Harry had expected the dismissive look on Shaw’s face. The man had never been married and didn’t have a steady girlfriend, though there was no shortage of women in his life. Harry had discovered from a lady lawyer Shaw briefly dated that he always took precautions to ensure there was no unwanted child.
Which made Harry wonder if the dead woman found in Shaw’s penthouse suite might have been pregnant. And trying to extort money from Shaw. As he was.
Harry shuddered. The medical examiner’s report on the murder victim hadn’t been released to the public yet, and Harry’s usual connection in the M.E.’s office had been too spooked to leak it to him. Which meant anything was possible.
Harry’s investigation also revealed that Shaw usually bedded his dates in his—now infamous—penthouse at the Shaw Tower, or an equivalent locale. Not one of them had been to his personal retreat, a ranch compound north of Houston.
Ancient live oaks, which never completely shed their leaves, kept the structures within Shaw’s compound hidden from Google Earth. But from county records, Harry knew Shaw had built a modest, four-bedroom home, stables large enough to hold a dozen sleek quarter horses and on-site housing, a sort of bunkhouse, for his security team. To guarantee his privacy, Shaw had surrounded the compound with eight-foot-high river-rock walls.
His isolated compound—and his isolated lifestyle—made a powerful statement: Shaw lived a life without strings, a life without human connections. So Harry expected him to resist the idea that he had twin sons, maybe even to dismiss Harry’s suggestion as ridiculous.
Luckily, Harry had proof. DNA results made it 99.9 percent certain that Shaw was the twins’ father.
“Who sent you here?” Shaw asked.
“I want your promise to pay before I say anything more.”
“You’d take my word?” Shaw said cynically, lifting a brow.
Harry shrugged. “You have a reputation for sticking by it in business deals.” Which this was. Sort of.
“Bruce, escort this man from the premises.”
“Wait!” Harry reached into his jacket and found his wrist handcuffed by Bruce’s gigantic hand. How had the big man moved so fast? “I don’t have a weapon,” Harry babbled, afraid the monster was going to crush his bones. “There are papers in my jacket. And a photo.”
“Let him go,” Shaw said.
With a shaking hand, Harry pulled out the papers he’d been reaching for, which had been folded in his suit coat pocket. They rustled as he unfolded them and took the few steps forward to lay them on Shaw’s desk.
Shaw spread the papers apart and stared at them, his brow furrowed. “This looks like—”
“It’s the results of a DNA test,” Harry interrupted. “You can see that the first chart matches the second two almost exactly.”
“The second two?”
“You have twin eight-year-old sons,” Harry blurted.
Shaw’s brows arrowed down and his lips pressed flat.
Harry was afraid to breathe, waiting for Shaw to deny paternity despite the DNA results. He expected the businessman to ask how Harry had gotten his DNA. It had been easy, since the man ate most of his meals in restaurants. A fork he’d eaten from, a glass he’d drunk from, was all Harry had needed.
Instead, Shaw said, “Who’s the mother?”
Harry licked his lips. “Half a million.”
Shaw nodded curtly.
“Her name is Kate Grayhawk Pendleton. She’s the governor’s daughter-in-law. She lives in San Antonio.” He laid a 4”x6” photograph beside the DNA results on the table. It showed the smiling mother standing between her identical grinning sons, one slender arm resting on each boy’s narrow shoulder.
Harry watched several emotions flicker in Wyatt Shaw’s narrowed gaze, none of which were pleasant. The expected shock. Anger. Disgust. And then, a great deal more anger.
“Her husband?” Shaw asked.
“She was widowed eighteen months ago. Her husband died serving in Afghanistan.”
Harry was glad for the husband’s sake that he was dead. And he wouldn’t have wanted to be in the woman’s shoes when Shaw caught up to her. For half a million, he figured he owed Shaw a heads-up on the woman’s current situation. After all, the businessman had been back and forth to China a dozen times over the past six months and might not have kept up with the local news.
“Mrs. Pendleton was shot last October by that assassin trying to kill the governor. She was in a coma for four months and spent about six weeks in a rehab facility. She seems to have come out of it just fine. She went home ten days ago.”
“Tell my secretary where you want the money wired,” Shaw said through tight jaws.
Harry couldn’t believe it had been that easy. Couldn’t believe Shaw was actually going to pay.
Then he saw Shaw’s glance slide to Bruce, watched his chin drop the littlest bit, sending some kind of message to the big man. Harry felt the sudden urge to run. For a moment he was frozen, like a frightened rabbit, panting for breath.
Then he made his move.
His eyes darted from Shaw to the big man as he hurriedly backed his way out of the office, leaving the test results and the photograph on the glass in front of Shaw, letting the heavy wooden door slide silently closed behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, alarmed to see Bruce pass through the same door a few seconds later.
Harry paused at the secretary’s desk long enough to say, “I’ll give you a call and let you know where to wire the money.”
She didn’t ask “What money?” She must be used to business deals made on a handshake. Or in this case, a chin nod.
Harry hustled to the elevator, pushed the button and was relieved when the doors opened as though the elevator always waited on the 80th floor for Shaw. He stepped inside and pushed the button for the ground floor.
He felt his breath catch when he realized Bruce was headed for the same elevator. He stabbed the “Door Close” button several times. And breathed a sigh of relief when it began to close.
Several thick-knuckled fingers appeared between the nearly closed doors and they opened again. Bruce got on the elevator with Harry and stood facing the door, his hefty arms crossed over his substantial girth.
Harry felt his heartbeat ratchet up, felt the blood pound in his temples, and realized he hadn’t taken his blood pressure meds that morning. Hell, hadn’t taken them for a couple of days. He tried to calm himself, afraid he was going to have a heart attack. Or stroke out.
The elevator didn’t stop once on the way down, even though Harry prayed that it would pick up another passenger. It raced past thirty floors of offices, twenty-four floors of condominiums, twenty-one floors of hotel rooms (no thirteenth floor), the third floor hotel lobby, and the second floor boutiques, never once stopping.
He should have known Shaw would have a private express elevator. He managed not to pant, but he was having trouble catching his breath. He told himself he was being stupid. Big Bruce here hadn’t made a move toward him. In a few moments the elevator doors would open and he’d be safe.
Maybe he’d buy that beachfront property somewhere out of the country. He was just realizing how much fallout there might be once the governor realized what he’d done. Not to mention the girl’s two grandfathers.
Harry was out of the elevator the instant it stopped on the ground floor. The two-story-high glass-walled space was empty except for a black-suited guard behind a black granite desk who kept out the riffraff. Harry hurried past him.
Behind him, he heard the guard tell Bruce, “The Boss told me to remind you to take care of that business quietly.”
Harry felt a spurt of terror so great he nearly fainted. He should have known better than to try and extort money from a man like Shaw. He pushed his way through the revolving door, squinting against the glare of the sun off the mirrored building across the street. If he could just get outside onto the sidewalk, he’d be okay. He could see it was crowded with people.
As he left Shaw Tower, a gus
t of hot wind blew grit from the street into his eyes. He swiped at his stinging eyes and realized his face was dripping with sweat. He looked down and saw he’d sweated all the way through his suit jacket under his armpits. What the hell? He squirmed as a bead of sweat slid down between his shoulder blades. Oh, shit. That was a symptom of heart attack, wasn’t it? Profuse sweat?
Harry nearly giggled with hysteria. He was scaring himself to death. He had to control his panic or he was going to do Big Bruce’s job for him. He forced himself to walk more slowly. He glanced over his shoulder long enough to see that Bruce was still following him.
Harry was determined to put the width of the street between himself and Shaw’s enforcer. He weaved his way across tacky, sun-heated asphalt, in between honking downtown traffic, almost running by the time he got to the other side of the street. He realized Bruce was no longer behind him. The big man was still walking along the opposite sidewalk.
Harry heaved a quiet sigh of relief. He was done with his brief life of crime. It was too damned stressful. He put a hand to his heart, which was finally slowing down. He glanced once more at Big Bruce. Now he was talking on a cell phone.
Harry reached the corner and stepped off the curb, his gaze riveted on Bruce.
He heard a scream from the sidewalk catty-corner from him. His head jerked toward the sound. Harry saw a young woman, her eyes wide with horror, her hand urgently pointing to his right—in the opposite direction from where he’d last seen Big Bruce. Harry yanked his head back around to see what had frightened her. Adrenaline pumped into his veins, making his heart hurt so bad he put a hand to his chest.
As close as the truck was, Harry could see the rust on the metal grille, which rose as high as his shoulder. The driver had obviously run the red. Harry calculated the time it would take to get out of the way. And realized he was fucked.
In the final seconds before disaster struck, Harry’s gaze shot over his shoulder to Bruce. The big man was pocketing his phone. Harry’s head whipped back around as he heard the screech of brakes. Then the garbage truck hit him and he went flying.
2
Kate was expecting Jack McKinley, so she answered the knock at her door with a smile on her face. Her heart skipped a frightened beat when she saw who was standing there.
“You look surprised to see me.”
Kate felt a visceral response deep in her womb as she stared into Wyatt Shaw’s steel-gray eyes. Without wanting to, she remembered Shaw as she’d left him in the middle of the night, asleep amid tangled sheets, dark lashes lying soft on sharp cheekbones, rough beard shading the rugged planes and hollows of his face.
“May I come in?”
His raspy voice raised gooseflesh on her arms. He’d used that mesmerizing voice to murmur his approval as she caressed his powerful body, measuring the breadth of his shoulders with her palms and teasing the whorls of black hair on his chest with her fingertips.
He stood quietly at her front door, patiently awaiting her invitation to come inside. All his attention was focused on her, as it had been that long-ago night.
She tried to speak, to send him away, but her heart was caught in her throat. He’d been patient that night, too, coaxing her compliance. She’d been heartsick, feeling unloved and unlovely, a rejected woman seeking revenge against her husband.
Kate closed her eyes to shut out the too-vivid memories, but in her mind’s eye she saw the soft play of light and shadow on his face above her and the fierce look of desire in his eyes. She had never felt more cherished. She had never felt more loved.
“Are you all right?”
She opened her eyes, but it didn’t help. She’d kept the memories at bay for long years, but now that the flesh-and-blood man stood before her, they rushed back with frightening clarity.
She remembered most the urgency of his need. And how it had healed the hurt. The heady feeling as she realized this man craved her body as a dying man craves water in the desert. The soothing balm of his raspy voice as he extolled the pleasure he found in the petal softness of her skin. The laughter that tumbled from her lips as she reveled in the power of knowing he couldn’t get his fill of her. That he could never get enough. That he would always want to touch her, taste her, love her.
She would never forget the satisfied masculine sound in his throat as he’d felt how wet and ready she was for him. At his urging, she’d wrapped her long legs around his whipcord lean hips as he moved inside her. In the throes of passion, she’d gripped handfuls of his thick black hair, running her fingers through the silver wings at his temples that had made her guess his age as much older than he was.
He’d been only twenty-nine.
Which made him thirty-eight.
Her glance skipped to his mouth. She remembered bowed lips that had been soft to the touch, his first kiss so tender it had made her throat ache with unshed tears. There were no signs of softness in him now. His lips were pressed flat and bracketed by deep grooves. His eyes, deep-set and gray, reminded her of thunderous storm clouds.
Shaw hadn’t moved a muscle, hadn’t moved a hair, but she felt the threat of his presence, the threat of…his desire for her.
He was wearing a Savile Row suit that should have made him look civilized. Instead, she saw the tension beneath the masterfully tailored cloth, the power in corded sinew and bone. She felt her nipples peak as his nostrils flared, inhaling the scent of her like a stag in rut. Felt the blood fill her nether lips as she stared into heavy-lidded eyes that told her how much he wanted—needed—to be inside her.
She had to remind herself who he was. Yes, this was the stranger with whom she’d spent the most passionate night of her life. But Wyatt Shaw was also the son of mob boss Dante D’Amato. And a suspected murderer.
Her gaze skipped down to his long-fingered hands. Those hands had caressed her with infinite tenderness. Had they also strangled the woman found naked in his bed? It had only been six weeks since the sensational story had hit the tabloids. Billionaire businessman Wyatt Shaw was accused of murdering a call girl in his suite on the top floor of Shaw Tower.
A call girl?
That gave their night together an entirely new complexion. Had Shaw thought she was a call girl, too? Had she left before he’d put his money on the bedside table? Was the magical night she remembered merely one more sexual encounter with a call girl for him? Had she been lucky that long-ago night to escape with her life?
Kate was afraid to look back up into Shaw’s eyes, afraid the question—the accusation—would be there in her own.
Her knees felt rubbery, and she stiffened them. She glanced beyond Wyatt’s shoulder, searching the street for Jack’s SUV, hoping he would stay away until she could get rid of this apparition from her past, this stranger who’d ruined her sleep for far too many nights over the past nine years.
Kate shuddered at the thought of Texas Ranger Jack McKinley confronting Wyatt Shaw with his gun drawn. She didn’t want Jack killing the father of her sons. Or Wyatt killing the man she loved.
“We need to talk,” Shaw said.
“I don’t have anything to say to you.”
He lifted an arrogant brow that accused her of the terrible wrong she’d done him. But said nothing.
“You can’t have them.” Kate knew the instant the words came out of her mouth that she shouldn’t have spoken them.
“By them do you mean my sons?” he said, the sudden menace in his voice raising the hairs on her nape.
She tried to slam the door, but he was too fast for her. He simply caught the frame with his palm, waited until she let go, waited another moment until she stepped back, then strode inside and closed the wooden door with a quiet snick behind him.
She turned to face him in her tiny living room like a lioness defending her cubs, even though the twins were at school and wouldn’t be home for another hour. “You can’t have them. They’re mine.”
“And mine,” he said inexorably.
She could see that denial was futile. Somehow he�
�d found out the truth. “Who told you?”
“A private investigator hired by your mother-in-law.”
Kate groaned and lowered her face into her hands. She suddenly lifted her head and asked, “Does Ann Wade know?”
“I have no idea. The P.I. who contacted me was killed shortly after he left my office.”
Did you kill him? The words stuck in Kate’s throat. There was no sense asking, since he was unlikely to tell her if he had.
“When did you know the twins were mine?” he asked.
Kate felt a frisson of fear skitter down her spine. She had never been a good liar. The telltale pink blotches on her creamy skin always gave her away. But she was terrified of what the man standing in her living room might do if she told him she’d known within weeks of that fateful night that she’d gotten pregnant during their liaison.
The same day she’d gotten a positive result on a home pregnancy test, she’d seduced J.D., who’d gloated at how brief her sex boycott had been after she’d caught him in bed with another woman.
“You were a stranger I met in a bar,” she said to Shaw. “I didn’t know your name. I didn’t know how to contact you.”
“You didn’t answer the question,” he said, anger simmering in his eyes. “When did you know?”
“I couldn’t be sure my husband wasn’t the father,” she lied. And felt the sudden heat on her throat and cheeks.
His eyes narrowed. “It’s a simple question.”
Whenever she’d felt guilty over the years that she hadn’t sought out the stranger from the bar to tell him the truth, she’d reminded herself of the circumstances of their encounter. It was a night out of time.
She’d felt vindicated when she’d discovered who he was.
“What did you expect me to do when I found out I’d gotten pregnant while having sex with a perfect stranger?” A stranger accused of graft and corruption, of extortion and murder. And that was before a woman was found strangled to death in your bed.
His brows arrowed down at her admission that she’d known from the start what he’d just learned.
Shattered Page 2
