LITMIR.BIZ

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you the one who told me speaking with the press was the same as spitting into the wind? Not that I paid much attention at the time, but even if Ms. McGraw isn’t a reporter, she’s still connected to the Babbitt.”

      Connor snorted. “When I told you that, you’d just spent three days with a female shark from the worst rag in the business—pillow talk makes for a fool’s interview. Just talk to the McGraw woman and find out what she wants.”

      Matt didn’t try to defend himself. He’d met the female “shark” when he was twenty and terminally stupid. He wasn’t sure if age bred wisdom, but it certainly taught caution, particularly when it came to women and the paparazzi. Not that he’d cared about racy pictures or being seen as a player back then; his concern had been keeping his grandfather from cutting off his monthly trust-fund checks.

      “Maybe you should contact Layne,” Matt suggested.

      “Bad idea. She’ll think you’re trying to intimidate her. But I’ll go meet the aunt. She hasn’t seen me before, so she won’t recognize the connection to the Eisley family.”

      “What good will meeting her do?”

      Connor’s gaze dropped to his bourbon as he shrugged. “You never know.”

      “Whatever. I’ll go see Ms. McGraw.”

      “Fine. But a word of advice.” The security chief swung his feet down to the thick carpet and got up. “Try not to lose your temper with the woman.”

      “Wow, thanks. I’m glad I have you around—I would never have thought of that.”

      “Sarcasm is wasted on a hardheaded Irishman,” Connor said at the door. “Use irony the next time.”

      * * *

      ON SATURDAY MORNING Layne dug a stubborn weed from her garden and tossed it onto the patio. Lately she’d had little time to dig for anything except answers about her uncle, and in the lush Pacific Northwest, ignoring your yard was a mistake. With the rain they received throughout the summer, blackberry brambles and other unwanted plants could invade in an instant.

      Nevertheless, she loved having her own place.

      Weeds and all.

      Usually she could clear her mind while gardening, yet this morning everything kept going through her head. She’d shown Aunt Dee the brief list Uncle Will had written, but beyond identifying her husband’s handwriting, Dee didn’t have any insights about it. Dee was relieved to have some confirmation of her husband’s innocence, but there were still too many unanswered questions for either one of them to relax.

      Layne flung another weed over her shoulder and heard a sharp exclamation. Whirling around, she gaped. Matt Hollister was standing on her patio, brushing bits of dirt from his fine suit. Her stomach did a cartwheel.

      “Oh, I didn’t know you were there,” she said.

      “I rang the doorbell and nobody answered, but your car was outside, so I came around. That classic Mustang in the driveway belongs to you, right? You should keep it in the garage for safety. Cars like that can be a target.”

      Layne tensed. “I left it out because I’m going to Carrollton later.” And what business is it of yours, anyway? Planning some vandalism? she wanted to add, except it would sound rude and challenging. The McGraws and Hudsons probably weren’t his favorite people at the moment, and it wouldn’t be good to antagonize him further...at least not until she got the information she needed.

      “I understand. I wanted to talk to you.” Matt held up the latest edition of the Babbitt and Layne winced. So much for not antagonizing him.

      She stepped off the low retaining wall to the patio below. “I didn’t have anything to do with that article. Not directly, at least. Noah Wilkie, the Babbitt’s social reporter, overheard part of what my aunt was saying at the gala, so he may have mentioned it to one of the other reporters.”

      “I see.”

      “But I’d still like to apologize...and also about my aunt getting so upset. It wasn’t like her, but she’s been through a lot. And she...” Layne’s voice trailed. She was in danger of starting to babble, and she reminded herself of her plan to treat Matt Hollister as a fact to be researched, instead of a sexy guy who turned her brain into a mass of overreacting neurons. Problem was, she tended to babble at the oddest times, anyhow.

      “Mrs. Hudson seems like a nice lady.”

      Layne nodded. “She is. By the way, I appreciated your coming to my uncle’s funeral.”

      * * *

      MATT RECOGNIZED THE sorrow still shadowing Layne’s eyes and sighed. It would be a lot easier to deal with the situation if he could simply see her as a troublemaker, not as a grieving niece.

      She wasn’t his type, but something about her intrigued him. Her small breasts had tightened in the cool, morning air and their firm imprint under her T-shirt was playing havoc with his pulse. What’s more, she didn’t seem to be putting on a feminine act of any kind. She certainly hadn’t primped or been flustered about her casual appearance.

      Matt pushed the thought away. Over the years he’d learned to quickly size up women, and Layne was the sort he avoided—unsophisticated, family oriented and likely to develop expectations about the future.

      “If you think William Hudson was innocent, who do you think stole the money?” he asked.

      “I don’t know, but his death seems awfully convenient. He died before he could even start to defend himself or present his side of things. And his so-called suicide note didn’t have a single personal message to his wife. It just said ‘I can’t face what’s coming, I’m sorry,’ and that’s all. Uncle Will was honorable and decent. It’s hard to imagine him living entirely one way and then suddenly doing something so totally out-of-character.”

      “Actually, some people do.” The words came out more stiffly than Matt had intended, perhaps because he was doing something out-of-character and was having to fight an uphill battle in the court of public opinion. Nobody wanted to believe that Matthew Hollister could go from wild partygoer to serious director of a philanthropic foundation. Because of it, most people preferred to criticize, rather than rolling their sleeves up and working with him.

      But he was serious.

      Dead serious.

      “Look, do you have any reason to think your uncle was innocent?” he asked. “The police and D.A. are convinced he was guilty.”

      A hint of anger flared in Layne’s eyes, then she drew a deep breath. “My aunt asked me to look into the charges against Uncle Will and I’ve been searching, but it’s hard to get anywhere without knowing how or when the thefts occurred. All I’ve been able to piece together is that it has something to do with wire transfers and they probably happened at night. I wanted to talk to Mr. Davidson about it, only he wasn’t available, so I got the meeting with you instead. Then a few days ago I discovered something that shows Uncle Will didn’t kill himself. It won’t convince the police, but it’s enough for me.”

      Matt frowned. “What is it?”

      “Aunt Dee was told he died of a massive drug overdose. They found a note and declared it a suicide, even though the letter was typed and unsigned.”

      “That’s hardly proof.”

      “No, but I’ve done research on suicide. Apparently a note isn’t that common, and when there is one, it’s usually handwritten. On top of which—” she paused “—it was found on the printer in Uncle Will’s home office, but that printer doesn’t work with his computer.”

      “The ink cartridge probably just dried out.”

      Layne shook her head. “That’s not what I mean. After his personal belongings were delivered from the company, Aunt Dee locked the office. She never goes in there. The other day I tried to print something on my uncle’s computer and discovered

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