Secrets of the A-List Box Set, Volume 1 Page 10

  “Who would? It’s not the kind of thing you can prepare for!” Thom said, and again, that impatience was back.

  “Exactly! And everyone understands that! No one’s going to question us for putting the wedding on hold.”

  “For how long, Elana?” he asked quietly, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her forward. He was so slim. At least, compared to Jarrod he was.

  “I don’t know!” And her voice was husky with tears. “Until he’s better.”

  “And if he doesn’t get better?” Thom murmured, his eyes scanning her face. “I’m sorry, Elana. I want Harrison to pull through this, but let’s get real. He was in a serious car accident. We have to accept that...”

  “Then we’ll cross that bridge when we...when he...if we have to.”

  He nodded, but his mind was ticking over. Elana could see the thoughts dancing across his expression. She looked away.

  “You don’t want to marry me.” The statement swirled into the room and began to buzz toward Elana. Be honest, a voice inside her chanted. Say the words! But immediately she could visualize the faces of her family. Her mother’s weary acceptance that Elana had done exactly what she’d feared. Her brothers’ smug smiles. Well, Luc’s, at least. Rafe had always seemed a little less supportive of the whole idea. Maybe if she left Thom she’d just be proving him right. Maybe Rafe knew she wasn’t cut out for this.

  She was the Marshall misfit, and marrying Thom was her way to shake free of that reputation. Even it meant wearing a white dress and pinning a bright smile on her face. “Of course I do.” She impressed herself with how genuine she came across. “I was only thinking we should wait.”

  “Now, more than ever, we need something to look forward to.” Thom visibly relaxed. “If he’s better, he’ll be there. And if not? Your family has something to celebrate.”

  And Elana would be the odd one out—miserable as they cheered.

  “Okay.” Her smile was heavy. “You’re right. Of course you’re right. We’ll get married as planned.”

  * * *

  Casa Cat stood like a proud beacon of normality.

  It was a beautiful home. A place both she and Harrison adored, with its sprawling lawns and glistening swimming pools, the arched walkways that led to the main house and the wisteria that tumbled enthusiastically along one side, giving a burst of green that glowed golden as the sun kissed it.

  She wished she could take courage from its familiar bearing, but it almost seemed to be mocking her on that morning. The happy memories were at odds with the doubts and confusion that dogged her.

  Harrison had trusted someone, someone close to him, to make strange deals on his behalf. Joe? Someone else? Either of her sons could have been working with Harrison in this side enterprise. And her daughter?

  It was the first genuine smile Mariella had formed all day. Elana? A secret genius? A brilliant business mastermind? A problem solver? Please. Elana’s idea of solving a problem was to wrap it in a sparkly minidress, douse it in prosecco and dance with it until the small hours of the morning. At least in her daughter Mariella could be confident that what she saw was exactly what she was getting.

  The ringing of her phone interrupted the direction of her thoughts. For the briefest moment, she imagined pulling it from her pocket and pitching it across the lawn, skittling it into the swimming pool and watching it sink right to the very bottom. Buried by water, would her problems go away?

  It was a weak, futile imagining, one not worthy of Mariella. She braced for whatever news was to come and stared down at the screen. The sight of Gabe’s picture provided a welcome reprieve.

  “Hi, querido,” she responded with genuine warmth.

  “How are you?”

  She fluttered her eyes shut, taking comfort from the inquiry that came from his very good, very loyal heart. With Harrison sidelined and his own actions in all this unclear, she knew without a minute’s doubt that Gabe was the one person she could trust.

  He was hers and always had been. They were kindred spirits, two of the Santiagos who’d both been wounded by the same person. They’d banded together, and she had loved him like her own child.

  “Fine.” A lie. She was the farthest from fine she’d been in a very long time.

  “Good. You have to keep strong, Tía. It’s what Uncle Harrison would expect.”

  She bit back the sharp retort that she wasn’t too sure she cared much about what her husband wanted at that moment. It wasn’t a fair assessment, in any event. She had loved her husband with all her heart for a very long time. Surely Harrison deserved the benefit of the doubt? A chance to explain for himself? Once he was better, he’d fix all this. Wouldn’t he?

  “Gabe? Was Harrison doing any business in China? Hong Kong, perhaps?” she asked.

  There was a long pause, and she imagined Gabe pulling his hand through his dark hair. “Not that I am aware of,” he said eventually. And then he moved on, changing the subject easily. “Listen, Tía, I didn’t want to bother you with this. But she was insistent.”

  “Who? What’s going on?”

  “Veronica Waterhouse,” he said in a tone that Mariella instantly understood. Mention of the woman drove thoughts of the phone number from her mind. The society dame who’d been making their lives a living hell ever since her darling granddaughter had become engaged to Chester Jameson III. “She’s insisting on speaking to you personally. I can handle it, though. I just have to at least look like I’m checking in with you,” he said with a detectable eye roll in his tone.

  The woman was infuriating, but she was also a key player in the social scene, and the wedding of Katherine to Chester would be sensational. The press attention alone made it worth putting up with any number of diva requests. The guest list would be the crème de la crème. It was not the time to risk upsetting such a high-profile client. “No, Gabe. I’ll come down.”

  “There’s no need—”

  “Yes, there is,” she interjected. “You just said Harrison would have wanted us to be strong. Well, he’d sure as hell want to know his business was running as usual.” A fine line formed between her eyes as she mentally clarified, legitimate business. “Now, more than ever, it’s vital that we don’t drop the ball. People will be looking for cracks. I’m going to rely on you even more than usual. Together, we’ll keep this show on the road. Okay?”

  “You know I’m here for you, Mariella,” he murmured, and she smiled.

  “I’ll be there soon. Get her a cocktail. A strong one.”

  Gabe laughed as he disconnected the call. Mariella moved through the grounds quickly, already mentally bracing for the conversation.

  Of course, it would mean delaying her visit to the clinic. Should that have upset her? Worried her? It didn’t. Mariella imagined walking into the room, seeing Harrison, and uncertainty bubbled through her. She loved him, and she wanted him to be well again, but dread accompanied that possibility, too, for they would need to talk when he was well, and Mariella was almost certain she wouldn’t want to hear the truth.

  He needed her, though. Until she knew for sure just what other business he’d been involved in, she wasn’t going to desert him.

  A few more hours, and then she’d go to see him.

  She couldn’t put it off indefinitely. He was her husband, after all.

  * * *

  “Jim Avon?”

  The news anchor was just as expected. Handsome in a Hollywood way, like he spent a little too much time and money on maintaining his look. Caramel pants rolled up to reveal slim ankles and loafers, a shirt tucked in at the waist, and a red string on one wrist. Was it a religious detail or an affectation to a trend?

  The Fixer had never had much time for vanity, especially not in men.

  “Yeah.” Jim was nervous. His voice was thick with adrenaline and anxiety. The Fixer co
uld practically smell it wafting off the reporter. The moment Jim’s eyes landed on Harrison, a sense of anger at the intrusion almost made the Fixer regret this move.

  But it was essential.

  The Fixer needed to take control of the reporting. Harrison would have wanted that.

  “What the hell?” Jim took three more steps into the room, and the Fixer moved to block access to the bed.

  “That’s close enough.”

  “This is a damned waste of my time,” he grunted, his eyes seemingly unable to lift from Harrison’s body.

  “Why do you say that?” A simple question, delivered with a face lacking expression.

  “This guy’s comatose. Look at him.”

  “He’s resting.” The Fixer was dismissive.

  “Resting?” Jim scoffed. “Come on.” Harrison’s face was pale, but for the dark purple bruises that covered one side of him. His body looked lifeless.

  “Resting,” the Fixer emphasized, knowing the dislike was obvious and not caring. “But when you leave here, you’ll be able to report back to your bosses that you had a nice in-depth conversation with him.”

  “You’re shitting me.” The reporter laughed, a sound that was incongruous with the worry knitted tight to the Fixer.

  “No. I’m not shitting you.”

  “You’re actually asking me to fabricate a story?”

  “Oh, that’s a pessimistic way to look at it.” The Fixer bared some teeth. “I’d prefer you to see that I’m giving you an opportunity.”

  “To wreck my career by going on air with a lie? You drag me down here to look at what might as well be the cadaver of Harrison Marshall and expect me to go on air and lie about it? Yeah, right. I’d last about three seconds.”

  “I’m giving you an opportunity to save yourself.”

  The words were different from those said before, but the Fixer had issued a variation on them enough times to understand the effect they had. The threat that was implied in their soft, passive utterance.

  “From what?” Defiance was bravado; the Fixer had Jim’s attention and they both knew it.

  “You know—” The Fixer was in the zone now. The game was about the subtle lingering of a finger on a button at the right time. The adversary in the game always had to believe the Fixer was willing to press down on it—the threat was more useful than the deed, quite often. “I think there are greater threats to your career than a harmless stretching of the truth.”

  Jim’s breath was coming in loud spurts. “Such as?”

  No matter how many things fixed, this never got old. “That kinky little affair you’ve got going with the underage daughter of your network’s major shareholder?” The Fixer’s head shook slowly from side to side, tut-tutting with the appearance of sympathy. “How would your boss feel? Your network? Your wife? Not to mention law enforcement. What a shame it would be to see your promising career cut off at the knees like that, when here you stand, potentially on the brink of a major professional breakthrough.” The Fixer’s smile was wolfish. “I’d hate to see you make the wrong decision.”

  Jim Avon was shocked; it emanated from every line of his body. He was now pale enough to rival Harrison’s pallor. “ I... It’s not like that.”

  “Oh, really?” The Fixer laughed. “Walk out of here, then.” Closing the distance between them easily, the Fixer’s face was now within an inch of the anchorman’s. “I dare you.”

  The Fixer could hear Jim swallow and could smell adrenaline firing off his flesh. People really were transparent. A few bad decisions in life and someone, somewhere, had a loaded gun ready to fire. Not the Fixer, though. Because the Fixer didn’t make mistakes. Ever.

  “You can’t do this.” It was a common enough refrain to bore the Fixer. Even after hearing it many times, the Fixer had foolishly expected better of this one.

  “A theory I’m happy for you to test.”

  Their eyes met, but not for long. Jim looked away quickly, his gaze shifting to Harrison’s weak frame. The Fixer resented the intrusion. Harrison deserved better than to have this lecherous pervert spying on him like this. But the means were justified. The sooner the media backed off, the better.

  The Fixer could see Jim relenting. Yes, he was close to accepting the predicament he found himself in.

  Just one last nudge should bring it over the line. Hit hard then offer relief. “I have no desire to ruin your life. You are of very little concern to me. When you walk out of this hospital, so long as you do what I need, you’ll never hear from me again. You can continue your...affair.” The Fixer said the word with distaste. “Though I would encourage you to think better of bedding someone young enough to be your daughter.”

  A muscle jerked in Jim’s weak jaw. “Are you lecturing me at the same time as blackmailing me?”

  “Yes.”

  Jim drew in a deep breath; the bald-faced admission had apparently surprised him. Unsettled him, too, for how could he doubt the Fixer’s intentions? “So, what? I do this and we become best friends or something?”

  The Fixer laughed, a low, soft sound that sent a shiver radiating along Jim’s spine. “I don’t have friends.” The voice was gravelly. “But you’d better believe I have enemies. I’d urge you to avoid becoming one of them.”

  Chapter Four

  It was a perfect afternoon. Sunny and bright, with the hint of a breeze carrying salt from the ocean. Elana breathed in deeply, waiting for the usual heady sense of relief the tang of the sea gave her.

  But her nerves were too stretched, almost to breaking point. They were going to see Harrison at Whispering Oaks. She wanted to see her father, of course, and yet fear lodged in her heart when she imagined what might confront them. Would he be worse?

  It wasn’t easy to get out there, either. Since his accident, the paparazzi had been camped out on the street near Casa de Catalina, though Santa Barbara PD had a few motorcycle cops perusing the perimeter. Going undetected meant eschewing their usual chauffeured limo and employing measures worthy of a spy drama. The cars Rafe and Luc had organized were understated and matching, so that they could take separate routes to divert any paparazzi who pursued them. Rafe had even said he’d bring baseball caps and dark glasses to keep their anonymity.

  Elana had laughed when he’d suggested it, but she wasn’t laughing now.

  Rafe and Luc were late.

  Only a few minutes, but enough for her to be tempted to ignore their plans and take her own car. Just as she was contemplating asking a chauffeur to bring around the Merc the crunch of tires on gravel alerted her to someone’s arrival. She stopped walking and watched as the car pulled to a stop right beside her. It was a black sedan. A family car. Hardly the kind of thing any of them usually got around in. The windows were heavily tinted, and, Elana admitted grudgingly, it would definitely blend in to the crowds.

  She waited to see which of her brothers would emerge and was relieved when Rafe stepped from the vehicle.

  “Hey,” she said, unprepared for the wave of intense emotion that besieged her at her brother’s arrival. “You’re late.”

  “Traffic was a bitch.” He grimaced as he stepped from the car. Dressed in slim-fitting jeans and a Façonnable polo shirt, he looked much the same as always. But when he flicked his aviator sunglasses onto his thick, dark hair, she saw he had a graze on one cheek and a bruise across his jaw.

  “Ouch,” she murmured, standing on tiptoes to run her nails across the scrape. “It looks angrier than yesterday.”

  He grinned and shrugged. “I’m sure Luc’s looking a lot worse.”

  Elana nodded, dipping her head forward to hide her smile. When it came to a sparring match, she’d have put her money on Luc every time. But her heart would always have gone to Rafe. He just didn’t have the same motivation to win a fight as their perfect older brother, that was all
. “Probably,” she said, meeting his eyes when she’d flattened any suggestion of amusement from her pretty face.

  “It was stupid,” Rafe said after a moment. “I was just so fucking angry with him. He never misses a chance to sling mud my way. He’s such a pompous asshole.”

  “Yep, he can be,” she agreed but couldn’t help adding, “Still, next time you get struck by the urge to put him back in his box, maybe choose somewhere a little less...”

  “Visible?” Rafe supplied with a humorless laugh. He lifted his hand and dragged it through his hair, shaking his head ruefully.

  “Um, yes. Public.”

  “I wasn’t thinking straight.”

  Elana put an arm around her brother’s waist and stared up at him. “None of us are. This is so messed up.”

  The words were thick with unshed tears and even Rafe, in his distracted state, must have detected her grief. “Hey,” he said softly, tilting her chin upward with his thumb. “What’s going on?”

  “Apart from the obvious, you mean?” She blinked away the sting of hot tears.

  “Yeah. What is it?”

  She shook her head from side to side, making a visible effort to calm herself. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

  Rafe’s eyes narrowed, but he appeared to let the line of questioning drop. “How’s wedding planning going?”

  Her laugh was soft. “Even for us, it’s going to be kind of epic.”

  Rafe ran a hand over his jaw. It was covered in fashionable stubble; she heard the grating sound and out of nowhere thought of Jarrod. Elana’s gut clenched.

  God, she needed to see him. Somewhere, in the midst of this crazy mess, sex with Jarrod would make sense of it all. Their affair was like a tiny island at the heart of a raging ocean.

  “Epic is bad?”

  “No, no,” Elana was quick to correct. She swore softly and put her hand out, grabbing Rafe’s wrist. “Rafe?”

  She felt his eyes boring into her, seeing more than she wanted to show, and she looked away, her features heavy with regret. She didn’t see the way his own face bore a mask of apprehension, as though he, too, was burdened by a weighty confession.