Theirs by Chance

by Karen Ann Dell

  He got into his car and checked his watch. Chris Majewski was due around six o’clock for his weekly session. He still had plenty of time to stop at the county records office. He’d find the deed on the B and B and see if there was any information about where Marjorie lived before she moved here.

  Meanwhile, Lance would savor the information that Marjorie liked him. He had to smile. What? Were they back in high school? When best friends leaked the bulletin about who was hot for who? Seemed like small towns were a lot like high school, where everyone knew everyone else’s business.

  All through high school, college and even the military, he’d been pretty much a loner. He’d dated and had a few brief affairs but he never could find a woman he’d like to spend the rest of his life with. Someone to have kids with and make a home like the one he’d grown up in.

  He’d like to think Marjorie might be that woman. Then the reminder of that flashback brought him back to reality. How could he expect Marjorie to become more than a friend when she’d never know when he might try to choke the life out of her? Stupid to even consider the possibility. He ought to thank God every day that she was still willing to let him stay in her apartment.

  Friendship or something more. In the end, it didn’t matter. The bottom line was no one would hurt or threaten her while he was around to protect her.

  He’d only been home for fifteen minutes when he heard Chris’s car pull into the driveway. The deep-throated rumble of his restored 1969 GTO announced his arrival. Lance opened the door before Chris had a chance to knock. “Hey, doc, come on in.” He offered Chris his latest addition, a comfortable reading chair, and dragged the straight-backed one from his table for himself.

  Chris glanced around the room and sat. He eyed Lance speculatively.

  “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Water?” When Chris shook his head, Lance turned his chair around and straddled it, crossing his arms on the back. He uncapped a bottle of water and set it on the floor next to his chair.

  “You seem ready to dive right in today. Has something happened?” Chris crossed his legs and settled more comfortably.

  Lance blew out a breath. “Yeah. Several things actually.” He inhaled deeply and squared his shoulders. “I had a flashback.”

  Chris nodded encouragement.

  “We had a helluva thunderstorm a few days ago. Around eight o’clock, the noise woke me. Someone pounded on my door. I thought I was back in the sandbox. The electricity was out, and the room was pitch dark.” He gestured at the blackout curtains on all the windows. “Anyway, when I went to the door, I was expecting trouble. When I opened it, there was a brilliant flash of lightning which practically blinded me, and a loud boom of thunder, so I grabbed what I thought was a terrorist and spun them into a chokehold. I didn’t recognize Marjorie at the time.”

  Lance scrubbed his hands over his face. “I, uh, treated her pretty badly. She almost lost consciousness, and I let her slide to the floor but kept her hands pinned over her head.” He closed his eyes at the memory of the marks he’d left on her tender skin. “Long story short, she eventually convinced me to look out the window and I came to my senses.”

  “How did Marjorie take all this?”

  “I could tell I scared the shit out of her. She was pale, and breathing fast, and her pulse was pounding like a jackhammer. But she didn’t run away or back into a corner. She was amazingly understanding. The lady is awesome, Chris. Any other woman would have thrown me out on my ear.

  Chris nodded silently, and waited.

  Especially after I, uh...” He shut his eyes again. “Kissed her.”

  This news got a silent lift of both brows from Chris. “And, exactly how did that happen?”

  “Shit. She was soaked through from the rain. She’d brought me a flashlight and batteries, which I’d knocked out of her hands when I grabbed her, so I fished them out from under the bed and got her a towel and, and, I just wanted to explain, to apologize . . . But she was so sweet and not angry at all really, and somehow I wound up kissing her.”

  He rubbed his forehead and glanced at Chris, who kept his voice totally non-committal when he asked, “And her reaction to the kiss? Was she angry? Happy? Nervous?”

  “She seemed to take it all in stride, you know? I mean, she was kind of surprised, but not mad. I think she figured it was just a reaction to the whole flashback thing.”

  “And how are you feeling about all this?”

  Like I want to take her to bed and make love to her all day and half the night. And then do it again the next day. And the next. And, time to come clean, man. Might as well get the lecture over with. “I care about Marjorie. A lot. She’s generous to a fault, kind, and funny and . . .” Accepts me with all my baggage. “I know, I know. I’m not supposed to get involved with a woman. And I’m not actually involved. I mean it’s not reciprocal.” Damn it. “But there’s more.”

  That got him a second raised brow from the doc.

  “Something happened two days ago. She found out her picture was in the newspapers and in an artists’ magazine from the grand opening of Zoe Silvercreek’s new gallery. She was so upset she almost ran me over when she came home. I went over there after I got cleaned up from painting and found her upstairs packing a suitcase.” He held Chris’s gaze, his brows furrowed. “Chris, I’d swear she was having a panic attack. I’ve never seen her frantic like that. She said she’d had some news that may mean she had to go away for a while, but I think she was afraid someone would see her picture and try to find her.”

  “So, what did you do?”

  Lance shrugged. “I tried to stay relaxed and just talk to her. Asked her where she was going, but she didn’t know. She hadn’t figured that out yet I guess. I finally got her to calm down enough to let me make her some tea before she left. After sitting in the kitchen with me for a while, she decided she didn’t have to go. Not right away at least. She never would tell me what was frightening her so much. She let it slip that it might put me in danger, then she backpedaled as though what she really meant was she didn’t want me to go to any trouble for her. But I’m worried about her, doc. Something’s scaring the shit out of her.”

  “Well, you have had quite a week, Lance. And, to all appearances, you’ve dealt with it pretty well. But let’s start with the flashback. How do you feel about having it?”

  “I gotta say, I’m pissed, doc. I thought I was out of the woods on that front. And I’m even more upset at what I did to Marjorie, both during and after it. If there’s any chance I might truly hurt her, I’d have to leave here.”

  “I understand your disappointment, but you should know that what you experienced is fairly typical with PTSD. The fact that Marjorie helped bring you out of it is an indication that on a very basic level you trust her, even when you don’t actually recognize her. I’d like to talk to her about the flashback, too, if you don’t have a problem with it.”

  “Hell, no, I have no problem with anything you want to tell her, because you’re right, I do trust her. She asked me to tell you that she’d like to talk to you, too, after our session, if you have time.”

  “Absolutely. Dev and Amanda invited me to dinner tonight, but I’ll have plenty of time to visit with Marjorie before then. Let’s talk about your other symptoms for a minute. How’s daylight feeling? Are you able to go into town or to a restaurant by yourself?”

  “I do some handyman kind of stuff around here in the daytime and don’t have any problem. Going to the diner to get take-out still makes me jittery, and I haven’t actually had a meal out anywhere yet. But I went to the gallery where Marjorie sells her jewelry this morning and talked to Zoe, the owner. There wasn’t anyone else in the gallery at the time, so I’m not sure if that counts, but I was so focused on finding out what spooked Marjorie, I didn’t have time to be nervous for myself.”

  One side of
Chris’s mouth twitched up in a half-smile. “It counts, Lance. Everything counts. When we’re done here, I’ll go talk to Marjorie. Now, let’s talk about your last day in Iraq, again.”

  Even knowing it was coming, Lance still grimaced, but he nodded in acceptance. He took several gulps from the water bottle, then he closed his eyes to visualize that fateful day, and began.

  Chapter 9

  Chris Majewski knocked on the back door of Marjorie’s bed and breakfast inn. He assumed Marjorie wanted to talk to him about Lance’s flashback. It had to have been quite a frightening experience. A moment later, Marjorie brushed the curtain aside, then quickly unlocked the door.

  “Please come in, Captain Majewski.” She gestured toward the kitchen table. “Can I get you some coffee or tea?”

  “Thank you, but nothing for me. I’m meeting Dev and Amanda for dinner soon.” He took the seat she offered him. “Lance told me you wanted to talk to me for a few minutes.” He nodded encouragingly.

  “Yes. I won’t take up much of your time, Doctor.”

  “Please don’t be so formal, Marjorie. I’m only here as a friend, not as your doctor. You do understand that, don’t you?”

  “Of course. I don’t think I need your services as a physician. But I, uh, need to ask you a couple of questions. I don’t expect you to tell me anything about Lance’s therapy. I know that’s private, but I . . .” She let out a sigh and sat up straighter. “I don’t suppose Lance mentioned what happened?

  Taking pity on Marjorie’s hesitant starts, Chris interrupted her. “You mean the thunderstorm and his flashback?”

  Obviously surprised, Marjorie shook her head. “Oh, no. Well, I mean yes, he had one. But he got past it, with a little encouragement from me. I hope it isn’t bothering him, because I’ve all but forgotten about it.”

  Really? Almost being strangled didn’t bother you? How about the kiss afterward? Did that bother you?

  Chris sat back and waited. If it wasn’t the flashback that worried her then what?

  “Lance has nagged me about my lack of security around here. It is something I know he is hypersensitive about, yet I do understand his concern—for himself and for me.” Marjorie toyed with the napkin next to her teacup, then glanced up at Chris. “So I’ve been trying to come up with ways to feel more secure without losing the calm and welcoming atmosphere I want the B and B to project to my clients. Since I do allow guests to have small pets, I thought perhaps I should get a dog myself. One I could train to be friendly around my clientele, yet alert me if there was an, an intruder.”

  Chris nodded thoughtfully. “Do you feel particularly at risk from an intruder? You’ve had this inn for over two years, I understand. Has something changed to make you more concerned about your safety?” Chris allowed a faint smile to curve his lips. “Other than Lance’s hypervigilant tendencies?”

  The expression on Marjorie’s face told him all he needed to know. The woman was deeply afraid and doing her best to hide her emotions. Lance had read her quite accurately.

  “No. No. I guess Lance has made me think more about safety—for me and my guests—and I realized I’d assumed locks and an alarm system were all the security I’d need. Now I’m not so sure.”

  “A watch dog is considered a good deterrent against burglars, so I guess that is a reasonable solution.”

  “Yes, but during that flashback you mentioned, Lance was very upset about someone killing his dog. I don’t know if the dog was real and was killed or if that was just, just part of . . .” Marjorie glanced down at the twisted napkin and quickly set it aside. She put both hands up, palms out. “I don’t want to know anything you can’t tell me, but my concern is that getting a dog might in some way impact Lance’s recovery negatively. I would never want to add to his stress.”

  It seems you care more about Lance’s problems than the average landlady might. You two are already at the point where the other’s well-being is more important than your own comfort.

  “In my opinion, having a dog around would be a good thing as far as Lance is concerned. Expect him to be a trifle awkward about it at first, and don’t push him to interact with the dog more than he wants to.”

  He noted Marjorie’s quick nods and rapid respirations and wondered if she realized she could very well have her own case of PTSD. There was no doubt she had a soft spot for Lance Fisher. Wouldn’t it be interesting if two people who both had stress disorders each turned out to be the other’s savior? While he could not in good conscience counsel both of them, he felt compelled to give Marjorie one piece of advice. He stood and held out his hand noting that Marjorie’s was chilled and damp when she shook it. He covered it with his other hand.

  “Marjorie, even chatting with you as briefly as I have today, I don’t doubt that you would benefit from talking with a therapist about whatever it is that worries you. I hope you’ll consider that.”

  He watched the shutters fall over the woman’s eyes at his comment. Whatever bothered her was either too frightening to tell anyone else about, or she simply was too embarrassed to see a psychiatrist, and admit she had ‘issues.’ Too bad. She appeared to be a lovely woman in other respects. He understood why Lance was so protective.

  He just hoped their attraction didn’t cause his patient any more problems.

  Captain Majewski was too darn smart. Marjorie had no doubt Lance had told him about her near meltdown last night, but still, the man had eyes that bored right through her protective armor, and saw too much of what she wanted to hide. There would be no more chats with Doctor Majewski. He’d strip her cover away, and then where would she be? Responsible for another death? Oh, no. Not gonna happen.

  Tomorrow she’d make a trip to the animal shelter and see if they might have a suitable puppy or young dog she could train. Then she’d stop at the store to buy the groceries she skipped getting yesterday, when she high-tailed it home to pack a bag and flee.

  Stupid reaction, she chided herself.

  She didn’t want to run. Not again. This place, more than all the others she’d stayed in over the past six years, felt like home. She’d tried to remain aloof, but Zoe and Amanda had sucked her into their sphere of friendship. Marjorie didn’t want to give that up, although she spent many a sleepless night worrying about the danger her friendship exposed them to.

  Now there was Lance. She’d fought her attraction to that man since the day he walked in her front door.

  And lost.

  Not that anything would ever happen between them. She knew that. He had a good, steady job, and, after he saved enough money, he’d buy a house, and find some woman to share it with. How long would it take? Six months? A year? Once he was out and about, women would follow him as children did the Pied Piper. The hot fantasies she indulged in every night would stay in her head, while her body ached for his touch in her solitary bed. She lived her life in a veritable vacuum, afraid to get too close to anyone, always worried she’d see Bryan’s security chief in a crowd somewhere, and he’d stare at her with those flat black eyes that told her without words she was a dead woman. No way was she ever bringing someone else into her life who might become collateral damage.

  Okay. Enough with the self-pity. She straightened up the mess she’d made of her bedroom, unpacked her suitcase, but kept the go-bag ready with all the paperwork she used to document herself as Marjorie Matthews instead of Sarah Beth.

  Deciding a big bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream would be perfect for dinner, Marjorie went downstairs, checked the doors, set the alarm, and brought her stress-relieving meal upstairs. She rented The Transporter and replaced Jason Statham’s face with Lance’s—especially in the hot scenes with the Asian girl—who morphed into a redheaded American right before her eyes.

  By the end of the movie she needed a cold shower. As she dried off she glanced out her bathroom window, and saw Lance as he
left for work. Even from this distance, the sight of his body caused her own to heat up. Just before he got in his car, his gaze swept across the second story, and she ducked back behind the curtain, hoping he hadn’t caught her watching him. She slipped a thin cotton nightgown over her head, dried her hair and put it into a loose braid, then slid between the sheets. She eyed her dresser, remembering the way he’d leaned so casually against it, his arms crossed on his chest, biceps bulging, flat belly tapering to slim hips. Now that she wasn’t in panic mode, she let the full impact of his sexy stance blow through all her barriers. She felt her thighs dampen and slipped her hand under her nightie.

  If she couldn’t have the real thing, her fantasy would have to do.

  Lance gave a cursory knock on the back door before he slid his key into the lock. Marjorie schooled her face to landlady mode and set a cup of coffee at his usual seat.

  “Morning, Marjorie.”

  He smiled, but his eyes seemed tired. She wondered if he had as much trouble sleeping as she did. He dropped into his chair with a sigh.

  “Tough night at work?” Marjorie placed a plate with two eggs over easy, home fries and four strips of bacon in front of him. She knew his favorites by heart, now.

  “Mmm, smells delicious. Thanks, Marjorie.” He dropped a napkin across his lap. “No, work was fine. I didn’t get much sleep yesterday, and my session with Chris was . . .” He simply shrugged.

  Marjorie sat with her tea and toast, and let Lance eat in silence. She always hoped he would talk to her about what happened to cause his PTSD, but she’d never ask. If he wanted her to know, he’d tell her in his own good time. Funny how they both had memories too painful to share.

  Lance glanced up from his plate. “You get a chance to talk with Chris yesterday?”