by Joss Wood
“How badly is Harrison injured?”
“Is he going to live?”
“What was the cause of the accident?”
“Was there anyone else in the car with him?”
Bloody hell. Mariella made a conscious effort to hold on to her temper. There was only one way to gain back control, and it was a tactic both she and Harrison used to great effect. She planted her feet, lifted her chin and pulled the corners of her mouth into a shark smile. That particular smile, it was said, had the power to shrivel the sacks of presidents, dictators and serial killers. The questions stopped, feet shuffled and Mariella scanned the crowd standing in front of her. When her eyes connected with some of the junior journalists, more than one tried to step backward. The lobby was now packed with reporters, security was looking anxious and the reporters were impeding the foot traffic moving in and out of the hospital. Rafe and Luc still stood just outside the doors, looking miserable.
Mariella lifted her hand. “I suggest that we move this outside, and if you stop shouting questions at me, I will give you a brief statement.”
The reporters, helped by security, escorted her through the automatic doors, and she took her place next to Luc and Rafe. She placed a hand on each of their backs before turning to face the members of the fourth estate. God, what to say? How to say it? She had to walk the line between showing them that she was genuinely worried—she was—and optimism, which she didn’t, currently, possess. She had to give them enough to satisfy them but not enough to exacerbate the situation and provide more speculation than necessary. Mariella felt like her head was about to explode.
“I can confirm that my husband was in a car accident earlier this morning. Harrison was flung from the car and sustained several serious injuries. I am not going to detail the extent of those, so do not ask. All I can say is that he has undergone emergency surgery and that he is in the ICU.
“I’m asking the press for privacy as we deal with these horrible circumstances.” It was standard practice to ask to be left alone, but it wouldn’t happen. “That is all I have to say at this time. I will have our press liaison release an update when we have more news.” Like hell she would, but she had no problem lying to the press.
“Where is Elana?”
“Was he speeding?”
“Where was he going at the time of the accident?”
Mariella turned away from the questions, relieved when the security personnel started to herd the group away from her. Mariella jerked her head at her sons, who stepped closer to her. Putting her back to the press corps, strategically positioned so that no one could photograph her face, she skewered them with a hot look before herding them away from the press and out of the range of their keen hearing. “What the hell do you think you were doing, engaging with them? We have a rule—any news fed to the press is sanctioned and signed off by your father or myself. What did you tell them?”
“Nothing more than you did,” Luc replied, sending Rafe an annoyed look.
“Thank God for small mercies.” Mariella felt the burn of tears in the back of her throat and clenched her hands at her sides. God, she couldn’t afford to fall apart, not here. Sucking up her last reserves of strength, she raked her glance over her sons again and shook her head. “I’m going upstairs to wait. If you two know what’s good for you, you’ll leave me alone until my temper is under control. Are we clear?”
“Crystal,” Luc muttered, his eyes blazing with fury.
“Yes, Mom.” Rafe nodded, looking contrite. “Sorry.”
Mariella, unable to stay angry when Rafe looked so very miserable, patted his cheek. “We will get through this,” she told him.
“Yeah,” Luc said, his eyes still cool, “but the question remains as to whether we will be everything that we were when we do.”
Mariella bit her bottom lip, bone-deep scared that he might be right.
* * *
Rafe watched his mother walk away and thought, as he frequently did, that his mother had the biggest set of balls in the world. Bigger, possibly, than his father’s, and that was a hell of a statement. Rafe turned his attention onto his still-simmering brother and wondered how long it would take for Mr. Perfect to blame this latest fiasco on him.
Ten, nine, eight, seven, six...
“You shouldn’t have answered that first question,” Luc told him in his oh-so-familiar patronizing tone. God, he was so sick of being in Luc’s firing line. “Once you answer one question, it opens the door to fifty more.”
“I told them that we had no more information than they did,” Rafe argued.
“They can smell bullshit from fifty paces, Rafe! Of course we know more than they do.”
“Like what?” Rafe challenged. “He had an accident, his Bugatti left the road and he’s in ICU with extensive injuries. I never said he was in a goddamn coma, did I? Why the hell are you busting my balls? You also engaged with them.”
If Luc could blame him for climate change and the Syrian crisis, he would. He was, he’d come to accept, a disappointment to his man’s man father and his incomparable older brother. Funny...if he’d been nerdy, geeky and awkward, his life would’ve been easier. He was just the opposite. He was possibly even more naturally gifted at sports than Luc and probably had a bigger brain. Every sport he tried he mastered; there wasn’t a test he couldn’t ace. His dad and Luc hated the fact that he jumped around, moving from opportunity to opportunity. He was wasting his talents, his intellect, they fumed. He had so much potential...
Rafe didn’t understand why his lack of commitment to any particular career bothered them so much. He had a lot of interests, and he liked having the freedom to explore them all.
He felt ill, sick with worry about his dad, but underneath the despair, resentment bubbled. Rafe was so tired of feeling less than because he chose to walk a path that was different than that of his father and brother, tired of the confused looks, the snide comments, the haughty condescension.
Rafe heard the discreet beep of Luc’s phone, indicating that he had a message. Luc pulled his phone from the inside pocket of his tailored Armani suit and looked down at the screen.
“Fuck, I can’t deal with that now,” Luc muttered.
Rafe frowned. “Problem? Was it a journalist?”
Luc looked up and nailed him with another supercilious, distant look. “No, it was an email saying that the American Association for Plastic Surgeons has nominated me for an award.”
Of course they had, because he was the perfect, successful brother. “What... Best Boob Uplift? Bodacious Booty of the Year?”
“Fuck you, Rafe.” Luc’s words erupted like bullets. “You’re just jealous because the only award you’ve received is the yearly what-the hell-are you-doing-with-your-life paper cup.”
Luc’s words held enough truth to feel like he’d taken a punch to the heart. “You love that, don’t you? You get off on telling me how useless you think I am! You’re such a control freak, but you can’t control me, and it drives you crazy.”
Luc looked around and slapped a hand on his chest. “Will you calm the fuck down and shut up? Do you want the press to come back?”
Grabbing Rafe’s wrist like he was a toddler, Luc pulled him to the end of the main hospital building and into a small alley. Above them was an open walkway the hospital staff used to move from the pediatric wing to the main building.
Out of sight of the parking lot, Luc released Rafe’s wrist and lifted his shoulders, still confused. “How did my idle comment about an email I received piss you off so much?”
“You deliberately mentioned it, wanting to rub my face in the fact that you are so much more successful than I am!”
“Not everything I say and do is about you, Rafe! Honestly—” Luc’s lip curled into a derisive snarl “—I genuinely don’t think about you much at all.”
“Why can’t you accept me for who I am?”
Luc’s fist clenched, and Rafe welcomed the anger in his eyes, the tension on his face. “I don’t give a crap about who you sleep with. This is about your aimlessness, your capriciousness.”
“Oh, here we go again! I like what I do and how I do it! You and Dad never got that, never supported my need to do something creative. And it’s not like you are saving lives in your fancy LA practice, so get off your stupid high horse! You’re the king of Botox.”
Luc gripped the bridge of his nose, and Rafe could see the tension building in him. He welcomed it—he felt like a valve under immense pressure.
Luc threw up his hands. “Our father is fighting for his life in there, and you’re out here screaming at me like a petulant child. Grow the fuck up!”
It was a refrain he’d heard all his life: get it together, Rafe. Stop being childish, Rafe. Why can’t you be more like your brother, Rafe? Well, here, today, he could try. By its own volition, his arm lifted, and Rafe plowed his fist into Luc’s perfect face. Nothing gave him as much pleasure as hearing the smack of knuckles against his cheekbone, the sting that rocketed up his wrist, the sheer burst of adrenaline. Shit, this was almost as good as sex. Possibly better, because, hell, it had been so long since he’d had any he couldn’t actually remember how good sex was.
Right here, at this moment, he felt like Superman and Wonder Woman and Hercules and Gerard Butler. He could kick ass—specifically, his brother’s ass. Then Luc nailed him in the stomach, and all the air rushed from his lungs and his knees threatened to buckle. Pain spread like a red tide through his body, but his anger roared and clawed. This time, this one time, he wouldn’t let Luc walk all over him. Rafe dropped his head and charged his brother, wrapping his arms around his waist and twisting so that Luc toppled over, falling to the sidewalk. Rafe’s blow skimmed his eye socket, and he barely felt Luc’s fist connecting with his jaw. As his head flew back, he saw Luc’s confused expression, the my-toy-Pomeranian-just-nipped-me look on his face.
“What the hell, Rafe?” Luc shouted in his ear, using his arms to push Rafe up and off him. He quickly jumped to his feet, his hand cupping the side of his face and his blue eyes blazing. “Have you lost your fucking mind?”
Possibly, yes. But it was worth it. And holding his own in a fight with his older brother was freaking amazing. It was, Rafe decided, worth the pain and a long time coming.
Luc slowly stood up and briefly closed his eyes. When he spoke, his words came out sad and solemn. “That award? It’s a recognition of the pro bono work I did for Médecins Sans Frontières, doing reconstructive surgery on kids with cleft palates, burns and other facial disfigurements. The T and A jobs? That money allows me to do that, so...screw you.”
Rafe stared at the ground and reluctantly admitted that while he got some good hits in, Luc’s last comment was the verbal punch that nearly dropped him to the floor.
Chapter Four
The blindfold and spanking were a little kinky. Elana, lying on Jarrod’s chest, the TV droning on in the background, was trying to decide whether she liked it or not. She liked how excited it made Jarrod—and he’d used that excitement to maximum effect.
It had been fun...well, mostly fun. She hadn’t minded the blindfold, but the jury was still out on the spanking. His big hand against her skin didn’t do anything for her but sting her ass. His growls that she’d been a bad girl and that she needed to be punished were too similar to what she’d heard all her life for her to be turned on. Nobody had ever, as far as she could remember, actually spanked her, but the threat was always tossed out when she became a little too much to handle.
Which was practically all the time. When she thought she might have pushed the envelope too far, she’d hightail it out of Casa Cat and belt down the driveway and onto the road, running the short distance to her best friend Thom’s house. Thom would calm her down, make her laugh, and an hour or three or four later, she’d wander home, hoping that the storm had blown over. No one worried where she was; they all knew that Thom’s house was her bolt-hole, her place to run to. Elana always returned to Casa Cat, but on her own time, according to her schedule.
Thom...jeez, he was going to be pissed that she’d been out of contact for so long. Elana twisted a piece of Jarrod’s T-shirt around her finger, wincing as guilt flooded her system. A massive red diamond solitaire rested on her ring finger, a symbol that she was planning to marry Thom in a few weeks. Dammit, whatever had possessed her to say yes to his proposal? Thom was wonderful, but...
Okay, so she didn’t quite love him, but he was her best friend, the one person who’d never disappointed her, never let her down. He knew her inside out and loved every flawed inch of her. But Thom couldn’t give her this. A hot, raunchy, sweaty time in bed. Oh, she and Thom made love, infrequently, but it was polite and discreet and quick. There was no swearing or laughing or rough demands and light bruises from his fingers pressing too hard and long scratches from her nails on his back. There was no passion between them and, dammit, she needed passion.
But...he was the only person she fully trusted. And their relationship, engagement and upcoming marriage was a fairy tale of epic proportions—he was rich and gorgeous! With his mother’s warm cocoa skin and dark brown eyes, she knew her groom-to-be was stunning with a capital S. And, true, they’d been friends all their lives. Her family adored Thom and his parents, and on paper it was a match made in heaven. But she needed to be with Jarrod, and she needed this outlet to blow off some steam. Thom was a lovely man, perfect for her...but she craved Jarrod.
Rock, meet hard place.
“Elana!” Jarrod said, shifting underneath her, his fingers pinching the skin of her waist.
Elana jerked away from him and sent him a blistering glare. “What the hell? That hurt, Jarrod!”
“I think you need to see this.” Jarrod lifted the remote and pointed it to the flat-screen television across the room.
The man was insatiable. “God, Jarrod, enough with the porn, okay? I’m wiped!”
“Not porn, Elana.”
A strange note in Jarrod’s voice made her look across the room. Jarrod had the flat screen tuned to his favorite channel, TMZ, and Elana rolled her eyes at the sight of two dudes brawling outside what looked like St. Aloysius Hospital. If her brain wasn’t fried from too much sex, she’d assume that the two guys duking it out were her brothers. Nah, it couldn’t be—her brothers were Marshalls, America’s favorite sons, and Marshalls didn’t fight in public.
“And we interrupt our ongoing coverage on Harrison Marshall’s car accident to bring you this breaking news. It seems like tensions are running high in the Marshall family at the moment. Shortly after an impromptu press conference with Mariella Santiago-Marshall, a hospital employee filmed Luc and Rafe Marshall coming to blows. The hospital worker was on the walkway linking the two building when she heard shouting and, looking down, she immediately recognized the Marshall brothers. Thinking that she’d snap a picture of the brothers consoling each other, she was shocked when their argument turned physical.”
Elana stared at the images flickering on the set, trying to process what she was seeing and hearing. Hospital? An accident? What the hell was going on?
Launching herself away from Jarrod, she scrambled across him, ignoring his grunt as her knee came quite close to his balls. She reached for the handle of the drawer and pulled it open, looking for her cell phone. Pulling it out, her heart pumping at a mile a minute, she groaned when she saw seventeen missed calls and dozens of text messages.
Shit shit shit shit shit.
Elana let out a whimper of despair and scrambled to her feet, looking around the bedroom for her clothes. Snatching her new Agent Provocateur bra off the floor, she pulled it on and quickly hooked it.
“Jeez, slow down, Elana,” Jarrod drawled, stretching like a lion basking in th
e sun.
Elana tossed him a scorching look. “My father has been in an accident, and my brothers are fighting! I’m not moving fast enough! Where the hell is my thong?”
“Go without,” Jarrod suggested. “That being said, that miniskirt I ripped off you was almost indecent, so you might give the press more of a show than you might want to.”
“You are such a jerk,” Elana snapped, thankful to see her tiny thong partly under the bed. She picked it up and pulled it up and over her legs.
“I’m the jerk that made you come four times last night alone.”
Five, but she wasn’t about to correct him. God, why was she thinking about sex when her father—Elana glanced at the rolling headlines at the bottom of the screen—was in the ICU with what were reported to be severe injuries? Elana felt tears slide down her cheeks as she tucked her fitted white shirt into the waistband of her asymmetrical denim Saint Laurent miniskirt. She slipped her feet into her cork Chloe platform sandals and picked up her Gucci bag. Were her keys in her bag? God, she hoped so. If not, she’d just get Jarrod’s doorman to call her a taxi.
“When will I see you again?” Jarrod asked as she headed to the door. Elana turned and looked at him, long and lean, his hand holding his sack, supremely confident and utterly selfish. God, she wished he didn’t turn her on.
“I don’t know, Jarrod,” she replied, her tone pointed. She gestured to the television and saw that they were running the footage of Luc and Rafe fighting again. Had Rafe really connected with Luc’s face? Jeez, she didn’t know he had in him. Returning her attention to her lover, she shrugged. “My family has gone into a spiral, my father could be dead for all I know, and you’re asking me when you are going to get screwed again?”
Jarrod shrugged and tried to look innocent. “Well, yeah.”
“You are such a prick,” Elana muttered before walking out of his bedroom.