And he wasn’t a homebody, anyhow.
* * *
ON FRIDAY AFTERNOON Connor parked the blue Bronco he was using near the art gallery and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, staring at the expensive storefront.
He’d boxed himself into a corner by unnecessarily using his middle names with Dorothy and not telling her about his connection to the Eisley family. But then, she wouldn’t have gone to tea with him the first day, either, if she’d known everything.
What did he want from her?
Sex wasn’t likely, however much her beauty compelled him.
Absolution?
The word popped into Connor’s head and sat uneasily in his brain. There was little softness in the solitary life he’d chosen, and he was often haunted by ghosts of the innocents who couldn’t be saved and the missed opportunities to right another wrong. Yet he’d never really been there for his own family in Ireland. They hardly knew him any longer.
With that unpalatable thought, Connor climbed out and crossed the street. Dorothy came through the door as he approached and he forced a smile.
“Finished already, Dot?”
The nickname made her smile. “I’ve worked extra lately, so one of the other artists came in early to take my place.”
“How about a walk before having our tea?”
She nodded and they headed toward the waterfront by silent accord. The art gallery was in Ballard, Seattle’s trendy historic district, and while Connor wasn’t disposed to appreciating the fine points of architecture and design, the area was attractive...just like the second painting he’d purchased. Dorothy didn’t know that he’d sent one of his men to buy the one she’d painted of Mount St. Helens. It was now hanging in his office.
Hell, he felt like a damned fool.
Beauty was transient—what was the point when someone would just come along and destroy it sooner or later? He’d spent most of his life avoiding useless nonsense, yet even he could see that Dot had talent.
The breeze was creating whitecaps on the water and he glanced down. “Cold? It was warmer down here yesterday.”
“I like it this way. Lani and I both hate it when the temperature gets too high.”
“Then the heat we’ve had the past few days must have made you both miserable.”
“The humidity is the worst part.”
He grinned. “You don’t know humidity until you’ve been in hundred degree temperatures with pouring down rain. The air is so thick you have to chew it before breathing.”
“Ouch.” Dorothy grimaced and then laughed. “You’ve traveled a lot, haven’t you?”
“A fair amount. You?”
“Some. My husband was stationed in Guam when he was in the navy. I loved it and the people were wonderful to us.”
“You likely think the people are wonderful everywhere, but that hasn’t been my experience. There’s a lot of evil out there, waiting to destroy something, often just because it’s there.”
“It must be awful not being able to have faith in people.”
Hell.
Dorothy was a gentle woman who would never understand his rough childhood or the life he’d led since leaving Ireland. Despite what had happened to her husband, she wanted to believe the best in everyone, while he generally thought the worst. She’d been sheltered by the people who loved her, while he’d seen what they could do. Yet Connor felt an impulse to protect her, as well.
Heaven alone knew how she would react when she discovered he’d been lying to her.
“Who do you have faith in, Dot?” he asked, his voice rough. He was attracted to her. But even if this were a normal situation, she’d only been a widow for a few months.
“My family.”
“Especially Lani, right?”
“Yes, but I’ve been leaning on her too much since losing Will. I have to stop.”
“It’s only been a few months, woman,” Connor growled, exasperated. “And you’ve said your husband was a second father to her. Surely it’s all right to let Lani be a comfort.”
“She has a life of her own.”
“Has she complained?”
“She wouldn’t, but that doesn’t make it right.”
“Right?” He made a disgusted sound. “If Alleyne had let the family do for her when her husband died, she might not be such a lonely, prickly soul now.”
Dot set her chin stubbornly. “You don’t understand.”
Damn the woman. She was just like Alleyne. Matt had mentioned Dot’s refusal to let the McGraws ease her financial problems, which was his sister all over again. And it had nothing to do with independence; it was that damned Irish and American pride. They should compare notes on how to drive their families crazy.
Or was Alleyne punishing herself?
Connor’s eyes narrowed at the thought. His sister’s husband had taken a second job so they could get a house of their own; he’d died when he’d run a stop sign and been broadsided by a lorry in the middle of the night. No one was quite sure whether he’d fallen asleep at the wheel, or if he’d just missed the sign.
Could Alleyne still feel responsible after all these years? At the funeral she’d said “it’s my fault” over and over, though Liam had taken the second job over her objections.
Perhaps Dorothy was tormenting herself because she hadn’t been there when her husband died. Connor gazed at the choppy water and tried to measure the things he knew about the day William Hudson killed himself. It was possible a woman like Dorothy would be haunted by the idea that she could have stopped the tragedy, just by being there. Then again, he might be projecting Alleyne’s feelings onto Dot.
The answers weren’t clear, and no one would accuse Connor of being overly astute when it came to feminine sensibilities.
In the meantime, he was just borrowing time. And it wouldn’t be long before the whole thing came crashing down on his fool head.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“THERE’S SOMETHING I need to tell you,” Layne said to her aunt on Saturday morning.
“What’s that, dear?” Dee asked absently. She sat at the kitchen counter, studying storyboards for the children’s fantasy book she was illustrating.
“Well, you know how Matt Hollister came by my house and gave me information and said he wanted to help me look for answers about Uncle Will?”
“You mentioned that he’s been helping with your inquiries.”
“Yes, and he’s also had some good ideas...and, uh...well, he arranged for me to meet with Peter Davidson a couple of days ago.”
Dee looked up. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“It happened quickly. And besides, you’ve been distracted by your new friend. Patrick sounds nice.”
“He is,” her aunt admitted. “Though in a different way than William. It’s quite innocent. We walk part of the time, and talk.”
“And he feeds you tea and crumpets,” Layne teased, pouring herself a cup of coffee.
“Actually, there were crumpets in the pastries he got yesterday. He doesn’t eat them himself—he claims I need the calories and that I remind him of his sister who lost too much weight after her husband died.”
“You are too thin.”
Dee shrugged. “I forget to eat, that’s all. At first I thought Patrick was interested in me as a woman and it made me uncomfortable. But after I told him about William dying last December, it became more companionable. Supposedly his sister never got over her husband’s death, so I think he has an absurd notion that I need to be rescued.”
“Then you no longer think there’s anything odd about him?”
“The large cash transaction seemed peculiar, but I suppose everyone handles their money differently. I haven’t seen Patrick pay with plastic, even once. But tell me about the meeting with Peter.�
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“It didn’t go anywhere. I don’t like him at all.”
“You don’t?” Her aunt looked surprised. “William usually brought in the big clients—you know how personable he was—but Peter dealt with them effectively.”
“You mean Uncle Will was the rainmaker for the firm?”
“If that’s how you want to put it, but Peter was particularly brilliant with investments. Will used to say he brought clients into the firm and Peter kept them there. What did he do to upset you?”
Layne sipped her coffee, not wanting to repeat a word Mr. Davidson had said. Yet it really wasn’t so much the words, it was the way he’d spoken. “I just didn’t like him, and he refuses to help, though I got him to admit he’s behind the police and D.A. refusing to give us information. I don’t think it was specifically to keep us from learning anything. He claims he’s trying to keep everything quiet to save the company and everyone’s reputations.”
“But you like Matthew Hollister?”
Layne hesitated. She wasn’t sure what she felt about Matt, other than cautious. He’d turned her on in an instant and then promptly smacked her ego with that comment about sex with her being the “last thing” on his mind.
“He’s not too bad,” Layne said finally. After all, it wasn’t as if Matt could help how he felt. “But I’ll never forgive him for introducing me to Cherry Garcia ice cream.”
Aunt Dee smiled. “When did he do that?”
“He brought dinner earlier this week, with Ben & Jerry’s for dessert. That stuff is sinful. At any rate, he wants to come over today and help go through more of Uncle Will’s papers. I told him you’d have to agree.”
* * *
DOROTHY SAW AN odd expression on Layne’s face and prayed she wasn’t getting personally involved with Matthew Hollister. Working with him was all right, but he wasn’t the sort of man she wanted for her niece.
As for Peter?
Dorothy didn’t know what to think. They’d all been such good friends once. When he’d called to tell them about Shelley’s accident, they had immediately flown to Hawaii to be with him. But after Peter took twenty-year retirement from the navy and moved to Seattle...things were different. He was different. William had said to give it time, but nothing was ever the same.
She glanced down at the storyboards. Illustrating children’s books had its ups and downs and this one was particularly challenging.
A mental picture of brown sugar cake rose in Dorothy’s mind, with whipped frosting and a caramelized filling. Cooking was so much easier than trying to paint someone else’s vision, and she had worked until 4:00 a.m. the night before on the illustrations. She could take a break.
“You’re welcome to invite Mr. Hollister over,” she murmured, going into the kitchen. “If nothing else, I should apologize for the way I behaved at the gala.”
“Okay.” Layne took out her cell phone and dialed. “Hey, Matt, it’s me,” she said after a moment. “What...oh, stop complaining, I prefer this kind of phone. It’s mostly for emergencies and I hardly use any minutes...well, yeah, more lately with you calling so much.”
Layne didn’t say anything for several seconds, then she rolled her eyes.
“Absolutely not....yeah...do you want to come over this afternoon and look at some of the records...?”
Apparently the answer was yes, because Layne gave directions to the house and agreed on a time before saying goodbye.
“There,” she said. “He’s coming.”
“What was the bit about the phone?”
“Matt thinks I should have a regular cell phone so my caller ID comes up on his phone. The one I have now is the kind you buy at a convenience store. Is it all right if we use the dining room? I’d rather not have him in the office too much.”
“It’s fine. I’m planning to work in my studio later, but I’m going to make a cake first.”
“Stressed?”
“A bit. Nothing is resolved, and then there’s Patrick. I enjoy him, but I don’t know what he actually wants, and I’m not ready for anything except friendship.”
“I don’t think men know what they want, so what hope do we have of figuring it out?” Layne swallowed the last of her coffee. “Uh...Aunt Dee, I keep thinking about that evening you hinted Uncle Will might have been...well, with someone else on the nights the thefts occurred. What made you think that?”
Dorothy’s stomach rolled. “There were signs that made me start wondering. It was nothing definitive.”
“What signs?”
“Little things. Sometimes I would call in the evening from Mount Vernon and couldn’t reach him—not at the office or at the house and his cell phone would be turned off. Or I’d come into his home office and he’d get off a call with a rushed goodbye. It doesn’t sound like much, but it wasn’t like him.”
“Neither was having an affair.”
“I know. There isn’t any proof, and besides, it was probably nothing—at the time I didn’t think much of it. It was only later I began wondering.”
Layne gave her a hug. “I’m sure it was nothing. I don’t think Uncle Will knew other women existed after meeting you.”
Dorothy smiled, wishing her niece could keep the certainty of youth.
“If it’s okay, we’d like to go through your last year’s credit card statements and phone bills,” Layne added after a moment. “I still don’t know the dates of the thefts, but we can record all charges or calls made on a Thursday.”
“Oh. All right,” Dorothy agreed, albeit reluctantly. She didn’t have anything to hide—the police had combed their finances, trying to show unexplained income. It was the current records she didn’t want her niece to see; it would be even more obvious how the bills had fallen behind, and Layne wanted to help so badly.
Patrick’s annoying comment went through her head about how it had hurt his family to see Alleyne going without help.
Shut up, she thought crossly.
Her decisions were none of his business, and she had to learn independence. She shouldn’t have let William take care of everything—it had not only left her vulnerable, it hadn’t been fair to him. And it would be all too easy to let Lani fill that role.
* * *
MATT’S PHONE BEGAN ringing as he drove out of the parking garage under the Eisley Building early that afternoon. It was his mother and he hit a button on the steering wheel to answer. “Hello, Mom.”
“Sweetheart, you’ve been so busy, we haven’t talked lately.”
Matt grinned wryly, not bothering to point out that they rarely talked, no matter how busy he was. He’d always adored his mother, but between him being away at boarding school during most of his childhood and the way she seemed to live in an ivory tower, they weren’t close.
Katrina had withdrawn from public life during her separation from Spence, and even if nobody would admit it, she’d become agoraphobic after the divorce. She’d hated the frenzied attention from the media— the nasty speculation and the posed picture of her in her wedding dress published in various print media, shown side-by-side with ones of Spence, whooping it up in Las Vegas with busty showgirls. Matt often wondered how all of their lives would have turned out if his grandparents had gotten Katrina help, instead of catering to her illness.
“I’ll try to get over more often, Mom.”
“It’s all right, but I wanted you to know that Father is so pleased with how you’re handling the foundation, he and Mother are going to Europe for an extended vacation.”
“I’m glad he approves.”
Matt had become better acquainted with Gordon since returning to Seattle, often consulting with him about the various programs. While he was taking the Eisley Foundation in a new direction, he didn’t want to undo his grandfather’s legacy. They’d had a couple of disputes on policy, but Gordon had ult
imately agreed it was Matt’s job to make the decisions now.
“I’m proud of you, too,” she added.
“Thanks.” Yet another flash of wry humor hit Matt. His mother probably hadn’t expected to ever claim she was proud of something he’d done.
“The truth is, I’ve always felt guilty for not becoming involved in the foundation,” Katrina said unexpectedly. “Father hoped I would, but the work involves being in the public eye and I just... Anyway, it’s wonderful you decided to come back.”
“I wanted to do it.” He pulled into the flow of vehicles on the road around Lake Union and dodged a bare-headed motorcyclist weaving in and out through traffic with reckless disregard.
“Yes...oh, the other phone is ringing,” Katrina told him hastily. “Come to dinner anytime. Bye.”
Matt frowned thoughtfully. While he was still trying to make up his mind about Peter in light of what he’d learned over the past weeks, he couldn’t deny that Katrina seemed happier now. Before meeting Peter she’d only attended a few private parties, which was where they’d met, otherwise rarely leaving the Eisley grounds. She still didn’t enjoy going out in public, but she was traveling a little and becoming more confident. The marriage had helped, but Peter had also gotten her on medication and talking to a counselor. Despite Matt’s skepticism about the relationship lasting, he was grateful to his stepfather for the changes.
* * *
LAYNE’S CLASSIC MUSTANG wasn’t in Mrs. Hudson’s driveway when Matt arrived, yet as soon as he pulled in and got out, the front door opened.
“You’re right on time,” Layne called.
“You sound surprised.”
“You got to my house an hour early last Saturday. What happened to being fashionably late like the rest of the rich and famous?”
“I believe in setting my own fashion trends.”
She led him inside and Matt sniffed the air appreciatively; it smelled like a bakery he’d once visited in New Orleans, redolent with vanilla and pralines. In the kitchen he saw Dorothy Hudson putting the final touches on a cake that could have been made by a master pastry chef.
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