Secrets Of The A-List

Harrison’s car accident had been sudden. There would have been no time to tidy up loose ends and hide his business from her.

It stood to reason that if there was a smoking gun in his life about the kind of work he was doing on the side, she’d find it here, in the room where he had spent so much of his time.

The garish painting of a red ocean washing over a purple shoreline drew her concentration, and though she despised the work, it brought an aching smile to her lips. She couldn’t call it art, despite the fact that the woman who’d created it had exhibited at the Tate Modern in London. It was a vile creation. Ugly and vulgar.

Harrison had hated it, too, but when it had come up for sale at the auction at Sotheby’s, he’d seen Lord Elliot Golding bidding wildly for the piece. Harrison couldn’t stand to let the pompous British hedge fund manager take the piece home—not after referring to Harrison’s signature soufflé as dry and flat.

He’d paid a fortune for the horrible thing, and he’d insisted on hanging it here, in his office, where he could look at it every day and remind himself how good it felt to win.

The smile dropped off her face; a grimace took over.

Providence and penance had been playing on her mind all morning, since the nightmare that had disturbed her sleep so vividly.

Their lives had been charmed. Too charmed?

Had Harrison paid the price for all the riches they’d received? Had the karmic wheel of justice decided it had paid too nicely for the Marshall family and that it was time to start calling in some favors?

Dios mío. A chill ran down her spine, slowly, menacingly.

She was getting swept away.

Mariella had breached the sanctuary of Harrison’s office for a reason—to search for more information. On the bank account, the Fixer.

On your husband, a little voice taunted from the recesses of her mind.

She ignored the voice and strode purposefully into the room, deeper, closer, pretending that she wasn’t doing something Harrison would resent.

She tapped her fingers on the edge of his desk, her eyes roaming over the stacks of books and papers that were piled high in two corners. She’d glimpsed these piles for months—when he occasionally left the door open and she breezed past, they’d been there like sentinels beckoning him to work.

They took on a new meaning now, and she pushed them over, not caring about the mess she made. Books, pages, magazines and an iPad fell to the carpeted floor. She knelt down, her fingers working feverishly to sort through each item. So many menus from all over the world—their restaurants and others.

Photos, but all of food. She smiled, remembering that frustrating penchant Harrison had for “snapping flavor,” as he’d called it.

Letters of offer on properties; she knew about each of those. The more she looked, the more she realized that Harrison had shared so much with her. There was nothing to indicate a secret life!

Perhaps Joe had gotten it wrong?

She moved around the desk to the computer and pressed the on switch. It pinged open straight away. Harrison had four passwords he cycled between; she put in each of them, and the fourth made the screen load up with icons.

“Got it.” She unplugged the laptop and moved to the Eames recliner in the corner of his office. Though they’d bought two, he’d only wanted one in his office.

“No one ever comes in here,” he’d pointed out simplistically. “The second would just be an expensive coatrack.”

Mariella sat down, trying not to think about the way the leather headrest had a depression from Harrison’s frequent occupation. Her finger moved over the mouse, clicking into files, opening emails, and her frown deepened.

Nothing. Nada. It was all as she’d expect. A lot of emails about their businesses—concise and cutting at times, but then, that was Harrison. He didn’t suffer fools gladly.

She opened up his calendar as a last resort, and her heart churned painfully to see his days come to life before her eyes.

Golf with Joe, 7:00 a.m.

Gabe—lunch.

Follow up city approvals—London.

Rafe meeting re: Vegas restaurant, 6:00 p.m.

SB Club menu tasting 2:00 p.m.

Luc—lunch.

Call Elana 3:00 p.m.

It was all further proof of his dedication to his family. There was nothing in here that showed he had a separate life. Nothing here to make her doubt her husband’s loyalty.

Large patches were blocked out for his trips, but these she knew about, too. Paris, where he was scouting a new restaurant that would rival Le Jules Verne for uniqueness and prestige. New York, where they had invested in their first share of a high-end dining and entertainment complex and he’d been more involved of late.

She was about to click out of the calendar when a single entry caught her eye, mainly because it didn’t make sense.

“After five,” was the caption, and in the more-information tab, she saw only a string of numbers.

Her stomach lurched; curiosity giving way to doubt. Was this the clue she’d been looking for? She dug her teeth into her lip, her mind spinning through possibilities as one might fiddle the lock on a safe.

Was this another bank account? She counted the numbers and shook her head. No, that wasn’t right. Offshore accounts tended to have really lengthy account identifiers.

And there was a ‘plus’ sign before the number.

Her pulse was raging so hard and fast she could hear it in her ears, pounding like the ocean in the midst of a storm.

On autopilot she reached for her phone and dialed the numbers on a hunch. She pressed the green button and waited.

Sure enough, the bleep-bleep-bleep sound informed her that the call was being placed over great distance.

It rang then, a muted, robotic noise, flatter than the call sounds she was used to.

Finally, after what felt like a very long time, a man’s voice answered.

He spoke in a foreign language. Mandarin? Cantonese? Mariella couldn’t tell. She opened her mouth to say something, but he pushed on. It was an answering machine.