Dying for Love

Oh, Matt knew. He knew too much about that disaster. It had taken the whole family pooling their resources to drag Jeff’s butt out of the sinkhole he’d created. Plus, a corporate lawyer, moving company and a psychiatrist. He didn’t need to be reminded of that fiasco.

“I can’t allow you on the job sites.”

Jeff stared at the floor and shrugged his shoulders. Beneath the desk, Matt fisted his hand. This shadow of a man was all that was left of his brother. He had so many memories of growing up together, playing alongside each other and on the river, hunting and camping together and the stringers of fish they caught.

He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Would you like something to drink?”

“Nah. I gotta go.”

Jeff rose but hesitated, studying the floor. Opened and closed his mouth. In the end, he just turned and walked out without another word. Matt stared after him. He had spent months working through his anger over his brother’s betrayal, and Jeff never expressed an ounce of remorse.

His shoulders slumped and he fought the urge to lay his head on the desk.

An image of Grace flashed through his mind. The shock of his mom’s news had brought the reality of life sharply into focus. Between his brother’s behavior and his mom’s illness, he didn’t know how much more his family could take. Life was too damn short. He squared his shoulders. It was time to see if there was more to his attraction.

CHAPTER TWO (#uefeb9126-c91e-593a-8c3a-2a24a9c125f0)

“Grace, isn’t that report due to Mr. Duncan. As of, like, five minutes ago.”

“Yes. I’m on my way. I promise.”

“He’s in a real mood today, ya know.” Sally shook her head and walked away.

Like her day didn’t already suck. Getting fired on top of everything else would seriously suck. She’d snagged a position that a lot of people would kill for, in a firm recently listed in the top ten list of a local business publication. At twenty-seven, she was the youngest executive in the large construction firm.

Not to mention, the job enabled her to pay for her beautiful new car.

The low-grade headache thrumming at the base of her skull kicked up a notch. She wanted to drop her aching head into her hands and sob for a few minutes. Or hours. Something…anything to release the build-up of fear, stress and delayed shock. Instead, she straightened her shoulders.

Grace hit PRINT, swiveled around in her chair and snagged a binder from the storage cabinet. Mr. Duncan insisted reports be presented neatly and properly. Printed, bound, no factual errors and no typos.

In the six months she’d worked there, only two people had made the mistake of handing imperfect work to Mr. Duncan. They were no longer employed at the prestigious firm of Duncan Construction, Inc. Personally, she thought that was a bit over the top. Matthew Duncan might be hot sin walking, but he didn’t have to act like the Devil incarnate.

Not that Mr. Duncan was interested in her opinion. Nor would she ever dare voice it. She liked her job and would very much like to keep it. Especially in this economy. A fabulous job she enjoyed was a bonus she didn’t intend to waste by bandying about her opinions about.

She’d worked too hard, for too long to get where she was.

Neatly bound report in hand, she rushed out of her office. Sally, the first friend Grace had made at work, looked up from her desk and sent her a sympathetic smile as she held up two fingers crossed for luck. Grace blew out a breath and grinned.

The click-clack of her modest black pumps followed her down the tiled hallway. The rich cinnamon scent permeating the hall was supposed to be calming. She inhaled deeply.

Mr. Duncan wouldn’t fly off the handle just because he requested this report be in his hands at 9:30 and it was now—she glanced at her watch and swallowed—9:44. Her stomach tightened and she started relaxation breathing.

“Better hurry, Grace,” a masculine voice whispered in her ear.

Without thinking, she spun around and lightly whacked Luke in the gut. “Not funny.”

Hitting her co-worker. Nice. Very professional. She winced. Too much time spent around too many boys growing up and too much…everything this morning.

Luke doubled over, groaning like she’d punched him. Lips twitching, Grace kept walking.

“Oh, man.” He caught up and clapped a hand over his mouth. His cheeks bulged. “Ooh…” One hand pressed to his stomach, he staggered across her path and collapsed against the wall.

“Good grief, Luke.” Grace rolled her eyes. “Get over yourself already.”

He straightened, grinning. “Hey, just trying to keep your spirits up. Facing old man Duncan would terrify anyone. Especially with mediocre, late work in hand.”

“Hey!”

Luke trotted off down the hall with a jaunty wave. The nerve. She did good work, no, excellent work, for this company. Mr. Duncan wouldn’t can her because of one late report. He was a reasonable man. Well, sort of reasonable. In an anal-retentive, obsessive-compulsive kind of way.

She smiled at Nancy, Mr. Duncan’s secretary. Outside Mr. Duncan’s door, she took another deep breath. The stupid cinnamon was so not doing its job.

Grace stared at the dark mahogany door, straightened the hem of her short, fitted blazer, smoothed the back of her knee-length matching tweed skirt and, in general, procrastinated as only a terrified employee could. She’d just about, kind of, almost, worked up the nerve to knock.

“Fortifying yourself to beard the lion?” said a deep voice behind her.

She jumped and almost dropped the precious report. She squeezed her eyes shut and resisted the urge to bang her head against the door. Great. Caught dawdling like a student called into the principal’s office. By her boss, nonetheless. Reminding herself to breathe, she turned.

“Why, yes.” She forced a smile.

Mr. Duncan’s bland expression betrayed none of the soft mockery she could have sworn his voice contained. Did his lips quirk, or was it a trick of the light? He was infamous for his non-existent sense of humor.

“Well, let’s not delay a second longer.” Reaching past her, he turned the knob and pushed open the door. “After you.”

His nearness and masculine scent curled around her with wanton invitation. Imagined invitation, she sternly reminded herself, splashing cold water on her overactive hormones. Dredging up confidence she didn’t feel, she smiled and strode past him into the cool interior of the immaculate office. The door closed quietly behind her.

“Mr—”

“Would you care for a drink, Miss Debry? A shot of Scotch, perhaps?”

She jerked her head up. Again with the dark humor. No, she had to be mistaken. Overwrought with stress and attraction to the point she was imagining things. Sad, really.

His back to her, he rummaged through the bar. From experience, she knew how well stocked it was.

“Um, no. I don’t think a shot of anything would be a good idea at…” She glanced at her watch and winced. Well, no point putting off the inevitable. She cleared her throat. “Nine forty-eight in the morning.”

“How terribly precise, Miss Debry. No, I don’t suppose it would be appropriate to indulge so early.”

He sighed. The unusual sign of humanity took her aback. He sounded tired. More than tired. Bone-deep weary.

“How about some coffee, then? Water? Juice?”

“Coffee would be nice. Thank you.” Swallowing might prove an issue, but he was clearly determined she drink something.

“Cream and sugar, as I recall.”

“Yes.”