Where did you get that stuff?"
Shaw tossed the folder onto his desk with enough force that it slid across the slick glass surface. If Matt hadn't stuck out his hand when he did, its contents would have ended up scattered across the floor.
He didn't know which pleased him more, the stark terror glittering in those baby blues, or the tremor in Shaw's usually velvet voice. "Don't you worry your pretty little head about that, Brady, because none of it will hold up in court, anyway."
He shoved back from his desk. "Then why are you wasting my time?"
"Because if that stuff got out?" He pointed at the folder. "You'd have to find a new line of work." Matt chuckled. "That could be a big problem 'cause the only thing you're good at is lying."
"I could sue you for slander. Libel. Defamation of character."
"The first two, maybe." Matt chuckled again. "But I think the prerequisite for a defamation suit is . . . the plaintiff has to have some character."
"Get out."
"Can't." He pointed at the file again. "Unfinished business."
Shaw grabbed the folder and jammed it into the mouth of the paper shredder beside his desk. When the grinding stopped, he gave a smug nod.
"Brady, Brady, Brady," Matt said, shaking his head, "I know you TV news guys think you're smarter than us beat reporters, but you don't seriously think I'm dumb enough to bring my only copy down here, do you?"
His smirk faded, telling Matt that's exactly what he'd thought.
"Get out, Phillips, before I call security."
Matt snorted. And leaning back in the chair, he propped both feet on the corner of Shaw's desk. "Call 'em. It'll be interesting to see how fast your cronies will line up to watch you self-destruct."
He ran a hand through his hair. "How much to make this go away?"
Matt got up and walked around to the other side of the desk. "Who uses a desk blotter these days?" he asked, planting his backside on its leather trim. "No, no," he said, a hand up to silence the anchorman, "no need to answer. That was a rhetorical question, genius." He leaned forward slightly to add, "I don't want your money."
"Then what? A job recommendation? The keys to my condo? What!"
Beads of perspiration glimmered on Shaw's forehead and the bridge of his nose. Matt plucked a tissue from the leather dispenser, and as the man took it, he said, "I want you to do whatever it takes to clear Honor Mackenzie's name."
He stopped blotting sweat. "Who?"
"I'll give you a minute." He tapped a forefinger against Shaw's temple. "The name's in there somewhere, though God knows it won't be easy to find, bouncing around that big empty chamber you call a brain."
"You're full of it, Phillips. Bluffing."
"Think so?"
"Know so."
Standing, Matt tugged at the cuffs of his favorite sweater, the cable knit Honor had made, just for him. "All-righty, then," he said, doing his best Steve Martin impersonation.
He was halfway to the elevators, wracking his brain, trying to figure out where he'd gone wrong. Had he given Shaw too much rope? Not enough? Matt ground his right fist into his left palm and cursed under his breath. "Idiot," he muttered, thumbing the Down button.
He was watching the little off-white numbers up above the doors light up . . . two, three, four . . . when Shaw walked up beside him. "Just how do you expect me to accomplish that?"
"You mean, because your whole house-of-cards career was built on that foundation of lies?" The elevator doors opened. "Not my problem, Shaw," he said, stepping into the car. "What was that our mamas used to say? 'You made your bed, now you sleep in it'? Well, maybe not your mama, 'cause if you're the product of her mothering . . ."
Shaw held the door open and said through clenched teeth. "Give me some time. Let me see what I might be able to do."
"Might? Not good enough, pal. You'll do it."
"If you file that story, you'll go down with me."
"I'm a lot more careful with my money than you are, hotshot. If I have to turn in my press badge, well," he said, shrugging, "it'll be the perfect opportunity to start that novel I've been talking about for years."
"You've got an answer for everything, don't you?"
"Yeah, pretty much." He laughed and removed Shaw's sleeve and hand from the door. "I'll give you a week. I don't hear from you by then, I break out the old typewriter."
"Typewriter?"
Matt pecked imaginary keys. "Novel? Remember?"
Whatever Shaw had opened his mouth to say was blocked by the elevator doors, hissing to a close.
Matt rubbed his hands together and did a little jig. He didn't know how Shaw would clean up his mess, but he knew that he would. Matt had hit a nerve, saying he didn't know what the guy would do for a living if the network moguls jerked the red carpet out from under him. Brady Shaw needed the lights and the cameras every bit as much as the celebrities he interviewed. It would kill him to go back to making up coarse little stories for the local market.
Yeah, he'd clean up the mess, all right, and he'd do it as fast as he could.
Two questions remained.
One, why hadn't Shaw asked for proof that Matt wouldn't come back to him in a week, a year, or ten, and make the same threat? Probably because he hasn't thought that far ahead yet. Which meant Matt had to come up with a ready response, when the accusation reared its ugly head.
And two, how could he guarantee, once Shaw's "clear the air" story broke, that Honor would never find out what part he'd played in making it happen?
"Guess you'll have to take a page from Scarlett O'Hara's book," he laughed to himself, "and worry about that tomorrow."
For now, the only thing he wanted was to see her gorgeous face.