Challenging Matt

by Julianna Morris

  Matt looked at Layne and thought of the sweet, wonderful way she’d wrapped herself around his heart.

  Real commitment was a choice, the way he’d chosen to take over the Eisley Foundation. It was a promise to yourself, as well as to other people, and he had no intention of breaking faith with Terry or his grandfather or anyone else at the foundation. But did he have any hope that Layne would want to take a chance on him?

  “Gardening is great. I love to watch things grow.” Layne tossed a stick for Finnster, who ecstatically fetched it, joy on his furry face. For the first time in his canine life, he was getting to be just a dog.

  A smile grew on Matt’s face as he watched. Around Layne, he wasn’t a partyer or sportsman or even a billionaire philanthropist. He was just a regular guy, crazy in love with an amazing woman.

  Who wouldn’t do whatever it took to make that permanent?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CONTRARY TO WHAT Detective Rivera had said about not having lunch with them, he showed up Sunday afternoon, just as they finished eating.

  “Change your mind?” Layne asked. “We have plenty of food.”

  “Nope. But I wanted to deliver my news in person. Vanna Eastbrook was found early this morning on a back road in eastern Oregon with two gunshot wounds in her shoulder. A few hours later the police arrested Jay Scullini in Reno. Apparently he couldn’t resist stopping to play blackjack.”

  The air seemed to freeze in Layne’s lungs. “Is she alive?”

  “In serious condition, but expected to make a full recovery,” Rivera explained hastily. “And she’s willing to testify about the thefts at Hudson & Davidson in exchange for reduced charges. The deal’s been approved. Apparently Scullini plotted the whole thing after his bookie put him in the hospital. She claims she went along because she was scared but didn’t know Scullini planned to frame and kill William Hudson until after it was done.”

  “How did he get away with the thefts?” asked Matt.

  “He used a skimmer to duplicate the keycard, and another device to record keystrokes for the passwords and access codes. He also knew Mr. Hudson wouldn’t have an easy alibi on Thursday nights. His girlfriend would sign him out in the security log, so there was no paper trail showing he was there at those hours.”

  “Uncle Will probably mentioned Aunt Dee would be out of town,” Layne murmured. “But how did Scullini get into the house to commit the murder?”

  “Apparently he just rang the bell and said he had an idea of how the thefts occurred. I’ve already spoken to the medical examiner. Essentially, the official finding of suicide will be reversed and the D.A.’s office has acknowledged they were wrong about William Hudson.”

  As Connor walked the detective out, Layne hugged her aunt. They were both smiling and crying at the same time. It was finally over. The victory was bittersweet as Layne had recognized it would be, but at least her aunt would know she cleared her husband’s name and be able to keep the house they’d built together.

  “Matthew, thank you for helping,” Dee said finally, giving him a hug, as well.

  “Don’t thank me...I should have done more when it happened.”

  “You weren’t the one who could have made a difference.”

  * * *

  “PERHAPS.” MATT’S THROAT tightened unbearably. Dorothy could easily be angry with the world, including him, but she was too decent. If only his stepfather had been more like her, things might be different now.

  “Aunt Dee, why don’t you go make sure the security team got enough to eat?” Layne asked abruptly.

  Dorothy looked from her niece to Matt before nodding. “That’s a good idea.”

  When they were alone, Layne squeezed his arm. “What’s wrong? You helped us get to the truth.”

  “But I’ll never know if I was so anxious to start working at the foundation that I missed something. Can you forgive that?”

  “There’s nothing to forgive.”

  Matt could tell she genuinely believed it, and some of the pain eased in his throat. “I also didn’t see Peter for what he was.”

  “I think your stepfather is a damaged person,” Layne said honestly. “But I still don’t believe Uncle Will was completely wrong about him. He recognized that Peter changed after his wife’s death, but felt he would come around with enough time. Maybe it can still happen.”

  “It’s too late for me. I’ll never be able to trust him again, especially after what he tried to do to your aunt.”

  “Then I almost feel sorry for him.”

  Matt raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

  “It’s true,” Layne affirmed. “He lost the relationship he could have had with you. No one can put a value on that.”

  “You’re so amazing. After everything that’s happened, you can still say something like that.” Matt cupped her face between his hands, loving her so much it was almost terrifying. “I’m crazy about you, Layne. Please tell me you feel the same way.”

  She stiffened. “Don’t say that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you might regret it. You’re upset. Neither of us can think clearly after this. I mean, everything is mixed up. You can’t exactly celebrate finding a killer, and yet it does right something terribly wrong.”

  “And your uncle is still gone.”

  “Yes. And your stepfather is still a troubled man. So you see, when you’ve had time to sort things out, you’ll change your mind. By tomorrow you’ll feel very different.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  “Fine, then talk to me tomorrow.”

  Before he could say anything else, she’d vanished into the house.

  * * *

  LAYNE DRAGGED HERSELF into work the next morning after another sleepless night. Though she’d done the right thing by stopping Matt, it had hurt desperately. She loved him so much, but she couldn’t take advantage of an emotional situation.

  The night before, she’d driven to her parents’ house to tell them the news. They’d been thrilled, and probably a little mortified, too, for not believing in their brother-in-law from the beginning. Layne hadn’t told them much about her part in the investigation. Her parents might have valued her research skills...for a few seconds. But in the end, it wouldn’t change how they saw her. And perhaps they weren’t disappointed in how she’d grown up; maybe they just felt they’d failed her, the way Matt had suggested.

  But at the moment, he was the one who mattered.

  She stared at her computer screen, trying to concentrate.

  The cooler she’d brought, filled with shish kebob and potato salad for the staff to taste test, was on the corner of her desk. Regina collected it with a delighted smile.

  “I’ll tell accounting to cut a check immediately for Mrs. Hudson,” she said, sneaking one of the turtle brownies.

  “Okay.”

  “Hey, is something wrong?”

  Layne was saved from answering when the new message alert sounded on her computer.

  Come see me. C.

  “Um, I need to see Carl.” Layne hurried into the editor’s office. “Yeah, boss?”

  “I want to know what gives with you and Matthew Hollister.”

  She stared. “What?”

  Carl grinned broadly. “I just got off the phone with him. He’s granting us an exclusive interview. He says I can thank him by giving you a two-week vacation, starting now. What’s the story?”

  “Well, Matt and I have become acquainted. He’s doing good work at the Eisley Foundation and I’ve urged him to consider going more public about what he hopes to accomplish there.”

  The Babbitt editor rubbed his jaw. “You didn’t think to tell me about this friendship, given what we’ve been printing about his stepfather?”

  “No,” Layne returned flatly. �
��You don’t own my private life. And if you think otherwise, you can shove this job.”

  He grinned. “Take it easy, kid. I’m ecstatic. The guy hasn’t given a personal interview in years. Grab your stuff and get going. You’ve got two extra weeks of paid vacation.”

  Layne went back to her desk in shock. Matt must have lost his mind, though she couldn’t deny that having some time to sort everything out in her head was a good idea. Maybe he was doing it to be nice—a sideways thank-you for stopping him from saying something he’d regret. She’d known it would happen...yet a tiny part of her had hoped that she’d been wrong.

  “Hey,” said a voice as she turned the corner of the building into the parking lot. It was Matt, leaning against the Mustang and holding out a bouquet of red roses. “Okay, red roses may be a little trite, but I’ve never proposed before, so I took a chance.”

  Proposed?

  The word hit Layne like a bombshell.

  “But just in case, I also brought these.” He reached behind him with his free hand, and the second bouquet was a confection of pink miniature roses and ferns and baby’s breath. “You’re the love of my life, Layne. Please marry me.”

  She stared at the flowers. “You don’t believe in love or marriage,” she said finally. “You think it’s a fairy tale.”

  “I did. Then I met you.”

  “But I’m not...I’m not blonde and tall like Jeannette.”

  He set the flowers down on the Mustang, walked over and kissed her. “Who cares? I wasn’t interested in Jeannette because you and I had already met. To me you’re the most beautiful woman in the world, but that isn’t what love is about or I would have fallen a long time ago.”

  Layne thought about all the times he could have left, instead he’d stuck around through some pretty nasty stuff. He really had reformed.

  “I know I can do anything if we’re together,” he murmured. “Even be a good husband and father. You’re the reason I’m giving the interview to the Babbitt about the ALS research. You said I should get people to listen. And that’s what I’m going to do. Please have faith in me...and in us.”

  Faith?

  She believed in him, but she also needed to have faith in herself and let go of the old insecurities. After all, Matt should certainly know what he wanted in a woman.

  And he wanted her.

  The corners of her mouth began to curve.

  * * *

  MATT KNEW HE’D never seen anything more breathtaking than Layne McGraw with tears in her eyes and a smile so dazzling it could warm the coldest night. He gathered her close.

  “What about your father and all that stuff with Peter and your mother?” she asked.

  Matt sighed. He still had to deal with Peter. While he hadn’t wanted to act in anger, he couldn’t have someone working at the Eisley Foundation that he didn’t trust. He only hoped his mother wouldn’t learn how badly her husband had behaved.

  “Peter isn’t important,” he said. “You are. I’ve never really fit anywhere until now. I love you and I need you...and I damn well can’t live without you.”

  “Oh, my God,” shrieked a woman’s voice abruptly. “Layne, what are you doing with Matthew Hollister?”

  Matt saw a woman standing next to a man. Both looked vaguely familiar.

  “That’s Noah Wilkie, the social reporter,” Layne whispered. “And Annette Wade, one of my friends. She does the nuptials column.”

  “That’s perfect. Let’s give them a scoop.” Matt grinned. “She’s accepting my marriage proposal,” he called to the two Babbitt employees. “You can be the first to congratulate me.”

  Layne laughed and flung her arms around his neck as Annette shrieked again. She still had a million silly questions, but the important ones had already been answered. Besides, she was too busy getting kissed and making plans to care.

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an excerpt from HEARTS IN VEGAS by Colleen Collins.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  IF TWENTY-NINE-YEAR-OLD Frances Jefferies had learned anything from her years as a pickpocket, it was the importance of blending in to one’s surroundings.

  Today, February 5, her task was to steal a valuable brooch from Fortier’s, a high-end jewelry store in Las Vegas. To blend in with the Wednesday bling-shopping crowd, she’d put on a red-and-leopard-print top underneath a loose-fitting Yves Saint Laurent white silk pantsuit, and a pair of killer Dolce & Gabbana stilettos.

  Time for one last practice run.

  She retrieved two similar-size brooches from a dresser drawer. One, a rhinestone flower-petaled pin, was an exact replica of the diamond-encrusted Lady Melbourne brooch stolen ten years ago from a museum in Amsterdam. Its whereabouts had been unknown until it suddenly, and mysteriously, surfaced at Fortier’s a few days ago. She slipped the replica into an inside pocket of her jacket and set the other pin on her dresser.

  Watching her reflection in the dresser mirror, she practiced the sleight-of-hand trick, deftly plucking the brooch from the pocket and swiftly replacing it with the other pin, three times in succession. Each switch went smoothly.

  Now for the finishing touch. She selected a pair of antique garnet earrings from her jewelry box and put them on.

  Leaning closer to the mirror, she swept a strand of her ash-blond hair off her face, tucking it lightly into her chignon. Her gaze slipped to her lower cheek. This close, she could see the faint outline of silicon gel underneath her meticulously applied makeup. For anyone else to see it, they would have to be inches away, and she never let anyone get that close.

  A few moments later, she walked into the living room, where her dad sat in his favorite chair, shuffling a deck of cards. A basketball game was on TV, the crowd yelling as a player dunked the ball.

  “Still working on The Trick That Fooled Houdini?” she asked.

  He grinned and set the cards on a side table. “Like Houdini, I can’t figure out how Vernon did it, either.”

  Dai Vernon, Houdini’s contemporary, had devised a card routine where a spectator’s chosen card always appeared at the top of the deck. Houdini, who bragged that he could figure out any magician’s trick, never solved this one.

  Her dad, who’d worked as a magician his entire life, had never solved it, either. Sometimes he jokingly referred to it as The Trick That Fooled Houdini and Jonathan Jefferies.

  “Going to work?” he asked.

  His thinning dark hair was neatly parted on the side, and a pair of reading glasses hung on a chain around his neck. He had a slight paunch, but otherwise stayed in shape from daily walks and a fairly healthy diet, if one overlooked his love of peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches.

  She looked at his faded Hawaiian-print shorts and Miami Heat T-shirt with its ripped sleeve, wishing he’d let her buy him some new clothes. But he liked to stick with what was “tried-and-true,” from his haircut to clothes.

  “Yes, off to work. If I leave in a few minutes, I should be there by three. The owner got back from a late lunch an hour ago. He and the security guard will be the only employees in the jewelry store the rest of the afternoon.”

  “Good girl, you did your homework.” He paused, noticing her earrings.
“Oh,” he said, his eyes going soft, “you’re wearing your mother’s jewelry.”

  Frances’s mother, Sarah, had been her father’s tried-and-true soul mate. When she eloped at nineteen with a little-known Vegas magician, her wealthy family disinherited her. If my upbringing had been happy, she’d told her daughter, disowning me might have mattered. Instead, it released me to a better life.

  The only items Sarah Jefferies had of her family’s were a small jewelry collection, gifted to her by her late grandmother.

  “Mom’s earrings will be my calling card today,” Frances said, touching one of them. She loved antique jewelry, especially early-nineteenth-century Georgian, the era of these earrings and the Lady Melbourne brooch.

  “She’s happy to know she’s helping. We’re proud of you, Francie.”

  He often spoke of his wife in the present tense, which used to bother Frances, but she accepted it more these days. Sometimes she even envied her dad’s sense of immediacy about his late wife. Frances was painfully aware it had been four years this past summer—July 15, 1:28 in the afternoon—when they’d lost her, and shamefully aware of the pain she’d brought her parents in the months leading up to her mother’s death.

  Nearly five years ago, Frances had been arrested on a jewelry theft. It had been humiliating to be caught, but agonizing to see the hurt on her parents’ faces. Especially after she admitted to them the theft hadn’t been a onetime deal. After learning sleight-of-hand tricks from her dad as a kid, she’d segued into picking pockets in her teens, then small jewelry thefts by the time she was twenty. At the time, she selfishly viewed her thefts as once-a-year indulgences, but it didn’t matter if she’d stolen once or dozens of times—what’d she done had been wrong.

  Jonathan Jefferies blamed himself for his daughter’s criminal activities, believing she had resorted to theft because he’d been unable to adequately support his family as a magician. When Frances was growing up, the family had sometimes relied on friends for food, or went without electricity, or suffered through eviction because there hadn’t been enough money to pay the rent.