Within This Frame (7 page)

He tilted his head as he studied her. “Then are you doing it for you, or for someone else?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“Are you doing it for you?”

“No.” Lance smiled cynically.

Maggie looked down, wiggling toes with pink-painted toenails. “My sandals are on the beach,” she mused.

“Mine are too. I’ll get them.” Lance would hold them for ransom if he had to, all in the quest to get her to hang out with him again.

“I’ll go with you.”

He put out a hand to stop her. “Nope. I’ll have them waiting for you, tomorrow, at eleven. Wear a comfortable swimsuit. The waves are strong.”

Thoughts clear as they shifted across her face, Maggie finally laughed, shaking her head. “Okay. Fine. You win. I’ll see you tomorrow at eleven.”

Pleased with himself, Lance waited until she’d gone inside before patrolling the sand in search of their shoes. The wind picked up, pushing and pulling at him as he walked. He looked up at one point, toward her bedroom window. The light was on, and he pictured Maggie lying on her bed, soft and warm. Inviting. Instantly, painfully, stiff, he held still until he had control over his body. Walking around with a boner wasn’t something he felt the need to do.

It took a few times of walking up and down the beach, but he finally found the two pairs of shoes. Maggie’s sandals were small and black with silver shining on the parts that went over the top of her feet. He stared down at them, bemused by everything that had anything to do with her.

Restless and agitated, he dropped them off in his bedroom and left the building, heading toward the sound of music and voices. He took an offered cup of beer, slammed it, and went in search of a refill. If he drank enough, he could forget about Maggie, pretend his nerves weren’t spastic around her.

He found a girl that was more than happy to keep him company, and with her draped across his lap as he sat in the sand, he commenced to get plastered. If he got enough beers in him, he could obliterate Maggie from his mind. If he got enough beers in him, he might even believe that.

MAGGIE—2010

T
HE POUNDING ON
the door at six in the morning was not appreciated. Maggie let Lance know by grabbing a hardcover book off the nightstand and hurling it at the door. It made impact, and even she winced at how hard it hit. The door was probably gouged, which, of course, was Lance’s fault as well. She’d spent the remainder of yesterday avoiding him, and he’d allowed it, both of them knowing the next day would be a different case.

“Go away!”

“Rise and shine, Maggie. It’s the first day of a new you.”

“Suck it, Lance Denton!”

Maggie burrowed deeper under the blankets. Just as she was about to doze off, the door crashed open. She sprung upright and stared at the doorway through a tangled web of hair. She should have known he’d unlock it with his damn handy-dandy bobby pin. She needed to find his supply and dispose of them. And then get a deadbolt.

Light from the hallway surrounded him as he advanced, but his features were hidden by darkness. He was purposeful, determined, stalking toward her like she was his prey, and Maggie’s insides responded in kind. She didn’t want to find anything about him attractive, but unfortunately for her, she did.

After all those years, after everything . . . it was loathsome to admit.

“I like the old doors, easy to unlock,” he supplied with a thumbs-up sign. “I approve.”

That made her want to modernize every inch of the house, stat.

“Get out,” she said nastily.

“You say that a lot.”

“And yet, here you remain.”

Lance propped his hands on either side of her, leaned down so that his face was close to hers and the scent of freshly shampooed hair hit her, and said quietly, “If you are not up and out of bed by six in the morning, every morning, this is not going to work. You hired me to do a job.” He straightened. “Let me do it.”

Her pulse thrummed, more from his words than his proximity, which was odd. It was the way he’d spoken them, confident and without any bullshit. Maggie let her head fall back onto the pillow and looked up at a black ceiling. “Okay. You’re right. Okay. But why can’t it be at seven?”

“I’m sorry, what did you say? I didn’t quite catch that. Did you say you were sorry? And it’s six. I have other things to do with the rest of my day.”

Maggie propped herself up on her elbows and glared at his head. Lance stood with his legs apart and arms crossed over his expansive chest. She couldn’t see his face, but she didn’t need to, to know that it was smug.

She raised a hand, one particular finger lifted. “Let me know if you catch—”

“I’ll meet you downstairs,” he hastily interjected.

Deciding it was too much effort, and a wasted one, to make herself presentable, Maggie tugged on a sports bra that mashed her D-cup breasts into one, huge uni-boob. She finished off the ensemble with a yellow tank top that had seen its share of grease and dirt, and red shorts. She didn’t brush her hair, and she didn’t brush her teeth. If Lance saw her at her worst, his expectations would be low, so when she actually tried to look decent, he would be impressed.

Not that she cared what he thought.

The bottom of the stairs seemed unreachable as she made her zombie-trek down them—a slow, disjointed, swaying amble with the purpose to remain upright and mobile. Lance leaned against the kitchen counter and watched her advance, sipping from her favorite mug. It was pink with a heart on either side. She wanted to snatch it away from him. He should have been embarrassed to use such a cup, but as with all things concerning Lance, he looked good holding it, totally natural. Annoyingly so.

“That’s my cup.”

“Aren’t they all?”

She gave him a slit-eyed look and took a different, boring, non-favorite mug from the cupboard overhead. Stepping into the colorful kitchen usually had the ability to make her happy, but Lance’s presence had sucked all the joy right out of her. “That one’s my favorite.”

He offered it to her and Maggie almost hissed at him. With a shrug, he retracted his hand.

“What are you doing?” he asked when she reached for the coffeepot.

“Getting a cup of coffee.”

“Yours is over there.”

She followed his nod and laughed at the bottle of water standing on the counter. “No. I don’t think so.”

“How many cups of coffee do you drink a day?”

“I don’t know, one.”

“You drink one cup of coffee a day?”

“No, one pot of coffee.”

Lance straightened. “You drink twelve cups of coffee a day?”

“You don’t have to sound so stunned,” she muttered, pouring black, liquid stamina into her cup.

It was immediately removed from her hand.

“There’s no other way to sound, since I am thoroughly, one hundred percent, without a doubt, stunned. Drink this instead.” He set the bottle of water before her.

“No.” She crossed her arms.

Lance raised his eyebrows. “Yes.”

“You are out of your mind if you think I’m giving up coffee,” Maggie ground out, glaring into his blue eyes.

“I’m not saying you have to give it up, but limit it, yes, and drinking it first thing in the morning? No.”

“You’re drinking it.” She realized she was being childish, but Maggie really didn’t care. She was tired, and crabby, and she wanted her coffee.

“I’ve been up since four. I drank my water already, and I also already got my workout in for the day. You can join me then, if you like.”

Maggie snatched the bottle of water from the counter.

Amusement flickered in his eyes. “Those are yours as well.” He nodded to a square packet.

Maggie stared at it. “Are you trying to kill me, or get me in shape?”

“You need energy to work out. These will give you that, and also tide you over until you can have a proper meal.”

Grumbling, she opened the package of unsalted almonds, chewing the bland nuts as her face twisted with displeasure.

Lance smirked. “What was that?”

“I said, what is a proper meal to you? A piece of lettuce slathered in nothing?”

He laughed. “No. Not quite.”

“You’re enjoying this,” she accused, swallowing the nut and slowly placing another in her mouth. They tasted like cardboard.

He shrugged, not denying it. “I’ve always enjoyed your personality.”

“Don’t . . . bring up the past,” she warned. If he did, she would remember the bad things, sure, but then she’d also be forced to remember the good, and she didn’t want that.

It had taken years to get over him, and the thought of doing it all over again was reprehensible. Lance was the one guy she’d loved more than anyone else. She’d loved other men, of course, but none like him. Him, she’d loved without reservation, with her whole heart, with every bit of her.

And he’d given her heart back—torn, bloody, wounded, aching. Scarred. Jaded.

“It’s all we got, Maggie.” His tone was somber, but then he grinned and winked, and she was transported back into that life they’d temporarily shared. Everything was brighter then, better, new. They loved under a haze of youth and misplaced dreams, and it crashed all around them—or her, more specifically.

“How was the couch?” she asked sweetly, needing to get control of the conversation.

Maggie wouldn’t be surprised to find that he peacefully slept, oblivious to his surroundings and anyone near. Maggie, on the other hand, spent the night tossing and turning, dreaming of blue eyes and firm lips. When she woke up, memories took place of the dreams—the sweet, masculine scent of his skin, the heat of his body. The strength of his hands when they unconsciously dug into her skin. The night tormented her.

Lance grabbed an apple from a bowl on the counter and tossed it back and forth between his hands as he talked. “It’s a nice couch, lumps in all the right places.” He sank his teeth into the apple. Frozen, he mouthed around the fruit, “This isn’t a real apple, is it?”

Maggie snorted and looked away to hide her smile.

Lance spit out the wax fruit and grabbed a paper towel from the holder and rubbed his mouth. He tossed the paper towel in the garbage and said, “You need real fruit, not fake.”

“Real is always better than fake,” she agreed, giving him a pointed look.

“Oh, Maggie,” he purred, moving closer. “Everything about me has always been real.”

Her breath hiccupped. “Oh, Lance. I know.” She was glad that her voice didn’t shake.

Time froze, turned heavy as Lance stared at her with enough intensity to tear the air from her lungs. Looking at him made her dizzy, and when he studied her like he was looking into her, seeing through the present and into the past, seeing her in the way only Lance ever could, it made her weak in the knees.

He narrowed his eyes, and then his expression cleared. “I noticed a bunch of doors. Would any of them happen to lead to spare bedrooms?”

“Nope.”

“What are they then?”

“Doors.”

“Doors,” he repeated doubtfully.

“Yep. Just doors. Nothing behind them but walls.”

“Interesting,” he mused, rubbing his jaw. “Because I opened one, and lo and behold, it led to a room. With a bed.”

Maggie scowled. “If you make it past two weeks, which I sincerely doubt, then you can pick out a room.”

Lance offered his hand.

She gingerly took it.

“I look forward to it,” he said, shaking her hand.

Maggie tugged her hand from his, the limb tingling from the feel of his strong, calloused grip.

“We need to go over some things, like how you should be eating five to six small meals a day. No skipping meals.” The expression on Lance’s face was severe. “We’ll set up a meal plan for you later. First things first, though.” He eyed her critically, lingering a touch too long on her chest before meeting her gaze. “Show me your underwear.”

She choked on the nut she was in the process of swallowing, coughing as it scraped her throat on the way down. “No,” she rasped.

Lance shook his head, already heading toward the stairs. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

She ran after him, not in eagerness to reveal her undergarments, but to keep him away from them. “Don’t you dare go through my dresser drawers!”

He paused halfway up the stairwell, looking over his broad shoulder at her. “Why would I do that when you’re simply going to show me?”

She sputtered, charging up the stairs after him with more exuberance than she’d shown in a long time. The bedroom walls were painted lavender and decorated with watercolor artwork that usually had a calming effect. The room seemed to shrink with Lance inside it. He stood near her dresser, eyebrows raised expectantly.

When she didn’t move any closer, he sighed. Tone blunt, Lance said, “There are key elements to getting healthy—what and how much you eat, of course, and how often you exercise, along with the kind of exercise you’re doing. Getting enough water, and cutting out sugary drinks, is also necessary.

“What a lot of people don’t realize, is that what you wear while you exercise is just as important. You have to be comfortable, but also have proper support. That thing you’re passing off as a bra needs to be burned.”

Maggie’s face flamed and she protectively crossed her arms.

Lance slowly walked around her, sending prickles of awareness down her spine with his nearness, and stopped in front of her. “Take off your shirt,” he ordered.

The command sent desire coursing through her, and she gritted her teeth against it. She would not be wooed by him, intentionally or otherwise. Maggie refused to find him attractive and she would remain firm in the face of his animal magnetism—all while secretly lusting after him.

“Are you crazy?” she demanded in a tight voice.

He fingered the hem of her top, a thoughtful frown on his lush mouth. “Not at the moment.” He looked up, features hardening. “Do it.”

“I will not.”

“Do it or I will.” Menace was woven through his words and reflected in the shards of blue glass that passed for eyes.

Heart thundering in her chest, Maggie tried to breathe, only a gasp of pitiful air leaving her. “Try it and die.”

The sensual mouth turned inflexible, and instead of intimidating her, she remembered the feel of it against her mouth, her body. He’d turned her inside out with that mouth. She shouldn’t be able to recall such a thing, but there it was. Maggie fought to swallow, her lips and mouth dry. All of her was rigid with longing for a man she told herself she loathed. The body was quick to call one a liar, when needed.