A Tiara Under the Tree

by Carolyn Hector

  Suddenly she stopped short and turned to him. “In the spirit of keeping the peace, I want to make it clear to you that nothing happened between your father and me.”

  “And you expect me to believe that?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Yes, I do, because it’s the truth. When your father visited the gallery, all we did was sit and talk during his lunch hour. He was a father figure to me, Maximus. Nothing more.”

  “What on earth would he have to discuss with you?” As soon as he said the words, he knew they sounded harsh. “Listen, I’m sorry, all right? But even you have to see where I’m coming from. A woman I’ve never met had a relationship with my father that not only did no one know about, but apparently he was more caring with you than he’d ever been with me.”

  When they made it to the large oak door with a stained glass insert, he held it open for her, and she stepped outside. “I’m sorry. Truly sorry that Arthur wasn’t more open with you and that you didn’t get to know the man I knew. And th-thank you for dinner.” She smiled up at him with her big brown eyes, and Max felt his manhood swell. He’d only just met Tahlia, but she was having a profound effect on him.

  “It wasn’t much of one, I’m afraid.”

  “You tried.”

  “Have a good night.” He watched her walk to her car and shut the door. Then he headed directly for the library. He usually loved the room because it was surrounded on three sides by bookshelves up to the crown molding at the ceiling. The furniture was upholstered in rich chocolate-brown leather to match the solid oak desk his father had once used. But Maximus didn’t care for any of that tonight and went straight for the wet bar. He poured himself a bourbon straight up. He walked over to the French doors across the room and opened them, staring out over the manicured great lawn. He sipped his drink and thought about his next move.

  He hadn’t felt such a strong physical pull toward a female in a long time, if ever. Wanting Tahlia Armstrong was irrational and not advisable. He needed to figure out how he could control her and the situation. She now owned the two most important percent of shares at Knight Shipping because hers was the deciding vote, thanks to his father’s machinations. Had his father done this to spite him because Maximus had suggested taking Knight Shipping public when Arthur was adamantly opposed to it? Had he given Tahlia those shares to ensure it never happened? If so, she was no match for him. Expansion was inevitable, and the board now composed of Lucius and Tahlia would have to vote on it. Maximus would do whatever was necessary to ensure he was successful.

  He’d seen the way she looked at him today. She wasn’t unaffected by him either. He’d noticed earlier that she stammered whenever he came within close proximity to her. Perhaps their mutual attraction could work to his advantage. Sexing her was an intriguing possibility.

  Maximus heard a noise behind him and turned to find his mother standing in the doorway. “Care to pour me one of those?” she asked, inclining her head to the drink in his hand. The red wine she’d had earlier was nowhere to be seen.

  “Sure.” He stepped back into the library and took care of making her a drink. Then he walked over to where she’d made herself comfortable on his father’s favorite easy chair and handed her the bourbon.

  “Thank you.” He settled across from her in another chair, and they were both quiet for a long moment before she finally spoke. “I’m still in shock, Max. I can’t believe your father did this to us.”

  “You mean to me,” he responded. “I’m the one he pushed and pushed to be the best at everything. I’m the one he said would run Knight Shipping one day, but instead, he gives half the company to my illegitimate brother? A son he couldn’t even acknowledge while he lived? A son who knows nothing about the shipping business? You have no idea what it feels like to be in my shoes, Mother.” Maximus threw back the remaining bourbon in his glass and then jumped up and went to the bar for another one.

  Maybe, just maybe, he could drown out the hurt and betrayal he felt at a father who’d never loved Maximus as much as he’d loved him.

  “I’m so sorry, Max,” his mother cried. “I thought I was doing what was best for you.”

  He spun around on his heel. “By staying with a man who didn’t love you and pined for another woman? For what? So I could inherit the keys to the kingdom?” He chuckled wryly. “Well, you can see what good that did you. He screwed you over yet again.”

  “He screwed us both, Max,” his mother responded tightly. “He’s given half your birthright over to that no-good playboy brother of yours.”

  Maximus eyed her warily. “Be careful, Mother. Be very careful.”

  “Why? Don’t tell me you’re feeling sentimental about a brother you never knew you had and who’s trying to take what’s rightfully yours.”

  Maximus didn’t believe for a second that was the case. Lucius had been as shocked as he was by the bequest. He hadn’t known he was Arthur’s son until that moment in the hospital a couple of weeks ago, when his mother had railed at him. Maximus had seen the horror that had crossed his older brother’s face when the realization had sunk in that not only had his mother been carrying on an affair for decades with their father, but that he’d been the result of it. Lucius had been devastated.

  Despite that, however, Maximus wasn’t about to let an interloper, an outsider, walk in and take what was his. He’d been groomed his entire life to run Knight Shipping, and no one, brother or no brother, or their sexy partner, Tahlia Armstrong, would get in his way. He would see to it.

  “Of course I’m not sentimental, Mother,” Maximus responded. “But haven’t you heard the old phrase ‘you catch more flies with honey’? Don’t worry.”

  Her brown eyes stared at him incredulously. “How can I not be worried when half your inheritance is being stolen?”

  “We have to play it cool, Mother. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in business, it’s that we mustn’t show our hand. I promise you, I’ll get what’s mine. I promise you. All in due time.”

  “How?”

  “I have a plan.”

  Copyright © 2017 by Yahrah Yisrael

  Super Rich. Super Sexy. Super Addictive.

  SECRETS OF THE A-LIST

  You won’t want to miss a single installment!

  The wealthy Marshall family are untouchable. Or so they thought.

  Keep reading for the first episode in this explosive family drama!

  Can’t get enough?

  Read all 12 episodes in this scandalous and sexy new serial!

  Episode 1

  Episode 2

  Episode 3

  Episode 4

  Episode 5

  Episode 6

  Episode 7

  Episode 8

  Episode 9

  Episode 10

  Episode 11

  Episode 12

  Secrets of the A-List Box Set, Volume 1

  (contains episodes 1-4)

  Secrets of the A-List Box Set, Volume 2

  (contains episodes 5-8)

  Secrets of the A-List Box Set, Volume 3

  (contains episodes 9-12)

  When you have it all, you’ll do anything to keep it...

  SECRETS OF THE A-LIST

  (Episode 1 of 12)

  Joss Wood

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  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 conceal 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 a
nd 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.