Belonging (17 page)

Oddly, Angie understood completely. There was
something very raw, almost primitive, to Matt's earthy good
looks--something that kindled a certain fascination for the
unknown.

Like it or not, Angie finally admitted to
herself how much she was attracted to him. But it wasn't just his
aura of elemental strength that drew her to him. He was gentle,
sensitive, emotionally warm and giving in the way only a man who
was supremely confident of his masculinity could be.

Had Evan ever been like that?

"How long were you married?" she asked,
trying to vanquish the disturbing thought.

"Three years. Three very long years. Oh, it
started out okay." He ran his hand along the back of his head as he
searched for the right words. "Linda thrived on constant
adoration—the perfect social butterfly. She wasn't happy unless she
was going to a party or we were giving one." The sigh he gave
expressed his feelings more clearly than words.

"Is that why you don't like parties?" she
asked, smiling faintly.

Matt nodded. "I didn't mind at first, but it
got tiresome, fast—real fast. We lived in a high rise her father
owned, but it wasn't long before she wasn't satisfied living on my
salary. If I didn't approve of something she wanted—-trips to New
York, clothes, jewelry—-she went behind my back to dear old
Dad."

"So you divorced her," she murmured.

He shook his head. Angie found it rather
disconcerting that he looked away from her and focused instead on
the two children playing on the swing set in the opposite corner of
the yard.

"No," he said after a lengthy silence. "She
divorced me." He half turned to her, a self-deprecating smile on
his lips. "It was rather odd, really. For so long I'd thought of
our marriage as a match made in hell, but what I went through after
Linda divorced me was even worse. Because much as I hated to admit
it, I still cared. And my life didn't get any better until I
finally accepted that our relationship was over."

This time it was Angie who looked away. She
knew what he was trying to say, that she needed to get on with her
life and forget about Evan. I have, she wanted to cry, in all but
this one thing.

"The burnt child dreads the fire,'' Matt
quoted softly. "Isn't there a saying like that?"

She nodded stiffly. "I don't see what that
has to do with me, though."

"Don't you?" he asked quietly.

Angie said nothing. She only continued to
stare in silent fascination at the redwood-planked tabletop.

"I know it hurts to lose someone you love so
much, but that doesn't mean you should be afraid to risk it
again."

So he thought she was afraid of love? She
swallowed the bittersweet laugh that rose in her throat. If she
was, it wasn't for the reasons he thought. For a moment she almost
hated herself for her deceit, yet it was easier to let him think
devotion to Evan was holding her back.

Pride had driven a wedge between Matt and his
wife. And it was pride that had come between herself and Evan. He
had come to resent her usurping his role as the major wage earner
of the family.

Angie had seen enough of male pride to last a
lifetime.

"Look at me, Angie."

A faint tremor ran through her at his soft
demand. Slowly, unwillingly, her mouth parted, her gaze lifted to
his. They were gentle, those antique-silver eyes, gentle and
compassionate, warm with understanding and sympathy. Eyes to be
trusted.

Love and trust were fragile and precious. It
was a lesson she had learned the most painful way possible.

"I'm trying to make this easy on you, Angie.
Why are you determined to make it so hard? Am I really that hard to
talk to?"

Her breath emerged in a long sigh. "No," she
admitted quietly. "You're very easy to talk to—"

"As long as we're not talking about you."

He seemed so genuinely puzzled that she truly
wished they could be friends, without the complication of being
attracted to each other. If only Matt didn't want more than she was
prepared to offer—

"Angie, what am I going to do with you?"

The hint of humor in his tone caught her by
surprise, but she found herself relaxing. "Nothing?" she responded
hopefully.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" he countered
dryly, rising to his feet. Extending his hands, he helped her
up.

A rush of warmth shot through her at the
touch of his hands on hers. Dismayed by her involuntary reaction,
she attempted to pull away, but Matt wouldn't let her. Angie felt
his fingers tighten around hers as he smiled at her
reassuringly.

Matt wondered why he sensed an element of
fear inside her whenever they touched.

He dropped one hand to his side. With the
other he laced their fingers together loosely. "Come on," he told
her. "You can walk me to my car."

She fell into step beside him, but as they
passed through the gate she spied Mrs. Johnson hurrying toward
them. One hand held a napkin-covered platter, the other a
lattice-topped cherry pie.

Angie sighed, but there was a fond gleam in
her eyes. "Mrs. Johnson," she began, "you really shouldn't
have—"

"Nonsense," the elderly woman chided. "When
Chief Richardson stopped by earlier and told me what had happened
in your backyard, I decided a little supper was the least I could
do. These old bones aren't good for much, but at least I can still
whip up a batch of Southern fried chicken and a pie."

With that she handed the platter to Matt, the
golden-brown pie to Angie. "She's so modest." Angie shook her head
and glanced at Matt. "Her fried chicken is probably the best on
both sides of the Mississippi. In fact, I've been telling her for
years she ought to be giving the Colonel a little competition. And
her pie..." She rolled her eyes expressively.

Mrs. Johnson beamed. "The secret's in the
crust— ice water and a little vinegar, just enough so that the
flour and shortening hold together." If the older woman was capable
of slyness, it was a sly glance indeed she sent Matt. "Plenty for
all of you." She turned and started to walk away.

"But you'll stay, too, won't you?" Angie
called after her.

"I've already eaten, dear," came the reply
over her shoulder. "Send the girls over later. I've got another
little treat for them."

Angie stood speechless, still holding the
pie.

Matt wasn't sure which was funnier—-Mrs.
Johnson's obvious ploy or Angie's reaction to it. "Not that I'm
complaining," he said, barely containing his laughter, "but we seem
to be the object of quite a few matchmaking efforts."

"You noticed?" Angie commented tartly, but
her eyes were sparkling. "Come on, let's take this inside."

After they had deposited the food in the
kitchen, she turned and smiled at Matt rather shyly. "Mrs. Johnson
was right, you know. If we add a salad and some rolls, there'll be
plenty for all of us." For a second she seemed to hesitate. "You're
welcome to stay for dinner," she finally said. "It's the least I
can do after everything you've done for me this afternoon."

It was an offer made on the spur of the
moment, an offer she suddenly wanted him to accept even though she
wasn't sure she knew what she was getting into.

Matt studied her for a moment. "I don't think
so," he said slowly, then smiled. "I don't want to wear out my
welcome, you see."

She shook her head. "You haven't, Matt. At
least not yet." When he again declined, she insisted, "Then take
something home. The kids and I will never eat all of this." She
pulled a plate from the cupboard and filled it with several crisp
pieces of chicken and a generous wedge of pie.

The merest hint of a smile played on his lips
as he took the plate she offered. "You know what this means, don't
you? Prince Charming will have to make another visit—this time to
return a plate instead of a shoe."

"I... I know." There was a strange breathless
catch in her voice.

Moving carefully, Matt set the plate aside
and reached out to tuck a shining strand of gold back behind her
ear. She tensed but didn't retreat as he half expected. When he
felt her relax, he extended his fingers and slid them beneath the
long braid that fell down her back.

"That reminds me." His voice was whisper
soft, the touch of his fingers almost caressing as he stroked the
baby-fine hair that grew on her nape. "There's a small matter of a
bet we made several days ago—"

There was no need for him to go on. Angie
felt herself flush, but the spark of humor she encountered in his
warm, gray eyes reassured her.

They were standing only inches apart, bound
by fingers that seemed strangely reluctant to part. Slowly she
moved to him directly. Charcoal lashes drifted closed as she
wordlessly offered her lips.

A low masculine laugh was the last thing on
earth she expected.

"You're supposed to kiss me," Matt reminded
her when her eyes flew open.

"Oh," she said in a small voice, then
smiled.

Matt caught his breath at the brilliance of
that unexpected smile, a smile that seemed to make the afternoon
sun burn brighter still.

"Freely given, even more freely accepted,
wasn't it?" she asked.

This time it was he who nodded
wordlessly.

Angie's hand, so tenderly imprisoned within
his, gently withdrew to join its mate on the broad landscape of
his chest. Through the fabric of his shirt, the faint rasp of wiry
hair teased her fingertips. Against her legs she could feel the
hardness of his denim-clad thighs. Her heart began to thunder in
her chest, and her

senses were awash in a tingle of expectation.
She slowly levered herself upward.

His lips were hard but yielding, soft yet
firm. She kissed them lightly, hesitantly, a touch like the wings
of a butterfly. Yet even at the feather-light contact, she knew a
moment of sublime pleasure. Her body stirred to life with feelings
long denied... but not forgotten.

Matt felt her draw back as if she'd been
burned. But not before he saw the expression of confused wonder on
her face.

He had to fight the urge to pull her back
into his arms and capture her mouth with his once more, to give in
to the pent-up longing that burned inside. The brief taste she'd
given him was tempting, so tempting. But he wanted her willing, and
he wanted her trust. And he knew he had to have both before she
would come to him.

He could hardly believe how quickly this
feeling inside had happened. The feeling was part pleasure yet
part pain because Angie was still fighting it. He could only call
it love.

A lean finger at her chin tipped her face
back to his. "One of these days," he said softly, "you're going to
take a big step forward."

"And?" Angie was mesmerized. She felt as if
her deepest secrets were no longer her own... but his.

"And I intend to be here when you do." His
thumb discovered the tender curve of her mouth. "Because together
we're going to get through this—-whatever it is that's holding you
back."

To Angie, his words sounded very much like a
promise.

CHAPTER TEN

Together. It was a word Angie hadn't used in
a long, long time. So long it felt alien to hear it on her lips,
hear it still echoing in her mind on Monday night as she prepared
for bed. Even a long soak in the bathtub hadn't cleared her
thoughts.

It was a word that frightened her. For in his
own unique way, with his quiet insight, his gentleness, his warmth
and his caring, Matt was the most frightening man she had ever
known.

Evan had betrayed her. He had violated their
love. She couldn't willingly let any man have that kind of power
over her again or open herself up for that kind of heartache. No,
she wasn't ready for involvement with Matt. She couldn't afford to
let herself grow close to him in any way.

She couldn't stop herself, either.

Gently. Oh, so gently, but with a
thoroughness that alarmed her, he was invading every corner of her
life. Her mind, her thoughts... her heart?

And there wasn't a thing she could do about
it because she was lonely—especially at night. She missed the
closeness, the sharing, the comfort and security of a warm male
body lying next to her.

Angie couldn't fool herself any longer. She
was a woman with a woman's needs, and her body was telling her
that it had been too long since those needs had been met. It was as
if that one brief kiss she'd shared with Matt had opened up a
Pandora's box. Coaxing. Luring. Drawing out her most secret
feminine desires.

She had once been an intensely passionate
woman, a woman who took immense pleasure in the physical intimacies
of marriage. The secret fire of her womanhood had been dormant
inside her for two years...but no more.

She wanted Matt. She couldn't look at him,
she couldn't talk to him, she couldn't even say his name without
wondering how it would feel to lie naked next to him, with nothing
between them, his hands touching her all over.

Moaning softly, she tore off the towel
wrapped around her head and sat down at the dressing table. "What
am I going to do?" she thought half angrily, half desperately.
Snatching up her brush, she began to work through the tangles in
her still-damp hair, wincing as, in her frustration, she yanked
her hair a little too hard.

Matt knew something wasn't right when he
called that night. She sounded tense, irritable, when she answered
the phone.

"Is something wrong?"

The calm question only seemed to irritate her
further. You know very well what's wrong, she wanted to cry. Why
can't you leave me alone? I was coping so well until you came
along. Instead, she snapped, "Nothing's wrong."

Silence crackled over the wire. "Are you
sure?" he asked after a long moment.