Secrets Of The A-List

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And laughed.

A hollow cackle into the small room.

The dry cleaning receipt, that was all.

She clutched the shirt in her hand and kept moving, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears as she stared at his clothes, all hanging like dutiful servants, awaiting their master’s return.

His collection of watches—Blancpain, Chopard, Patek Philippe.

He’d collected them obsessively for years. He’d never said it, but Mariella had known what it meant to him, to look down and see such an obvious statement of success attached to him.

Harrison wasn’t like her. He hadn’t been born to wealth. He had worked his ass off to achieve what he had. He was cautious with his affection; though he had the air of a charming sophisticate, it was a veneer, really. He knew how to please people, but if you watched him carefully, you could see that he kept everyone at arm’s length.

A knock sounded at the door, followed by the tap-tap of Vanessa’s feet as she crossed the room. “Coffee, Mrs. Santiago-Marshall!” The words came to Mariella as they had in a dream, as if from a mile away.

She shook herself, replaced the shirt, and emerged from the wardrobe with the kind of expression on her face that made it impossible for anyone to ask if she was okay, even when she suspected she might not be.

She took the coffee without meeting Vanessa’s gaze. She barely registered the other woman’s presence.

Harrison trusted few people in life. Her. Joe. Their children and Gabe. And now the Fixer. Uncertainty paved a path to realization.

Harrison trusted the Fixer more than he did his own wife. Which could only mean that he knew the Fixer well. Very well.

* * *

Every network was running the same two images: a photo of Harrison standing at the top of a flight of stairs, his arms crossed over his chest, his smile radiating confidence. They’d pulled it from the Marshall International website.

The Fixer had never liked the photo.

It showed Harrison as a magnate, but he was so much more than that. He was a multifaceted man, and the Fixer understood all of those facets. It was the Fixer’s business to do so.

The second image flashed on the screen—a still from the fistfight Luc and Rafe had indulged in outside the hospital.

Jockeying for Position? The headline shouted from the top of the screen in dramatic yellow writing.

Of all the foolhardy, juvenile, disrespectful acts, this had to take the cake. Didn’t they realize how important it was to maintain an image of family unity?

Harrison was lying comatose in a hospital, his life in limbo, and his sons were acting like spoiled brats.

Flicking the channel once more, the Fixer made a sound of disapproval. The writing on the crawl at the bottom of the screen had the Fixer dropping the remote and leaning forward, breath rushing out in one swift exhalation.

Marshall Dead?

The image of Harrison was back, but they’d cropped it so you saw only his face now. The Fixer scrambled for the remote, lifting it off the floor and hitting the mute button so the volume came back on.

“A day after an unexplained car wreck, speculation is mounting about the health of billionaire restaurateur Harrison Marshall, with several unconfirmed sources reporting that far from recuperating in intensive care, the magnate didn’t survive the initial impact of the crash.” The station cut to a sweeping overhead shot of the crash scene, and the Fixer leaned forward, eyes drawn to the crumpled wreckage of Harrison’s car.

How the hell he had survived was a mystery, given the damage to his vehicle. It was shrapnel against the cliff. Shards of metal and glass spread like confetti in its wake.

“The news has caused concern in the finance sector, as the world braces for the loss of this titan of industry. One thing we do know for certain is that Harrison Marshall’s shoes are impossible to fill—for anyone.”

The Fixer’s anger was a palpating rage. The inference that his death only had implications for the financial sector! What a stupid story to run. The Fixer switched the television off and stood restlessly.

The Fixer’s phone was across the room. It took only a minute to decide whom to call, using the dedicated “business” line with voice distortion software installed, and a moment longer to find that person’s private cell phone number.

“Jim Avon.” The voice was a deep rumble, just as it sounded on television.

The Fixer didn’t do niceties nor introductions. “The reports about Harrison Marshall are wrong. He’s not dead.”

A pause, weighted with speculative curiosity. “Who is this?”

“Who I am is not what you should be asking right now.”

Another long pause. The Fixer’s smile was a cold imitation of the gesture. The Fixer face wore a mask of determination; do whatever it took. Harrison would want to control this situation. More than his family and Joe, the Fixer understood what Harrison would want.

“How did you get this number?”

“Another question that does you no credit.” The Fixer paused a moment to let the condemnation sink in. “Harrison Marshall is very much alive.”

“Alive?” Jim Avon spluttered the word. “How do you know? Who are you?”

The Fixer ignored the news anchor. “I’m offering you an exclusive interview to prove it.” A pause. Timing was everything. “Your next question should be where to meet me and when.”

The journalist, well enough known to carry weight, not yet successful enough to allow common sense to override ambition, said, “Fine. When and where?”

The Fixer took a deep breath. A long day loomed ahead, and the Fixer suspected there’d be a lot of fires to put out before it was done.

Chapter Two (#ua6a48a61-d260-59d2-98de-d082ea3ef3a2)

Harrison’s home office was right beside hers, separated only by a library. Mariella rarely bothered her husband while he worked. He had offices in most of their restaurants, and he conducted a lot of business from his car. When he chose to lock himself away in his home office, she left him to it. Lord knew she had enough of her own business to attend to.

Curiosity moved her toward the door now. She threw a glance over her shoulder, half expecting Harrison to appear out of nowhere. He’d never told her to stay out, she defended, still feeling like the worst kind of snoop.

What choice have you left me?

She spun the handle and pushed the door inward. There it was again. Harrison was in the air, his subtle, masculine fragrance just a hint that she caught because she’d spent her life loving everything about him.

She groaned. It was a visceral sense of loss that sharply assaulted her, plunging into her heart like a knife. His absence in the space that was so uniquely him renewed her profound awareness of the perilous situation he faced.

His tenuous link to life was one she wished she could strengthen. Other than relying on the doctors at Whispering Oaks, she was powerless.

Whispering Oaks. Her lips tightened as she remembered the place her husband had been mysteriously removed to. The infuriatingly evasive Dr. Malone, who, while he might have been world leading in his field, lacked the answers and assurances Mariella had sought.

Had the Fixer been given more information than Mariella? Did the Fixer have more of an insight into Harrison’s situation than she did? It was galling, to say the least. An unsavory idea that, twenty-four hours ago, she wouldn’t have entertained.

Now?

Mystery upon mystery flared inside her.

Harrison’s car accident had been sudden. There would have been no time to tidy up loose ends and hide his business from her.

It stood to reason that if there was a smoking gun in his life about the kind of work he was doing on the side, she’d find it here, in the room where he had spent so much of his time.

The garish painting of a red ocean washing over a purple shoreline drew her concentration, and though she despised the work, it brought an aching smile to her lips. She couldn’t call it art, despite the fact that the woman who’d created it had exhibited at the Tate Modern in London. It was a vile creation. Ugly and vulgar.

Harrison had hated it, too, but when it had come up for sale at the auction at Sotheby’s, he’d seen Lord Elliot Golding bidding wildly for the piece. Harrison couldn’t stand to let the pompous British hedge fund manager take the piece home—not after referring to Harrison’s signature soufflé as dry and flat.

He’d paid a fortune for the horrible thing, and he’d insisted on hanging it here, in his office, where he could look at it every day and remind himself how good it felt to win.

The smile dropped off her face; a grimace took over.

Providence and penance had been playing on her mind all morning, since the nightmare that had disturbed her sleep so vividly.

Their lives had been charmed. Too charmed?

Had Harrison paid the price for all the riches they’d received? Had the karmic wheel of justice decided it had paid too nicely for the Marshall family and that it was time to start calling in some favors?

Dios mío. A chill ran down her spine, slowly, menacingly.

She was getting swept away.

Mariella had breached the sanctuary of Harrison’s office for a reason—to search for more information. On the bank account, the Fixer.

On your husband, a little voice taunted from the recesses of her mind.

She ignored the voice and strode purposefully into the room, deeper, closer, pretending that she wasn’t doing something Harrison would resent.

She tapped her fingers on the edge of his desk, her eyes roaming over the stacks of books and papers that were piled high in two corners. She’d glimpsed these piles for months—when he occasionally left the door open and she breezed past, they’d been there like sentinels beckoning him to work.

They took on a new meaning now, and she pushed them over, not caring about the mess she made. Books, pages, magazines and an iPad fell to the carpeted floor. She knelt down, her fingers working feverishly to sort through each item. So many menus from all over the world—their restaurants and others.

Photos, but all of food. She smiled, remembering that frustrating penchant Harrison had for “snapping flavor,” as he’d called it.

Letters of offer on properties; she knew about each of those. The more she looked, the more she realized that Harrison had shared so much with her. There was nothing to indicate a secret life!

Perhaps Joe had gotten it wrong?

She moved around the desk to the computer and pressed the on switch. It pinged open straight away. Harrison had four passwords he cycled between; she put in each of them, and the fourth made the screen load up with icons.

“Got it.” She unplugged the laptop and moved to the Eames recliner in the corner of his office. Though they’d bought two, he’d only wanted one in his office.

“No one ever comes in here,” he’d pointed out simplistically. “The second would just be an expensive coatrack.”

Mariella sat down, trying not to think about the way the leather headrest had a depression from Harrison’s frequent occupation. Her finger moved over the mouse, clicking into files, opening emails, and her frown deepened.

Nothing. Nada. It was all as she’d expect. A lot of emails about their businesses—concise and cutting at times, but then, that was Harrison. He didn’t suffer fools gladly.

She opened up his calendar as a last resort, and her heart churned painfully to see his days come to life before her eyes.

Golf with Joe, 7:00 a.m.

Gabe—lunch.

Follow up city approvals—London.

Rafe meeting re: Vegas restaurant, 6:00 p.m.

SB Club menu tasting 2:00 p.m.

Luc—lunch.

Call Elana 3:00 p.m.

It was all further proof of his dedication to his family. There was nothing in here that showed he had a separate life. Nothing here to make her doubt her husband’s loyalty.

Large patches were blocked out for his trips, but these she knew about, too. Paris, where he was scouting a new restaurant that would rival Le Jules Verne for uniqueness and prestige. New York, where they had invested in their first share of a high-end dining and entertainment complex and he’d been more involved of late.

She was about to click out of the calendar when a single entry caught her eye, mainly because it didn’t make sense.

“After five,” was the caption, and in the more-information tab, she saw only a string of numbers.

Her stomach lurched; curiosity giving way to doubt. Was this the clue she’d been looking for? She dug her teeth into her lip, her mind spinning through possibilities as one might fiddle the lock on a safe.

Was this another bank account? She counted the numbers and shook her head. No, that wasn’t right. Offshore accounts tended to have really lengthy account identifiers.

And there was a ‘plus’ sign before the number.

Her pulse was raging so hard and fast she could hear it in her ears, pounding like the ocean in the midst of a storm.

On autopilot she reached for her phone and dialed the numbers on a hunch. She pressed the green button and waited.

Sure enough, the bleep-bleep-bleep sound informed her that the call was being placed over great distance.

It rang then, a muted, robotic noise, flatter than the call sounds she was used to.

Finally, after what felt like a very long time, a man’s voice answered.

He spoke in a foreign language. Mandarin? Cantonese? Mariella couldn’t tell. She opened her mouth to say something, but he pushed on. It was an answering machine.