Belonging

  BELONGING

  by Samantha James

  Published by Sandra Kleinschmit at Smashwords

  Copyright 2012 by Sandra Kleinschmit

  All rights reserved. No part of this text may be used

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  authors' rights.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents

  are products of the author's imagination or are used

  fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance

  to actual events, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Matt Richardson had not been Mayor Angie Hall's first choice for chief of polite. After all, a small city like Westridge was hardly the place of a rough city copy from Chicago.

  But Angie had been wrong. Matt fit in perfectly—a little too perfectly for Angie's liking.

  Soon Matt had wed the hearts of everyone, from his taciturn secretary from Angie's two little girls. But the heart he really wanted was Angie's.

  How could Angie tell him that it wasn't hers to give, that it held a secret she could never reveal?

  Dear Readers,

  It is with very great joy that I present to you, in e-book format, one of my contemporary books Belonging. It has a beautiful new cover, and I'm tremendously excited to share this story with you. I had a great time rediscovering my lead characters, Matt and Angie, and leading them into their journey together in love. I'm thrilled to be able to share them with you.

  As a writer, my goal is to entertain you. To make you laugh and cry and feel every emotion that comes with the magic of falling in love. They came alive in my heart . . . as I hope they will in yours.

  All my best,

  Samantha J.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title

  Synopsis

  Copyright

  Letter to My Readers

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  More from Samantha James

  CHAPTER ONE

  A blinding flash of light accompanied the click of the camera. A lone woman stood poised on the small platform. In stark contrast with the sterile gray walls of the pocket-sized auditorium, she was tall and feminine, her features finely sculpted. Her upswept flaxen hair caught the sharp glare of overhead lights and, oddly enough, was transformed into a halo of molten gold.

  Despite the businesslike hairstyle and the conservatively cut white linen suit, there was no denying that this was a woman in full bloom, a woman who would turn heads whenever she walked into a room. And her beauty was only enhanced by the aura of dignity, efficiency and control she projected.

  It was an image the woman was aware of, though not one that she intentionally cultivated, at least on a conscious level. Although neither came as readily or as often as they once had, laughter and gaiety were not unknown to her.

  But this cramped auditorium was really no place for either. Angela Hall had a meeting to preside over. During her six months as mayor of Westridge, Washington, she had initiated a practice of holding a monthly press conference to discuss recent events, goals and concerns. The media loved it, though Angie was the first to admit she was sometimes put on the spot.

  But the meetings bolstered her reputation for frankness and openness with both the press and the community.

  As she readied herself to speak, cameras whirred once more, lights blazed and recorders were hurriedly checked to see that they were still in motion. Angie's slender hands rested on the edge of the podium as she scanned the assemblage before her.

  "As some of you may know," she said, enunciating her words clearly, "a citizens' committee was formed several months ago to study the feasibility of constructing a new city hall."

  "Have a sudden windfall, Mayor?" someone called out.

  Angie smiled slightly, not surprised at the scrutiny. Already the issue had proved to be a sensitive one. There were several council members who believed the prospect had merit while others expressed the opinion that it was a frivolous venture. Consequently, Angie suspected she would have a fight on her hands. John Curtis in particular had been rather vehement, as usual, in his support of a new building.

  "No windfall," she replied, "but the city's revenue projections are certainly more optimistic than they've been the last few years. And at least we're not looking at another site, so purchase of property wouldn't be a factor."

  "How do you feel about this plan, Mayor? Is it one you endorse?"

  The question came from Blair Andrews, a reporter for the West ridge Bulletin. Her beat ran the gamut from city politics to a weekly social column. She and Blair weren't the best of friends; in fact, they weren't friends at all. Angie had opposed Blair's uncle in the mayoral election, and even before incumbent Bob Andrews's sound defeat, Blair had put Angie in the line of fire as often as she possibly could.

  Angie took a deep breath. In her opinion, building a new city hall was an ambitious project and an unnecessary expense. But she also felt it wouldn't be right to undermine the committee's work by voicing her opposition before their report was wrapped up.

  "First of all," she told her audience, "the committee's recommendations won't be known until next Monday's council meeting. Second, I'd like to clarify that there is no formal plan yet to construct a new building. The committee has also been looking into the cost of renovating the existing building since there can be no question about the building's historic value."

  She let the words sink in before she continued. "Cost savings would be substantial, and the possibility exists for expanding some of the city's services with the excess funds." In addition to expanding the transit system and replacing a number of city buses, the creation of a women's fshelter was also being bandied about. But since nothing was really clear-cut, she thought it was best not to go into too many details.

  There was a hushed murmur among the group, and sensing another barrage of questions, she decided to wrap up the meeting quickly. "But the fact remains," she stated firmly, "that as far as city hall is concerned, freezing in the winter, boiling in the summer and contending with a leaky roof year-round hardly make for the best of working conditions." Her tone indicated that there was little more to be said.

  But before Angie had a chance to make her closing remarks, Blair Andrews's voice rang out once more. It was smooth and silky, with an air of smugness that put Angie's teeth on edge. "Rumor has it our new police chief, Matthew Richardson, wasn't your first choice to replace Sam Nelson. Would you care to comment, Mayor Hall?"

  Angie resisted the impulse to glare at the woman. Though she firmly believed in her open-door policy, she was wise enough to recognize that not everything that went on in city hall was for public consumption. But one thing was certain. With Blair Andrews always out and about, Angie had to watch where she stepped—as well as how, with whom and why.

  It was, s
he reaffirmed on a sour note, a typical beginning of the month, thanks to Blair. Even the name Matthew Richardson dredged up an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach. An image of dark hair, surprisingly light gray eyes and tanned skin flashed into her mind. She wasn't sure how her newly hired chief would take the news that he was second choice, especially when hearing it from a secondhand source. Now it appeared Blair had left her no alternative. She was going to have to tell him herself that he hadn't been first pick.

  She pursed her lips for a fraction of a second, choosing her words carefully. "Naturally, the possibilities were narrowed down to several candidates, all of whom were certainly qualified for the job. While it's true the first choice declined our offer, I'm sure Chief Richardson will do a perfectly adequate job of seeing to our police protection."

  With that Angie lifted slender tawny brows and scanned the room to see if there were any more questions. When there were none, she smiled graciously and thanked the participants, but not before her eyes locked with those of Blair Andrews. The woman's generous red lips were set in the self-satisfied smirk of the proverbial cat who has swallowed the canary. Angie couldn't help but wonder about that look as she turned and walked from the auditorium.

  She didn't see the man standing at the rear of the room, nor was she aware of the narrowed gray gaze that followed her graceful exit.

  ***

  Matt Richardson's jaw thrust forward as he strode across the carpeted floor of the small reception area that led to his office. He briefly noted the woman sitting at the desk—what the hell was her name? Maggie? Yes, that was it, Maggie. His mind again registered her appearance, almost without his being conscious of it. He put her age at somewhere near fifty. Rather dour-looking, she was thin to the point of being downright skinny.

  Yet he couldn't help but be distracted at the speed with which her long, thin fingers traveled across the keyboard of her computer. He looked on for a moment in utter amazement.

  Realizing he didn't want to make a bad impression his first day on the job, he gave his secretary a cursory nod. She spared him the briefest of acknowledgments before turning back to her typing. His secretary, it seemed, wasn't any more talkative than he was—at least at the moment. But then again, she hadn't been loquacious this morning when they'd first been introduced.

  His mood had softened a little by the time he entered his office and seated himself in the comfortable leather chair behind the massive mahogany desk. The chair creaked as he turned and looked through the narrow glass window behind him. From his fifth-story vantage point, Matt had a splendid view of the city and surrounding countryside.

  Westridge was nestled in a rich pocket of wilderness a hundred miles south of Seattle. It spread out against the base of the foothills that led to the Cascade Mountains. Dense forests covered the gently sloping hills and sharply jutting mountains beyond, an endless carpet of lush green woodland that blended with the bright blue of the sky.

  His gaze drifted to the city that was now his home. With ninety thousand inhabitants, Westridge was a bustling center for nearby timber and dairy communities, a city that was home to ranchers, farmers and businessmen alike. In fact, he'd thought more than once since he'd settled in last week that he might have been standing in the middle of a Chicago suburb if it wasn't for the profusion of cowboy hats, boots and pickup trucks that continually caught his eye.

  Yes, he'd left the slums, the tenements, the countless art galleries and awe-inspiring museums—all that was Chicago—behind him. He couldn't really say when the nagging restlessness that had plagued him had started. A year ago. Perhaps more. He'd been to hell and back and quite a few places in between, and maybe it had finally taken its toll.

  Or was he getting old? Edging too near the demon known as the ripe old age of forty? Maybe. He'd been tired. Bored. Burned-out was how cops and everyone else referred to the feeling.

  Life had lost its challenge, and so had his job. He'd felt he was competing with a never-ending stream of corruption and dead ends without even the smallest scrap of hope. He was a man used to fighting for what he wanted and fighting hard; it was the only way to survive on Chicago's South Side. But he'd known it was time for a change when he'd stopped looking forward to the next day ahead.

  So he had packed up lock, stock and barrel and left the only home he had ever known. A tough, streetwise guy from the big city, he'd left everything behind for...what? For the wide open spaces of the West? He leaned back in his chair and grinned, almost in spite of himself. Certainly not for a peaceful, tranquil job where all he had to do was prop his feet on his desk and hobnob with the owner of the local gas station. He'd never have been satisfied with that in the first place.

  Perhaps he wasn't growing old after all. He still craved a little action, a little excitement. Yes, West- ridge was just what he wanted. Not too big, not too small.

  "But this is one hell of a way to start a new job," Matt grumbled aloud. His grin faded as he thought of Angela Hall's statement. I'm sure Chief Richardson will do a perfectly adequate job of seeing to our police protection. A wave of indignation swept through him. Seventeen years on Chicago's police force had taught him to do much more than an adequate job.

  But was that what was really bothering him? No. Instead, it was the knowledge that he'd been second choice. That was something he hadn't known, nor had he even considered the possibility. The city's police chief had retired. Westridge had offered him the post; he'd wanted it and he'd accepted. It wasn't as if he'd wanted to be king of the hill, but nonetheless, the realization that Mayor Angela Hall had thought someone else more capable than he was rankled.

  "Hell," he muttered, then repeated it. "Hell!"

  He got up and paced around the office, then finally dropped back into his chair and pressed the button on the intercom, feeling the need to hear a voice other than his own. Even Maggie's. "Maggie?"

  The voice, when it finally came, was rather stilted. "The name is Margie, sir."

  "Margie," he echoed, then cleared his throat. He was a little embarrassed that he hadn't remembered her name. "Margie, would you please get me a copy of last year's annual report to the city council?"

  This time there was little pause. "There's a folder on your computer, sir. And there's a hard copy of the annual report, sir, is in the filing cabinet next to your desk. Filed under—"

  Matt reached out his other hand. "I see it. Uh, thanks, Margie."

  He released the intercom but made no move to retrieve the document he'd requested. He already knew most of the statistics and information detailed in the report, anyway. He'd made it a point to know what he was getting into before he'd accepted the job. Instead, he just sat there, his big hands resting for a moment on the desktop.

  Damn! Why was it he suddenly felt like a kid on his first day of school? Strange. Alone. Out of place. He got up and paced around the office again. He halted, his eyes sweeping upward to linger reflectively on the stained and yellowed ceiling tile. Matt guessed the entire building must date back to the thirties, if not earlier. It was old, a little on the dilapidated side, but city hall, like the rest of the town, had a kind of rustic appeal.

  At least his office was quiet and roomy, a far cry from his quarters in Chicago. There he'd shared a cramped hole-in-the-wall with the second-in-command

  of Missing Persons. He'd gone home more times than he could count with his ears still ringing from the steady drone of voices the paper-thin walls failed to shut out.

  Was that what this feeling was? Transplant shock? One corner of his mouth turned up wryly at the thought. He was, after all, thirty-eight years old and not a six-year-old on his first night away from home.

  He eased back into his chair, then finally picked up the annual report and thumbed through it. He'd no more than idly flipped it open to the first page than the intercom buzzed.

  "Sir?"

  It was Margie. "Yes?" Absently he toyed with a pencil.

  "You have a staff meeting in the conference room in ten minutes. And at th
ree this afternoon a meeting with the mayor. I just wanted to remind you." ^

  Cool and efficient, just like Mayor Hall. An image of Angela as she'd appeared that morning flashed into his mind, and he experienced a spurt of irritation. There could be no doubt that she was one extremely attractive woman, but she seemed so cold, so formal. Unless he was mistaken—and thankfully that wasn't often—she was a woman who had business on her mind and little else. But fast on the heels of that image was another—the malicious triumph he'd glimpsed on the reporter's face when she had divulged that he'd been second choice.

  He threw the pencil down on his desk. Mayor Hall. That damn reporter. Magg—Margie. Did all the women in this town have ice in their veins?

  "Thanks, Margie." He paused. "I don't suppose there's any coffee around?"

  The mild inquiry had no sooner been voiced than her response came, short and sweet. Sweet? Who the hell was he kidding? "There certainly is," she informed him stiffly. "Down the hall, past the records section, first door to the right in the lunchroom... sir."

  In other words, get it yourself. Matt quirked an eyebrow as he levered himself up from his desk once more. As he ambled past Margie, a faint touch of dry humor colored his thoughts as again he wondered just what he'd gotten himself into. His boss was a lady, a lady that he knew instinctively didn't particularly care for him, even though she'd hired him. The same went for his secretary, a woman who was clearly independent as hell. Well, maybe he should have expected it. This was, after all, the twenty-first century. And hadn't he wanted a change?

  Contrary to what he'd encountered already that morning, the staff meeting went off without a hitch. Former Chief Nelson, it seemed, had been a capable administrator, and Matt decided he was content to let things ride for the time being. The last thing he wanted was for his staff to think that as an ex-cop from Chicago his only intent was to show them the ropes. No, he didn't want to earn a reputation as a mover and shaker and end up inspiring a lot of discontent and morale problems.