Belonging (13 page)

"It was probably just a couple of kids
hell-bent on a little destruction—at someone else's expense."

She considered his statement. "You're
probably right," she said finally, then added glumly, "With the
kind of day I've had, I should have expected something like
this."

A short time later he angled the car into her
drive. Angie fought against the sudden stiffening of her body when
he switched off the engine and pulled the keys from the ignition.
Would he want to come in? Of course he will, she chastised herself
fiercely. He hadn't exactly bothered to hide his interest in her.
Her mind groped for excuses. The girls. Mrs. Johnson. They both had
to work tomorrow.

When she glanced over at him, she discovered
his eyes upon her, dark and unreadable in the moonlight. "Thanks
for the ride," she said, reaching for the door handle.

"I'll walk you to the door," he told her and
dropped his keys into his pocket.

She flushed at the faint note of censure in
his voice. Matt was right behind her as she stepped onto the
sidewalk, and it occurred to her that despite their rocky beginning
Matt had been nothing but a perfect gentleman.

In spite of the apprehensive tingle she felt
in his presence, she realized her behavior had been petty and a
little waspish. In fact, there were a few times she'd been rather
rude. No, she definitely wasn't proud of herself.

The porch light had flashed on at the sound
of the car doors slamming, and Mrs. Johnson now stood in the
doorway.

"Hi," Angie greeted. "How were the
girls?"

"Oh, just fine." A pair of bright eyes,
startlingly blue beneath her snowy white hair, twinkled at Angie.
"They've been in bed since eight-thirty."

Angie nodded and stepped inside. She turned
toward Matt, still standing on the porch. She quickly introduced
him to the elderly woman, then smiled tentatively at him. "Would
you mind walking Mrs. Johnson home? Then, if you'd like, you can
stop back in for coffee."

Mrs. Johnson waved aside her request and
bundled her ample form into a sweater. "Oh, there's no need for
that. I can see myself home."

"I wouldn't dream of it." The smile Matt
directed at the older woman would have melted the polar ice cap.
Mrs. Johnson, a widow for the past twenty years, seemed utterly
susceptible. She was absolutely beaming as Matt offered her his
arm.

Angie was still chuckling about it when she
came down the stairs from checking on the girls a few minutes
later. Hearing footsteps on the porch, she opened the front door.
Matt stood on the threshold.

"Is your offer still open?" he asked. "Or was
it just for Mrs. Johnson's benefit?" The mild amusement in his
voice took the sting out of his words.

Angie opened the door wider, and he stepped
inside. "Speaking of Mrs. Johnson," she commented dryly, "you seem
to have added one more to the list."

"The list?" He looked totally blank as he
followed her into the kitchen.

She pulled two stoneware mugs from a rack on
the wall. "Mrs. Johnson. Janice. Georgia," she said over her
shoulder. "Quite a fan club, I'd say."

"Georgia?" He sounded incredulous. "Your
secretary, Georgia?"

"Believe it or not, one and the same." She
filled a cup and handed it to him. "She's not half as scary as she
looks--and acts."

Matt was feeling rather pleased with himself.
"Must be all that Chicago charm," he murmured. "Think there's a
chance some of it might rub off on you?"

She was amused by the little-boy hopefulness
in his eyes. It was far less threatening than the ruggedly male
aura he possessed; so far tonight she'd done a commendable job of
ignoring it. Mentally she crossed her fingers, the words echoing
silently in her head. So far...

Her cup in one hand, she gestured to the
living room. "Why don't we go in there?" she suggested.

She knew it was a mistake the minute they sat
down. Not that Matt was sitting too close. She had the feeling he
deliberately chose the far end of the sofa, and oddly, it set her
nerves aflutter. And with the lamp glowing dimly in the corner, the
house silent around them, the clock on the mantel ticking
peacefully away, it was a potent—and unwelcome—reminder that the
two of them were alone together in what might be considered a
rather intimate setting.

Angie couldn't help it. She switched on the
lamp sitting on the end table nearest her. Their eyes met briefly,
and she knew for certain that he was aware of her sudden
unease.

A moment later, however, his voice betrayed
nothing. "Do you need a ride in to work tomorrow morning?"

She shook her head quickly, but not before
Matt glimpsed a flash of pride in her eyes. "I'll have to take care
of getting my tires replaced first thing in the morning, so I don't
know what time I'll be in."

He took a sip of his coffee, his gaze never
leaving hers. "You're a very independent woman, aren't you, Angie
Hall?"

Instinctively she felt her defenses rise, but
when she saw that he meant no offense, she relaxed—somewhat. "I've
had to be," she returned quietly.

Matt leaned back against the cushions and
regarded her. "You've been alone-—" he frowned "-—how long
now?"

Her fingers tightened around her cup. A faint
bitterness crept into her thoughts as her mind delved backward.
Evan had been lost to her months before his death, but she knew
what Matt meant.

"Two years," she answered, not looking at
him.

The silence spun out between them. There was
a faint rustle as Matt reached out to set his cup on the coffee
table. "It just occurred to me," he said slowly, "that the other
night... well, I never said I was sorry about your husband."

It was an awkward apology, and as he saw her
face shut down all expression, he cursed himself for a fool. It was
obvious the subject of her husband's death was a painful one. He
heard her utter a toneless thank you, then walk to the window where
she stared solemnly out at the dark night.

Her lovely profile was hidden in shadow, but
there was something abominably pitiful about the slender

lines of her back and shoulders set in proud
but rigid lines. It was a sight that sent some nameless emotion
stabbing into his heart. She seemed so vulnerable. So alone despite
the determination and ability to stand on her own two feet.

Matt was a man who understood pride. He was
also a man who understood pain, and he felt a strange kind of
empathy stir deep inside himself.

He moved toward her, responding only to the
loneliness he glimpsed beneath her facade of control. Perhaps it
was borne of the desire to comfort, for there had been many times
in his own life that he would have welcomed comfort from the arms
of another.

He laid his hands on her shoulders, a
feather-light touch, nothing that would frighten her.
"Angie..."

Exactly what he might have said, he would
never know. The muscles of her shoulders stiffened beneath his
fingers, and he saw her drop her head. "No more questions, Matt."
She moistened her lips. "Please."

It seemed a simple request, and yet it was
far from simple. Angie was not a woman who would easily bare both
heart and soul, and he sensed that there was much she held deep
inside herself, perhaps too much. What would it take for her to
confide in him, to trust as he wanted her to trust? Time? He had
time, all that he needed. And patience? He had to be patient, for
he suspected Angie would give him no choice.

Ever so slowly he turned her around to face
him, then let his hands drop back to his sides. Her eyes, those
gorgeous blue eyes framed with feathery black lashes, were dark and
shadowed. Her tension radiated from her like a shield of armor, but
it was a barrier he was determined to tear down. Little by little,
if necessary.

"Do you dislike me, Angie?"

The mildness of his tone, as much as the
question itself, startled her. "I... no." She took a deep breath
to combat the erratic beat of her pulse. He was close, so close she
could see the individual lines that fanned out from his eyes, the
faint darkening of his beard-roughened jawline that proclaimed he
was a man prone to five o'clock shadow. "No, I don't dislike
you."

"But you're not comfortable with me,
either."

Her thoughts were vague and a little
disjointed. A part of her realized she'd been right to be wary of
him. Nothing escaped his notice, nothing.

She wanted to look away, yet she couldn't.
Her eyes traveled with unerring accuracy to the face that hovered
just above her own, a face whose harshly masculine beauty she
couldn't deny. They lingered for long, uninterrupted seconds on his
mouth, a mouth that looked strangely inviting with its sensuously
curved lower lip.

"No," she confessed. "No, I'm not comfortable
with you!" She was suddenly upset with him for riling her like this
and angry at herself for letting him get to her. She would have
stepped away, but his hands on her shoulders wouldn't let her.
Those same hands coasted down her arms, sending a prickle of
sensation over her skin. To her dismay, it wasn't unpleasant.
Indeed, it was entirely too pleasant for her own good.

"Why?" he asked very quietly.

"Why, what?" She deliberately chose to
misunderstand.

"Why aren't you comfortable with me?" Just as
deliberately he fitted their hands together, palm to palm, finger
to finger.

His skin was warm, not at all soft like her
own. She was acutely conscious of the way his large hands dwarfed
her own.

"Because of this?"

This was an undeniable feeling of heat and
awareness flowing between them, hotter than fire, charged with the
sizzling energy of a lightning bolt.

Angie jerked her hands away as if she had
been burned. "Why are you doing this?" she asked in a low voice,
fighting the impulse to back away.

Maybe it was to prove to himself that she
wasn't as
¹
unaware of him as she pretended—or perhaps
that was what he was trying to prove to her. It was, he decided, a
little of both.

"I'm very attracted to you, Angie. And I
think if you're honest with yourself, you'll admit you feel the
same."

She looked away, feeling suddenly ill
equipped to deal with such candor. She had the uneasy feeling that
he saw right through her, that he was aware of every nuance of
emotion she was trying to hide. He made her feel exposed. And never
again would she allow a man to do that to her. Never.

"The only logical thing to do is see where
that attraction takes us," he added.

"Then I'd suggest you find yourself another
taker!" she retorted. She'd struggled a long time to rebuild even a
measure of the confidence she'd lost at Evan's hands. She wouldn't
stand by and let another man tear down what little she had
regained!

Matt hid a smile. Her eyes were huge in her
pale face. She reminded him of a frightened rabbit, but she had the
tongue of a spitting tiger. He knew what she was trying to do, but
he wasn't buying it.

"The only one I'm interested in is you," he
said in a voice as wispy soft as cotton.

Angie shook her head, as if to negate his
words. His gentle manner, the sensitivity that he didn't bother to
hide, made his masculinity all the more overpowering. Still, both
seemed almost at odds in such a hard- featured man. Yet all she had
to do was look into his eyes to know that he wasn't as hard or
tough as he appeared at first sight. The knowledge confused and
unsettled her.

Her eyes slid away, but in the fraction of a
second she allotted him, Matt was taken aback at the depth of
emotion he saw reflected there, a kind of vulnerability that was
quickly replaced by something that might have been despair.

"Matt..." Somehow she didn't even question
that her voice was tainted with regret. "I really think you should
find someone else."

"Janice is already spoken for. So is Georgia.
And Mrs. Johnson... well, I think she's a little old for me."

His grin was so utterly disarming that she
felt her heart turn over. She knew he was trying to lighten the
suddenly intense atmosphere, but it made her all the more
determined to say what she had to. "I think you should find someone
who has more to give than I do," she told him quietly.

His grin evaporated. She felt as if he had
penetrated clear to her soul, and his next words seemed to prove
it. "You have two daughters who obviously aren't suffering from a
shortage of anything—especially love."

Angie chose her words carefully. "The love
between a parent and child is different. The other kind, the kind
between a man and a woman..." She faltered uncertainly. How could
she say what she felt without revealing too much of herself? Even
now after all this time, when she looked in the mirror, she saw
only a shell of the intensely passionate woman she had once
been.

For just an instant she experienced a burning
sense of betrayal. Her looks were something she had always taken
for granted, but Evan had made her feel unattractive. Worthless.
He had stripped her of her pride in her sex, the most precious gift
a woman could give to a man.

Was it any wonder she had avoided men m all
but the most impersonal of relationships since Evan's death? Todd
was the only one she had let get even remotely close, and she had
set boundaries he didn't dare impose upon. She was right. She had
nothing left to give.

She took a deep, unsteady breath, angry with
Matt for putting her through this. "Let's just say it's not for
me," she finished in a low voice.

For his part, Matt was trying to decipher the
fleeting emotions that flitted across her face, not the least of
which was fear. What did she have to be afraid of? "You're saying
you're not capable of that kind of love anymore?" He couldn't quite
keep the skepticism from his voice.