Challenging Matt

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 mom four years ago—Pete had made Katrina Eisley genuinely happy, possibly for the first time in her adult life since her very messy, very public divorce from Matt’s father. And Peter had given Matt the job he’d needed to prove to his grandfather that he was serious about changing his life and taking over the foundation.

“What about Mr. Davidson?”

“I know he’s related to you and that he’s now on staff here.”

“While our staff isn’t of public concern since we are a family-endowed foundation,” Matt said carefully, “Mr. Davidson’s salary is one dollar annually. Basically, he’s donating his valuable time.”

“Uh...sure. But as I said, my questions are about his financial management firm. As I’m sure you recall, his partner was accused of embezzling from the business seven months ago.”

Matt’s eyes narrowed. He and his stepfather had worked with the Carrollton District Attorney and outside auditors to clean up the mess at Hudson & Davidson. Not only that, Peter had personally assured every single client they wouldn’t suffer any loss because of the thefts. His stepfather had come out of the whole thing squeaky clean, though the betrayal of his friend and business partner had deeply wounded him. Matt had even remained at the firm longer than he’d planned to help sort everything out.

“Again, I have nothing to say. It’s time for you to leave, Ms. McGraw.”

Frustration and another less-defined emotion were visible on Layne McGraw’s face. “Please, you worked there when the thefts occurred and you’re related to Peter Davidson, so I hoped you would be able to get me in to see him or tell me more about the case against his partner. The police and D.A.’s office have refused to release any information and Mr. Davidson is harder to see than the governor.”

“I’m sorry, that isn’t my problem. This is a private office and you’ve been asked to leave.”

“Please, I didn’t start this right. Let me tell you why I’m asking. Mr. Hudson was my—”

“I’m not interested,” he interrupted.

“Don’t you want to know if there’s more to what happened than what it looks like?”

Something in her quiet question troubled Matt, but he pushed it away. “We know what happened.” He lifted the receiver on his phone and gestured with it. “Now, shall I call security and have you escorted out, or will you go on your own?”

“No, I’ll go.”

When she was gone, Matt dialed the number of his security chief. “Connor, a young woman just left my office. Her name is Layne McGraw. Slim, dark hair, not too tall, wearing a green shirt. Will you make sure she exits the building and doesn’t bother anyone else?”

“Right.”

The phone clicked off without a goodbye, which was Connor’s style. He was a blunt, transplanted Irishman who’d been the Eisley family and corporate security chief for fifteen years. Matt had gotten to know him quite well during his wild college days—Connor had expressed his opinion of spoiled rich kids on a regular basis, particularly when bailing him out of trouble. If Matt’s father had been more like Connor, Matt probably wouldn’t have wasted so many years playing.

Swiveling in his chair, he looked at the view the McGraw woman had admired. Unlike most of his half brothers and sisters, he’d thrown himself into their father’s playboy lifestyle. But at least he didn’t have a bevy of former wives and children and girlfriends strewn around the world like good old S. S. Hollister. He’d taken his share of lovers, but he’d always been careful to keep things casual, only dating sophisticated women who had as little interest in domesticity as he did himself.

Matt pinched the bridge of his nose. He might not have been as notorious as his father, but he’d done his best to have fun and duck responsibility for a long time. And now that he wanted to do something important, his former stupidity was getting in the way.

He leaned back for a moment, thinking about everything that had happened over the past few years.

First his oldest brother had gotten married. Admittedly, it had only caused a small blip on Matt’s radar, mostly because he’d believed Aaron was just as cynical about marriage as he was himself. But then Matt’s closest childhood friend had called with the news that he had Lou Gehrig’s disease, and ALS was virtually a death sentence.

Matt remembered how he’d hung up after the call and stared at the cast on his leg, broken in a stupid, reckless accident. There was nothing stupid or reckless about Terry—he’d simply gotten sick and there was nothing anyone could do about it. So Matt had hobbled to the wall and punched it so hard he’d cracked two bones in his hand.

He flexed his fingers.

Maybe it was a good thing he’d had a broken hand in addition to his tibia. Being injured had made him slow down, forcing him to deal with the reality of his best friend’s illness, instead of throwing himself into parties or another extreme sport to forget that Terry could die soon. And gradually, Matt had begun thinking about his grandfather’s philanthropic foundation. The Eisley Foundation funded medical research, and if he became the director, he could push a project to help find a cure for ALS. Even if it didn’t help Terry, it could help other people with the disease.

His grandfather had been hard to convince. Gordon Eisley had finally agreed that if Matt could hold an outside position for a year, he would retire and hand over the reins. During that time they’d worked together every Saturday, with Gordon showing him the ropes. It turned out that for the past decade his grandfather had done little more than review requests for money and sign checks, rather than actively overseeing the foundation’s projects.

Matt intended to be far more involved.

* * *

LAYNE DROVE TO her aunt’s home in Carrollton, Washington, and parked in the driveway. For almost a week she’d spent every free moment in her uncle’s office and wasn’t any closer to discovering answers than before she’d started.

She’d found nothing to either support her uncle’s innocence or to suggest his guilt, and it had quickly become evident that she needed more information on the supposed crime to even know where to look. With the police and District Attorney’s office refusing to cooperate, speaking with Peter Davidson had seemed necessary; when he’d proved elusive, she’d given Matt Hollister a shot.

Sighing, she got out and went inside. Normally Aunt Dee worked at home doing commercial art for a greeting card company and other freelance contracts, but today she was on duty at the gallery where some of her paintings were for sale.

Going into her uncle’s home office, Layne sat in his leather executive chair and felt the familiar rush of grief. Tears had streamed down her face the first evening she’d spent there. The room still smelled like Uncle Will, with a hint of the pipe tobacco he’d smoked once in a while, and the dark roast coffee he’d drunk by the gallon. Or maybe it was just her imagination, wanting to feel closer to him.

She tried pushing the sliding keyboard tray farther under the desk, but it caught on the cord and wouldn’t go all the way. With a sigh, she left it alone, turning again to the boxes Uncle Will’s partner had sent over from the company. Aunt Dee hadn’t exaggerated...there was a large pile against one wall, filled with everything imaginable. Layne had only catalogued the contents of a few, but the careless way they’d been packed infuriated her—things thrown in, papers crumpled and items broken, as if drawers had been upended and surfaces hastily swept off.

It was thoughtless and cruel, because no matter what the firm had believed about William Hudson, his wife shouldn’t have been subjected to something so unpleasant after his death. Thank goodness Aunt Dee hadn’t had time to look in the boxes or it would have upset her terribly.

Layne pressed her lips together; she’d completely blown the meeting with Matthew Hollister. However briefly, he’d worked for Hudson & Davidson and could have given her information about how they operated and facts about how the embezzling occurred, but instead she’d gotten nervous. And it certainly hadn’t helped when he’d learned she worked for the Babbitt.

Her cell phone rang and she dug it out of her purse. “Yes?”

“It’s me, darling.”

“Hi, Mom.”

“I just talked with Sheldon at the university. He says you haven’t spoken to him about that position on his genetics project team.”

Layne gritted her teeth. Maybe she could pretend she was losing the signal, except her mother would just call back. “Mom, I’m not interested. I love my job at the Babbitt and I’m good at it. Why isn’t that enough?”

“This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Here, speak to your father.”

“Layne,” said Walter McGraw’s deep voice. “If you aren’t interested in genetics, I’m sure we can find another medical research study you could join.”

She wanted to scream. “Look, I’m at Aunt Dee’s right now. Could we talk about it on Sunday when I come to dinner? I promise you can nag for at least twenty minutes before I say no again.”

“We just want the best for you.”

“I know. Gotta go, Dad,” she said hastily, hating his hurt, offended tone. “Love to you both. Bye.”

She turned off the cell and dropped it back in her purse. For Pete’s sake, she was offended, too. Nothing she did would ever be good enough for her parents.

Layne leaned her elbows on the desk and studied the records she was keeping of everything found in the boxes so far; she didn’t want anything to go unnoticed. The rest of the office would receive an equally careful inventory and review. Most of it was deadly dull, but research wasn’t always exciting. It was more of a one-foot-in-front-of-the-other sort of activity.

An hour later she heard her aunt arrive home and went out to the kitchen to greet her—Aunt Dee cooked as a stress reliever, so she was in the kitchen a lot these days. Layne was just glad she earned money from the Babbitt part of the time for testing recipes. It wouldn’t fix her financial woes, but maybe it would help stave off disaster for a while.

“Hi. How was the gallery?”

“Fine. How was meeting the gorgeous philanthropist?”

“So-so.” Layne wrinkled her nose. “Matthew Hollister is good-looking, but he isn’t that gorgeous.”

Liar, screamed her conscience. Matt Hollister was tall, dark and stunning. With his expensive suit, black hair and gray eyes, he could have walked off the cover of a men’s fashion magazine. Of course, he’d graced the cover of more than one magazine and scandal rag when he was still carousing...usually with a woman and a juicy caption. In person he was magnetic, one of those guys who made you want to tear off your clothes and throw yourself into his arms. Her sisters could get away with it, but her? Not a chance. She wasn’t Quasimodo, but she was hardly in Matt Hollister’s league.

“Anyway,” she continued. “Mr. Hollister wasn’t in the mood to talk. He practically had me thrown out of the building. His security guy showed up as I got off the elevator in the lobby and I thought he was going to pull a gun on me. Followed me clear out to the parking lot and watched me leave.”

“Are you all right?” Aunt Dee exclaimed.

“I’m fine. I’m probably overreacting, since he didn’t actually do anything. He was just menacing, in this quiet, intense sort of way. I bet he just looks at someone and they skedaddle.”

“Lani, I know I asked you to investigate, but it isn’t worth you taking risks. I don’t want you getting hurt, and William wouldn’t have, either.”

“I’m not taking any risks. It was just a conversation. Though I did hope Mr. Hollister would talk about the company and anything he might have seen or heard about the case. I mean, he worked at Hudson & Davidson through the main part of the investigation, so he must know something. I thought he could at least get his stepfather to meet with me, only he didn’t give me much chance to talk. But I can tell you one thing, Matt Hollister sure got uptight when I mentioned Peter Davidson. What can you tell me about Mr. Davidson? I don’t remember him very well.”

Aunt Dee pulled several items from the refrigerator, frowning slightly. “He was focused and dedicated. We became friends with Peter and his first wife at William’s last posting in Guam. It was Peter who suggested that Will go back to school and get a degree in accounting when he left the navy. That way they could go into business together when they were both out of the service.”

Layne scribbled a note on her pad. “I see. Is that why Mr. Davidson moved to the Seattle area, because you guys were here?”

“Yes, though by that time Shelley, his first wife, had died in an accident. I think that’s why he didn’t come to the house that much—it reminded him of those years when we were all so close.”

Not close enough, Layne added silently. Peter Davidson had hung his old friend out to dry the minute a whiff of scandal appeared.

“Anyway,” Aunt Dee said, “Will started an accounting firm when he got his degree instead of going to work for someone else, and when Peter took twenty-year retirement from the navy, he moved here. William sold him half the company so they’d be equal partners. By that time Peter had already made a fortune on the stock market.”

Layne stared at her aunt who was working at the sink. “You mean the company originally belonged to Uncle Will? I thought they’d started it together.”

“In a way they did—they expanded beyond accounting and the company grew exponentially after that, with huge corporate accounts and an A-list of wealthy clients.”

“I see.” Layne gazed out at the wooded backyard. The house faced on a shallow creek gorge and the yard took advantage of a divine natural setting. Whenever possible over the past seven months she’d helped with the upkeep of the property, though Aunt Dee was awfully touchy about it. “But if Mr. Davidson came out of the mess so clean, why won’t his stepson talk about what happened?”

“Who knows? It could mean anything from a bad relationship with his stepfather to concern about negative press coverage—it isn’t necessarily sinister.”

“I suppose.”

Matt Hollister had annoyed Layne, mostly because he was rich and spoiled and no doubt playing at philanthropy the way he’d played at everything else. There were men like him who’d changed their ways, but they weren’t usually thirty-two and in the prime of their life.

“I wonder how long he’s going to last running the Eisley Foundation?” she mused aloud.

“Is it important?” Her aunt put a plate of Cobb salad in front of Layne.

“Not really, though it isn’t as if he earned the job.”

Dee sat down with her own salad. “The Eisley Foundation does important work. Mr. Eisley earned a fortune in the shipping industry and lumber business, then funneled half of it into humanitarian causes.”

“I know, he’s the Andrew Carnegie of the Pacific Northwest,” Layne said, waving her fork. “But that’s the grandfather, not the grandson. After getting out of college Matthew Hollister mostly partied hard, drove fast and dated supermodels.”

Her research on him wasn’t flattering. Honestly, why did some women think a man who partied every night and risked his life in race cars and doing other dumb things was sexy? Except...Matt Hollister was sexy, his exploits notwithstanding. So sexy he’d tied her tongue into knots. She had to view him as a fact to be researched, instead of letting her feminine instincts jump in and turn her into a stuttering idiot.

“It’s a private foundation, Lani. Mr. Eisley can name anyone to the job. Including his grandson.”

“I suppose.” Layne took a bite of salad. Mmm. It was loaded with blue cheese, hard-boiled eggs and bacon, along with thick chunks of avocado. Not to mention her aunt’s homemade croutons, with fresh-baked yeast rolls on the side. “This is so good,” she murmured.

“It isn’t hard to make.”

“You don’t think anything is hard to make.”

* * *

DOROTHY HUDSON SMILED, trying to hide her concern. Her niece looked tired, no doubt from the late nights she’d spent in Will’s home office. Perhaps she shouldn’t have asked Layne to investigate, but it was hard not knowing why her life had fallen apart. And while she didn’t want to be mercenary, she’d lose everything they’d built together if she didn’t get more than twenty-five thousand dollars from the sale of the company.

She’d talked herself hoarse to the police, calling every day and asking if they’d made any progress. Finally they’d referred her to the Carrollton D.A.’s office, who’d told her in no uncertain terms that while the case was technically open, the only continuing investigation would be to find the stolen money. But it kept bothering her. How could she accept what other people said about William, rather than what she felt in her heart? And lately she could barely sleep for thinking about it.

She believed he was innocent, didn’t she?

Sure, a few years ago, Will and Peter had built an expensive new complex for the company. The cost was astronomical, but they’d felt it presented the right image to clients. But then Will’s father had gotten sick. The elder Hudsons hadn’t had health insurance, so she and Will had helped out to make sure the best treatment was available. Their savings and investments were depleted, putting them in debt for the first time in years.

But millions of people had debts and didn’t resort to theft, and Will had always been so optimistic and scrupulously honest; it was one of the things Dorothy had loved about him. Suicide and embezzling were the last things she would have expected.

“I have to say that Eisley Foundation building has the most scrumptious view of Lake Union,” Layne said, distracting Dorothy from darker thoughts. “If I was Matthew Hollister, I’d just move in and make his office my living room. I nearly died of envy on the spot.”

Dorothy cocked her head. “Don’t you like your house?”

“Yes, and I wouldn’t have my garden in North Seattle, so it evens out. He was defensive about their upscale location, but I already knew the stuff he spouted about the Eisley Foundation restoring the neighborhood.”

“They’ve been criticized over the years for being there,” Dorothy admitted. “People forget how bad that area used to be. They just see that it’s pricey real estate and question a charitable trust operating in the middle of so much affluence.”

Layne gasped in mock horror. “You mean the press criticized old Mr. Eisley, too? I thought he’d been granted sainthood.”

“Almost. What did you hope Mr. Hollister could tell you?”

“More details about the embezzlement, for one thing. The police won’t release the evidence against Uncle Will or anything else about the thefts, and it’s difficult to investigate when you don’t have a clue what you’re trying to find out. But I’ll get another chance to talk to him.”

Dorothy pushed her salad around on her plate; she was rarely hungry these days, but she’d wanted Layne to have a good meal and her niece would have refused to eat alone.

“If Mr. Hollister threw you out, what makes you think you’ll have another chance?”

“I was hoping you’d ask.”

A smile brightened Layne’s face and she hopped down from the bar stool. A moment later she slid a copy of the Babbitt across the counter—it was open to the “Local Doings” section of the weekly publication. New Director of the Eisley Foundation to Attend Mayor’s Charity Gala read the headline of the top article.

“The gala is tomorrow,” Layne explained.

“How is that going to help?”

“Easy, I’m going, too. We always get two tickets to these events at the Babbitt. Naturally the social reporter gets one, but nobody wanted the other, so I grabbed it. Want to go with me? It admits two people.”

Dee didn’t hold with formal mourning periods where women wore widow’s weeds and did nothing but charity work for years, but that didn’t mean she felt like going to a party, especially something like the mayor’s gala.