A Question Of Love. Elizabeth Sinclair

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