Entering yet another room, Shawn froze upon seeing Joseph Rutledge seated behind a huge desk.
“Sorry,” Shawn said, taking a step back. “I didn’t mean to—”
“As a matter of fact, I wanted to speak to you, Mr. Wyatt.”
“Me?” Shawn looked at him warily but stepped back into the room and closed the door.
Joseph’s thick gray eyebrows drew together. “Indeed. Take a seat.”
Shawn sat down in the chair opposite the old man and waited.
The silence stretched as they eyed each other.
Once again, Shawn was taken aback by how much Joseph Rutledge and his son resembled each other. It appeared the men in this family aged very well. This was what Rutledge would look like in thirty or forty years.Not that Shawn would see it.
“Mr. Wyatt,” Joseph Rutledge said at last when Shawn refused to drop his gaze. “For how long have you been in this unnatural relationship with my son?”
Shawn had to remind himself that Joseph Rutledge was very ill. He shouldn’t be getting into arguments with a dying man. “Less than a month, sir.”
“That makes it easier.” Joseph Rutledge picked up a pen and wrote something on a piece of paper before sliding it across the desk to Shawn. “I believe this would be a fair compensation for ending your association with my son.”
Shawn glanced at the paper and then stared at it.
“Wow, I’m flattered you value me so highly,” he said and stood up. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
“You’re a fool, boy,” said the old man with a disdainful look. “He will throw you away in a few weeks at most. He always does.”
“How do you know that? You hadn’t seen him in fifteen years.”
Joseph sneered. “He might not live here anymore, but it changes nothing. I know everything about him. Every toy he had and threw away. Granted, there were a few persistent ones, but everybody has a price.”
When his meaning registered, Shawn felt sick to his stomach. “You’re sick,” he whispered. “Does he know you paid his lovers off?”
Joseph raised an eyebrow. “Of course he does. He’s my son. He’s no fool—except for his foolish insistence that he is homosexual.”
Shaking his head, Shawn stood up and headed to the door. There was no reasoning with this man.
When he opened the door, Joseph’s voice stopped him,
“Name your price, Mr. Wyatt. Everything has a price.”
“Some things don’t.” Shawn walked out.
Everybody has a price.
So this was what Joseph Rutledge had taught his son.
Shawn wasn’t sure who he pitied more at this moment: Rutledge, his father, or himself.
Chapter 12
He finally found Rutledge on the terrace half an hour later.
“I’m going home,” Shawn said.
Rutledge’s back stiffened. He turned around, a cigarette in his hand.
Strange. Until yesterday, Shawn had thought he didn’t smoke at all.
