A Question Of Love

Quietly, he limped to the side of the house and grabbed the first set of slats on the trellis. Pulling himself up, he bounced experimentally, testing the strength of the makeshift ladder and his leg. He had gained a few pounds since his senior year and wasn’t sure that time hadn’t rotted out the trellis.

Though it creaked a bit and his leg throbbed slightly, he decided that both would support his weight for the short climb. Slowly, he inched his way up, cursing softly at the bite of an occasional thorn piercing his skin, then boosted himself over the balcony of Stan’s old room. The French doors stood open. Tess had no doubt been airing the room for his arrival.

NEXT DOOR, Amanda Logan had heard the telltale creak of the rose trellis, a noise she’d grown familiar with when Stan and Matt had used it as an emergency entrance after their twelve o’clock curfew had come and gone. She’d recognized her nephew’s voice cursing the rose thorns, just as he had years before. Just to make sure she wasn’t wrong about the identity of their midnight visitor, she slipped from her bed and, with the aid of her walker, shuffled to the window.

Just as she pushed the curtain aside, Matt launched himself over the balcony rail. For a moment, she waited for Stan to follow on Matt’s heels, as he would have years ago. Back then, she’d have stood here watching the two teenagers scale the balcony railing, all the while thinking they’d pulled the wool over her eyes.

But Stan didn’t appear. Stan never would appear again.

Tears threatened. Though a year had passed since Stan had been killed in his race car, the pain sometimes felt very raw, the emptiness overwhelming.

She shook the tears and the poignant memories away, then maneuvered herself back to the bed. No time now for sorrow. Now was the time for new memories, new adventures, new loves.

She lay back against the pillows, quietly picturing the scene in the next room.

Tomorrow, thanks to fate and her slight intervention, this dreary old house would bear witness to an old wrong being set right, and perhaps, in the process, a new beginning.

MATT STEPPED OVER the threshold of his cousin’s old room and stopped dead in his tracks.

There, spread out over the discarded bedcovers, lay a woman clad only in a T-shirt and bikini panties. One long, shapely leg stretched out across the white sheet. The other, bent at the knee, helped to expose a good portion of her naked bottom.

He crept closer, then moved to the side to allow the moonlight to bathe her supine body. He felt like a voyeur, but he couldn’t help himself. Something about her called out to him, something familiar. When he stood at the foot of the bed, he knew why.

Honey Kingston lay deep in sleep, her hand cupping her cheek, her glorious honey-blond hair splayed over the pillow in loose tangles.

Despite the shock of seeing the one woman he’d hoped to avoid, he had to admit that she still had the power to take his breath away—and to provoke that churning fear that had sent him running from her years earlier.

He could not recall ever seeing a woman who equaled Honey’s beauty, and he’d seen many on his travels. His stomach felt bottomless. His heart threatened to implode. Old emotions rushed forward. Emotions Matt had tried to kill in every way he could for over seven years. Emotions he’d been certain he had dealt with—until now.

As if it were yesterday, memories of her soft flesh sliding over his buffeted him. Almost unconsciously, he moved to the bedside. Something drove him, something he couldn’t seem to control. He touched her cheek with the pad of his thumb and ran it slowly and gently over her creamy skin. She moaned and stirred in her sleep. He pulled back, half from fear of waking her, but more from that old sensual magnetism that spelled trouble and gave life to that gut-wrenching need stirring deep within him.

Despite his fear, emotions he’d thought never to experience again where Honey was concerned ran rampant through him. His groin tightened. He wanted to climb into bed with her and kiss her to wakefulness, hear the little noises she used to make when he made love to her, feel his heartbeat join hers.

He jumped back as if scalded. He had to stop this—now. Damn her! What was there about this woman that stole his common sense, his shield of protection, his pride? Even if he could get past his base inclinations, the fact remained that she’d married his cousin before Matt’s trail dust had had time to settle. Pain sliced through him, as sharp and agonizing as it had when he’d first gotten word of her betrayal.

The clipping that announced the wedding had come in a plain white envelope with no return address. Only a postmark stamped Bristol, NY, and the date. He’d recognized the handwriting as his father’s, the only one who knew where he was. Matt still didn’t know why he’d contacted his father and sent him the post office box address. Maybe he’d hoped the old man would change. Maybe…

He whirled and headed for the door. He shouldn’t have come here. Could those naysayers he’d scoffed at known what they were talking about, after all? Perhaps you couldn’t come home again. Perhaps the ghosts of his childhood were much stronger than any human’s resolve to banish them. Perhaps he hadn’t gotten over Honey Kingston and, God help him, maybe he never would.

Chapter Two

Wide awake, Honey lay staring at the dark bedroom ceiling. Her heart beat a heavy rhythm in her chest. At first, when she’d heard the scuffle of footsteps on the balcony, she had feared an intruder had scaled the rose trellis. But when the shaft of moonlight illuminated Matt Logan’s face, she knew a totally different kind of fear, the kind that made her heart ache with bitter loss, even when she’d declared her heart empty.

Recalling how, when Matt had stood over her a few minutes earlier, she’d managed to remain stone still, she congratulated herself. Then she remembered suppressing a groan of pure passion when he touched her, and the trembling inside returned. Aftershocks, she told herself.

With her skin still tingling where he’d smoothed her cheek, and her insides tangled into knots of dread, it surprised her that she could be flippant. But flippancy helped her contend with the concentrated effort she had to exert to keep from touching the spot his fingers had caressed. Somehow, she felt that if she gave in on this one small urge concerning Matt Logan, she would cave in on the important stuff, too, and she couldn’t afford to.

She rolled to her side and stared into the darkness. Dear heavens, how would she get through the next few weeks and survive? How could she stand being in the same house with him, when she wanted to feed his carcass to the turkey buzzards that populated the woods behind Amanda’s house?

Impelled by her lack of anger at the man, she bolted upright. Had she totally lost her mind? One touch and she’d been charmed again. Why had fate deemed that she should have men in her life that only knew how to hurt? Other women had heroes. So far, all Honey had were the throwaways. Well, she swore for the thousandth time, Danny would not turn out to be one of them.

To reinforce her anger, she rattled off a mental laundry list of all the reasons she had to detest Matt Logan. Because of Matt, she’d had to stand alone against her father’s wrath. Because of Matt, she’d been too heartbroken to fight her father and had ended up enduring six years of hell as Stan Logan’s wife, just so Frank Kingston could hold his head up in town. Because of Matt, Jesse’s rage with their father had forced her half brother to storm from their house, and she’d lost another faux hero. Because of Matt, she’d had to struggle to raise her son as a decent human being, with values and a sense of responsibility. Because of Matt her heart lay dead in her chest.

And as if he hadn’t done enough to make her life miserable, Matt’s return to Bristol had aroused the memories of a self-centered, uncaring father who had run his family with a tyrannical hand.

She sniffed the air experimentally. At times like this, when the pain of what her father had done to her returned, raw and burning, she imagined she could smell cigarette smoke. Since no one in Amanda’s house smoked, Honey knew it wasn’t real, just her pain manifesting itself in her imagination. But even knowing it was not real, fear of opening her eyes and finding herself back in her father’s house and under his rule, seeped through her.

The smell brought with it other things: memories of the night she’d found her father sitting alone in a dark room, smoking, while his wife—her and Emily’s mother—lay in bed waiting. His silent presence had seemed to fill the big house. The red glow on the tip of his cigarette was the only visible sign that he was there in body, if not in mind.

For a long time Honey had stood there, just outside the door, wondering where his thoughts had taken him, willing him to allow her to reach beyond the icy barrier around his heart. When she couldn’t, she’d credited her failure to being less than adequate in his eyes. She’d cried herself to sleep that night and innumerable nights after.

It took years for her to understand that her father’s hell was of his own making. That neither she nor Emily nor their mother had caused it. But they’d all paid for it with his lack of understanding and his angry silences.

She recalled how alone she’d felt back then. When Jesse, her half brother, had come to live with them after his mother’s death, they’d hit it off quite well. They hadn’t been terribly close, just intuitive about each other’s needs. Honey had thought she’d finally found a champion, but she’d soon realized that the sullen child felt about as much at home in the Kingston house as she did. Then Jesse walked out in a rage, and another of her heroes donned the tarnished armor of a fallen knight.

But despite the disappointments she’d suffered in those around her—her father’s iron fist, Jesse’s self-absorption, Matt’s desertion, Stan’s immaturity—Honey had emerged a stronger person. She came to realize that she and she alone controlled her happiness, and that heroes existed only in movies and novels.

She shook away the memories and lay back against the pillows. Being a pragmatic person, she couldn’t go on fooling herself. She knew what had robbed her of a night’s sleep, and it wasn’t only the ghosts from her past. She’d learned to live with them long ago. Neither was it seeing Matt again. After years of practice, she’d become an expert at handling the residual feelings around Matt that surfaced from time to time.

Deep in her soul, she knew that her apprehension stemmed from more than the tiny spark of excitement that seemed to grow at the very idea of coming face-to-face with the man she’d once loved. The source of her growing fear generated far more serious consequences than merely meeting an old flame after seven years.

“MATT’S HERE, you know.”

At Amanda’s words Honey’s hands stilled. Carefully, before she dropped it, she placed the glass of water Amanda had used to take her morning medication on the night table. Should she tell Amanda she knew? That he’d been in her bedroom last night?

Amanda chuckled from her bed and saved Honey the trouble of coming to a decision. “I heard him crawling up the rose trellis last night, just as if he were back in high school.” She looked pointedly at Honey. “He came right through your room. Didn’t you hear him?”

As if she hadn’t heard the question, Honey quickly carried the pill bottles into the bathroom before Amanda detected the truth in her expression. She placed the bottles in the medicine cabinet, then leaned on the sink for support.

Lifting her face, she stared at her white complexion in the mirror. She had to stop this right now. Matt was here. Matt would be here for an indeterminate length of time. She had to pull herself together before she went downstairs and came face-to-face with him. She turned on the faucet, scooped up a handful of cold water and splashed it on her face. She could do this.

Determination in place, spine ramrod straight, she patted the water from her skin with one of Amanda’s fluffy towels, then returned to the bedroom. “Are you ready to get dressed for breakfast?”

Pulling the lilac, quilted coverlet higher on her body, Amanda shook her head. “I’m still a bit tired. I think I’ll be decadent this morning and steal a few more hours sleep. Six-thirty is an obscenely indecent hour to ask anyone to get out of bed.”

“But what about Matt?”

“I’m sure you can entertain him for me, dear. Just make my apologies and tell him I’ll see him at lunch.”

The idea of entertaining Matt in any way sent butterflies careening around Honey’s stomach, but concern for her mother-in-law helped her ignore them. Amanda was traditionally an early riser. Honey had never heard her complain about the early hour before. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Fine, just a bit tired.” Amanda waved her hand at Honey, then snuggled down and closed her eyes. “You go ahead. Danny will be up soon and wanting you to have breakfast with him.”

Danny!

Honey had totally forgotten that Danny would be going down for breakfast soon. She moved quickly to the doorway, turned off the light, then closed the door behind her. Hurrying down the hallway, she passed the spare room, noting the still-closed door. Thank goodness. Maybe Matt had decided to sleep in as well.

ENJOYING THE SILENCE of the early morning hours, Matt sipped his coffee and stared out the large dining room windows overlooking the vast expanse of lawn fronting his aunt’s house. A mangy orange cat wandered aimlessly across the grass. Matt wondered if the animal had a home or, like him, just wandered from house to house looking for the next meal. But that had changed for Matt as soon as he’d arrived at Aunt Amanda’s.

He had always felt at home here. When things had gotten beyond bearing at his house, Aunt Amanda had opened her arms to him and filled the void left by a mother who’d died when he was a small child and a father who found so much lacking in his small son. Matt had found love here with Amanda and Tess. Love and family and continuity. Things that had been painfully missing in his own home.

He smiled. Was it any wonder that when he decided to come home, he’d called Amanda? From all reports at The Diner last night, his father had done little to keep the place up after Matt left. It didn’t surprise him. His father had mourned the loss of his wife and Matt’s older brother deeply, and had waited many years for the release of death. For Kevin Logan, the house that should have been a home had become nothing more than a way station on that journey.

Matt shook off his dismal memories and instead turned his thoughts to the woman he’d found in bed last night, the woman who had married his cousin and best friend two weeks after Matt left town.

Like an old companion, he welcomed the familiar swell of anger inside him that inevitably came with the reminder of how quickly Honey had forgotten him. That alone confirmed that he’d done the right thing by leaving before she broke his heart. His anger cleansed him, burning away the ghosts of yesterday, making room for the promise of tomorrows that didn’t include his father or Honey Logan.

A sound from behind him stopped his musings.

He lifted his gaze to the reflection in the window. Honey stood just inside the door, her glorious hair cascading over shoulders left bare by the spaghetti straps of a cornflower-blue sundress, her face devoid of makeup. Some women had to be groomed to the teeth to be classified as beautiful. Not Honey. She’d been blessed with natural beauty. In Matt’s view, even though she had a heart as black as the night, no other woman could compare to her.

An image of her in bed last night flashed through his mind. His body stirred in response. To his utter annoyance, an overwhelming urge to touch her again, feel her silky flesh under his callused fingertips, burned through him.

“Hello, Matt.” Her voice seemed to come from a distance, but the sound danced up his spine. She glanced quickly around the room. “You’re alone?”

He took a fortifying sip of his coffee to wash down the knot that clogged his throat, while stalling for time to get his traitorous body back in line. Then he slowly turned to face her. “Honey, seems you and I are the only early risers around here. Oh, and of course, Tess. But then you always were up and out with the birds.”

Honey felt the barb of his words bite deep. She knew he referred to the nights they’d spent making love and the mornings she’d dressed and dashed home before her father awoke.

Not ready to exchange unpleasantries with Matt, she went to the mahogany sideboard, poured herself a cup of strong, black coffee, then took a seat at the opposite end of the table, as far from him as she could get without moving into the kitchen.

“Amanda sends her apologies. She’s feeling tired this morning and wanted to sleep a bit longer. Normally, she’d be down here before anyone.”

He sat a bit straighter, his eyes showing his concern. “She’s not sick or anything, is she?”

Honey shook her head, the sound of his voice doing strange things to her ability to speak. Beneath the table, she placed her palms firmly on her legs to stop them from shaking. Despite all her pep talks to prepare herself, the sight of Matt by daylight had a stronger effect on her than she’d anticipated. But that unguarded moment had passed, and now she had her control back…or so she thought until she looked at him again.

Basically, he looked the same, but his work-toughened, solid biceps straining at the short sleeves of his blue shirt were not those of the twenty-seven-year-old who had held her close. Nor had his skin been quite that shade of warm, golden brown back then. His eyes drew her attention. While still strikingly blue, they contained a sadness, an emptiness that she’d never seen in them before.

As if aware of her discovery, he blinked, then turned back to the window, effectively dismissing her presence and hiding his feelings behind a blank wall. Nothing new there. In all the time they’d been together, Honey knew surprisingly little of Matt. Obviously, he planned on keeping it that way. And that was fine by her.

She adroitly avoided thinking about the hours they’d spent making love and saying little.

A puddle of sunlight bathed him, glinting in blue-black flames off his ebony hair. She swallowed hard and clenched her fists to still the itch that had invaded her fingers. She’d once taken great pleasure in caressing the silky strands and teasing him about being blessed with such beautiful hair, when so many women would have killed for it.

The sound of pots clattering in the kitchen brought her out of her sensual haze. She straightened and picked up her coffee to give her something to do with her hands. “Amanda tells me you’re going to be living in your father’s place.”

“My place,” he corrected crisply. Without even glancing her way, he stood, walked to the sideboard and refilled his coffee cup from the silver pot.

As he headed back to his chair, the scent of his musky aftershave wafted to Honey. She held her breath until he was reseated. This simple act provided her with a distraction that kept her gaze from wandering to his tight posterior.

Finally, she could force words past her trembling lips. “Excuse me?”

“I said, it’s my place.”

“Oh? I wasn’t aware of a distinction.”

Ignoring her, he turned his attention beyond the windows again.

Honey glanced toward the stairs, then checked her watch. The tingle on the back of her neck told her exactly when his attention swung back to her.

“Am I keeping you from something important?”

She looked at him, but before she could answer, he turned away again, as if he couldn’t stand the sight of her.

Miffed at being ignored, she met his sarcasm head-on. She glared at him, relieved at the appearance of an emotion she could count on, could control. “No. My son’s bus will—”

His dark gaze snapped to her. “Son? You and Stan had a son?”

She frowned. “You didn’t know?” She’d been so certain someone would have told him. Why hadn’t Amanda mentioned her beloved grandson? She had never been reticent before about expounding on his virtues to anyone she could corner into listening. Why not Matt?

He turned toward her, his expression interested and definitely accusing. “No. Apparently no one thought it important enough to mention to me.”

His words bit deep into her conscience, making her react defensively. “Maybe because no one knew where you were.” She could have bitten off her tongue. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to spar with you, Matt.”

He set his coffee cup forcefully on the table, rose and strode to her side. She had barely enough time to notice his slight limp. Placing both palms on the mahogany tabletop, he leaned down till their eyes were level.

“Oh yes, you damned well do, lady. You want to demand answers and rip my head off. Well, I have my own list of questions, Honey. Like why did you marry Stan before I’d passed the town limits?”

She drew in a deep breath and stared into his cold, angry eyes. Why did he care? Determinedly, she vowed that nothing would make her fall apart now, not even his intimidating tactics. She stood, pushing her chair back so roughly that it nearly tumbled over. Her hand shot out to catch it. “That didn’t concern you seven years ago, and it’s none of your business now.”

She started to walk away, but he grabbed her upper arms and swung her around to face him. “I think it is my business.”

She struggled to free herself, not because he held her too tightly, but because his touch drained her energy to fight him. And she needed to fight him with all of the inner strength she had. That became more apparent with each passing moment. If she wanted to survive this, she had to fight. “Well, think again.”

Then she made the mistake of making eye contact with him. The old magnetism that had drawn her to him to begin with reared its ugly head, holding her paralyzed in Matt’s gaze. All rational thought vanished.

Matt could feel the heat of her skin burning into his palms. Touching her had been a stupid move. But he couldn’t let go. No matter how hard he willed himself to do it, he could not let Honey go. For what seemed like hours they just stood there, eyes burning, chests heaving. In anger or in renewal of an old passion? He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know.

What he did know was that if he didn’t let her go in the next ten seconds, he’d press his lips against that sugar-sweet mouth of hers and kiss her to within an inch of her life.

That realization made him abruptly release her.

For a moment more she stood there staring at him, as if trying to find her center of balance. Then she took an unsteady step backward, one hand reaching blindly for her discarded chair, the other clutching her throat. Her chest rose and fell quickly, pressing her breasts against the thin fabric of her sundress.

“M-M-Mom?”

In unison they turned toward the doorway. Honey heard the catch in Matt’s breath. She forced her lips to curve in a smile and made her feet move to stand beside her son. “Danny, this is your dad’s cousin, your…Uncle Matt.” The control in her voice astounded her.

She waited, her breath imprisoned in her burning lungs. She watched as Matt’s gaze traveled slowly over features so like his own, and nothing like hers or Stan’s blond hair and fair skin. Did he recognize his son? Except for a twitch on the right side of his lips, he kept his emotions hidden behind an enigmatic mask.

“Shake Uncle Matt’s hand,” she forced herself to say.

“How d-d-do you d-d-do?” Danny extended his small hand.

Matt took it, his gaze never leaving the child’s face. When Matt smiled, she finally exhaled the trapped air.

“How do you do? I’m so glad to meet you.”

“W-w-why?” Danny let go of Matt’s hand.

Matt’s eyes widened, as if he was shocked by Danny’s question. He squatted down to be on the boy’s level. “Well, because your…dad and I were great friends, and I hope we can be, too.” His gaze shifted to Honey with a burning look so intense, she knew she’d counted herself safe too soon. He knew.