Within This Frame (13 page)

Frowning at the remains of the onion lying on the counter, Maggie grabbed the knife and chopped up the rest of it.

“My face is burning,” Lance commented a few minutes later, rubbing his cheek against his shoulder as he worked.

So was hers, but not because an onion had been mashed against it. It was the guy in the room with her—the sound of his voice, the way he looked at her, the power he exuded merely by being. Even as Maggie smiled at him, she knew she was in trouble.

LANCE—1996

S
INCE THE NIGHT
of his embarrassing erection and the viewing of ‘Nightmare on Elm Street’ some months back, he and Maggie had fallen into a friendly, if somewhat reserved, association. Lance fought it at first, but it soon became clear that Maggie would not be anything other than a friend to him. She distanced herself, having excuses any time he asked her to do something, and he finally allowed it. He found a diversion in the form of Anne York, an eighteen-year-old model who was visiting relatives in Virginia for the fall.

‘Easier Said’ debuted in August and ratings for the show were promising. The show was picked up by a prominent network and if ratings continued to climb, a second season was guaranteed. It was nearing the middle of October and things were looking good for the cast and crew of the show.

Grin in place, Lance climbed the stairs to reach the bedroom used as Cecilia’s in the show, knowing Maggie was inside. He knocked on the door, and at the sound of her voice, opened it and entered the girlish space. The interior of it was all wrong for Maggie—frills and lace and colors of cream and white. It worked for Cecilia, but it was too soft for the girl who played her.

Maggie fiddled with her hair as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. She scowled and dropped her hands, turning to face him. “I hate wavy hair,” she mumbled.

Over the months he’d known her, she’d transformed from a soft, awkward girl into a slim, graceful young woman. She’d had her sixteenth birthday, bringing her to the same age as him for a brief three weeks before he had his own and was once again a year older than Maggie. She didn’t have her driver’s license yet, waiting to take the test when she was home again.

Lance had given her an ‘M’ keychain in pink sparkles for when she passed her driver’s test and got her first set of car keys. Maggie had given him a shirt that said ‘Legend Status’.

“I like your hair.”

Maggie shot him a look full of doubt, and he shrugged.

“What’s up?” She turned to stack what looked like hundreds of pieces of papers in order. They were show scripts, he knew.

Lance sprawled out his long body on the bed and let his head drop back as he closed his eyes. In spite of his speeding pulse, he kept his tone neutral as he said, “Herman insists we do the kissing scene before the end of the week.”

When there was no response, he lifted his head and opened one eye. Maggie had gone pale, throat bobbing as she tried to swallow. She shifted her eyes to him and away, skin flushing. Lance looked her over. The peach and white dress she wore complemented her coloring. She was radiant, like a damn sunshine walking around.

He got to his feet, resentful that he still wanted her, still thought of her more times than he should. He’d been looking forward to the kissing scene way too much since he found out about it a month ago. The scene was part of a New Year’s Eve special, scheduled to air Christmas week.

Anne was tall and slender with golden skin, emerald green eyes, and wavy blond hair that ended at the small of her back. She was sexy and sensual. Perfect. She was a model, for crying out loud. And she didn’t make his heart pound or his palms go sweaty like Maggie. It was incomprehensible.

“It’s Thursday,” she said.

“It sure is,” Lance said cheerfully. “Look at you, remembering your days of the week.”

Maggie wadded up a piece of paper and chucked it at him. It hit his shoulder and fell to the floor.

“Why are you always throwing stuff at me?”

She crossed her arms. “Name the last thing I threw at you.”

“You.”

Maggie opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She shook her head as soft laughter fell from her lips. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Don’t say words I don’t understand.”

She narrowed her eyes and pointed a finger at his face. “Don’t act dumb when you aren’t.”

Shrugging, Lance touched a lacy curtain and gave her a slanted look. “We can practice, if you need it.”

“If . . . I . . . need . . . it,” she repeated slowly.

He nodded. “It’s been a while since we kissed. I’m sure you’re rusty. Don’t worry, I’ve been working my lip muscles on a daily basis.”

“Kissing people’s asses?” she inquired politely. “Maybe talking out of yours?”

Lance glared at her. “You know I only kiss the asses I want to—and they’re all female.”

Maggie lifted one shoulder and averted her face as she said, “Just because I haven’t kissed you in months doesn’t mean I haven’t kissed anyone.”

Lance went motionless, his expression devoid of emotion. Inside, though, his blood blazed with jealousy, his heart thundering with it. He felt cold and hot and sick and furious, all from the thought of another guy’s lips on hers. Maggie didn’t notice, thankfully, turning her back on him as his hands curled into tight fists.

“When does he want us to do the scene?”

“Now,” he bit out.

She looked at him, one eyebrow lifted at his harsh tone, and nodded. “Okay. I’ll be ready in two minutes.”

Lance couldn’t think of any logical reason to hang around, and with a bitter taste in his mouth, he swung toward the door. The door shut with satisfactory brute force, and with evil intent in his blue eyes, Lance headed down the carpeted stairs.

He grabbed a bottle of water from an assistant, noted the cute body and features, a smile creeping over his face when he winked and she turned a brilliant shade of red. Why the hell didn’t Maggie Smiley fawn over him like all the other women? Shrugging his shoulders in irritation, Lance met up with the first group of guys he found. Most were stagehands, but there were a few show extras.

“Hey,” Lance said, leaning close. “You guys know my co-host, Maggie Smiley?”

The six men went quiet, all shifting their eyes and feet. It was obvious they did, but they were leery of Lance. He didn’t blame them. He was moody—one minute friendly and the next vicious.

A cautious, yet brave one asked, “Yeah, what about her?”

His name was Jeff Mitchell. He was one of the stagehands, possibly in his early twenties, and decent enough looking. He wanted to professionally act, but was working for now until he got a permanent gig. Lance knew all that because Jeff had tried out for the role of Derek Ryan. He kept tabs on competition. Lance wondered if he was the guy who’d placed his filthy mouth on Maggie’s. Too old for Maggie, he decided.

Feigning nonchalance, Lance leaned against the kitchen wall, directing his gaze toward the windows that showed a backyard of trees. “Well,” he began slowly. Acting hesitant, he met Jeff’s brown eyes. “I shouldn’t say anything, but . . .”

All eyes were on him, breaths held in anticipation. Lance was younger than every one of them, and yet, because of his status as an actor on the show, they treated him with deference.

“We’re supposed to do this kissing scene today—”

A few snickers sounded, even more faces showed glimpses of envy. Lance paused at that, wondering if Maggie was just as appealing to other guys as she was to him. The thought made him want to tear each and every one of their heads from their bodies so they were unable to look at her ever again. He knew it wasn’t rational, and swallowing thickly, he put an awkward smile upon his lips and continued the charade.

“I was told Maggie has horrible breath—an onion, garlic mixture of rancidness. Any of you able to confirm that?” Lance wasn’t completely sure what he was going to do with the news if one of those guys had kissed Maggie, but he had to know. And if none had, his words would assuredly keep it that way.

Jeff opened his mouth, and Lance went tense, staring at him with all the deadly calmness of a snake before it struck its victim with its poisonous bite, but then Jeff’s eyes shifted away from his face to beyond him. Even though he hadn’t done a damn thing wrong, Jeff’s face went red and he took a step back.

Lance briefly closed his eyes before turning around, having a good idea who stood behind him.

Maggie glared at him, her face pinched like she’d unknowingly bitten into a lemon—stunned, horrified, and disgusted.

“I knew you were behind me,” he lied.

Her eyes narrowed.

“It was a joke. Really.”

When she inhaled a sharp breath, but remained mute, Lance shrugged. “I’m sorry?”

She spun on her heel and stomped away. Lance watched her go, finding it hard to breathe normal. He kept his eyes on her until she disappeared from view, lost behind the bodies that were required to properly put a television show together. Then he looked at the half dozen guys near him. One shook his head, another smirked. They quickly departed, like Lance was a disease they didn’t want to catch.

Jeff stayed back, eyeing him.

“What?” Lance snapped.

“That was low,” he informed him.

As if he didn’t already know that.

Lance shoved by him, finding Maggie near Herman. Herman gestured with his hands, red in the face as he talked. Maggie bowed her head, nodding now and then. Herman patted her on the back and Maggie lifted her head. She looked miserable, face pale and eyes wide with disharmony. Her gaze found his and Lance went still, not knowing what to do. Apologizing didn’t seem good enough—because it wasn’t. Lance’s temper and impulsiveness got the best of him again and again. The paleness of Maggie’s skin morphed with color and she quickly turned away.

He moved for her, but Judith was suddenly there, pressing a restraining hand to his chest. Her blond hair was side-parted and flipped up at the ends, black dress and jacket formed to her slim frame. With gray chips of ice for eyes, and an equally frigid expression on her face, she said in a clipped tone, “What did you do to her?”

Lance shook off her hand and tried to step around her. “Nothing.”

Judith stepped with him, close to his height in her black heels. “If you didn’t do anything to her, she wouldn’t be trying to get out of the New Year’s Eve scene. That girl would work sick rather than delay production of the show.”

He looked away from Judith’s cold gaze, searching for Maggie.

“How many times and by how many people do you have to be told to leave her alone? This is her job, and she is the star of the show. Don’t screw it up for her.”

Lance focused on the actress. “Come on, Judith, I didn’t mean to upset her. And she’s the co-star.” He gave her one of his most charming grins. If anything, the glacial look of her deepened.

“That’s Miss Fletcher to you,” she said through lips that didn’t move.

Rubbing a hand over his face, Lance mumbled, “I tried apologizing.”

“Don’t do anything that requires an apology. Any time you are outside of work, make sure you keep your hands to yourself and your mouth shut. Her parents entrusted Maggie into my care, and I’m going to make sure no harm comes to her, especially from you.” She slapped a manicured hand against Lance’s shoulder and walked away, head high, shoulders back.

“Thank you,
Miss
Fletcher
,” he called after her.

Judith’s back went rigid, but she kept walking.

“Derek! Why aren’t you in Cecilia’s bedroom? We’re waiting! Some of us would like to go home and drink ourselves into a coma yet today!” Herman shouted from a few feet away. Lance didn’t bother correcting him on the names.

Lance walked to the stairwell, eyes locked on Maggie. He willed her to look at him, but she didn’t.

“What the hell is this?” Herman demanded, rushing over to them.

The director’s garlic-onion smelled permeated the area as he stepped between them, and Lance shot Maggie a guilty look. She glared back, arms crossed. He mouthed that he was sorry, but her expression never changed.

“Why is there this tense, cold feeling? This won’t do at all. Where are the shy, adoring looks? Or even the smug ones?” Herman looked pointedly at Lance as he said that. “Come here.” He motioned for them both to get closer. When they were inches from him, Herman stared each of them in the eye, one at a time. “As soon as you get close to one another, you’re Cecilia and Derek, got it?” He waited until they nodded before continuing.

“I don’t care if you’re sick.” He looked at Maggie. “And I don’t care what your daily problem is.” That to Lance. “Get your shit together and be professional. Let’s go! Upstairs!” Herman clapped his hands and walked toward the camera crew.

Lance followed Maggie up the stairs, eyes locked on the stiffness of her back. People clopped up the stairs behind them, but all he cared about was the person before him.

Maggie sat on the bed, head lowered. Lance took a deep breath, and when cued, knelt before her. Everyone went quiet. It happened every time they had a scene. The onlookers felt the magic too—the chemistry that sparked to life between Lance and Maggie when they were together. Anything that stood beyond them faded from existence. It was only Lance and Maggie in their pretend world.

Her small hands were gripped tightly together in her lap. Only he was close enough to see that they were held to stop their shaking, and that they shook anyway.

It wasn’t in the script for Lance to touch her hands, but improvising was allowed, so he did. He wasn’t doing it for the show anyway—Lance placed his hand over hers because what he’d done was wrong, even if he hadn’t meant to hurt Maggie. He had.

“Hey,” Lance said in a soft voice. The trembling picked up and he squeezed her cool hand. “I’m sorry for what I said earlier at the party. It wasn’t fair for me to act like that to Liam. A lot of the time I say things before I think about how they make people feel.” Ironic that his character was apologizing, just as Lance was. They were so alike that Derek could have been written after him.

Maggie raised her head, those amber eyes staring through him with all the heat of her being.