by Joss Wood
“Hi, querido.”
“How’s it going with Bridezilla?”
Mariella’s response was wry. “I don’t know if she can be called Bridezilla, given that it’s her granddaughter’s wedding.”
“She wishes it were her own,” Gabe said. “If you’ve ever seen the way she looks at the groom, you’ll know what I mean...”
“Gabe,” Mariella said warningly but she laughed softly, and it felt so delicious to do so. The sunshine bounced off a wave and moved toward her. She reached her hand out, almost as though she could catch its beauty in her hands and draw it to her heart. “I’m just wrapping up here. I should get back—”
“Hang on,” he interrupted. A small wisp of cloud moved over the sun, momentarily removing its warmth from the window, leaving only a smudge of light across the sea. Something in Gabe’s tone had Mariella bracing for bad news.
“Gabe?” Her voice was quiet; it hid the panic that was rushing through her. Was it Harrison?
“Have you seen the TV?”
Mariella shook her head. The sun was back, but she didn’t feel its warmth now. “No. I... I haven’t had a chance.”
A small pause showed Gabe was weighing his words. She knew her nephew well; he was trying to spare her more pain.
“Just say it,” she said with quiet strength. Whatever it was, she’d be okay. She’d manage.
“There are reports that there’s going to be an exclusive interview with Harrison playing soon. Do you know anything about this?”
Frost sledged through Mariella’s veins. “That’s ridiculous,” she rejected, her words a grim rejection. “You and I both know he’s in no state to give an interview.”
“It’s being promoted heavily. I wouldn’t think they’d go to those lengths unless they had something—”
“Gabe,” she cut him off, “it’s not true. It’s a ploy for ratings, that’s all.” Ice gave way to volcanic lava. Fury was in her bloodstream, burning her from the inside out. “You know what the media’s like. They want to keep the story going, so they’ve invented more drama.” She swallowed, uncertainty plaguing her. “It can’t be true.”
“No, no, I’m sure it can’t be,” Gabe agreed.
“I just spoke to the clinic.” A frown pulled at her red lips as she thought of the conversation she’d had hours earlier with Dr. Malone at Whispering Oaks. “A while ago, anyway. This morning.” She thought with guilt of her hesitation to go to her husband’s bedside. If she’d been with him instead of drinking cold coffee and contemplating his business secrecy, then perhaps she could have subverted all of this. “They didn’t say anyone was there. Isn’t that why he’s in a place like this? To avoid accessibility? It’s just not possible.”
“Still, it’s a pretty bold move if it’s fake.”
Mariella expelled a breath. “You need to go to the clinic, Gabe. For all we know some member of the staff is blabbing for cash. Can you go and figure it out? Check on Harrison?”
“I’m calling you from the car. I should be there soon. I’ve spoken to Elana. She and Rafe were on their way when I spoke to her. Luc was going to follow them.” There was a pause as Mariella digested this, and as though he understood the direction of her thoughts, Gabe explained, “They took separate cars to create a diversion in case they were followed. Though it probably has more to do with the fact Rafe and Luc can’t be in a confined space without wanting to knock each other out right now.”
“Jesus,” she swore softly, running her fingertips over her necklace, pulling the pendant from side to side distractedly. “Let me know once you’ve arrived.”
She disconnected the call but stayed where she was, staring out at the ocean. It was beautiful, yet she saw only pain now. This ocean had witnessed her days and nights. It had wrapped around her biggest triumphs. It had been the backdrop to her life—a life that was falling apart.
Her children were at war? Why? Why now, of all times, would they choose to give vent to their differences? She took a breath to calm her nerves and plastered a smile onto her face. Veronica was standing as Mariella returned to the table. The older woman missed nothing, but her eyes scanned Mariella’s beautiful face and saw none of the inner turmoil that plagued her, because Mariella was an expert at obfuscating.
“Is everything okay?” Veronica asked, and Mariella understood that a desire to learn the latest motivated the inquiry. An unpleasant suspicion formed like a lead weight in Mariella’s gut. The timing of Veronica’s wedding meeting had seemed inconvenient and thoughtless to Mariella, but what if it had indeed come with a lot of thought? What if Veronica had wanted to position herself at the heart of the drama that was spreading like wildfire across the country? Was it possible that the society doyenne had just wanted news?
“Everything’s fine,” Mariella said with the appearance of calm.
Veronica’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. “I’m so glad.” She lifted her Hermès Kelly off the table and looped it over her shoulder. “Shall we?” Veronica had moved around the table and put a solicitous hand on Mariella’s forearm. Suppressing her temper, Mariella nodded, walking beside Veronica toward the stairs.
“How is Harrison?” Veronica asked as they neared the top step.
Mariella moved to the banister, glad to break the physical contact with the woman who was morphing from inconvenient pest to gossiping bitch in Mariella’s mind.
“He’s—” She moved down the stairs slowly. An image of Harrison buffeted her, almost knocking the wind from her. His pale face, bruised, bloodied, scratched deeply. “He’ll be fine,” she said unconvincingly. She needed to do a better job than that, but Mariella hadn’t been prepared for the question. How foolish to come to a meeting such as this without expecting there to be some interest in her husband’s accident.
“Will he?” Veronica sounded almost as though she had some inside information.
Telling herself she was being paranoid, Mariella continued walking, a calm smile on her face that she certainly didn’t echo in her heart. “He’s Harrison Marshall,” Mariella said as they reached the bottom. She turned to face Veronica. “He’s never come up against anything he couldn’t beat.”
She moved in for a dismissive air-kiss, but Veronica gripped Mariella’s hands and stared at her intently. “You seem very calm, all things considered.”
Mariella’s heart turned over in her chest. “My husband was in a car accident. I’m concerned for him, but it’s not serious.” She wished, fervently, that her words were the truth.
“You haven’t heard, then?” Veronica said with what could have been sympathy or delight.
Mariella compressed her lips, waiting for Veronica to continue, knowing that the older woman was going to run like a freight train now.
“There’s some talk that it wasn’t an accident.” Veronica leaned closer, lowering her tone to an urgent whisper. “I’ve heard that his car was run off the road. Deliberately.”
“What?” The word escaped as air leaving a balloon. The very idea was anathema to her. It was impossible, surely!
“That’s what they’re saying...”
“What who’s saying?” Mariella demanded, but inside, there was a tornado of anger and doubt, of worry and grief.
“Well, everyone at the salon this morning.” The salon. The word was imbued with as much inference and scandal as possible. How could two small syllables contain such secrecy and gloating?
Mariella had to employ every single tool in her arsenal to remain unaffected. She shook her head slowly and rolled her eyes heavenward. “People will say a lot of things,” she murmured dismissively. The brakes failed. Or perhaps it was an animal. Or the sun bouncing off the ocean at just the wrong time. Her mind offered the scenarios that the police had given. Her mind was trying to comfort her. “But they’re not always true.”
He drove that road al
l the time. He knew every turn and pothole. It wasn’t such a sunny day, and he always wore sunglasses. The car, like our whole fleet of luxury vehicles, was inspected regularly. Her heart and stomach were overrun with doubts. She felt a bead of perspiration on the top of her lip. She needed to shake free of Veronica.
She needed...she didn’t know what she needed.
“Hmm.” Veronica pondered this pronouncement as though they were philosophizing hypothetically and not discussing the very real question of whether or not someone had made an attempt on Harrison’s life. “We shall see, I suppose.”
Mariella was coming close to losing her temper. “I have to go, Veronica. I’m pleased you’re happy with the wedding menu.”
Veronica’s eyes widened. Had she forgotten the pretext for this little tête-à-tête?
“Goodbye.” Mariella clipped across the marble floor, lifting her sunglasses out as she went and sliding them in place. A small group of paparazzi was waiting when she emerged. She flashed them a smile that felt heavy on her face and moved to her car.
“What’s the latest on Mr. Marshall?”
“Have you seen Harrison today?”
“Were you at his interview?”
“Is it true SBPD has ruled the accident suspicious?”
“Who would have it in for your husband, Mrs. Santiago-Marshall?”
She lifted a hand, her palm showing her lack of desire to engage with the pack. She slipped into her car and fired the engine, driving out of the parking lot more speedily than normal. Her heart was racing and, as she came to the end of the drive, she felt the sting of tears in her eyes.
Mariella thumped the steering wheel hard, her eyes lifting automatically to the rearview mirror to be sure no paparazzi had followed her and witnessed her telltale gesture of meltdown.
No one was behind her, but she turned the car into traffic and wove in and out of cars, wanting to put as much space as possible between herself and the Polo Club.
Speculation on the cause of the accident was inevitable. It had to just be rumor and misinformation. If there was any concrete evidence of foul play, surely the police would have informed her. Hell, they’d probably have suspected her. Her fingers dragged around the leather of the steering wheel, squeezing it tightly. Wasn’t that how these things usually went? Wife secretly hates husband, cuts brakes of his car? Except Mariella loved Harrison, and anyone who knew them would testify to that.
So where was this story coming from?
She thought back to what the police detective had said when he’d told her about Harrison’s crash, and her mind was blank. She’d still been reeling from the initial bombshell. “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.”
Nothing conclusive had been said. Some theories had been floated, but had they been more in the manner of looking to placate her? They were vague and uncertain, nothing she could grab hold of and take comfort from. She took the turnoff toward the clinic, checking her rearview mirror, making sure she wasn’t being followed. Harrison’s location had to remain a secret. If, in fact, it still was. What possible reason could a network have for lying about an exclusive interview? Unless one of the nurses or doctors had provided information?
Her heart began to race faster.
Mariella simply wanted the world to stop. She wanted everybody to be silent so that she could think and see clearly. Who was her husband? If it wasn’t an accident, what possible reason could someone have had to wish to hurt him? And did that same person want to hurt her? Her children and Gabe? Were they all in danger?
She drove a little faster. She needed answers, and the clinic seemed like the best place to find them.
* * *
The house was eerily quiet. The usual servants were nowhere to be seen. Luc moved softly up the stairs, as though his footsteps might disturb someone or something if he wasn’t careful.
He didn’t have long. His mom was at the Polo Club, and Rafe and Elana would be halfway to the clinic by now. They’d be livid if they knew he’d doubled back to the house—but they wouldn’t know.
Luc’s being at Casa de Catalina was his little secret.
Yet they’d be expecting him at the clinic, and if he took too long to arrive, it would bring up questions he’d rather not deal with.
He heard a noise and paused, frowning, trying to detect which direction it came from. His eyes lifted, skimming the hallway and inadvertently meeting his own reflection in a large mirror opposite.
His brother had done a number on Luc’s face. He lifted a finger and patted the bruise gingerly, wincing as pain radiated through his cheekbone and toward his ear. Bastard caught him by surprise, that was all. If he had his time again, Luc wouldn’t let Rafe get away with it.
Another noise. Like metallic blinds hitting a window. It was coming from his father’s home office—the sanctuary that they’d all been told again and again was off-limits. Luc’s smile was grim. There were certain times when rules begged to be broken.
He pushed the door inward and was rewarded with the sight of the one person he needed to speak to, the sole reason he’d returned to Casa Cat instead of proceeding to the clinic.
He spoke first, the fear of being caught making the words tumble from his mouth. “I know it’s dangerous for me to be here.” He moved deeper into the office, pushing the door shut behind him to give them privacy. “But I had no choice. We need to talk, and it won’t wait.”
Chapter Five
The tangle of nerves in her stomach was jangling louder and louder. Each step she took down the tiled corridor of the clinic filled her with a wave of nauseating anxiety. Not that you’d know it by looking at Mariella. She was a study in chic cool, even under these circumstances. But behind her dark sunglasses, her eyes were awash with emotion.
The business at the Polo Club had upset her. Even the hour-long drive to the isolated clinic in Malibu hadn’t cooled her temper.
First Gabe’s call revealing the news about media reports of a bedside interview, and then Veronica Waterhouse’s suggestion that the accident had been anything but. Why couldn’t people just leave them alone?
She compressed her bright red lips, pausing midway down the long hall to stare out the window. The gardens in the foreground were some of the most beautiful in the world, but she didn’t appreciate their beauty. She looked beyond them to the distant ocean. She tried to orient herself, to find the familiar landmarks of the coastline that she knew so well.
And failed.
Nothing was familiar. It was as though the milestones of her life, all the anchor points she counted on, had shifted during the night. Was it possible for earthquakes to be localized to one person?
She gripped the railing, a shining gold, highly polished, perhaps used by patients at Whispering Oaks who were not easily able to move about. Her knuckles glowed white.
She couldn’t put it off any longer. Her husband was around the corner. She straightened her spine, pulled her imported Italian shawl around her shoulders, and resumed her walk, her heels clicking efficiently against the tiled floor.
The corridors were hauntingly deserted. She saw not a soul as she got closer to Harrison’s room, but eventually she heard muted tones of conversation.
He wasn’t alone.
She pushed the door inward, and her eyes were drawn to her husband immediately. Until that moment, she hadn’t realized she’d been holding her breath, hoping, wondering, believing in some small part that he might have recovered. That he might have given an interview after all! If anyone was capable of defying
the odds, it had to be him.
But, alas.
Not this time.
Harrison lay in the bed, pale and flaccid, his handsome face almost unrecognizable. His injuries had swollen more overnight. The marks on his face that had been red and abraded the day before were now bright purple and dark blue. Angry marks of accusation and blame.
A wave of grief burst through her; she pressed her hand against the door frame, taking strength, needing support.
“Mariella.” Joe was the first to realize she was there. He stood, scraping his chair back so that it squealed against the floor, making them wince.
She didn’t look in his direction. She couldn’t. Her husband, so unmoving, stirred love within her, and suddenly, it was hard to think of anything but him. The strange relationship with the Fixer, the fortune in his private account, the possibility that his crash had been orchestrated, the mystery about his supposed interview—it was all irrelevant. All that mattered was him. His body, so strong and capable, had been reduced to a weak, wounded shell. She stared at him, and their thirty-two years of marriage flashed through her, filling her with an almost paralyzing emotion.
“Harrison,” she murmured, lifting her fingers to her lips. The machines in the room gave a low moan. A constant droning sound punctuated by intermittent beeps.
“Mom.” Elana, on the other side of the bed from Joe, smiled weakly. Her hand was resting on Harrison’s, but she dropped it to move to her mother. “I need to speak to you. It’s urgent.”
Mariella lifted her eyes to her daughter’s face. Dark emotions were flitting behind Elana’s eyes. How were her children coping with this? It had been a nightmare for Mariella, but this was their hero lying in a hospital. Guilt that she hadn’t really thought about their feelings since the accident added to her emotional tangle.
She wanted to stay with Harrison, to study him, to come to grips with his condition, but Elana obviously needed her. Besides, Harrison wasn’t going anywhere, she thought with a macabre desperation.