Читать книгу Secrets Of The A-List - Clare Connelly - Страница 7

Chapter One

The voice seemed to be coming from a long way away, as if she were at the bottom of the ocean and someone was calling to her from the shore.

“Mariella! Mariella! You must wake up.”

But she didn’t want to wake up. Memories were leaden clouds on the edges of her mind. Something unpleasant hovered at the periphery, and subconsciously she knew that stirring would mean facing it. And she didn’t want to do that.

“Wake up!”

The sound of a door being pushed open punctuated her sleep, and then she was being shaken, roughly, her shoulders gripped by determined hands. She startled, her eyes flying open.

The housekeeper, Vanessa, hovered above her, her dark hair in an unusual state of disarray, as though she, too, had been woken by the strange noises that were bouncing through Casa de Catalina.

The middle of the night surrounded them, but it offered little protection. “I tried to keep them away. I told them you were asleep.”

Mariella shook her head, and reached up, wrapping her fingers around her housekeeper’s wrist. She dislodged the grip Vanessa had on Mariella’s shoulder but kept ahold of the young woman’s hand. “Told who I was asleep?”

“The men. They’re coming. They’re coming to get you!”

Mariella’s lips curved downward in an unmistakable sign of bemusement, but there was a loud noise from just outside her bedroom. It came out of nowhere, like a hurricane that had dropped on a hay plain. “Mariella Santiago-Marshall.” A man in a dark suit entered the room and waved a flashlight around dramatically, despite the fact that a light switch was right beside him. “Stay where you are.”

She pulled at the crisp white bedsheet, lifting it up to her chin with one hand while the other held Vanessa’s, now out of fear rather than a desire to comfort the domestic.

But she was Mariella Santiago-Marshall, and powerful blood pounded through her veins. Fear was something she would not debase herself by expressing. Not to these strangers who had seen fit to invade her home.

“Like hell I will,” she muttered under her breath before assuming a mask of total control. “Perhaps you gentlemen would like to tell me just what is going on?”

The man who’d walked in first approached the bed. Unwanted fear slammed against Mariella. There was evil in his face. She didn’t trust him. She didn’t want him in her house or anywhere near her. Why hadn’t Vanessa been able to cope with this and get rid of them all? And where was Harrison?

Darkness cloyed at her throat as she thought of her husband. The presentiment of disaster hovered nearer.

“We have a warrant to search the premises.”

“A warrant?” Adrenaline spiked the taste of salt and aluminum in her mouth. “Whatever for?”

“Links between your family and the Fixer.”

The Fixer.

Her stomach contracted as the ominous name slammed through her consciousness.

“I don’t know anything about the Fixer,” she said, dropping the bedsheet and pushing to standing. Vanessa hovered beside her, and Mariella took comfort from her proximity, though the woman was slight and looked almost as terrified as Mariella felt.

The man’s smile was supercilious. Mariella’s manicured fingers itched to slap it off his face. “That’s what we’re here to determine, ma’am.”

It was the ma’am that did it. The way it was spoken with such contempt. “No.” Mariella was used to being listened to. In her business, when she wanted something, she got it. And usually ten times over.

Her impact wasn’t lessened by the current circumstances. The men who were engaged in searching her drawers, pulling shoe boxes out of her wardrobe and tossing them carelessly onto the carpeted floor, and even the ones on their bellies, scrambling under the bed, paused to give Mariella their attention.

“No,” she repeated, with a quietness to her tone that was more powerful than a scream might have been. “You will not be in my bedroom. Not now. I don’t care what that piece of paper says. Until my lawyers have seen it, you are not to be here.”

The man’s smile grew wider. “I don’t think you understand. You don’t have any rights here. This gives me all the rights. All the power. I can do whatever I want.”

“No, you can’t,” she responded, her cheeks slashed with color. “Get out now.”

His laugh was her tipping point. A soft sound, it felt like blades were being drawn across her back. She launched at him, pushing his chest hard. It felt good! Pent-up emotions were powering out of her palms, hitting him hard, and she pushed until he connected with the wall opposite.

The man let her push him. His eyes locked to hers as she hit him again and then flicked over her shoulder. She lifted her hand, ready to slap him hard across the face, but her wrist was caught in a viselike grip. Her other followed, and the unfamiliar sensation of cold handcuffs being snapped around her flesh curdled her blood.

What the hell was going on?

“That, Mrs. Santiago-Marshall, is called obstruction of justice.” His smarmy smile was back. “And you’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent...”

She froze, the last minute of her life playing out like a horror show before her eyes. What had just happened? What was going on? Sleep was pulling at her, begging her back to bed, to blot out the rest of the world.

“If you cannot afford an attorney...”

The words droned on without properly registering. She’d watched enough bad cop shows to know the Miranda rights by heart.

“Vanessa—” A husky sound. “Vanessa. You need to find Harrison. Harrison? Harrison! Harrison, help me!”

The knocking was back. Louder now. Where was it coming from?

“Mariella? Are you okay?”

Vanessa’s voice through the closed door rang with concern. Disoriented, Mariella could only stare at her bedroom. It was empty. No shoe boxes strewn over the floor. No detectives wriggling under the bed looking for evidence of her wrongdoing. The nightmare was swallowed by reality, but her heart was still hammering in her chest like a hangover of the fear that had knifed her final few moments of rest.

Her fingertips drifted across the bed on autopilot, seeking the source of her comfort for the last thirty-two years. Whatever she’d faced in life, Harrison had faced it with her.

He wasn’t there.

She lifted shaking fingers to her lips as the memories that had been tormenting her sleep began to order themselves in her mind. Truth sifted itself out of the dream state, and reality crystallized.

“I heard shouting.” Vanessa pushed the door inward. Unlike the Vanessa who’d appeared in the nightmare, the housekeeper was now as immaculate as ever, her curvaceous figure in uniform, her hair swirled into a neat bun at the nape of her neck. Vanessa’s eyes moved through the room and then landed back on Mariella.

“You’re mistaken,” Mariella said, her dark eyes clashing with Vanessa’s.

Vanessa frowned. “I’m sure I heard—”

“No.” Mariella’s smile was perfunctory, and Vanessa took the hint after a small hesitation. “Everything’s fine.” It wasn’t, though. Harrison! Grief was as tight about her heart as the dream handcuffs had been on her wrists.

“I’m sorry for the intrusion, then.” A hint of frustration came across in the abrupt delivery of Vanessa’s apology.

Mariella waved a slim hand in the air. “Don’t worry about it. It’s morning now anyway. Time I was awake.” She had a day to face. A day that she somehow knew would be one of the hardest of her life.

“Would you like anything?”

Peace. Quiet. To find that this, too, had been a dream. Her eyes drifted to his side of the bed. A sob was rising in her chest, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to let anyone see her cry.

“Coffee,” she said with a tight nod. “Thank you.” It was a curt directive, and the message was clear. Get out.

“My darling,” Mariella whispered into the room as the door clicked shut. Her eyes fluttered closed and the image of Harrison as he’d been in hospital was right there. His powerful body almost lifeless. His tall frame long in the hospital bed. Wires protruding from his arms and chest, eyes closed. The background noise of machinery and technology.

The way the sun had filtered across his face—now, in hindsight, she didn’t see the sun so much as the shadows it cast.

A shiver ran the length of her spine, and she pushed her feet out of bed, planting them on the thick carpet and standing in an effort to stave off the coldness she was feeling.

He had to be okay.

He had to rally.

He had to!

The possibility of living her life without Harrison loomed like a cavern that she couldn’t enter. They were a team, a partnership.

More than just husband and wife, they were friends and colleagues. Her strengths were his, and vice versa. When she balked at a challenge, he had her back, and she knew how to encourage him through anything. He was her everything.

But had she been his?

She crossed the room, stopping at one of the windows that overlooked the sprawling estate. It was still early; the sky had hints of pink and purple, reluctant to give up their purview to the blueness of the daytime sky. It was a losing battle. Dawn could never triumph over day.

Mariella confided in Harrison about almost everything. Up until yesterday, she would have said the same of him. She would have sworn until she was blue in the face, and on the lives of her children, that she and Harrison had no secrets. Had she been wrong?

“In certain circles, this person is called the Fixer.” Such a confusing statement that had, at the time, made Mariella impatient with Joe. Only their years of friendship and an affection born of loyalty had kept her quiet after the strange statement, giving him the respect of explaining what the hell he’d been talking about.

The Fixer.

How she’d already come to hate those words! That her husband had a secret business that sounded distinctly unsavory was a truth that kept detonating through her mind. If she’d had any doubts about Joe’s information, the bank account statement had served to support his assertion.

Harrison had a fortune—and not a small one—that he’d kept from his own wife. Not by accident, either, in that way that could be explained by how busy they were. He had created an offshore account in his own name. He had steadfastly failed to mention it to Mariella. And, in the meantime, it had been filled with a hundred million dollars. Where had it all come from? And why had he kept it secret from her, of all people?

Only one reason seemed to make sense, and it was unpalatable as it was frightening.

Harrison Marshall had become involved in something bad. Something dangerous. Something illegal? If that were the case, he would have moved heaven and earth to keep his wife from being implicated. She could see goodness in his motives; she knew Harrison too well to doubt that.

Damn him! Why would he do such a thing? They had more money than they knew what to do with. Power, too, and prestige to boot. Why would he get involved with this mysterious Fixer? What could he have thought he stood to gain?

Her eyes skimmed the room. No signs of the dream remained. It was calm.

Almost as though her body was working independently of her mind, she walked to their wardrobe and stepped inside. The lingering hint of Harrison was a punch in the face. She groaned softly, running her fingers over one of his shirts, starched and ready for him to slip into. She unclipped it from the hanger and pulled it closer, pressing her nose into the folds and inhaling deeply. Something made a papery sound, and she pulled away.

Her heart was speeding up. Did it know something she didn’t?

A knotty web of secrets was wrapping around her; she could feel it even as she tried to believe everything would be okay.

Who was the Fixer? The question was a loop in her mind.

She ran her hands over the sleeves and heard it again. The unmissable sound of crinkling. With a frown, and ignoring a strong temptation to close her eyes against whatever she might see, she felt into the pocket.

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.