"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. "Someone." 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."
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.
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