Belonging (16 page)

she felt his eyes on her profile. "This is
starting to become a habit," she murmured. "You dropping me off at
home."

He followed the movement of her slender hand
as it tucked a wispy strand of gold behind her ear. The rest of her
hair lay in a single fat braid down her back. The simple hairstyle,
along with the fact that she wore little makeup, made her appear
very young.

He suddenly remembered the dark anguish in
her eyes when she spoke of her husband. Was it selfish of him to
wonder how to ease her pain and replace it with a golden glow of
love for him? Perhaps. But it didn't stop him from wanting to
try.

"I'm not complaining, but I may start
charging you mileage," he teased.

Casey was bouncing impatiently on the back
seat. Matt got out and eased the seat forward allowing the two
girls to get out. "Wait," he called as they began to run toward the
house. "I almost forgot. I have something for each of you." He
went around to the rear of the car, opened the trunk and brought
out two small, gaily wrapped packages. The square one he handed to
Casey, the other to Kim.

Casey wasted no time in ripping the paper
away. "Look, Mommy!" she cried delightedly. "Care Bear stickers.
And a book to put them in!"

"Just what you've been wanting." Angie smiled
at her daughter's excitement, then turned her attention to Kim. She
was peeling away the paper much more slowly and carefully. From the
circular shape Angie guessed it was a ball of some sort, but she
was a little surprised when Kim held up a rather battered-looking
league ball.

Matt dropped down to one knee beside her.
"Remember I told you about Ernie Banks last week, Kim?"

The child nodded. "He played for the—" she
hesitated, her small brow furrowed in concentration before she
announced "—the Chicago Cubs!"

Angie wasn't surprised that she remembered.
As young as she was, Kim was fairly familiar with the major league
teams. But her own pleasure was echoed in Matt's face as he flashed
a smile.

"Ernie hit a home run with this ball," he
told her, then rotated the ball slightly and pointed to a place
that had been hidden by Kim's palm. "See that? That's Ernie's
autograph."

Kim's eyes lit up like hundred-watt light
bulbs. "He really signed this?"

"Sure did."

"Gee," the little girl breathed, then frowned
once more. "How did you get it?"

He laughed. "I was about fourteen at the time
and I spent most Saturday afternoons at Wrigley Field. I got my
head knocked around a few times, but when Ernie blasted that ball
into the center field bleachers, I scrambled around until I found
it. Then I waited outside at the end of the game. When Ernie came
out of the locker room, I asked him to sign it for me. He was my
hero in those days."

"You were really there when he hit a home
run?" Kim's voice was filled with excitement. "A grand slam?"

"It wasn't a grand slam, but I was really
there." His eyes twinkled. "And now it's yours, Kim. You'll take
good care of it, won't you?"

"You bet I will!" It was such an enthusiastic
avowal that Angie was startled. She was even more startled at the
gentle expression that softened Matt's harshly carved features as
Kim looked up at him. "Thanks, Mr. Richardson," she said with a
trace of her customary shyness. Then a wide grin appeared. "Thanks
a lot!"

Angie's throat was poignantly tight. It had
been a long time since she'd seen her daughter's face exhibit such
radiance—far too long. She hadn't seen Kim this happy since before
Evan's death.

"That was really sweet of you, Matt." She
paused, her head angled as she watched him rise lithely to his
feet. "The baseball... it must have meant a lot to you if you've
kept it all these years."

Angie's voice was warmer than he'd ever heard
it, at least when she'd spoken to him.

He shrugged, just a little embarrassed. His
eyes followed the two girls as they went around the side of the
house. "It did for a long time," he admitted, turning his attention
back to Angie. He'd had so little as a child. There were no train
sets proudly set up by a doting father at Christmastime. He'd
never even had his own bike. But Angie was right. The baseball he'd
given Kim was something he'd always treasured.

"Kids aren't hard to please," he said,
voicing his thoughts. "And Kim.. .well, Bill told me how crazy she
is about baseball. I thought she might like it."

"Like it?" Her laughter sounded like bells
tinkling in a spring breeze. He'd never heard anything so sweet.
"She loves it. And speaking of heroes, I think she may have a new
one—by the name of Matt Richardson."

A look of pleasure appeared in his eyes. "How
does her mother feel about that?"

There was something boyishly appealing in the
way he stood there grinning lopsidedly at her, with his hands
stuffed into the front pockets of his jeans. Yet there was nothing
even remotely boyish in the sheer physical presence of the man, the
impression of strength and power reflected in both mind and
body.

He had pushed up the sleeves of his shirt
against the warmth of the afternoon, revealing strong, muscular
forearms covered with a dense layer of silky dark hair. Angie's
heart executed what felt like a triple somersault.

"Her mother," she heard herself say lightly,
"thinks she couldn't have made a better choice." Was she flirting?
It certainly sounded like it!

Their eyes met. His were bold, bright, a
tentative question in their depths. Hers weren't quite so direct;
Matt thought he detected a hint of uncertainty.

He took an involuntary step toward her.
"Angie," he began.

The sudden pitter-patter of footsteps on the
sidewalk drowned out the sound of his voice. Matt heard a gate
slam and looked around to find Kim and Casey tearing around the
side of the house. "Mommy! Mommy, something's been in our yard!"
Wearing a fearful expression, Kim latched on to her mother's
hand.

Angie and Matt started toward the rear of the
house. A moment later Angie's jaw dropped at what she saw
there.

The yard was a shambles. The neatly designed
borders of flowers and shrubbery that edged the house had been
uprooted. Fragile blossoms, tiny branches and clumps of dirt had
been strewn across the grass. The picnic table beneath the towering
elm tree had been upended. The delicate white wicker lawn furniture
was smashed into bits and pieces as if it had been stomped upon and
carelessly kicked aside. To top it off the pristine white boards on
one corner of the house had been defaced with a dark red spray
paint.

"Good Lord," she muttered numbly. "Something
has been—"

"Not something," Matt said grimly.
"Some
one
." A tight-lipped expression on his face, he asked,
"Any idea who could be responsible?"

"None." Her eyes were puzzled as they swept
around the ravaged yard. "Why on earth would someone do this?"
From somewhere she dredged up a weak smile, remembering what he'd
said when they'd found her tires slashed. "A couple of kids
hell-bent on a little destruction?"

It was possible, Matt admitted silently. But
somehow he didn't think so. He had the feeling this was
intentionally aimed at Angie. "Any rowdies in the neighborhood who
might vandalize?" he asked instead.

"Not that I know of."

"Has anything else like this happened
lately?"

"No," she responded quietly. "This is a
relatively quiet area of town. There have been a few burglaries
from time to time, but that's all."

Matt walked across the yard and peered over
the tall fence to the narrow alleyway that ran the entire length of
the block. He glanced over at the thick, seven-foot hedge of
arborvitae that separated Angie's property from Mrs. Johnson's.
"Whoever did it probably climbed over the fence from the alley and
didn't even have to worry about being seen. But it won't hurt to
check with some of the neighbors and see if anyone saw or heard
anything." He turned and started back toward the gate.

As it happened, no one had, and Angie was
fully involved in cleaning up by the time Matt returned. He
noticed the wheelbarrow sitting on the patio, already heaped full
of withered plant life. "You should have waited for me," he
admonished gently.

Angie bent over and picked up a handful of
what had once been a bright yellow spray of marigold blossoms. In
the few minutes that he had been gone, her surprise had given way
to anger and now to a feeling of tired resignation. "Don't tell me
you're going to offer to help with this, too," she said as she
straightened up.

Matt crossed his arms over his chest. "Is
there any reason why I shouldn't?" he countered.

Angie sighed. "There's really no need. It
won't take that long—"

"Aren't you forgetting you have budget
material to go over?"

She grimaced and waved a hand. "No, but that
doesn't mean you have to..." Her voice trailed off as he walked
over and took the rake she still held in one hand. Without a word
he turned and began raking up clumps of dirt. Angie stared at his
broad back, thinking that he was the most persistent man she had
ever met in her life.

She perched her hands on her slender hips,
trying very hard to feel offended, but somehow the feeling just
wouldn't come. "Is this a habit of yours? Coming in and taking over
someone else's life?"

"Is that what I'm doing?" he asked mildly,
glancing back at her over his shoulder. "I thought it was called
helping a friend. Although that friend does owe me something—" his
smile was unrepentant as his eyes dropped meaningfully to her mouth
"—and hasn't yet paid up."

Angie was the first to look away. "I suppose
you want to make it two now."

"One will do, Angie. One will do very
nicely... for now."

The playful edge to his words didn't lessen
the suddenly erratic fluttering of her pulse. To cover her
reaction she turned her back to him, bent from the waist and
grabbed another handful of azalea branches. "I still think you must
have better things to do with your time than spend it cleaning up
someone else's yard," she muttered, not really caring if he
overheard.

Matt leaned on his rake, pausing to savor the
enticing picture she presented. At the moment Matt couldn't think
of anything better.

***

Several hours later Angie was repainting the
corner of the house. It was just as she finished the last sweeping
stroke with her brush that she sensed she was being watched.

She jerked her gaze upward and saw that
Matt's eyes were trained intently on her face. They were so dark
and cloudy that she had the strangest sensation he was looking
right through her, that it was someone else he was seeing.

The sun had warmed the afternoon temperature
to the mid-eighties, and Matt had peeled off his shirt against the
heat. His body was lean, and dense swirls of dark hair carpeted the
whole of his chest and abdomen before dipping down beneath the
waistband of his jeans. She wondered if those midnight curls were
as soft as they looked.

"Matt?" The sight of his bare torso caused an
un- evenness in her voice. "Is something wrong?"

He shook his head. "I was just thinking...."
He paused, then took the shovel he was holding and propped it
against the wheelbarrow. "I was just thinking how different you
are from Linda," he finished quietly.

Linda. She felt a prickly sensation trail
down her spine. Jealousy? No. It couldn't be. "Your ex-wife?" she
asked.

"Yes."

Angie bent and replaced the lid on the can of
paint. Watching her, Matt's smile ebbed. "She wouldn't have been
caught dead with paint on her hands."

"Or dirt under her nails?" she guessed,
displaying her own as a prime example. At his nod she found herself
asking, "What was she like?"

"Spoiled. Rich. Vain," he said without
hesitation. He picked up his shirt and pulled it over his head,
then walked over and sat down at the picnic table before he spoke
again. "She looks a little like you," he admitted with a sheepish
half smile. "Blond, fair skin." The smile widened. "Never saw her
with a sunburned nose, though. Guess it's just one more reason I
like you so much."

Angie laughed and wrinkled her nose. She had
no intention of becoming seriously involved with Matt, but she
admitted to a certain curiosity about the woman who had once been
his wife. "Oh, come on," she protested, sitting down across from
him. "She must have had something you liked, or you wouldn't have
married her. Was she pretty?"

He was silent for a moment. "No," he said
finally. "She wasn't pretty. She was beautiful. Absolutely
gorgeous."

At his words Angie felt an unexpected pang.
She glanced down at the faded blue shorts and T-shirt she wore, now
splattered with white paint, and realized she must look anything
but alluring.

"Is that why you moved away from Chicago?"
she asked softly. "To get away from the memories?"

Matt sent her a wry look. "I've been divorced
for six years, Angie. Fool that I was for marrying her, I'd be an
even bigger fool if I mooned that long over a woman like
Linda."

Angie frowned. It was the last thing she
expected him to say. "Didn't you love her?" It was none of her
business, she knew, but the question was out before she even
realized it.

He was immersed in thought for so long she
didn't think he'd heard her. "I loved her," he said at last. "But
after a while it just wasn't enough."

Angie's heart caught painfully. She knew the
feeling only too well. At the end that was exactly how she'd felt
with Evan.

"We weren't the people we thought we were,"
Matt went on. "Linda came from a very old, wealthy Chicago family.
Her father was a judge, her grandfather an Illinois supreme court
justice. We met when her father received a threat from a man he'd
once sentenced to a twenty-year term for manslaughter." He seemed
to hesitate. "In a way she was everything I always thought I'd
wanted but could never even hope to have. To her, I think I was
like the forbidden fruit—a tough-talking detective from the wrong
side of town."