Challenging Matt. Julianna Morris

chief living close by; he just wasn’t sure why Connor had accepted the arrangement. Yet as he stepped to the rise and looked down at the place, nestled against the dark outline of forest behind it, he wondered if the small stone house reminded Connor of Ireland. It had been built by Gaelic craftsmen, along with the mansion and high limestone walls surrounding the estate.

      He didn’t have a chance to knock on the door since Connor opened it as he approached. “Do you have an early warning system when people arrive?” he asked the older man.

      “Dog. Beats electronics any day.”

      “Oh. Do you ever sleep?”

      “Only on alternate days. Come in, Matt.”

      Like the carriage house exterior, the interior probably looked little different from when it was built. There were white plaster walls, natural wood beams exposed in the ceiling, and the broad planked wood floors were polished smooth by over a hundred years of use. The furniture was basic and solid with no decoration. Matt’s own penthouse apartment was stark, but Connor’s living room gave the word new meaning.

      “Hey, Finnster,” he called to the rottweiler lying on the floor. The dog raised his head, let out a faint woof of greeting and settled back again. “This place is pretty bare, Connor. You’ve lived here, what, fourteen years?”

      “I like being able to leave at a moment’s notice. Helps if you don’t have a lot of nonsense weighing you down.”

      Matt had few physical possessions himself, having moved around on the party circuit for so many years, but he had a sneaking suspicion it wouldn’t take Connor more than a minute to do a fast fade out the back door.

      “Do you expect to pick up and leave any time soon?”

      “You never know. What brings you here? I figured you’d go home with someone from the party.”

      Matt’s jaw hardened. Every time he attended a public function or dated a woman, it started a frenzy of speculation about his social life, which made it that much harder to be taken seriously at the foundation. Did the gossip columnists and everyone else expect him to become a monk, simply because he was handing out money for charity? And why would his sex life affect his ability to take his grandfather’s place?

      “Not tonight,” he said shortly. “I’m here to talk with you about the woman who came to my office yesterday. She was at the gala, along with her aunt, Dorothy Hudson. It turns out Layne McGraw is William Hudson’s niece. Dorothy is his widow. I want a security check on them both.”

      “You should have a preliminary file in a couple of days.”

      “Thanks.” Matt glanced around the small cottage. “I don’t get it. Why haven’t you bought your own house?”

      Connor patted Finnster on the head. “My needs are simple and this place meets all of them. There’s plenty of room for my dog. I do my job, your grandfather doesn’t bother me and I’ve saved practically every penny he’s ever paid me. Since my services don’t come cheap, that’s a healthy chunk of money. And that’s on top of the Eisley company shares I’ve received as bonuses for services rendered.”

      “But you’re stuck...here.”

      “It’s only a prison if you can’t leave,” Connor said. “People make their own jails. It’s too bad your mother trapped you in hers.”

      Denial rose in Matt’s throat, but he choked it down. Connor knew everything about the family; if they couldn’t trust him by now, something was very wrong. He got up and headed for the door, then turned around. “Connor, what do you think of my stepfather?”

      “Think of him?”

      Matt frowned. He’d never heard that careful tone in Connor’s voice before. “You investigated Peter when he began dating my mother—you must have an opinion.”

      “I found nothing in the background sweep that indicated a problem.”

      “But you don’t like him.”

      Connor’s face was expressionless. “I don’t like very many people—it’s a hazard of the job. I’ll let you know when I have a report on the two women.”

      “Thanks.” Matt headed toward his car again, still frowning.

      Just because Layne McGraw and her aunt were asking questions about the embezzlement case, it didn’t mean anything was wrong. The D.A.’s office hadn’t doubted William Hudson’s guilt, so surely they were satisfied with the evidence. The idea that Matt might have missed something himself was disturbing—should he have seen things the police hadn’t?

      Don’t you want to know if there’s more to what happened than what it looks like? Layne McGraw’s question had been echoing in Matt’s head, and he tried to push it away. It was natural William’s family wanted to believe in his innocence; it didn’t mean he was innocent.

      * * *

      IN THE BEDROOM Layne always used at her aunt’s house, she kicked off her shoes and wiggled her toes in relief, grateful she’d decided to stay the night. She hated pumps. And nylons. She hadn’t worn nylons since her job interview with the Babbitt.

      No doubt the women Matt Hollister dated were fashion mavens who wouldn’t be caught dead without stockings, and probably silk to boot.

      Layne glanced at her reflection in the mirror, chagrined as she recalled Matt’s expression at seeing her sister. Her green silk dress hadn’t looked that bad, but she couldn’t compete with Jeannie. And why she cared when the man in question was Matt Hollister, she had no idea.

      Layne lay down on the bed, unable to stop thinking about the gala. At least Hollister had kept his cool better than her aunt; having Aunt Dee confront him was astonishing, but it was an indication of how desperate she felt.

      The house was silent and Layne rolled over to stare at the dark ceiling, thinking back to the nightmare almost seven months before. Uncle Will’s suicide note hadn’t sounded like him, just a brief typed message, with no personal word to his wife of twenty-nine years. He’d always handwritten his letters; even his business correspondence was drafted first by hand. Back in December she’d told the police she questioned whether her uncle had actually written the so-called suicide note, but they’d dismissed her, claiming a suicidal person didn’t necessarily follow their normal pattern. Maybe, but she still wondered.

      A picture filled her head of Uncle Will laughing on the Friday after the Thanksgiving holiday, not long before his death. They’d been making sandwiches from leftover turkey and he was talking about the future as if he didn’t have a care in the world. A few days later discrepancies were found in his client records, a handful of newspaper articles were published, accusations were made against him....and then he was found dead, before he was even arrested.

      Yet if it wasn’t suicide, it had to be murder.

      She hadn’t discussed the possibility with Aunt Dee, though it must have occurred to her, as well. And it would mean someone had gotten in and killed Uncle Will in his home office. If that had happened, it was mostly likely someone he’d known well...someone he’d trusted. Someone like Peter Davidson, the partner with whom he’d shared the business. The friend who’d turned his back on his old buddy as soon as the suspicion of embezzlement was raised and was now trying to get away with all the proceeds from selling the company.

      It appeared Peter Davidson had emerged from the scandal with a spotless reputation. But what if he was involved? It could mean he was a thief and potential murderer.

      Damn.

      Layne got up and pulled on a robe, deciding she might as well get some work done since she was too restless to lie still.

      Sleep these days was elusive. Her uncle had kept meticulous records and documentation on everything, but his company records were in terrible shape thanks to the way they’d been packed, and most of the home records were boxed and stored in the upstairs storage room next to the master bedroom suite. No doubt Uncle Will could