Secrets Of The A-List Box Set, Volume 3

Teresa St. Claire, the wedding planner and MSM team member, looked refreshingly different in a dress despite her customary headset attached.

A few of the women from the handful of specially selected charities who she hadn’t been able to not invite, despite despising them.

Gossipmongers and carrion lovers. One or two were even brazen enough to openly gossip about her, their rabid eyes fixed on her and Joe as they sipped the vintage Krug Clos d’Ambonnay and nibbled on Iranian Almas caviar on crackers she’d provided.

She should care about the gossip.

She should create some distance between herself and Joe, or she risked inviting the kind of speculation she couldn’t afford right now, when her whole world seemed to be poised on the edge of an abyss.

She would.

As soon as the song ended.

* * *

Look at them, gliding around in their ten-thousand-dollar dresses and priceless diamonds. Self-absorbed. Pampered and primped and made to think they were kings and queens. Not a care in the world.

The urge to bare her teeth and scream out her secret rose like a tidal wave within Nora. She could march onto that dance floor right now, drop her grenade in the middle of their snobbish existence and watch their world detonate.

And why not?

Harrison, the handsome fool, deserved it for abandoning her. Would she feel an ounce of remorse?

Absolument pas.

They all deserved it.

She didn’t doubt that each and every one of them would look down their fake noses at her if they knew who she was and what she’d been to their precious Harrison. He kept her tucked away at home in Paris like some dirty little secret.

Nora suppressed a bitter laugh. No, she didn’t plan on remaining a secret much longer. As for being little...well, her bump would tell its own tale in time.

A waiter walked past bearing a tray of the golden caviar Nora had only read about in Marie Claire and on Billionaire.com. Since her arrival at the reception, dozens of trays of the stuff had been carted around as if it cost nothing, except she knew the true cost of the world’s most expensive caviar. These people treated it like nothing when one mouthful could pay her rent for a month! Not that she’d ever paid rent. Since she’d turned sixteen, her many lovers always cared for her. And Harrison was no different. Until he walked out a few months ago, leaving her future uncertain...

She flicked her hand out to stop the waiter as he would’ve walked past her. For an instant he looked startled to see her standing there, in the shadows beside the delicate cake tree bearing three hundred cupcakes frosted with edible twenty-four-carat-gold leaf.

“I’m so sorry, ma’am, I didn’t see you there,” he blurted, confirming her suspicions.

She waved his apology away, took her time to spoon a heap of the expensive gold onto a delicate cracker, then flicked her hand in dismissal.

As he hurried away, she turned back to observe her quarry, musing on how best to strike for maximum effect and maximum gain. With a smile, she placed the cracker on her tongue, let the flavor of success suffuse her senses.

Her hand dropped to rub her bump. “Very soon, mon cher enfant, this will become our daily staple.”

* * *

Vanessa smiled as the band struck up a more up-tempo beat. The waltzes and slow smooch songs were fine for a bit, but while she’d thoroughly enjoyed the Cinderella dreaminess of it, the dancer in her preferred music that heated her blood and spoke to her soul. Even in this dress that cost more than she would earn in a year, even feeling as she did today—like a fairy-tale princess granted one night’s reprieve from drudgery—she couldn’t deny who she was. Or what she was.

Tomorrow would come soon enough, and with it the uniform that announced to whomever she came into contact with just what her role was within the esteemed Marshall household.

But right here, right now, she could pretend she was one of these people.

You are one of them.

She smothered the voice inside her head and smiled wider at her dapperly dressed dance partner.

“Thanks for agreeing to come with me. I’m sorry for the short notice.”

Her date, Bernard Atwater, raised his eyebrows. “Are you kidding? This is one of those times when I’m not ashamed to admit I don’t mind coming second on your list. Although I was a little surprised to hear from you. What happened to your date, anyway? Did she bail on you at the last minute?”

She laughed. “Yes. Her loss is your gain.” Joy had decided at the last minute not to come, preferring to stay back at Casa de Catalina and defy Mariella’s strong hint that she wanted all her staff to be here.

Vanessa got the feeling her absence wouldn’t go down well. One of the mounting set of negative marks the disgruntled chef was accumulating. Fireworks were brewing between her friend and her employer, and Vanessa, for one, wasn’t looking forward to the eruption.

She caught the smitten look in Bernard’s eyes. “You look sensational.” His gaze dropped to subtly brush her cleavage on the way down her body.

She tried to fight the blush that rose in her cheeks and failed miserably. The dress Mariella had lent her fit like a dream. Her jaw had dropped when she’d spotted the label. And she hated to be superficial, but God, the dress made her feel like a million bucks. Finally she was beginning to get why these filthy-rich people looked like they were walking on air all the time. Money certainly gave one a cushion against most things. Not everything, though...

“Thanks. But you don’t need to say things like that,” she murmured.

Bernard smiled. “Why not? It’s true.” He leaned closer. “I know I’m supposed to say the bride is the most beautiful woman in the room, but to be honest, you beat her hands down.”

Vanessa shook her head as she laughed. “Seriously, stop it.” She couldn’t let it go to her head.

Just like she couldn’t let this thing between her and Luc continue.

As if she’d conjured him straight from her imagination, he crossed her line of vision with his woman on his arm. Tall, broad shouldered, suave and elegant, he carried that inherent sophistication all the Marshalls seemed to have been born with so effortlessly, it was almost impossible to overlook him. The laughter dried in her throat, and her whole body stiffened before she could stop the reaction.

“Hey, what’s the matter? Did what I said offend you?” Bernard’s gaze held a touch of contrition.

She hurried to reassure him. “No, not at all. I just...there’s someone here that... I’m trying not to bump into someone and...” She stammered to a halt and hid a grimace.

“Someone like...an ex-boyfriend?” he inquired. His voice was light, but the question in his eyes was serious.

Her heart lurched. She and Luc Marshall could never have a relationship like that. Not that he seemed prepared to take the hint. Even now she could feel his gaze on her. She’d felt the sensation on and off throughout the day. “No. But he’s determined to be...something.” How could she elaborate without giving away her secret?

Bernard frowned. “You’re my date.”

“Yes.”

“Is he watching you?” Bernard pressed.

The question threw her for a moment. “Um...yes. Why do you ask that?”

His grin reappeared along with a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “Well...do you want to send a clear message that we’re together?” he probed as she continued to stare at him.

Her eyes widened, her mind darting in several random directions. Did she? What if she pissed Luc off enough to jeopardize her position at the Marshall household? Her job meant everything to her. She didn’t want to lose it. “Uh... I don’t think...”

“Relax. I’m not suggesting anything risqué. And the last thing I want to do is embarrass you, but I really want to kiss you again.” He leaned forward, and his soft lips were on hers.

Dios mío! He was a good kisser. They’d gone out several times after striking up a conversation over the past six months when he’d started delivering the exclusive brand of bottled water the Marshalls preferred to have on hand at Casa Cat.

Finally coming up for air, Bernard asked, “Do you trust me?”

“Sure,” she answered, slightly breathless.

He laughed. “You could sound a little more convincing, but...look, just go with the flow, okay?”

Vanessa wondered if she wasn’t risking jumping from the frying pan straight into the fire. Before she could make up her mind one way or the other, Bernard dragged her closer, clamped his hand on her hip and began to move to the unmistakable rhythm of a tango.

It was the last thing she’d expected. So much so, her mouth dropped open for an inelegant second before her ingrained rhythm kicked into place. Another second later, she was moving with him and they were flowing together as if they’d been practicing for years.

They cut a swath through the crowd, keeping up with one another’s flicks and kicks as the music pulsed around them.

Halfway through the routine, Bernard grinned. “This is so awesome. I’m so glad the dance lessons my sister forced me to take for her wedding last year are paying off. At the time I was seriously weirded out that I’d have to dance the tango at my sister’s wedding, but now...jackpot!”

The boyish pleasure on his face drew a belly laugh from Vanessa. He joined in a second later, right before he lowered her over his arm in a melodramatic dip.

Around them, heads turned. Vanessa’s smile began to dim as she realized they were drawing multiple stares. Suddenly self-conscious that she might be making a spectacle of herself, her stomach rolled in anxiety, and her fingers tightened in Bernard’s grip. When her next step faltered, he smoothly directed her.

“No, don’t let them get to you. We’re putting on a show, remember?”

She suppressed the urge to bite her lip and took a breath. Gave a small nod.

“That’s my girl,” he breathed in her ear, as he swung her round and carried on dancing.

Again, as if by drawn by the magnet of her mind, there he was right in her direct line of vision. This time he was staring at her with something close to censure in his eyes. As if she’d done something wrong. As if she’d hurt him.

The vise around her heart tightened unbearably. The last thing she wanted was to hurt him. Or any of the Marshalls.

She’d arrived in Santa Barbara five years ago with no money and very little hope except for the mere scraps of information that held her world together. The Marshall family, Mariella especially, had given her a start and elevated her to the status of trusted employee. The secret she held in her heart had the potential to sink all of the mega yachts her employers owned, but until she was sure of her facts, she needed to keep it to herself.

And in this instance, keeping it to herself also meant hurting Luc. It meant letting him think the worst of her. Vanessa swallowed the hurt that rose again. Telling herself this thing had risen out of nowhere and almost immediately gotten out of control was a poor excuse. Although nothing untoward had happened, she should still have nipped it in the bud long before now.

Now the man who, for the moment, could be nothing more than her employer stared at her with condemning eyes. And she had to take it. Because what other choice did she have?

None.

Because what Luc Marshall had no idea of was that if she gave in to his pleas, he was in danger of committing incest with his half sister.

Chapter Two

Elana stepped off the dance floor with Thom, their loosely linked fingers holding them together as they crossed the beautifully decorated room. They stopped every now and then to chat with guests, accept more congratulations and give promises to get together soon with other married couples.

A cynical part of her laughed at the thought. So the women no longer thought her a threat to their marriages now that she herself was married. She supposed that was a plus.

She smiled as her new parents-in-law, Samuel and Caroline Scott, approached them.

“Do you mind terribly if we steal your husband away for a few minutes, my dear? There’s someone I’m dying to introduce him to,” Thom’s mother said with a wide smile, although the steel in her eyes told Elana she wouldn’t be taking no for an answer.

Elana had realized very quickly after first meeting Caroline that she wore the pants in the Scott household.

She nodded gracefully. Although she should’ve felt a little pissed at being excluded, she let it go. All this couplehood was great. Up to a point. She could do with a breather herself, even if this was her wedding. “Not at all. As long as you promise to return him soon.”

“Of course I will,” Caroline laughed. “Promise.”

“Save me another dance, my sweet. I’ll be right back.” Thom drew their fingers to his mouth and kissed her knuckles before he let his parents lead him away.

Elana turned in the opposite direction, relief surging through her as she realized her smile didn’t feel forced anymore. The tension headache that had threatened her earlier had eased considerably. As had that tight band of anxiety and unease that had gripped her for months now. The serious case of prewedding jitters had finally disappeared.

That certainly called for a celebration.

She saw Thom’s tuxedoed personal waiter heading for him with refreshments a second before her own personal waiter, drafted by her mother to serve only her, stopped in front of her with a single glass of champagne set on highly polished sterling silver tray.

Used to beautiful things as she was, Elana should’ve been blasé about the spectacular offer the waiter presented her with. But even she was awed right now as she paused for a moment to study the exquisite cut of the champagne glass and the four impressively large diamonds set within the eighteen-carat-gold stem, and the new name etched into the glass—Elana Marshall-Scott. Elana hadn’t officially decided on her name yet, but she liked how that looked. Decision made. Elana Marshall-Scott. That was now her. She smiled.

She knew how much the stunning piece of glassware cost after overhearing one of her bridesmaids gush over it. Even Elana had to admit she’d been impressed. She also knew there were two security guards dressed as wedding guests keeping an eye on this glass and other priceless pieces her mother had commissioned in order to give Elana the wedding of her dreams.

And it was a beautiful wedding.

That she could finally admit to the fact that she was married, and actually hadn’t ended up in the mental institution in the process of getting to the altar, sent another burst of relief through her.

Those weird moments during the ceremony with Thom’s interruption notwithstanding, everything had gone off without a hitch. She was well and truly, for better or for worse, hitched.

And for once, her mother’s smile was full of pride, with not a hint of the customary quiet despair in sight. In fact, most of the guests here were smiling approvingly.

Power players who used to treat her like an expensive but dumb ornament in the presence of her father, mother and brothers had actually stopped to talk to her like she was a human being with a functioning brain. Sure, it could be because this was her wedding and as guests they were obliged to acknowledge her, but Elana also knew that wouldn’t have stopped those who didn’t feel like acknowledging her if they didn’t want to.

A warm glow welled up within her. Had she stepped into a different class by getting herself respectable? Was this what if it felt like to be deemed responsible?

If so, she’d been an ass to worry so much because, seriously, it wasn’t too bad. In fact, she rather liked it.

She took a sip of her champagne, inhaling with a pleased inner smile. For once, she’d done something right.

She glanced around, basking in the rare moment of peace and quiet. About to raise her glass to take another sip, she paused when her gaze landed on Rafe.

He was seated alone at one of the tables reserved for Thom’s side of the family. The guests in question were on the dance floor, throwing serious shapes to a Bruno Mars number.

Her brother was half a room away from her, but even from that distance, she could tell he was shit-faced. Or making a concerted effort to get there.

She watched him jerk his head at waiter. Seconds later, a fresh bottle of Macallan M was placed before him.

Elana winced. She wasn’t so much worried that her brother was intent on drinking himself under the table with a bottle of whisky worth half a million dollars, more that he was doing it with a drink he’d professed to hate on many occasions. Rafe was strictly a tequila guy.

Making sure to keep the worried frown off her face, she started across the room, smiling her pleasant can’t-stop-to-chat smile at guests who tried to catch her eye.

She arrived in front of Rafe and stood for a good half minute before he raised his head.

He stared her up and down before he raised his glass to her. “My sister, the blushing bride,” he slurred. “No, wait.” He frowned and tilted his head. Or he tried a tilt that wobbled precariously. “You stopped blushing when you were twelve, if I recall. Right after you let Timmy Carson kiss you just so Luc and I would lose the bet that you would never let that acne-faced little twerp touch you in a million years.”

She winced. “Jesus, I could do without that memory. And keep your voice down, Rafe. I may not be your innocent little sister anymore, but I prefer you not air embarrassing stories about me at my own wedding.”

“Oh, you mean you’re actually capable of being embarrassed?” He hitched the glass to his lips and sucked down half its contents.

The words held no malice, but a tiny thread of anxiety fizzled through her anyway. Rafe had been acting odd lately. He’d said all the right words when she’d gotten engaged, and he’d been supportive in the months after. But last night something had changed. Was he not ecstatic about her marriage because he was in love with Thom? Fuck. Now was not the time, but she’d have to talk with him about this soon, get the truth, hope she’d read the look on his face wrong.

With a sigh, she skirted the table, made sure the train of her dress was tucked neatly to the side, and pulled out a chair and sat down beside him.

She set her champagne flute on the table, toying with the diamonds on the stem for a moment before she glanced at him. “Rafe, are you all right?”

Rafe paused for an infinitesimal second before he shrugged. “Sure. Why do you ask?”

“You’re drinking a lot these days. I’m worried about you. Why else would I ask?” she demanded.

“Fuck if I know,” he mumbled, staring into the dregs in his glass. “Maybe you want to pass the time?”

“Or maybe I’m finding it odd that you hate whisky and yet you’re throwing it back by the mouthful?”

“You have nothing better to do at your wedding reception than spy on your big brother, sis?”

Again there was no malice, only a haunting melancholy.

“Is this about Dad? You’re drinking his favorite drink, after all,” she said.

His mouth twisted in a mockery of a smile. “Yeah. Sure. It’s about Dad. Everything’s about dear old Dad these days, isn’t it?” This time there was a touch of bitterness in his voice.

The frown she’d tried to stop before threatened to break through. “Rafe—”

“Do you remember the time we took his Porsche out for a joyride and came back to find he’d called the cops because he thought it’d been stolen?” His chuckle was a little forced.

Elana allowed herself to be sidetracked.

“Do I remember how I was stupid enough to let you and Luc talk me into joining you on that episode of madness? That day will be branded on my memory forever. Dad just stood there, let the cops handcuff us and put us in the back of the patrol car and drive to the end of the driveway before he stopped them. I nearly pissed myself, I was so terrified.”

Rafe snorted, peering at her. “Nearly?”

She felt the first signs of a long-forgotten flush creep up her neck. “I plead the Fifth,” she mumbled.

Rafe barked out a laugh. “Don’t worry, sis. I was pissed-scared, too. I kept thinking how long it’d take before I was forced to become some skinhead’s bitch in prison.”

“Ha, you were thinking much farther ahead. I was wondering if I’d survive Mom skinning me alive when she found out what we’d done. Luc was as cool as a cucumber, though, wasn’t he?” she mused.

“Isn’t he fucking always?” The mirth had disappeared from his tone, and for a moment Elana was sorry she’d mentioned their brother. “Mr. Goddamn Perfect.”

He poured another shot. Elana placed her hand on his before he could raise the glass.

“Come on, Rafe. You’re going to wake up with a killer hangover if you keep knocking it back like that. Do you really want to miss my wedding reception that much?”

“Elana, you’re already married. I was there for the whole thing. And I wish you and Thom well. I really do, but right now I just want to be left alone to—”

“Oh my God!” Elana gripped her brother’s wrist tighter as a woman—a visibly pregnant woman—walked past a group of guests in the middle of the room. Elana only caught the side of her face, but the woman was too striking to miss or dismiss as someone else. “What’s she doing here?”

“What? Who?”

She pulled harder at Rafe, ignoring his slurred curse when the whisky sloshed over his fingers. “Over there.” She pointed to the figure weaving her way through the guests. “That’s the woman we saw at the airport!”

“What airport? And let go, would you? You’re creasing my Tom Ford,” he grumbled.

She leaned forward to catch a clearer sight of the woman. “The pregnant woman who spoke to us at Charles de Gaulle.”

Rafe frowned for a moment, then his eyebrows spiked. “No way. She’s here? Why? Do you know her?”

“No, of course not.”

He looked from Elana to the throng of guests. “Then how is she here? Are you sure it’s her?”

“Of course I’m sure. I’ve barely had a drink. I’m not as hammered as you are.”

Rafe stopped searching the crowd, glanced at her and shrugged. “Give me a couple of hours. I’ll get there just fine.”

Elana scanned the crowd for another handful of seconds. She was sure it was the woman they’d met in Paris. What were the chances of seeing two pregnant women who looked like that in such a short space of time?

Then her gaze returned to her brother. This was one of the times that she knew discretion was the better part of valor.

So she sat with him for a minute, then stood, placed a light kiss on his cheek and smiled as she saw Thom making his way toward her. She’d deal with Rafe later.

This was her wedding day. And she was determined to enjoy it.

Five minutes later she was laughing and dancing again, the strange episode of the pregnant woman forgotten.

* * *

Traditionally every wedding had to have at least one minor hiccup for it to be deemed a successful event. Whether it was misplaced wedding rings or a bridesmaid’s outfit suddenly not fitting, it was all supposed to be a blessing on the lucky couple.

Mariella had been keeping her fingers crossed mentally that Elana’s bathroom episode and Thom’s strange interruption during the ceremony was this wedding’s only speed bumps. She really couldn’t take anything else going wrong.

The six-course dinner service had gone flawlessly. Many guests, including those who considered themselves connoisseurs in food and drink, had complimented her on the excellent seared branzinoand the accompanying wines with every course. One stuck-up cow she wouldn’t be inviting to any future Marshall function had had the nerve to comment on the ethics of serving such a meal—while stuffing her face with it. Mariella had shut her down by reminding the woman of the foie gras she’d served at her last party.

She’d shed a tiny tear as she’d helped Elana hand out the personalized wedding goody bags that contained diamond tennis bracelets for the women and designer cuff links for the men to the VIP guests, then left the staff to distribute the rest to the remaining guests.