Joan Johnston - Shattered

Wyatt Shaw seemed to walk between raindrops.

But Harry knew the rich man’s life hadn’t always been so blessed.

His mother had been Dante D’Amato’s mistress until her death, under suspicious circumstances, when Shaw was twelve. The child born on the wrong side of the blanket, so to speak, had succeeded so spectacularly that the government—read FBI—refused to believe he’d done it without help from the mob.

Harry was pretty sure the Feds monitored every dollar in and out of Shaw’s many business activities, looking for enough evidence to bring down his empire. Which only convinced Harry that Shaw would know how to pay him the half mil without raising any red flags for the IRS.

“Has to be a woman,” Shaw said in disgust. “What is she claiming?”

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.