by Joss Wood
Of all the time Luc had spent with his father behind closed doors, going over the intricacies of his business endeavors and how deals were put together and sharing his vision of becoming a surgeon, that day on the boat would forever be etched in his memory. It became his guiding principle. It was the reason that it tore into his gut that it was ultimately Gabe who had his father’s ear and would step up to run the business. Sure, he’d made his own choice, followed his passion, just like his father told him to do...but still. He was the eldest. He was the firstborn son. Not Gabe.
Luc heard the door to his father’s room open and close. He pushed up from his seat, arched his back and took one last look out the window. He returned to his father’s bedside, feeling stronger.
He pulled the chair closer to the bed, took his father’s hand and held it between his own, surprised to find it warm.
He gently rubbed his thumb over Harrison’s knuckles and rested his chin on the bed railing. Seeing his father like this, battered, bruised and broken, tore open a place inside him that he hadn’t known existed. Ever since the accident, he’d gone down an ugly road, seeing his family through jaded eyes. The resentment that he’d kept at bay for years rose to the surface in waves. At moments it consumed him, and he questioned every decision he’d ever made.
He gazed at his father’s unmoving form. What would they all do without him?
If his father didn’t pull through, he would be the head of the family. His jaw clenched. In name only.
“I’ve tried my best, dad, not to let you down, but it was—I was never good enough.”
He pushed up to his feet, paced across the floor and ran his hand across his face. When he wheeled toward his father he half expected Harrison to stare him down and tell him he was being a fool. Instead he came face to face with his destiny—playing backup to Gabe.
Was that his father’s plan all along, all the way back to that morning on the boat when he told him to seek his own horizon? Even then was he planning to groom Gabe? He blinked away a fresh set of tears and swallowed over the lump in his throat.
He gripped the railing until his knuckles turned white. His mother was moving full steam ahead with Elana’s wedding; Rachel was hinting at marriage. Everybody was moving on as if any minute his father was going to wake up and walk out of the hospital and life would go on as usual. But it wouldn’t! They didn’t understand the medical intricacies like he did. And everything that should be his was slipping out of his fingers.
“Is this what you wanted, Dad? Give me a sign. Squeeze my hand—blink your damned eyes.”
The only response was the incessant beep of the machines and the ominous hiss of the ventilator.
Luc hung his head then studied the still form on the bed, the shell that had become his father. A million thoughts ran through his head, particularly the notion that if his father didn’t make it, Gabe and Joe would run everything. Where did that leave him? He stood and dropped the side railing of the bed, leaned down and whispered in his father’s ear.
“You know, don’t you? You know everything. You always do.” He leaned back a bit and looked at his father’s battered face. The corner of Luc’s mouth lifted in a sardonic grin. He bent close and whispered again, “But I know you have some questions, some doubts, don’t you Dad?” He paused, the day on the boat, the rise of his cousin in the family business flooding his head. “What harm could it do to confirm it all now with no one to hear but you and me?”
* * *
On the other side of the world, ensconced in a posh Parisian apartment overlooking the Seine River, courtesy of her lover, Harrison Marshall, Nora sipped her morning cup of tea and watched American news. It was important to her to keep abreast of world affairs, especially those in the States, and particularly the lives of the rich and famous who seemed to inhabit America the way that rats roamed the wet alleyways of the City of Lights.
America was hypnotized by the antics of pseudocelebrities who created their fortunes on no more than sex tapes and large asses, scandals and demagogues. The world looked to America as its moral compass. She found that amusing. She, on the other hand, looked to America in a different way in, a way to breathe that rarefied air. A way to no longer be a footnote in someone’s life. Harrison Marshall was her entrée. She shook her head, tossing aside the tumble of rich dark hair, and laughed that tinkling sound that one had to work on.
Harrison Marshall.
Her dark eyes framed by thick lashes and sleek dark brows looked around at her space. By any standard it was to be envied. After all, it had been designed by the master himself. Georges-Eugène Haussmann had played an integral role in shaping the architectural footprint of Paris before turning his eye to residential spaces. Many of the city’s one-of-a-kind residential buildings had been built to his specifications. On the surface, hers boasted a traditional Haussmannian interior, eggshell white with intricate plaster moldings, floor-to-ceiling windows that opened outward to a wrought-iron balcony. But it was the contemporary touches that shaped its elegance. Bright white seating perfectly complemented the space’s uniquely Parisian chevron floors, offset by Ferruccio Laviani lighting. Books in French, English and Spanish, ranging in topic from pulp fiction to politics, books of essays, autobiographies of great leaders, from books on art, the Kama Sutra and architecture to poetry and romance novels filled the built-in bookshelves, a testament to her voracious thirst for knowledge. Contemporary art—courtesy of Harrison—graced either wall; the value alone could keep her comfortable for years. The cost to buy this one bedroom could get her a palatial estate in America or almost anywhere in the world. But for the time being she would stay put.
The sound of Harrison’s name coming from the television diverted her attention. The American broadcaster moved on from her story of the recent election to rebroadcast a previous interview with Harrison Marshall. She set down her cup, reached for the remote and turned up the volume. She leaned forward.
Harrison was standing in front of his restaurant in Acapulco, Mexico. She remembered that day very well. He’d only left her a week prior, telling her that he needed to be in Mexico to oversee the opening.
“So how does it feel to open yet another restaurant, Mr. Marshall?” the newscaster asked.
She watched him smile. That smile that could melt your heart as soon as slice you to bits.
“Feels as good as the first time. The excitement never wavers.”
“Marshall International is a worldwide phenomenon. To what do you owe your success?”
“Determination. Vision, satisfied customers and the support of my family. Especially my wife of more than thirty years, Mariella.”
Nora cringed. She reached for her now cool cup of tea.
“We wish you continued success, Mr. Marshall, and good luck with your latest venture.”
The screen segued back to the studio. “That was an interview with renowned business magnate Harrison Marshall done three months ago. As we reported, Mr. Marshall was recently in a horrific car accident on the Pacific Coast Highway.” The screen flashed a picture of the accident and the mangled car, the area roped off with yellow tape and police and emergency vehicles in the background. “Details have been few as to his condition or where he is recuperating, but we’ve been told he’s doing better each day. From the look of this accident, it is a miracle that anyone could survive it. Of course our thoughts and prayers go out to the Marshall family for his speedy recovery, and we will certainly bring you up to date as more details become available. We’ll be back after this break.”
Nora turned off the television and tossed the remote onto the couch. When she hadn’t heard from Harrison in several weeks, she’d initially assumed that he’d decided to end things between them. Their last time together they’d fought.
He’d been in Paris on business for a week, his first time back in over a month. Even though he could easily stay at he
r place, he kept a small apartment for himself whenever he came to Paris. He said it was best that way, and it provided a place for his family whenever they came to France, if they chose to use it. Of course she would prefer that he stay only with her, but whatever she needed to do to ensure that their time together was unforgettable—that was all that mattered.
For a man his age, Harrison was in excellent physical condition, and his sexual appetite and ability to satisfy her rivaled any of her previous lovers. He could be as rough and demanding as he could be gentle. His lovemaking ranged from simple missionary to blindfolds and bondage, all depending on his mood, and she was always a willing participant.
When they were last together, he’d been pensive, moody, and when she tried to cajole him out of his sour temper, he’d turned those cool blue eyes on her and followed her into her bedroom. It was a setting right out of a French fairy tale, complete with a four-poster king-size canopy bed. Sheer white draping hung from the corners, providing an illusion of isolation.
“Tonight is for your pleasure.” She went to her nightstand, took out the four oblong silk scarves and handed them to him.
The next morning she’d fixed him a full Parisian breakfast, one of her other many talents—crème brûlée French toast, Parisian potato omelet, orange juice, a side of madeleines and, of course, café au lait.
They ate on the terrace. It was a spectacular Paris morning. The fog had lifted from a night of rain, and you could see for miles in any direction.
“When will you be back?”
“In a few weeks.” He snapped open the American newspaper.
She’d debated about telling him. She didn’t want to spoil their time together, but he needed to know.
“I am with child,” she whispered.
Harrison slowly lowered the paper from in front of his face. “What?” His face hardened.
“I am pregnant.”
“Pregnant!” He snorted a laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“It is the truth.”
“Is that the plan now?”
“What are you saying? What plan?”
“The plan to get my money, break up my family.” He tossed down the paper, stood so abruptly he nearly knocked the chair over and spun away then whirled back toward her. He slammed his hand down on the table, rattling the dishes. She flinched. “You won’t pin this on me. How do I even know you’re telling me the truth?”
She jumped up from her chair and stormed off to the bedroom, pulled open the dresser drawer and snatched out the letter from her doctor. She stomped back out onto the terrace and flung it in his face. “There! Lis le! Read it.”
His French wasn’t the greatest, but she could tell he could make out the doctor’s notation that she was six weeks along, with instructions to take prenatal vitamins and when her next visit should be.
Harrison’s skin flushed. His chest rose and fell as if he’d been running. He threw the letter on the table and glared at her. “Why should I believe it’s mine? It’s no secret how we met,” he accused, reminding her that he’d picked her up at a nightclub and she’d slept with him that first night. Not to mention this wasn’t the first time she’d claimed the title of mistress.
Fury and humiliation burst through her, and she raised her hand and swung. Harrison caught her by the wrist an instant before her palm connected with his cheek. He gripped her wrist until she winced. He released her and turned away.
He ran his hands through his salt-and-pepper hair and looked up at the cloudless sky. He lowered his head and shook it slowly, gripping the railing of the balcony. She stood, frozen, her heart pounding.
Finally, he turned to face her. “This can’t happen.” He pointed a finger at her that could have easily been a knife. “It won’t happen.” He didn’t say another word. He picked up his jacket from the back of the chair and brushed by her.
“Harrison...”
He kept walking to the door.
“Harrison. S’il vous plaît. Talk to me!” She ran behind him just as he shut the door. She pulled the door open. He was halfway down the stairs. “Harrison!” She hurled a string of French curses at his back. “Tu le regretteras. You will be sorry.”
He never looked back.
That had been three weeks ago. At first she thought he just needed time to cool off and process the news. But when she hadn’t heard from him, she really began to worry—until she saw the news about the accident. The first reports were that he’d been killed, and she’d felt like a part of her had died as well.
But he was alive. Then she saw the news anchor’s report of his interview with Harrison, and Nora reassured herself that Harrison would be just fine.
She tapped a bloodred nail against the teacup. She was relieved not only for herself, but for him and for their baby. She pressed her hand to her belly. After all, a child deserved to know its father.
Chapter Six
Thom debated all day and throughout the night. He couldn’t unhear the one-sided conversation. At points he doubted the words and their meaning. Perhaps it had been no more than an intricate business phone call. It would not be that unusual, considering the extent of Harrison’s dealings. But Thom’s gut told him differently. He’d actually overheard the Fixer. It took all he had not to tell Elana when he’d met her at the restaurant. But he knew he needed to think it through before he breathed a word to anyone.
He crossed the bedroom, went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. There were several ways he could play this. He could simply table the information. He could confront the Fixer with what he’d heard. Or he could reveal what he knew to the family. If he kept the information to himself, he could wait for the optimal opportunity, when it might serve him best. It was a trump card that he could play. If he decided to confront the Fixer, he risked stepping on a land mine. There was no telling what the reaction would be and how it might blow back on him. If the Fixer was as stealthy and as connected as it seemed, Thom might be wise not to take confrontation as an option. On the other hand, telling the family what he’d heard was a better option. His revelation would provide him with cover and protection. More important, it would cement his place in the family, and Elana would certainly dismiss her second thoughts about their marriage. He would be seen as the savior even more so than Joe, who Elana’d said had vowed to get to the bottom of it.
At the moment, Thom alone could turn the tides in his favor. But he had to play his cards right.
Thom turned off the jets of the rain shower and stepped out of the glass-enclosed stall, grabbed a towel from the heated rack and tied the towel around his waist. He had a client to meet in a bit more than an hour—an older businessman who was interested in seeing some corporate office space to expand his import/export business.
Thom had to applaud his father. Thirty years earlier Samuel Scott had been a lowly leasing agent, renting walk-up apartments in Brooklyn. But he knew that was not his destiny. He’d convinced his wife to move with him to California and make a new life.
In two years’ time, he’d opened his own real estate office, with his wife as his first employee. They worked the business together, and she returned to school to get her degree in interior design. She did all the staging of the homes. Now Scott and Associates was the premiere real estate business in the state, with agents and brokers and offices from San Francisco to LA. Recently, his father had been talking about opening an office on the East Coast and had hinted that he wanted Thom to oversee that operation. That would mean uprooting his life and everything he’d grown accustomed to, and there was no telling if Elana would even go along with something like that. The only bright spot he could envision in that scenario was that he would be hundreds of miles away from his greatest temptation.
Thom wiped the steam from the mirror with a towel. His hazy image gradually took shape. He braced his palms on the sink and
stared at his reflection. His parents had been married for forty years, partners in life and in business. Could he possibly stay with Elana that long? He didn’t know how he could do it.
Keeping that part of himself in the dark was made a bit easier, as long as he lived alone. He took risks from time to time, but always far from home—never on his own turf or where he might be recognized. He’d grown tired of the one-night stands, not to mention the fear of being caught. At some point someone would recognize him, and he couldn’t let that happen.
He’d fought down his urges and focused on Elana and being married, but spending time alone with Rafe, though brief, had reignited his buried desires. Over the years he’d always been so careful when he was around Rafe. If anything, he tried to keep his distance, so as not to give away how he really felt. His friendship with Elana provided the perfect cover. Throughout school or just hanging out, Elana was always there. No one ever questioned Thom being at Casa Cat. Yet his access to the family also gave him access to Rafe—at least from a distance. He didn’t want to read anything into the things Rafe seemed to be hinting at while they shared a drink. It was probably more wishful thinking on his part than reality. Rafe never gave the slightest indication that he was interested in anything beyond being friends.
Thom sighed heavily. The weight of this dual life was getting to him. More and more he found himself weakening, and now was not the time for slipups. He was too close to getting what he needed and what his father wanted.
Then an idea formed. Maybe he should take a page right out of his father’s playbook. His parents were successful because they did things together, for a single purpose. Their success was built on their individual strengths working as one unit. If he told Elana what he knew, what he’d overheard, and swore her to secrecy until the right time, they could form their own bond—something they could build on. He could do this.