday to take advantage of her post-holiday special—three nights and three breakfasts for the price of two. There was always a lag the week after a big holiday, and she used her specials to entice more guests and fill up the inn. Blue Point Cove wasn’t a well-known tourist destination, although they did see an increase in traffic as the cottages along the bay filled with vacationers. She suspected Zoe’s plans to attract more artists to the town would up the tourist trade, too.

  She read down the list. Since there would be no guests until Thursday, maybe she should offer to share dinner with Lance a couple of evenings before he left for work.

  I can be the thoughtful landlady. He’ll never guess there’s a lustful, sex-starved female lurking inside. As long as he can’t check my pulse, I can pull it off.

  She added two more rib-eyes and some chicken breasts to the list.

  Marjorie sailed through the gallery door, bangle bracelets chiming, a sheer scarf fluttering around her neck, an armful of bakery boxes in one hand, and her jewelry bag in the other. Her plan was to get in and out of the gallery as quickly as possible while she dropped off her wares. The less time she spent under Zoe’s eagle eyes, the better. If all else failed, she planned to use Olivia’s delicious delicacies as a distraction. Hopefully Zoe wouldn’t even notice the marks left by Lance’s strong hands the other night.