Читать книгу Secrets Of The A-List Complete Collection, Episodes 1-12 - Cat Schield - Страница 24

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 Fixer 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.

“Who would? It’s not the kind of thing you can prepare for!” Thom said, and again, that impatience was back.

“Exactly! And everyone understands that! No one’s going to question us for putting the wedding on hold.”

“For how long, Elana?” he asked quietly, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her forward. He was so slim. At least, compared to Jarrod he was.

“I don’t know!” And her voice was husky with tears. “Until he’s better.”

“And if he doesn’t get better?” Thom murmured, his eyes scanning her face. “I’m sorry, Elana. I want Harrison to pull through this, but let’s get real. He was in a serious car accident. We have to accept that...”

“Then we’ll cross that bridge when we...when he...if we have to.”

He nodded, but his mind was ticking over. Elana could see the thoughts dancing across his expression. She looked away.

“You don’t want to marry me.” The statement swirled into the room and began to buzz toward Elana. Be honest, a voice inside her chanted. Say the words! But immediately she could visualize the faces of her family. Her mother’s weary acceptance that Elana had done exactly what she’d feared. Her brothers’ smug smiles. Well, Luc’s, at least. Rafe had always seemed a little less supportive of the whole idea. Maybe if she left Thom she’d just be proving him right. Maybe Rafe knew she wasn’t cut out for this.

She was the Marshall misfit, and marrying Thom was her way to shake free of that reputation. Even it meant wearing a white dress and pinning a bright smile on her face. “Of course I do.” She impressed herself with how genuine she came across. “I was only thinking we should wait.”

“Now, more than ever, we need something to look forward to.” Thom visibly relaxed. “If he’s better, he’ll be there. And if not? Your family has something to celebrate.”

And Elana would be the odd one out—miserable as they cheered.

“Okay.” Her smile was heavy. “You’re right. Of course you’re right. We’ll get married as planned.”

* * *

Casa Cat stood like a proud beacon of normality.

It was a beautiful home. A place both she and Harrison adored, with its sprawling lawns and glistening swimming pools, the arched walkways that led to the main house and the wisteria that tumbled enthusiastically along one side, giving a burst of green that glowed golden as the sun kissed it.

She wished she could take courage from its familiar bearing, but it almost seemed to be mocking her on that morning. The happy memories were at odds with the doubts and confusion that dogged her.

Harrison had trusted someone, someone close to him, to make strange deals on his behalf. Joe? Someone else? Either of her sons could have been working with Harrison in this side enterprise. And her daughter?

It was the first genuine smile Mariella had formed all day. Elana? A secret genius? A brilliant business mastermind? A problem solver? Please. Elana’s idea of solving a problem was to wrap it in a sparkly minidress, douse it in prosecco and dance with it until the small hours of the morning. At least in her daughter Mariella could be confident that what she saw was exactly what she was getting.

The ringing of her phone interrupted the direction of her thoughts. For the briefest moment, she imagined pulling it from her pocket and pitching it across the lawn, skittling it into the swimming pool and watching it sink right to the very bottom. Buried by water, would her problems go away?

It was a weak, futile imagining, one not worthy of Mariella. She braced for whatever news was to come and stared down at the screen. The sight of Gabe’s picture provided a welcome reprieve.

“Hi, querido,” she responded with genuine warmth.

“How are you?”

She fluttered her eyes shut, taking comfort from the inquiry that came from his very good, very loyal heart. With Harrison sidelined and his own actions in all this unclear, she knew without a minute’s doubt that Gabe was the one person she could trust.

He was hers and always had been. They were kindred spirits, two of the Santiagos who’d both been wounded by the same person. They’d banded together, and she had loved him like her own child.

“Fine.” A lie. She was the farthest from fine she’d been in a very long time.

“Good. You have to keep strong, Tía. It’s what Uncle Harrison would expect.”

She bit back the sharp retort that she wasn’t too sure she cared much about what her husband wanted at that moment. It wasn’t a fair assessment, in any event. She had loved her husband with all her heart for a very long time. Surely Harrison deserved the benefit of the doubt? A chance to explain for himself? Once he was better, he’d fix all this. Wouldn’t he?

“Gabe? Was Harrison doing any business in China? Hong Kong, perhaps?” she asked.

There was a long pause, and she imagined Gabe pulling his hand through his dark hair. “Not that I am aware of,” he said eventually. And then he moved on, changing the subject easily. “Listen, Tía, I didn’t want to bother you with this. But she was insistent.”

“Who? What’s going on?”

“Veronica Waterhouse,” he said in a tone that Mariella instantly understood. Mention of the woman drove thoughts of the phone number from her mind. The society dame who’d been making their lives a living hell ever since her darling granddaughter had become engaged to Chester Jameson III. “She’s insisting on speaking to you personally. I can handle it, though. I just have to at least look like I’m checking in with you,” he said with a detectable eye roll in his tone.

The woman was infuriating, but she was also a key player in the social scene, and the wedding of Katherine to Chester would be sensational. The press attention alone made it worth putting up with any number of diva requests. The guest list would be the crème de la crème. It was not the time to risk upsetting such a high-profile client. “No, Gabe. I’ll come down.”

“There’s no need—”

“Yes, there is,” she interjected. “You just said Harrison would have wanted us to be strong. Well, he’d sure as hell want to know his business was running as usual.” A fine line formed between her eyes as she mentally clarified, legitimate business. “Now, more than ever, it’s vital that we don’t drop the ball. People will be looking for cracks. I’m going to rely on you even more than usual. Together, we’ll keep this show on the road. Okay?”

“You know I’m here for you, Mariella,” he murmured, and she smiled.

“I’ll be there soon. Get her a cocktail. A strong one.”

Gabe laughed as he disconnected the call. Mariella moved through the grounds quickly, already mentally bracing for the conversation.

Of course, it would mean delaying her visit to the clinic. Should that have upset her? Worried her? It didn’t. Mariella imagined walking into the room, seeing Harrison, and uncertainty bubbled through her. She loved him, and she wanted him to be well again, but dread accompanied that possibility, too, for they would need to talk when he was well, and Mariella was almost certain she wouldn’t want to hear the truth.

He needed her, though. Until she knew for sure just what other business he’d been involved in, she wasn’t going to desert him.

A few more hours, and then she’d go to see him.

She couldn’t put it off indefinitely. He was her husband, after all.

* * *

“Jim Avon?”

The news anchor was just as expected. Handsome in a Hollywood way, like he spent a little too much time and money on maintaining his look. Caramel pants rolled up to reveal slim ankles and loafers, a shirt tucked in at the waist, and a red string on one wrist. Was it a religious detail or an affectation to a trend?

The Fixer had never had much time for vanity, especially not in men.

“Yeah.” Jim was nervous. His voice was thick with adrenaline and anxiety. The Fixer could practically smell it wafting off the reporter. The moment Jim’s eyes landed on Harrison, a sense of anger at the intrusion almost made the Fixer regret this move.

But it was essential.

The Fixer needed to take control of the reporting. Harrison would have wanted that.

“What the hell?” Jim took three more steps into the room, and the Fixer moved to block access to the bed.

“That’s close enough.”

“This is a damned waste of my time,” he grunted, his eyes seemingly unable to lift from Harrison’s body.

“Why do you say that?” A simple question, delivered with a face lacking expression.

“This guy’s comatose. Look at him.”

“He’s resting.” The Fixer was dismissive.

“Resting?” Jim scoffed. “Come on.” Harrison’s face was pale, but for the dark purple bruises that covered one side of him. His body looked lifeless.

“Resting,” the Fixer emphasized, knowing the dislike was obvious and not caring. “But when you leave here, you’ll be able to report back to your bosses that you had a nice in-depth conversation with him.”

“You’re shitting me.” The reporter laughed, a sound that was incongruous with the worry knitted tight to the Fixer.

“No. I’m not shitting you.”

“You’re actually asking me to fabricate a story?”

“Oh, that’s a pessimistic way to look at it.” The Fixer bared some teeth. “I’d prefer you to see that I’m giving you an opportunity.”

“To wreck my career by going on air with a lie? You drag me down here to look at what might as well be the cadaver of Harrison Marshall and expect me to go on air and lie about it? Yeah, right. I’d last about three seconds.”

“I’m giving you an opportunity to save yourself.”

The words were different from those said before, but the Fixer had issued a variation on them enough times to understand the effect they had. The threat that was implied in their soft, passive utterance.

“From what?” Defiance was bravado; the Fixer had Jim’s attention and they both knew it.

“You know—” The Fixer was in the zone now. The game was about the subtle lingering of a finger on a button at the right time. The adversary in the game always had to believe the Fixer was willing to press down on it—the threat was more useful than the deed, quite often. “I think there are greater threats to your career than a harmless stretching of the truth.”

Jim’s breath was coming in loud spurts. “Such as?”

No matter how many things fixed, this never got old. “That kinky little affair you’ve got going with the underage daughter of your network’s major shareholder?” The Fixer’s head shook slowly from side to side, tut-tutting with the appearance of sympathy. “How would your boss feel? Your network? Your wife? Not to mention law enforcement. What a shame it would be to see your promising career cut off at the knees like that, when here you stand, potentially on the brink of a major professional breakthrough.” The Fixer’s smile was wolfish. “I’d hate to see you make the wrong decision.”

Jim Avon was shocked; it emanated from every line of his body. He was now pale enough to rival Harrison’s pallor. “ I... It’s not like that.”

“Oh, really?” The Fixer laughed. “Walk out of here, then.” Closing the distance between them easily, the Fixer’s face was now within an inch of the anchorman’s. “I dare you.”

The Fixer could hear Jim swallow and could smell adrenaline firing off his flesh. People really were transparent. A few bad decisions in life and someone, somewhere, had a loaded gun ready to fire. Not the Fixer, though. Because the Fixer didn’t make mistakes. Ever.

“You can’t do this.” It was a common enough refrain to bore the Fixer. Even after hearing it many times, the Fixer had foolishly expected better of this one.

“A theory I’m happy for you to test.”

Their eyes met, but not for long. Jim looked away quickly, his gaze shifting to Harrison’s weak frame. The Fixer resented the intrusion. Harrison deserved better than to have this lecherous pervert spying on him like this. But the means were justified. The sooner the media backed off, the better.

The Fixer could see Jim relenting. Yes, he was close to accepting the predicament he found himself in.

Just one last nudge should bring it over the line. Hit hard then offer relief. “I have no desire to ruin your life. You are of very little concern to me. When you walk out of this hospital, so long as you do what I need, you’ll never hear from me again. You can continue your...affair.” The Fixer said the word with distaste. “Though I would encourage you to think better of bedding someone young enough to be your daughter.”

A muscle jerked in Jim’s weak jaw. “Are you lecturing me at the same time as blackmailing me?”

“Yes.”

Jim drew in a deep breath; the bald-faced admission had apparently surprised him. Unsettled him, too, for how could he doubt the Fixer’s intentions? “So, what? I do this and we become best friends or something?”

The Fixer laughed, a low, soft sound that sent a shiver radiating along Jim’s spine. “I don’t have friends.” The voice was gravelly. “But you’d better believe I have enemies. I’d urge you to avoid becoming one of them.”