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won't pressure you into telling me anything you don't want to.”
    Now he was certain she was up to something. She sounded too smug, too unconcerned with his ultimatum. Let her play her little games. He had a few of his own. There was more to her than she let on and his brain needed a challenge. Who was the woman beneath the buttoned-up persona? He'd dig around, scratch the surface, maybe excavate a few old skeletons. What the hell. He had nothing else to do.
    Matt smiled. “Let's shake on it,” he said, extending his hand.
    Seconds later, cool fingertips touched his palm, flitting around like a butterfly refusing to land. Matt clamped his hand over hers, capturing her in a warm grip.
    The next two weeks might prove quite interesting.
    ***
    Sara had just enough time to unpack her clothes and freshen up for dinner. The guest room was decorated with plums and grays and splashes of cream. Classic. Rich. Perfect. The delicate scent of roses drifted to her from a large vase in the corner. Everything she'd seen so far spoke of understated elegance, from the fresh-cut flowers that adorned each room to the modern artwork that graced the walls. Even the carpeting spoke of wealth.
    Nothing like her little bungalow in the western suburbs of Pittsburgh with its hand-braided rugs and window boxes overflowing with petunias and impatiens. Her fresh-cut flowers came from the backyard. Tulips and daffodils in the spring and blood-red roses in the summer. All nurtured with love and sunshine as opposed to a greenhouse thermostat and humidifying system. And the artwork, well that was either her own humble dabblings or prints from the local craft store.
    She loved her house. It provided respite from the cold, sometimes cruel, world around her. She already missed the ancient overstuffed rocking chair where she'd sit at night and lose herself in a book, cuddled with the blue-and-yellow afghan her grandmother had made twenty years before. It was the only time she permitted herself to dream of what-ifs.
    Sara walked to the sliding glass door and glanced at the patio beyond. It was similar to Matthew's—same wrought-iron chairs and table. Same hot tub tucked in the far left corner. She'd counted four of them so far. The closest she came to something like that in her neighborhood was the rare aboveground pool. Did Matthew Brandon even know what an aboveground pool was?
    Probably not. He'd lived a life of wealth and privilege, though Jeff had told her he'd come from the Pittsburgh area. High-rent district, no doubt. The man didn't seem the type to be inconvenienced by anything and lack of money could certainly prove a major inconvenience. Not that she'd ever cared about money, because she hadn't. She had enough to live a comfortable life. All she'd wanted was a family and children. She'd ended up with neither.
    “Sara?” Adam's voice drifted to her from the hallway. “Supper's ready.”
    “Just a minute.” She ran her fingers through her hair and let the wisp of bangs settle on her forehead, minus the giant cowlick sticking out on the left side. When she was a kid, she'd tried everything to keep the big comma of hair flat on her forehead. It sprang back, no matter how much Dippity-Do she'd plastered on it, until one day she finally realized that some things were just part of a person and couldn’t be changed. She shrugged and pasted a smile on her face.
    When she opened the door, Adam stood waiting for her, looking stylish in a blue polo shirt and tan slacks. He smiled down at her, his gray eyes warm. “How did it go this afternoon?” he asked as they headed down the long marble-tiled hall toward the dining room.
    “Fine, actually,” she said, not meeting his gaze. “It went just fine.”
    “Really? That seems hard to believe.”
    Because it is. She couldn’t very well tell him she planned to trick his brother into verbalizing by becoming his friend so she simply remained silent.
    ***
    “Rosa, these enchiladas are delicious,” Sara