by Joss Wood
The machine answered, and the random words clicked down the line at her. Try as she might, though, she couldn’t discern a single word from the torrent of sounds.
With a curse of frustration, she called the number again and this time pressed the button on her phone that would record the monologue.
It probably wasn’t important, anyway. Harrison had contacts all over the world. She disconnected the call, cutting off the recording, and returned his office to its usual state. Whatever secrets Harrison was keeping, the answers were not to be found here.
* * *
“This is a fucking joke,” Luc grunted, his eyes glaring at the television as if he could reach through the screen and spear the content. Even like this, with his black eye and bruised cheek, his expression grim, his body slumped forward in the enormous bed, he was breathtakingly stunning. Rachel lifted her fingers and toyed with the strap of her La Perla bra. It was a custom piece Luc had given her a month into their relationship. He’d joked at the time that he wanted to adorn her breasts with something as beautiful as they were, even though he had been annoyed that they’d been enhanced by another surgeon. He certainly didn’t seem to have any problems with the end result of her surgery, if his obsession with running his hands over the generous curves was any indication. Besides, she’d had them done long before she’d met Luc—an eighteenth-birthday present from the daddy who would never disappoint her.
“What is?” Rachel didn’t like seeing him upset, even though it gave an edge to his handsome face, a passionate intensity that lit fires in her blood. Desire clenched her gut. Was it insensitive to be mentally undressing her boyfriend when his father was lying in a hospital bed, possibly inching toward death with every pained breath he took?
“This.” He nodded toward the television and winced sharply. “This chasing after my family as though we’re fucking entertainment.”
Rachel pursed her lips—though they were perfectly sculpted, that was a twist of genetics rather than surgery—and moved closer to Luc. When she stood beside him, his head was at eye level with her breasts and she leaned forward a little, provocatively close to his mouth. She put a hand on his shoulder, so smooth and warm, and ran her fingers over him comfortingly. “You are entertainment,” she said with an attempt to sound sympathetic. “You’re the Marshalls.”
His eyes narrowed, and he flicked a quick look at her before resuming his vigil of the television. “So?” A grunt. Not exactly a disagreement, but a sign that he didn’t like her observation one bit.
“So,” she responded slowly, her nipples straining against the gauzy lace of the bra, “you’re high profile. You know that.”
“This isn’t the opening of a casino, Rachel. It’s my father. Lying in the hospital.” His expression was hollow. “God knows if he’s going to make it.”
She thought of Harrison Marshall and nodded slowly. The man was a veritable goliath—and this coming from a girl who had a congressman daddy. But Harrison was different. He wasn’t straitlaced or dull. He had the kind of power and charisma that gave itself to playing outside the lines. She recognized those traits because Luc also had them in abundance.
“He won’t die,” she said with a confidence she didn’t necessarily feel. She hadn’t seen Harrison in the hospital, and the pictures of the crash site looked awful. His mangled wreck had been comparable to a soda can ready for recycling. The black Carolina Herrera dress she’d picked up in New York last month would be an excellent funeral option.
“How do you know?”
“Because he’s Harrison.” She curved her lips into a smile and moved closer, dropping a kiss against Luc’s dark hair. His cheek was cushioned between her breasts. She lingered, waiting for him to turn his head a little. To purse his lips against her flesh and kiss her. To throw her against the mattress and lift his strong, capable body over hers, straddling her, making her his. A shiver of anticipation danced goose bumps across her sun-kissed flesh.
“Rach—” He flinched away from her a little, intent on the TV.
She couldn’t have said which she felt stronger—rejection or frustration. Neither was in great enough measure to cool her jets. Rachel Franklin was no shrinking violet. She wasn’t dating one of the most eligible bachelors in America by accident. She’d seen Luc, she’d wanted him, and she’d gotten him. All nicely tied up in her bed and in her life—and she intended to keep him there. Theirs wasn’t a relationship that would peter out. Oh, no. Couples like them had one trajectory. Power couples begot power. Sex led to dating, which led to proposals and marriage, and babies, she supposed, one day, when she could face the ugliness and mess that entailed.
She sashayed toward the television with a deliberately sensual swagger then sat down on the carpet, stretching her legs in front of her. She curved her back, dropping a finger over her toes and letting her body move almost like a cat’s. Yoga was one of her favorite exercises. It kept her lean, not to mention flexible. She lay back on the floor and lifted her legs over her head, peeking at Luc to see if he was watching. That he wasn’t was only a temporary setback.
She stood and then walked her fingers down her legs until they connected with the carpet. Bent in two, she looked at him, knowing that her cleavage was the only thing he’d see if he looked her way.
“Such bullshit. They’re waiting for him to die, for God’s sake.”
“You know what the press is like,” she said, a real kernel of sympathy coming out of nowhere. “Anything for ratings.”
“Vultures,” he grunted. But he did know what the press was like. They’d been an active part of his life for as long as he could remember.
“Luc,” she said quietly, and was rewarded by the swiveling of his head. As predicted, his eyes dropped to her front, lingering on the provocative swell that was revealed by the gorgeous bra. “I know how worried you are. I can’t imagine how I’d feel if I were in your shoes. I mean, you and I aren’t that different when it comes to our dads.”
She took his grunt as an invitation to continue. His eyes were still on her breasts, but Rachel had the unpleasant suspicion that his mind was miles away.
She stood and planted one hand on her hip; the other she let run slowly over her cleavage. “Yeah,” she murmured huskily. “Both of us grew up in the shadow of famous fathers. It’s no easy thing to always be known as someone’s kid...”
“I wouldn’t say I’m in anyone’s shadow,” he retorted sharply—so sharply that Rachel realized she’d said something he really, really didn’t like. She’d inadvertently found a sore point, a chink in the veneer of a man she’d always presumed didn’t have insecurities. “And it’s been a long time since I’ve been referred to as Harrison Marshall’s kid.”
Interesting.
Weaknesses were always good to unearth, even in the man she planned to marry. Perhaps especially in him.
He pressed his fingers gingerly to his eye socket, feeling the bruise.
“What were you and Rafe fighting about, anyway?”
Luc rolled his eyes then winced. “The award.”
“From the American Association for Plastic Surgeons?” She frowned. Luc had mentioned it in passing. The whole thing had bored her a little.
“No. From NASA,” he snapped, then shook his head apologetically. “He just can’t exist in a world where I get acknowledged for my hard work. I’d hoped he would’ve been proud of me. No. He had to be an asshole. The bastard just doesn’t get it sometimes.”
“Doesn’t get what?”
“The media. The family. How to handle it. You have to be tough. Rafe wears his heart on his sleeve. And that’s really fucking unhelpful right now.”
Rachel had to suppress a smile. The characterization of Rafe was spectacularly unfair, though of the three men who’d grown up on the Marshall estate, Rafe was definitely the gentlest. She liked him. Oh, she’d have eaten him up for br
eakfast if she’d met him first.
And if he were at all interested in women.
Rachel compressed her lips, biting back on the inclination to point out that right now it was Luc who was guilty of wearing his heart on his sleeve. “It’s a tense time for everyone,” she murmured instead.
She watched as he lifted his fingers to his face, running them over the swollen bridge of his nose.
Rachel was torn. She hoped it wouldn’t be permanently damaged by the fight, because his face had been a damned work of art. At the same time, perhaps perfection could be improved. A little kink in that patrician nose could give the straitlaced Luc a hint of danger and drama that he was otherwise lacking. He might even look as though Santiago blood flooded his veins with passion from time to time.
Rachel sighed, changing the subject watchfully. “Speaking of hearts, did I tell you Cindy just got engaged?”
“Who?” Luc asked, reaching for his cell phone and staring at the screen.
“Cindy. My sorority sister?”
“Oh, right. Have I met her?”
So far as bait went, it was hardly a success story. “Not yet,” she purred. But he wasn’t listening. His finger moved across the screen of his phone and then he lifted it to his ear.
“It’s me.” His eyes were glued to the television. Pique and irritation dueled inside Rachel. She watched as he reclined against the headboard, his eyes shut. He had lovely eyes. A crisp blue as deep as the ocean and, at times, as stormy as the sky. His lashes were long, just like his mother’s. He was so hot. The total package. From a great family, handsome, a doctor, and his exotic heritage courtesy of Mariella and her Santiago roots had the added advantage of annoying her father just the right amount.
“I’m not coming in today. I have family matters to attend to. You’ll need to reschedule my appointments.” He disconnected the call abruptly and dropped the cell to the mattress.
For her part, Rachel was done being patient. “I think it’s a good idea you’re taking some time to deal with all this.”
His eyes held a hint of frustration. “I could hardly go to the office looking like I was hit by a truck.”
Rachel made a sympathetic noise and straddled him in one easy move. She lifted her hand to his naked chest, twirling her finger in swirling patterns over his defined pectoral muscles.
“Rach,” he said, looking over her shoulder at the television. “I’m really not in the mood.”
She dropped her head forward, running her mouth over one of his nipples, teasing it with her tongue. “Let’s see if I can do something about that.”
He smelled like the ocean and good-boy virtue. She smiled as she dropped her mouth lower, tasting his flesh, his stomach, all the way to the elastic of the boxer shorts he wore.
He tensed as she pushed them down, just far enough to free his beautiful dick. And it was beautiful. She moved her mouth lower, teasing him with her tongue, her fingers gripping his hips. She parted her lips and took him deep into her mouth. He tightened inside her, hard and long.
With a moan, she moved her mouth up and down his shaft, slowly at first, stoking him to a greater urgency of need, pleasuring him just enough to make him desperate for more.
His fingers curled in the lengths of her blond hair, tightening as his body answered hers.
He was hers. He always would be.
She swirled her tongue over his tip, tasting him and rising high above the clouds on the power of her possession. Even then, when he was bruised and distracted, Rachel knew how to give Luc everything he could ever want.
His cock was as hard as stone. She wanted to feel him explode, but Luc wasn’t a man to relinquish power for long. As his control began to slip, he dropped his hands to her shoulders and lifted her off him, holding her for a moment. Their eyes met, and he was right there in the moment. No thoughts of Harrison, the TV, the fight, his work were anywhere near what they were to each other.
He flipped her onto the mattress and kicked his shorts off. He didn’t bother removing her silky thong. His fingers pushed it aside so the elastic waistband dug into her hips. He paused just long enough to sheathe his length in latex, and then he thrust into her. Rachel cried out, arching her back, staring at the ceiling.
He was a great lover. Desire was rampant in her veins, but it wasn’t strong enough to push all thoughts from her mind.
She moaned softly as he moved within her; she was thinking about the gold-embossed invitations she’d seen in Martha Stewart Weddings the month before. Oh, they were a little too common for the wedding of Rachel Franklin to Luc Marshall, but if she could find something similar made in France or Italy, then they might just fit the bill.
She smiled as pleasure, power and anticipation supercharged her orgasm.
She had Luc right where she wanted him. Life was good.
Chapter Three
Every single yes was like a nail in her coffin.
Elana stared at the pile of response cards that someone—probably her mother—had laid on her desk. There were dozens of them. Dozens! All vying to attend the society wedding of the year. Elana usually loved this stuff. Weddings were always a hotbed of gossip and fun, not to mention a chance to get impossibly dressed up and drunk. But usually she was watching some other woman vow to spend the rest of her life with one man. She was safe in the pews, dressed in head-to-toe couture and diamonds, a smug smile of contented singledom pinned to her face.
But not this time.
This time she’d be the bride. The bride in white. Marrying Thom. Standing in front of all their friends, and their many frenemies, vowing to love and honor a man who, frankly, did very little for Elana in the romantic sense.
“Is everything okay?”
She startled, her enormous brown eyes drifting across the room, landing on her fiancé. He sat on the sofa, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, his face grim.
He was worried about her.
She knew, because everyone always worried about her. Would she do what was expected? Or would she somehow ruin things at the last possible minute?
“Oh, Thom.” She bit down on her lip, and true anguish filled her being. “I really love you, you know that, right?”
His smile was disarming. She remembered, in a burst, all the things she did love about her fiancé. Their friendship spanned over a decade.
“Well, that’s good, given that we’re getting married soon.”
She nodded, but she couldn’t help wondering: How had this happened?
In one month, she’d morph from fiancée to bride, from woman to wife. The worst part was that it all made perfect sense. They liked the same people. More importantly, they hated the same people.
But earth-shattering, mind-blowing, blood-boiling sex?
Forget about it.
Thom was great for Netflix and champagne nights. He made her laugh. But he didn’t make her come.
Not like Jarrod Jones could. Jarrod, who, with a single look, could reduce her to a puddle of heat and desire.
“What is it?” he pushed, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward. “You look upset. Is it...”
“Dad?” She interrupted, shaking her head. “No.” Her dark brown hair fell in tumbling waves over her shoulders. “It’s us, Thom. I...this wedding...the timing...” She let the sentence drop away, hoping he’d understand. Better, that he might feel the same reluctance and just not know how to voice it.
“What about it?” he prompted gently.
Apparently not.
“With Dad in the hospital, and this...this Fixer person mom told us about... I don’t know. This weirdo pulling the strings of the business? It’s really creepy. The timing just feels wrong.” And probably wouldn’t ever feel right, she amended inwardly.
Thom looked startled. “You didn’t say anything about this F
ixer before.”
“Well, I was worried about Daddy, okay!” She sniffled. “I’m really just wondering if this is the right thing to do, I guess.”
“Don’t be silly. Your dad would be the first person to insist we go through with it.”
“How can you say that?”
“Because he was thrilled when we got engaged.”
“He’s a good man, Ellie.” Her dad’s voice had boomed with approval. The kind of approval she rarely felt aimed her way.
She wasn’t like Luc, with his successful plastic surgery practice, or Rafe with his courage to be the man he was, even though it had caused friction between him and their father. Elana was the child who didn’t make sense. She wasn’t smart. She wasn’t clever. She was just Elana—the daughter they all had such low expectations of.
“I know he’s a good man.” She’d smiled, because good was the perfect word for Thom. Banal. Bland. Boring.
“He’ll be an excellent husband.”
“I know.”
She focused her attention back on that moment, that room, and her fiancé. “It’s just...”
“What?” Impatience zinged in the question and drew Elana’s gaze instantly. She was startled. Thom had never so much as raised his voice at her; he was the definition of calm compassion at all times.
“I just don’t know if we should do this.”
He stood, crossing the room with his confident gait. “Why not?” He was back to being measured, but there was something in his manner that made Elana wonder if he wasn’t actually seriously annoyed.
Why not? She imagined, for a second, throwing the truth in his face. Because I’m in a serious lust-fuck phase and I want to stay there. Because Jarrod Jones is all I can think of. Because you’re boring. “Because of Daddy, obviously.”
“Then we’ve already dealt with this. Harrison was all for this wedding. In fact, he was the one who encouraged us to move up the date, remember?”
“But he had no idea he’d end up in a coma,” she pointed out.