Secrets Of The A-List

And laughed.

A hollow cackle into the small room.

The dry cleaning receipt, that was all.

She clutched the shirt in her hand and kept moving, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears as she stared at his clothes, all hanging like dutiful servants, awaiting their master’s return.

His collection of watches—Blancpain, Chopard, Patek Philippe.

He’d collected them obsessively for years. He’d never said it, but Mariella had known what it meant to him, to look down and see such an obvious statement of success attached to him.

Harrison wasn’t like her. He hadn’t been born to wealth. He had worked his ass off to achieve what he had. He was cautious with his affection; though he had the air of a charming sophisticate, it was a veneer, really. He knew how to please people, but if you watched him carefully, you could see that he kept everyone at arm’s length.

A knock sounded at the door, followed by the tap-tap of Vanessa’s feet as she crossed the room. “Coffee, Mrs. Santiago-Marshall!” The words came to Mariella as they had in a dream, as if from a mile away.

She shook herself, replaced the shirt, and emerged from the wardrobe with the kind of expression on her face that made it impossible for anyone to ask if she was okay, even when she suspected she might not be.

She took the coffee without meeting Vanessa’s gaze. She barely registered the other woman’s presence.

Harrison trusted few people in life. Her. Joe. Their children and Gabe. And now the Fixer. Uncertainty paved a path to realization.

Harrison trusted the Fixer more than he did his own wife. Which could only mean that he knew the Fixer well. Very well.

* * *

Every network was running the same two images: a photo of Harrison standing at the top of a flight of stairs, his arms crossed over his chest, his smile radiating confidence. They’d pulled it from the Marshall International website.

The Fixer had never liked the photo.

It showed Harrison as a magnate, but he was so much more than that. He was a multifaceted man, and the Fixer understood all of those facets. It was the Fixer’s business to do so.

The second image flashed on the screen—a still from the fistfight Luc and Rafe had indulged in outside the hospital.

Jockeying for Position? The headline shouted from the top of the screen in dramatic yellow writing.

Of all the foolhardy, juvenile, disrespectful acts, this had to take the cake. Didn’t they realize how important it was to maintain an image of family unity?

Harrison was lying comatose in a hospital, his life in limbo, and his sons were acting like spoiled brats.

Flicking the channel once more, the Fixer made a sound of disapproval. The writing on the crawl at the bottom of the screen had the Fixer dropping the remote and leaning forward, breath rushing out in one swift exhalation.

Marshall Dead?

The image of Harrison was back, but they’d cropped it so you saw only his face now. The Fixer scrambled for the remote, lifting it off the floor and hitting the mute button so the volume came back on.

“A day after an unexplained car wreck, speculation is mounting about the health of billionaire restaurateur Harrison Marshall, with several unconfirmed sources reporting that far from recuperating in intensive care, the magnate didn’t survive the initial impact of the crash.” The station cut to a sweeping overhead shot of the crash scene, and the Fixer leaned forward, eyes drawn to the crumpled wreckage of Harrison’s car.

How the hell he had survived was a mystery, given the damage to his vehicle. It was shrapnel against the cliff. Shards of metal and glass spread like confetti in its wake.

“The news has caused concern in the finance sector, as the world braces for the loss of this titan of industry. One thing we do know for certain is that Harrison Marshall’s shoes are impossible to fill—for anyone.”

The Fixer’s anger was a palpating rage. The inference that his death only had implications for the financial sector! What a stupid story to run. The Fixer switched the television off and stood restlessly.

The Fixer’s phone was across the room. It took only a minute to decide whom to call, using the dedicated “business” line with voice distortion software installed, and a moment longer to find that person’s private cell phone number.

“Jim Avon.” The voice was a deep rumble, just as it sounded on television.

The Fixer didn’t do niceties nor introductions. “The reports about Harrison Marshall are wrong. He’s not dead.”

A pause, weighted with speculative curiosity. “Who is this?”

“Who I am is not what you should be asking right now.”

Another long pause. The Fixer’s smile was a cold imitation of the gesture. The Fixer face wore a mask of determination; do whatever it took. Harrison would want to control this situation. More than his family and Joe, the Fixer understood what Harrison would want.

“How did you get this number?”

“Another question that does you no credit.” The Fixer paused a moment to let the condemnation sink in. “Harrison Marshall is very much alive.”

“Alive?” Jim Avon spluttered the word. “How do you know? Who are you?”

The Fixer ignored the news anchor. “I’m offering you an exclusive interview to prove it.” A pause. Timing was everything. “Your next question should be where to meet me and when.”

The journalist, well enough known to carry weight, not yet successful enough to allow common sense to override ambition, said, “Fine. When and where?”

The Fixer took a deep breath. A long day loomed ahead, and the Fixer suspected there’d be a lot of fires to put out before it was done.

Chapter Two (#ua6a48a61-d260-59d2-98de-d082ea3ef3a2)

Harrison’s home office was right beside hers, separated only by a library. Mariella rarely bothered her husband while he worked. He had offices in most of their restaurants, and he conducted a lot of business from his car. When he chose to lock himself away in his home office, she left him to it. Lord knew she had enough of her own business to attend to.

Curiosity moved her toward the door now. She threw a glance over her shoulder, half expecting Harrison to appear out of nowhere. He’d never told her to stay out, she defended, still feeling like the worst kind of snoop.

What choice have you left me?

She spun the handle and pushed the door inward. There it was again. Harrison was in the air, his subtle, masculine fragrance just a hint that she caught because she’d spent her life loving everything about him.

She groaned. It was a visceral sense of loss that sharply assaulted her, plunging into her heart like a knife. His absence in the space that was so uniquely him renewed her profound awareness of the perilous situation he faced.

His tenuous link to life was one she wished she could strengthen. Other than relying on the doctors at Whispering Oaks, she was powerless.

Whispering Oaks. Her lips tightened as she remembered the place her husband had been mysteriously removed to. The infuriatingly evasive Dr. Malone, who, while he might have been world leading in his field, lacked the answers and assurances Mariella had sought.

Had the Fixer been given more information than Mariella? Did the Fixer have more of an insight into Harrison’s situation than she did? It was galling, to say the least. An unsavory idea that, twenty-four hours ago, she wouldn’t have entertained.

Now?

Mystery upon mystery flared inside her.