Belonging (7 page)

"Do I dare ask why?" Her voice was slightly
mocking. "A case of 'marry in haste and repent at leisure'
perhaps?"

That was indeed a rather accurate description
of Linda's actions when their marriage had ended nearly six years
ago, but Matt didn't say so. Instead, he crossed his long legs,
then turned so that their knees brushed.

Angie stiffened. This man had an amazing
knack for putting her on the defensive. While it was a position she
was used to assuming, somehow he made her feel as if she were
floundering in deep, unknown waters. She knew she should get up and
leave. Now. This instant. The whole conversation was absolutely
ridiculous! But when a warm, faintly rough fingertip reached out
to touch one of her hands where it lay curled around the thin arm
of the chair, she felt a curiously debilitating sense of weakness
wash over her. All she could do was focus on that long finger as it
traced a random pattern over the back of her hand.

"Angela—" his voice was soft as silk and just
as smooth "—you don't mind if I call you that, do you? Or do you
prefer Angie?"

She flushed uncomfortably. "Angie," she heard
herself confirm in a low voice.

"I was just wondering...is there anything in
the city charter that forbids the mayor from fraternizing with the
hired help?"

His hand still caressed her own. Caress. Why
was she thinking of it like that? she wondered wildly. Even in the
muted light she could see that the contrast between his dark skin
and her own honey coloring was startling. Her eyes moved slightly
to take in the figure next to her, but the sight that she met
didn't ease the tight knot of awareness in her chest. The knee
nudging her own was connected to a long, tautly muscled thigh. She
felt both hot and cold, but she couldn't stop her gaze from
journeying slowly upward. His hips were lean and trim; his jacket
parted to reveal a broad expanse of chest.

It was almost a shock to realize that this
man—infuriating as he was—touched an awareness inside her that she
hadn't felt in a long, long time. She hadn't looked at a man—really
looked at a man--since before her marriage. Certainly not
after.

She snatched her hand from his and stood up
abruptly. "Chief Richardson—" she began.

"Matt. Please call me Matt." He flashed an
engaging grin. "Try to forget, just once, our differing stations
in life."

He was baiting her. She knew it and she also
knew she shouldn't let it disturb her. At the same instant she
recalled exactly how thorough her own inspection of his blatant
masculinity had been. And oddly, that thought angered her more than
any of his roundabout suggestiveness.

"Chief Richardson," she stated with a calm
she definitely didn't feel, "let me make one thing perfectly
clear. You may be free, but I'm not interested."

With that she turned on her heel and left him
sitting in the dark.

Matt watched as she stalked inside the hotel,
her head held regally high. It occurred to him then that he'd been
trying to get more than just a cool, passive response from her—a
response of any other kind would suffice. Experience had taught him
to be wary of her type, but again he found himself admitting she
was one damn attractive woman. And he couldn't deny that she made
him feel more alive than he'd felt in years.

Looks like you got what you wanted, old
man,
he thought with a smile.
She's just as human as you
are.

He got to his feet, and as he glanced idly
down, his smile was transformed into a full-blown laugh.

Cinderella had left her slippers.

CHAPTER FOUR

Matt found he was still smiling when he
stepped onto the porch of a white two-story house a short time
later, Angie's shoes tucked under one arm. As his eyes traveled
quickly around the darkened property, he experienced a swell of
pride. Through the darkness he could just make out the shape of the
huge rhododendrons that bordered the house on all sides. When Matt
had bought the house a month earlier, he'd been totally entranced
with the fragile pink blossoms that displayed frilly ruffles and
pale blushes against a background of leathery green leaves. Coming
from a man like himself, he'd found his reaction rather amusing,
but it hadn't stopped him from vowing to plant a vegetable
garden—for the first time in his life.

Inside the living room, sparsely but
comfortably furnished, he eased himself into a recliner in front of
the fireplace, not bothering to switch on a light. Stretching his
long legs out in front of him, it suddenly occurred to him that he
was encountering quite a few "firsts."

Buying this house had been a first, for
instance. The first fifteen years of his life had been spent cooped
up with his mother and his brother in a run-down apartment that
wasn't much bigger than this room. Life with Linda had certainly
been easier; although the financial rewards of his job had offered
security and stability, living fifty floors up in the sterile
surroundings she'd called home had been stifling. He had been on a
perpetual merry-go-round, and the hell of it was he hadn't even
realized it. Only lately had he finally found the way to stop and
let himself off.

He wasn't a kid with a whole lifetime of
dreams stretching before him. But for the first time in longer than
he could remember, he felt free, unfettered by demands on his time,
on his person.

And what he really craved, what he had longed
for all his life, was the security of knowing that he belonged,
that he was needed by someone.

Matt's smile retained just a touch of
cynicism. For a man who'd been something of a loner since he was a
child, it was an odd thing to want out of life. After all the years
of emptiness and loneliness, of telling himself that it didn't
really matter, was he going all soft and sentimental? Maybe. Yet,
he sensed that it was all a part of the change he was going
through.

It was odd. Very odd. Here he was, sitting in
a darkened room steeped in solitude, but he didn't feel nearly as
alone as he had all those years in Chicago.

Yes, he was glad he'd made the move here to
Washington. And as his eyes lit on the pair of heels he'd dropped
on the couch, he found himself admitting that Angie Hall was only
one of the reasons.

But certainly not the least.

Filmy streamers of light found their way into
Angie's bedroom the next morning, first in a pale gray haze that
chased away the purple shadows of dawn, then in errant shafts of
gold that filled the room with brightness.

Angie awoke slowly, savoring the sensation of
waking on her own instead of to the insistent blare of the clock
radio. Sleeping in an hour late on weekends was a luxury she'd
indulged in only over the past year or so. The girls had been too
young to supervise themselves before that time, but now Kim was
usually able to entertain Casey by switching on Saturday morning
cartoons. When Evan was alive, he had been the one allowed to
sleep in.

Evan. Angie closed her eyes and steeled
herself against an unwelcome surge of emotion. Then, realizing the
futility of doing battle with the ghosts of her past, she took a
deep breath and let the feelings sweep over her, wondering
hopelessly if she could ever make peace with herself... and with
him.

After all this time she still felt so many
things when she thought of Evan. Pain. Despair. Bitterness. But
love? She had entered their marriage with her heart so full of
happiness she thought it would burst. At the last the fabric of
their love had been so torn and tattered that not even the
slightest thread of hope remained. No, there was no love left in
her heart for Evan, just as there had been no tears shed when she
had learned of his death.

Then there had been only a deep-seated sense
of relief that at least she had been spared his anger. Evan had
died not knowing that she intended to leave him— for good. And
Angie still struggled with a guilt-ridden conscience. Not because
she'd planned to divorce him but because she felt such relief that
she hadn't been forced to tell him.

With a heavy sigh she rolled over, and it was
then that last night's episode with Matt Richardson flooded her
consciousness. His rugged face appeared before her, and she
experienced a tingly sensation, not pleasant but not entirely
unpleasant, either.

The smile that emerged surprised her. She had
encountered Chuck Harris, the city's personnel director, the
minute she'd marched back into the banquet room. She'd completely
forgotten her shoeless state; Chuck's aghast expression had served
as a rude reminder. With the aplomb that had served her so well,
she'd directed a beaming smile at him but made haste to the nearest
exit, thankfully only a few steps away.

Chuckling, she started to throw off the
covers, then became aware of Kim snuggled into the space next to
her. A warm feeling of pride washed over her but mingled with it
was a prickly sense of unease. It wasn't unusual for Kim to steal
into bed with her mother at some point during the night. It
happened perhaps once a month. Angie quietly studied the peacefully
sleeping child. Kim had often been plagued by nightmares following
Evan's death, but they had tapered off during the past year. Had
they started once more?

Kim stirred beneath her mother's thoughtful
gaze. Then, opening her big brown eyes, she rubbed them
sleepily.

"Hi, precious." Tenderly she brushed a
tumbled curl from Kim's flushed cheek. "Have another bad dream?"
Deliberately Angie tried not to sound too worried.

Kim shook her head.

"Was your sister kicking you again?" Angie
forced a teasing note into her voice.

Again the little girl shook her head. "I
didn't hear you come home last night," she finally admitted in a
small voice. "I worry about you when you're late."

Angie's smile was bittersweet. Kim's concern
for her was both touching and pathetic. "I wasn't late,
sweetheart," she told her gently. "You and Casey were both asleep
when I got home, and I did come in and kiss you good-night."

It saddened her that, for Kim, darkness
brought with it the shadow of fear. For Angie, the fear had ended,
but her daughter's had only begun. She supposed Kim's anxiety
stemmed from the fear of finding herself alone. After all, she had
already lost one parent, and it was understandable that she would
be afraid of losing the other. It was for that reason that Angie
had decided to put Kim and Casey in the same bed.

As if on cue, Casey came racing into the
room, her eyes bright and sparkling as though she'd been up and
around for hours. "Are you awake, Mommy? I'm hungry and Kim's not
downstairs."

Angie felt her spirits rise. "That's because
she's right here with me." Reaching out, she lifted her youngest
onto the bed and proceeded to tickle both her and her sister until
they shrieked with laughter.

"I'm hungry, Mom," Casey piped again when she
slid off the bed a few minutes later. "Will you fix breakfast?"

"Sure, hon." Angie reached for the robe
draped over the end of the bed and slipped into it. "What would you
like?"

"Ice cream!" Casey immediately chortled.

Angie laughed and began to straighten the
pale but- tercup-printed comforter. "When was the last time you had
ice cream for breakfast?" When the two girls exchanged
conspiratorial glances, she groaned. "Now I know why you don't mind
if I sleep late on Saturday!"

They settled for French toast dripping with
syrup, then Angie spent the remainder of the morning doing
household chores.

"Mommy!" Kim wore a frantic look as she ran
into the dining room shortly after lunch. "I can't find my jersey
and my shorts!"

Hiding a smile, Angie wordlessly handed her a
neatly folded blue-and-white jersey and matching blue shorts from
the pile of laundry she'd been folding. Kim's game didn't start
until two-thirty, so they wouldn't be leaving until shortly before
two, but Kim started getting anxious several hours ahead of
time.

Ten minutes later she ran back into the room.
"Mom, you're not even dressed yet!" she cried distressfully.

Angie shook her head, knowing that Kim
wouldn't relax until she'd done so. "I'm going, I'm going," she
told the child good-naturedly, abandoning the remainder of the
laundry still lying in a heap on the dining room table.

"Can I call Nancy and see if they're ready?"
Kim's voice followed her as she headed for the stairs.

Angie nodded. A few minutes later she
returned downstairs, a blond carbon copy of her chestnut-haired
daughter. The doorbell sounded as her foot hit the last step. A
little surprised that the Crawfords had managed to herd themselves
together already, Angie grabbed her cap and threw open the front
door.

"How on earth did you get here so soon—" she
began laughingly.

Her voice dropped off abruptly. A pair of
startled gray eyes mirrored her own shock at finding Matt
Richardson on her doorstep.

For his part, Matt couldn't have been more
pleased. A little stunned, perhaps, at finding this bewitching,
ponytailed creature standing before him instead of the polished
sophisticate he'd seen thus far. But, oh, yes, most definitely
pleased. His gaze traveled appreciatively over slim, bare legs
revealed by a pair of brief nylon shorts all the way to the long
flaxen hair caught in a ponytail at the back of her head. It didn't
stop until it reached the baseball cap she'd jammed on her head at
the last second.

"Trying to throw me a curve ball again,
aren't you?"

Very funny, Angie thought. Aware of the
direction his eyes had taken, she reached up and removed the
baseball cap, dropping it on the small table near the door. She
could see that he was trying very hard not to smile, but somehow
she wasn't as amused by his unexpected appearance as she'd been
last night at the hotel. Nevertheless, she couldn't quite control
the involuntary quickening of her heartbeat. Dressed casually in
jeans and a blue denim shirt, he seemed less harsh and even more
overwhelmingly masculine.