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 gust 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
