Challenging Matt. Julianna Morris

artistic than her older, brisk cardiologist sister’s.

      “All right,” Layne agreed reluctantly.

      She loved Aunt Dee dearly and had loved Uncle Will. She couldn’t say no. Her aunt and uncle were the ones who’d made her feel special when she was growing up with a star athlete brother and beautiful twin sisters who could charm the paint off walls. Her parents were so brilliant and accomplished themselves, they hadn’t known what to do with a daughter who was merely average and didn’t fit in. It was Uncle Will and Aunt Dee who’d understood her.

      “Good.” Dee slowly opened her fingers. “This is the key to William’s home office. Maybe you can start with the stack of boxes that Peter sent over from the company. I haven’t had time to open them because there’s been too much to deal with. I know the police went through everything before it was packed, but they were looking for things that made William look guilty, not anything to show he was innocent.”

      Heart in her throat, Layne took the key. The metal seemed to be burning a hole in her palm and she quickly hooked it on her keychain. The answers might be in her uncle’s office...but it was also the place where he’d died.

      Was that why Aunt Dee was imagining that she’d heard him around the house?

      Layne lifted her chin.

      Ghosts weren’t real, but if they did exist, she could never be afraid of Uncle Will. He might even help her discover what had happened to him.

      CHAPTER TWO

      MATT HOLLISTER HANDED a stack of files to his assistant, who gave another stack back to him in return.

      “They’re the latest reports and the daily correspondence, boss,” Gillian said. “I couldn’t help the delay—the mail came late this morning.”

      “I understand. Did you learn more about who my appointment might be? You mentioned the name seemed familiar.”

      “I can’t think of anything. I just wish the temp covering me on Wednesday had put down L. McGraw’s first name and a contact number.”

      “It’s not your fault.” Matt flipped open the top file filled with correspondence. Beneath the file were reports on various projects the Eisley Foundation was spearheading. “Anyhow, it’s probably someone with Heifer Project International. I spoke to one of their supporters recently about becoming a sponsor.”

      “I guess we’ll find out.” She smiled and left him to work.

      Matt read through the letters and memos, making notes in the margins for Gillian, setting some aside to handle personally. Half were pleas for money from outside organizations—with descriptions of their programs and how additional support from the foundation would benefit them. The other half were about existing Eisley Foundation projects...and pleas for more money.

      He sighed.

      It wasn’t easy seeing how much was wrong in the world, and trying to do something about it was like trying to drain a bottomless pit. Kids, the environment, the homeless, animals... The list was endless, along with the heartbreak.

      As for the reports Gillian had given him, he would read the material in depth, before making any decisions. When he’d taken over the director’s seat, he’d starting looking at the long-term projects list—some no longer seemed viable, so he had auditors examining their expenditures, and experts evaluating their merits. Project leaders were screaming, upset about the scrutiny. Nevertheless, the reports were starting to arrive.

      “Come in,” he called at a knock on the door.

      Gillian poked her head inside. “Hey, Matt. Reception called—your three o’clock is here. They told me L. McGraw’s first name and you aren’t going to like it.”

      “Then it isn’t one of the Heifer Project folks?”

      “Nope. L. McGraw is Layne McGraw, that’s why it sounded familiar. She’s works for the Puget Sound Babbitt. I see her name at the end of articles—you know, ‘research provided by staff member Layne McGraw.’”

      “Maybe she’s branching out into reporting.”

      “I’m so sorry,” Gillian said. “There’s a procedural list on my desk for handling calls, saying you aren’t doing any interviews. The temp must have forgotten to follow it.”

      “This isn’t your fault,” Matt assured her, determined not to be one of those hard-assed managers who blamed other people for everything. But he was frustrated; the Babbitt was one of several publications that seemed to go out of its way to be annoying. Once upon a time he’d provided steady fodder for the gossip page; now their columnists were gunning for him. They kept publishing editorials, voicing concerns about someone with his reputation running the Eisley Foundation. They weren’t the worst of his critics, but they were bad enough.

      Hell, it wasn’t as if he didn’t have any qualifications for the job. He had a degree in business administration, and his grandfather had always planned to have a family member assume control of the foundation one day—Matt had even worked there before leaving for college. Besides, a lot of wealthy people were philanthropists, their only credentials being the ability to spend money.

      Nevertheless, Matt had to admit things would be easier if everyone took him seriously. His grandfather had deliberately kept the foundation private so he wouldn’t have to be accountable to anyone except the Internal Revenue Service, but it wasn’t as simple as that for Matt. The Eisley Foundation didn’t operate in a vacuum, it needed serious people involved, and those serious people didn’t want their names linked to a notorious playboy—especially one with his reckless reputation.

      “I can send her away,” Gillian offered.

      “That’s all right, I’ll handle it.”

      She left, giving him a few minutes to stew. When she returned, there was a young woman at her heels.

      “Ms. McGraw, this is Matt Hollister.” Gillian introduced them. She sent him another apologetic look before heading back to her desk.

      Matt stood and assessed his unwanted guest. The Babbitt reporter had masses of silky brown hair and green eyes in a pixieish face. She wore khaki slacks and a green shirt, and couldn’t be more than five foot three in her stocking feet.

      “You’ve wasted your time, Ms. McGraw,” he said. “The assistant who set the appointment forgot that I’m not giving interviews right now.”

      Layne McGraw blinked. “I don’t want an interview...that is, I’m not a reporter. I’m here for personal reasons.”

      “You don’t work for the Babbitt?”

      “I’m a researcher there, but this has nothing to do with the magazine. I have some questions, just not work related. Questions, that is.” She seemed nervous and dropped into a chair without being invited. “Uh, that’s some view,” she said, pointing to the window.

      Matt automatically turned his head, though he was well acquainted with the view. The Eisley Foundation building overlooked North Seattle’s Lake Union, and the vista was spectacular, especially on a sunny June day. At the moment a sea plane was coming in for a landing and three crewing teams were skimming across the water, rowing in rhythmic precision.

      “The foundation has been located here for twenty-five years,” he explained, anticipating her first inquiry would be about a charitable organization operating out of a multimillion dollar property. “We were part of the restoration efforts for the immediate area. This was a historic structure that was empty for twenty years until we purchased and renovated it for our use.”

      “That’s great, I love old buildings. What I wanted to ask about...” She hesitated, looking even more uncomfortable. “It’s about your new chief financial officer. And the company he owns, and uh, where you worked for over a year.”

      Matt kept his expression neutral. Peter Davidson was a straight-up guy who’d married his