Belonging (14 page)

"I'm not," she agreed quickly—a little too
quickly, she soon realized. She started to avert her eyes, but a
lean finger laid on her jawline prevented her.

"You're wrong, Angie."

The quiet conviction in his voice frightened
her as nothing else had. Matt Richardson was a threat, a threat to
the carefully constructed life she had built for herself. It was
enough that her life revolved around herself and her daughters...
for now.

For now. The phrase caused a feeling of dread
to gather in her stomach. She couldn't stop her mind from

jumping forward. What about tomorrow? Next
year? What about forever? That was something she didn't dare let
herself think about.

Her gaze focused somewhere in the vicinity of
nis shirt collar. It was the only way she could say what she had
to. "I'm not ready for a man in my life again," she said in a voice
so low he had to strain to hear.

"How do you know if you haven't tried? And
you haven't, have you?" he mused aloud. "Not even with Todd."

"Todd is a friend," she asserted stiffly.

"So you've said." He watched her closely.
"What about me, Angie? Am I a friend?"

"You tell me!" What was his point? she
wondered irritably.

"I'd like to be." The admission came freely,
as Angie had expected. She had already discovered he was not a man
to mince words. "I'd also like to see our relationship go beyond
friendship." His eyes echoed the sentiment as they made a leisurely
tour of her body. He made no attempt to hide either his desire or
his approval.

"If I wanted a man in my life again, which I
don't," she reiterated stiffly, "it certainly wouldn't be you!"

The slow smile that spread across his face
set her teeth on edge even further. "You'd rather have a nice, safe
man who makes no demands, right?" He paused, hoping he wasn't going
about this the wrong way. "I've no doubt that losing your husband
was hard on you. But that was two years ago, not yesterday. And it
doesn't change the fact that you're a beautiful woman, a beautiful,
unattached woman. Like it or not, that makes you fair game." He
paused, then added softly,

"The sooner you let go of the past, the
easier it will be."

"And all the more convenient for you, I
suppose." She squared her shoulders proudly. "What makes you such
an authority, anyway?"

The slight hardening of his eyes was the only
sign of his anger, but in spite of everything, he felt a familiar,
though long-forgotten pain twist through his gut. Marriage to Linda
hadn't been the easiest thing in the world to cope with, but it
hadn't stopped him from feeling he'd lost everything when she
divorced him.

"I know," he said evenly, "because I've been
there. It's not easy to pick up the pieces after someone you love
is gone, but sooner or later it has to be done."

To her horror, she felt herself on the verge
of tears. What he said sounded perfectly logical, but true to human
nature, emotions weren't always logical.

"You don't understand," she whispered. "My
husband.. ." A hollow emptiness welled up inside her, and she
closed her eyes against it. How could she tell him of her secret
shame, the humiliation Evan had put her through?

It wasn't until she felt the roughness of
Matt's palm against her own that she realized she had thrust out
her hand. Her eyes flew open to find it blanketed firmly within
both of his. Slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wanted to,
he lifted it between their bodies, twining his fingers with her
own.

Angie found she couldn't look away as his
lips found the sensitive skin on the back of her hand. The touch
was so fleeting, so feather light, that she might have convinced
herself it was purely her imagination—if it wasn't for the ripple
of sensation that shot down clear to her toes.

Then he settled her hand firmly on the
muscled landscape of his chest, still holding it lightly beneath
his own. Beneath her fingertips Angie could feel the hardness of
muscle sheathed in smooth skin, the faint rasp of hair below the
fine linen of his shirt and the slow, steady beat of his heart.

Her body trembled.

Matt felt it, too. "You said you weren't
afraid of me," he reminded her quietly.

"I... I'm not." Her voice was whisper thin as
she fought a silent battle within herself. She knew what he was
doing, and all her self-protective instincts cried out against it.
"I'm not ready for this," she heard herself say.

He shook his head and wedged his hand more
tightly over hers, as if to deny her words.

She felt his heartbeat accelerate.

"You see?" His smile was almost sad as he saw
her eyes widen. "I think it's too late." Once more his lips
caressed the back of her hand. "It'll be okay." His whisper was a
sound that carried the night-dark intimacy found only between
lovers. "Nothing's changed—not really. Things can be just as good,
maybe even better, the second time around."

Then he was gone, and she was left alone.
Alone in the silence of an empty room... and an empty heart.

She had a vague unsettling feeling that Matt
was wrong—

And nothing would ever be the same again.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Her image taunted Matt all through the long
hours of the night. He dreamed of a woman with eyes the color of a
cloudless sky and shimmering golden hair that danced around her
shoulders, reminding him of sunlight in its purest form. Every
nuance of her femininity intrigued him—her slim, delicate
gracefulness, her subdued elegance, her polish and poise, her
lilting, carefree, laughter. Laughter he hadn't heard nearly as
often as he would have liked.

The woman who had everything. The thought
mocked him, a blatant reminder of his human frailties. He'd
branded Angie callous and cold without knowing anything at all
about her. And now? Now he still had much to learn about her, but
at least he knew better than to label her insensitive.

Grimacing, he rose from the kitchen table,
dumped his cold coffee into the sink and poured himself another
cup. The naked vulnerability in her eyes last night had shocked
him. It roused protective instincts inside him he hadn't even known
he possessed. He wanted to reach out and shield her in his arms,
put himself between her and anyone or anything that might hurt
her.

What stopped him was the certain knowledge
that she would not have welcomed his touch. A wry smile touched his
lips. If Angie had been so inclined, he wouldn't put it past her to
get her message across to him loud and clear, through physical
means or otherwise.

Yet he felt a thrill of elation as rte
recalled the feel of her small hand trapped in the heat and
hardness of his own. No matter how slight the gesture had been,
however minor or inconsequential it might have seemed to someone
else, he had touched her, both inside and out, this woman who did
not like to be touched.

Angie. Linda. He couldn't stop himself from
making one last comparison. Both fair, both fragile and *
ethereal-looking, both possessing a remoteness that issued a
silent challenge to covetous male eyes. But there, and once again
Matt flinched, the similarities ended.

Angie was intelligent, financially solvent,
and in spite of her claim to the contrary, he knew her capacity
for love and tenderness hadn't yet reached its limit. He suspected
she didn't even realize how sensual she really was; he had the
feeling she saw it as something to be hidden deep inside.

Angie was strong while Linda had been
headstrong, cold and uncaring. Angie had struggled through a rocky
period in her life and emerged victorious, though not without a few
battle scars, he reminded himself grimly. But Linda had found it
far too easy to rely on others, with no thought about how or why
someone else might be hurt. Matt knew there was no way on earth
that Linda could have gotten through it on her own.

Still, it disturbed Matt that Angie still
carried a torch for her dead husband. The torment in her eyes cut
him to the quick, yet it only deepened his desire for her. For
Matt, thoughts of Linda no longer dredged up old ghosts, but it was
obvious that didn't hold true for Angie.

Fighting the shadowy hold of her husband
wasn't going to be an easy hill for her to climb, and he sensed she
wasn't going to make it any easier for either one of them.

But she was strong. Strong on the outside,
fragile and so very vulnerable inside, and so determined not to
show it. That was his Angie.

His Angie. He grinned, caught up his jacket
from the closet and locked the front door. She wasn't his yet, and
if last night was any indication, she certainly wasn't going to
fall into his arms like a ripe plum.

Angie needed him, he thought fiercely, as
much as he needed her. She just hadn't discovered it yet.

***

Late that night Angie sat behind the huge
rolltop desk in her den. A late evening breeze brushed a swirl of
leaves against the windowpane. Kim and Casey were tucked snugly
into bed. Only minutes before the clock on the living room mantel
had chimed nine o'clock. It was a scene steeped in contentment, in
peace and tranquility.

But there was no peace in Angie's heart.
Shadowy memories of Evan were back with a vengeance because of
Matt Richardson. He'd kissed her hand. She'd wanted him to kiss her
mouth.

With a groan Angie threw down her pencil and
pushed herself away from her desk. For three days her thoughts had
displayed a rather irritating tendency to veer off in his direction
whenever she let her mind slip. Much as she hated to admit it, it
was because she was so acutely aware of him as a man, a very
attractive man.

But thinking of Matt in that way reminded her
of Evan, and at the end making love with Evan had been an ordeal.
Though they had once shared a satisfying, active sex life, she
hadn't been able to respond as she once had.

"Angel...my sweet Angel," he'd whispered so
many times while holding her tenderly in his arms. How she had
loved the sound of that tender endearment coming from his lips,
loved it and flourished in the headiness of his desire.

Later there were no warm, breathless words of
love, only cruel, ruthless taunts. He'd called her frigid and other
ugly, dirty names.

It was a vicious circle, one that Angie hoped
would end soon. Was it any wonder that she would have liked to
forget what happened with Matt the other night?

Unfortunately, Matt wouldn't let her.

Spooky suddenly appeared in the doorway of
her den and rubbed against her legs, then looked up at her. Angie
laughed and settled the fat furry length of silver stripes onto her
lap.

"What would you do if some pesky old tomcat
kept hounding you?" She ruffled the cat's silky fur. Spooky
responded by gently nudging her nose under Angie's hand for more.
"I guess that's a silly question to ask you," she teasingly
accused. Spooky had borne three litters of kittens before Angie
took her off for a nice little visit to the veterinarian.

Besides, Matt wasn't hounding her—precisely.
But he certainly wasn't backing off, either.

The phone perched on one corner of her wide
mahogany desk chose that moment to give a strident peal of
summons. Spooky slid off her lap and onto the floor. At the doorway
she cast a leisurely look back at her mistress as if to say, "I'll
leave you two alone now," before strolling from the room.

Angie cast a jaundiced eye at the phone. It
rang two more times. Sighing, she reached for the phone, then spoke
a cautious hello into the mouthpiece.

"Will you have dinner with me tomorrow
night?" a voice asked without preamble.

Against her will Angie smiled. It had become
Matt's standard greeting the last four nights. She glanced at her
watch and saw that it was nine-thirty. "You're half an hour late,"
she told him nonchalantly. Before he had called precisely at
nine.

"And you haven't answered my question."

She could tell he was smiling. "I don't think
you want to hear it," she teased back.

"I think I do."

Angie hesitated. It was getting harder and
harder to turn him down. "No," she said finally.

She knew he must have detected her indecision
when he laughed. "You know you still owe me a lunch. I could
collect on that." There was a slight pause. "I don't suppose you'd
care to make a little wager instead?"

"The chief of police a gambling man?" She
pretended to be shocked. "What would people think if they
knew?"

"Just don't tell my boss," he pleaded.
"Okay?"

Angie chuckled and switched the phone to her
other ear. "What is this infamous bet you're so anxious to
make?"

"That you will have a meal with me within the
next week."

"Hmm," she mused thoughtfully. "I think I
should warn you I don't like to lose."

"Typical statement, coming from a
politician."

She couldn't seem to stop smiling. It was odd
how that always happened during these nightly phone conversations
with Matt. "That reminds me--what will I be winning?"

"Me," he replied without hesitation.

Her breath caught in her throat. Her laugh
sounded rather strangled. "Matt..." she began.

"Oh, all right." He relented good-naturedly.
"If you win, you don't have to take me to lunch. I'll buy yours
instead. And if I win—-" his voice dropped to a low, husky pitch
"-—I'll settle for a kiss, freely given, even more freely
accepted."

Angie's heart stood still. A feeling of
warmth stole through her, spawned by an image of a dark-haired,
impossibly handsome man from Chicago.

It took a moment before she could breathe
again. It was only a game, she told herself. A game that children
indulged in. A game between lovers.

But there was no denying that Matt was
proving what she already knew. She liked him. She liked him
^f
ar too much for her own good.