by Joss Wood
SECRETS OF THE A-LIST
(Episode 1 of 12)
Joss Wood
A billionaire on the verge of death. And his family? In free fall...
The wealthy Marshall family is untouchable. Or so they thought. But when a car accident puts patriarch Harrison in a coma, cracks appear in the family facade. It seems Harrison had an awful lot of secrets, and he’s not the only one. His wife, Mariella, and children, Luc, Rafe and Elana, not to mention nephew Gabe, all have things they’d rather keep hidden.
Enter a mysterious figure called the Fixer... Who is this person, and what is the Fixer’s connection with Harrison? And with those cracks becoming ever wider, what sins will be revealed?
Super Rich. Super Sexy. Super Addictive.
Secrets of the A-List—read all 12 episodes!
Praise for Joss Wood
“What an entertaining read!”
—Harlequin Junkie on His Ex’s Well-Kept Secret
About the Author
Joss Wood loves books and traveling—especially to the wild places of southern Africa. She has the domestic skills of a potted plant and drinks far too much coffee.
Joss has written for Harlequin KISS, Harlequin Presents and, most recently, the Harlequin Desire line. After a career in business, she now writes full-time. Joss is a member of the Romance Writers of America and Romance Writers of South Africa.
Books by Joss Wood
Harlequin Desire
Linked to Secrets of the A-List
Convenient Cinderella Bride
From Mavericks to Married
Trapped with the Maverick Millionaire
Pregnant by the Maverick Millionaire
Married to the Maverick Millionaire
The Ballantyne Billionaires
His Ex’s Well-Kept Secret
The Ballantyne Billionaires
The CEO’s Nanny Affair
Visit her Author Profile page at Harlequin.com,
or josswoodbooks.com, for more titles.
Contents
Episode One
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Episode One
Prologue
“He’s in the hands of the trauma surgeon.”
“Status?” The words were supercharged verbal bullets. This information was well paid for—to hell with politeness.
“Bad. Head injuries, broken bones. He was thrown from the vehicle as it hit the guardrail. If he’d been wearing his seat belt, he would’ve been part of the fiery wreck at the bottom of the cliff.”
“Has the family been informed?”
“Not yet,” the EMT replied. “I presume one of the nurses will make those calls in the next few minutes.”
“Have the press gotten wind of the story yet?”
Imagining the young woman glancing toward the entrance to the ER—her brown eyes would be scanning the hallway for the more familiar members of the press corps. “Not yet, but they will soon. News that Harrison Marshall is in critical condition will spread like a California wildfire.”
A few low curses escaped. “Prognosis?”
The EMT remained silent, in preparation to deliver the bad news, and sucked in a deep breath. “Not good. Prepare yourself.”
Prepare yourself. Pity that suggestion didn’t come with a how-to manual.
The Fixer disconnected the call and looked down at the hand clutching the cell phone, noting with annoyance the trembling fingers holding the expensive phone in a tight grip. Breathe, dammit. He’s not dead.
Not yet, anyway.
The Fixer swiped a thumb across the screen of the smartphone and looked at the call log, realizing the last conversation they’d shared was probably shortly before Harrison’s Bugatti Veyron made its acquaintance with the highway’s low guardrail. According to another source on the payroll, a California Highway Patrol officer, the responding officers had few doubts that this was anything but an accident—the Pacific Coast Highway had seen many cars leave its surface thanks to its unforgiving twists and bends—but, because Harrison Marshall was Harrison Marshall, world-renowned hospitality entrepreneur, his accident would attract investigation. And attention.
Attention the Fixer did not need.
At least the authorities wouldn’t find Harrison’s last call suspicious, as there would be records of twenty other calls from Harrison to this cell number this week alone. With luck the authorities would assume that the much-ticketed Harrison had been speeding again and lost control of his car when he threw it around a treacherous bend.
Nobody had to know that there was a strong possibility that Harrison’s past—their past—had finally caught up with them.
The Fixer walked across the second-story living room and onto the upstairs balcony to grip the wrought-iron railing with a taut grip. Casa de Catalina, named after the wife of the first owner of this property, a wealthy real estate baron, had views of both the Santa Ynez Mountains and the Pacific Ocean. Like everything else at Casa Cat, as it was fondly called, the views were world-class. The Fixer idly wondered how much money Harrison and Mariella had spent restoring the sprawling century-old mansion. The budget probably matched the GDP of a small third-world country. It was huge, tastefully decorated, luxurious and rich...the hub of the Marshall empire. Would Harrison see it again? Could he be allowed to?
Alive or dead could be worked with, but brain injuries would be, well, difficult. To say the least.
The Fixer stared down, eyes bouncing from the bright blue pool to the red tiles of the guest cottage and the contrasting greens of the landscaped garden, not taking in any of the details of the opulent estate. Had Harrison asked for something someone wasn’t prepared to relinquish? Had he stumbled on a secret someone was prepared to kill for? Could someone closer to home have accidentally-on-purpose caused his car to leave the Pacific Coast Highway?
Or was this, simply, an accident?
The Fixer didn’t know, and that lack of knowledge grated, frightened. Knowledge was power, and the Fixer was always, thanks to the Marshall-Santiago empire, in the right place at the right time to acquire that knowledge—privy to so many private conversations and all sorts of shenanigans. All it took was a whispered suggestion that a stubborn and embarrassing problem could be solved by bending the rules—for a hefty fee—and word got around.
With Harrison’s “accident,” the spotlight would be very firmly focused on the Marshall family. Fuck. This news would be the leading story everywhere. The Fixer had no doubt that the Marshalls would rally together and face this challenge as a united front, but there was a strong possibility that the secretive nature of what they did would be revealed. No problem was unsolvable, however, as they had proved over the years. They’d dealt with vengeful wives and pissed-off discarded mistresses, bad business deals, royal muck-ups in foreign countries. They’d yet to fail, and now wasn’t the time to start. Not when so much was at stake.
Every problem held a solution, and the Fixer recognized the need to step away from the fear, the worry and the emotion of the situation. When one looked at Harrison’s accident as a problem, it was easy to see that the quickest and most efficient solution was for Harrison to wake up and talk—or for him to die. Harsh but true. This was one of the few situations when money, dammit, was not the answer. It would help, it would conce
al and confuse, stir up the already muddy waters, but a broken body needed time and skill and luck to heal. For today, the Fixer could try to contain the situation. A waiting game would be played, with eyes and ears wide open.
The Fixer would give Harrison some time to recover.
But not too much. Before long some far-reaching and tough decisions on Harrison’s future would have to be made.
The Fixer would not hesitate to make those decisions. It wouldn’t, after all, be the first time...
Chapter One
Mariella Santiago-Marshall stood in the parking lot of St. Aloysius Hospital in her hometown of Santa Barbara, and abruptly realized that nothing would ever be the same again.
Harrison, God... Harrison was in there somewhere, broken. A car accident, they said. He was in surgery, they said.
Dios mío.
It was a plea, a curse, a demand. An appeal for mercy, a curse toward the God she wasn’t sure she believed in anymore, a demand for information.
Feeling tears burn the back of her throat, Mariella pushed her long black hair behind her ears and dropped her designer sunglasses over her eyes, sighing when the dark lenses cut through the glare. Habit had her eyes drifting over the busy parking lot, and she was relieved to see no paparazzi either sitting in cars or loitering, cameras around their necks and the thrill of the hunt in their eyes.
Mariella knew that it wouldn’t be long before the news of Harrison’s accident broke, so she’d take this time, this short period, to gather her thoughts and her composure.
Mariella’s eyes skittered to the automatic doors leading to the busy ER and touched the tip of her tongue to her top lip, tasting her expensive lipstick. Where was Harrison? What were they doing to him? Why couldn’t they tell her anything?
Frustration, anger and a need to walk had propelled her out of the ER, a part of her knowing that if she didn’t leave, she’d cause a scene of epic proportions. She was terrified, and when she got scared she lost control...
Tears burned a path from her throat to her eyes, and she quickly blinked them away, cursing herself for her weakness. Mariella Sofía Jimena Santiago-Marshall did not cry. Or, if she did, she never let anyone see her do it.
She was a Santiago, dammit, a part of a powerful, prominent family whose roots could be traced back to California’s early history and Don Juan Santiago, who saw California pass from Spain to Mexico and then into American hands. Juan’s warrior blood flowed through her veins. When their backs were to the wall, Santiagos came out swinging, and they always fought dry-eyed.
But damn, she wanted to howl, sob, fall apart. Mariella wrapped her arms around herself and fought the panic climbing up her throat. She wasn’t used to feeling helpless, out of control, useless. She’d been Harrison’s partner, his right hand, his shadow, his best friend and his wife for more than three decades, and waiting around, doing nothing, went against every instinct she had. There had to be something she could do...
There wasn’t.
Mariella had lived a life many envied and most were fascinated by; she was the wife of an immensely powerful man, the mother of three successful children—four, if she included Gabe, and she did—and the CEO of MSM Event Planning, the catering arm of Marshall International. But at this moment, everything she’d achieved, everything she was—strong, powerful, rich—meant nothing.
Her husband was teetering on the edge between life and death, and there was damn all she could do about it.
If she allowed it to, panic would bite and burn, her lungs would close, and the air would turn to soup.
If she allowed it to.
Mariella opened her mouth and sucked in a deep breath of fragrant September air and dug her pale pink fingernails into her toned bicep, the pain enabling her to push away the almost overpowering feeling of despair.
Santiagos didn’t buckle; neither did Marshalls. She was one by blood, one by marriage, and she wouldn’t embarrass either family by dropping to the grimy, greasy asphalt in a dead faint.
The first responder to the accident, a young highway patrol officer, had been waiting for her when she arrived at the hospital and had quickly, concisely recounted the morning’s events.
Mariella now had a better idea of how the accident had happened and wished she didn’t. His words played on an endless loop in her head.
“Accident investigators might prove me wrong, but it looks like Mr. Marshall lost control of the Bugatti as he navigated a particularly sharp corner. He swiped a boulder and the car lifted, the immense power flipping it over. Mr. Marshall wasn’t wearing his seat belt, and he was tossed through the windshield only seconds before the car crashed through the guardrail and tumbled down the cliff.”
Mariella heard the familiar low but powerful growl of a sports car and her head snapped up. She narrowed her eyes and saw the snazzy silver Aston Martin convertible whip into the parking lot. Even at a distance, she could see the worry on Joe’s face, could sense his despair.
Joe Reynolds, Harrison’s oldest and best friend and business partner, their rock, was finally here, and she wasn’t alone. Joe was the strong rope that connected her and Harrison to the ground, their sounding board, their confidant and adviser.
There was no one else she wanted, or needed, at her side. She needed his strength to reassure her that everything would be all right, so she could be strong for her children.
Joe roared toward her, slammed on the brakes and in one smooth movement cut the engine and hopped, with all the energy of the twenty-year-old he’d been a lifetime ago, over the door panel. He hurried around the hood of the car and opened his arms, and Mariella stumbled into them, her face buried in his neck, the familiar scent of his citrus cologne drifting up to her nose. She placed her arms around his trim waist and pushed into him, seeking comfort, reassurance, waiting for his calm strength to seep into her psyche.
She felt Joe kiss the top of her head, his broad hands warm on her back. Here was comfort, support, a lifetime of unconditional love.
Her best friend, and Harrison’s, was here. The day could only improve.
Mariella, strong, confident, proud, felt a wave of emotion crash over her, and she finally, finally allowed her control to snap. She sniffed, hiccuped and allowed one small sob to escape. She would not allow tears to run down her cheeks, drip off her chin and wet the collar of Joe’s polo shirt, his tanned skin. She was Mariella Santiago-Marshall, and she would not allow anyone but him to see her as anything other than the tough, independent, composed woman the world knew her to be.
But this man, who’d known them for so long and who had seen so much, was the one person she could allow to see her cracks and chasms. In his arms was the only place she could show such weakness, such lack of control.
She both loved and hated that Joe had that power over her.
* * *
Luc Marshall did the ninety-minute drive from LA in an hour ten, which was fast, even for him. Throwing his Mercedes-AMG into the first parking space he could find, he shot out of the car, and his long legs ate up the distance to the hospital entrance. He barreled through the mirrored automatic doors and nailed the blonde at the reception counter with a hard look. “ICU?”
She responded to his brusque, taut tone with succinct directions, and Luc lifted his head in thanks. Too tense to wait for the elevator, he found the stairwell and ran up to the third floor, slowing down at the top of the stairs to rake his hand through his hair, to smooth down his tie. He was the medical professional in the family; if his mother and siblings saw how worried he was, they would lose it. It was better that he appear calm, that he pretend that their world hadn’t been tipped upside down, that he establish the facts and plan a course of action. All he knew was that his father had been in a car accident, that he was coming out of surgery and would be moved to the ICU shortly. He needed more facts, and it was his job to translate
the medical jargon into words his family could understand and then guide them as to what to expect. To do that, he needed to detach, to be a doctor, to temporarily forget that the patient was his father, his role model, his flawed hero.
Luc took a deep breath and pulled open the door to the waiting room just outside the ICU, immediately noticing that Rafe stood by the window, staring down at the parking lot below. Rafe looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed—his hair was mussed and his jaw was heavy with stubble.
“New car?” Rafe asked, not bothering to turn around. “Your Tits and Ass practice must be doing well.”
Luc jammed his hands into the pockets of his suit pants and tipped his head back to look at the ceiling. He knew Rafe was trying to act normally—he jabbed Luc about being one of the best boob surgeons in the state and Luc mocked him about his inability to commit to anything—but today he couldn’t summon the energy to step into the ring with his younger brother.
“Not now, Rafe.” Luc said. He looked toward the closed doors leading to the entrance of the ICU. “Is he in there yet?”
Rafe lifted one shoulder. “They won’t tell me or Mom anything. She got so angry that she went outside for some air. Maybe you can find out.”
Luc nodded his agreement. He walked away from Rafe and crossed the room to the nurses’ station. Explaining who he was, he asked the duty nurse to page Harrison’s doctor, his doctor-in-charge voice suggesting that she not argue. The doctor was paged, and Luc was told to wait. He placed his hands on the counter and straightened his arms, looking down at the floor below him. He should join Rafe, should try to comfort his brother, but he needed a minute—or ten.
It was at a time like this that Luc wished that he and his brother were closer, that Rafe was someone he could lean on, who could sometimes support him instead of the other way around.
But, God, they were just so different and always had been. He was, on paper, the perfect child. He was everything his father had wished for in a son—handsome, brilliant, the top of his field—but not the field Harrison wanted Luc in. Instead of following his dad into the family business, Luc had followed his passion and become a doctor. Luc often wondered if Harrison ever looked beyond what he did to who he was. Luc had done everything right—he’d been a varsity athlete in college, a brilliant student in med school. Still, Harrison seemed to love him but didn’t know anything of the man he was beneath the model-son facade.