Secrets Of The A-List Box Set, Volume 1

“Can I see him now?” Mariella demanded, not wanting to hear any more of his lecture.

Luc looked frustrated. “Yeah, we can go in.”

Mariella shook her head and looked Luc in the eye. “I want to go in by myself this first time. I need to be alone with him.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Luc protested, shock crossing his face and skittering through his eyes.

“I don’t care whether you think it’s a good idea or not, that’s what’s going to happen,” Mariella replied, her voice cool. She was a Santiago, for God’s sake—she could do this. She had to do this, because she was a hairbreadth from showing Luc that she’d rather walk through the last level of hell than confront the reality of a brutally injured Harrison.

Pulling the last threads of her courage together, Mariella turned her back to Luc and stepped into Harrison’s room. Impressions bombarded her: two generic chairs next to his bed, puke-gray walls. The harsh smell of disinfectant in her nostrils, her shaking hands. She had to look at him. Mariella slowly, so slowly, lifted her eyes to the bed. His left leg was covered in a cast from ankle to thigh, and his right hand lay on the blindingly white sheet next to his cast. Two of his nails were torn, and there was blood under the rest. Ignoring her tightening throat, Mariella walked her eyes up his chest to the snaking coils of tubes and pipes. God, there were so many, the biggest of which were the two thick, bright blue tubes of the ventilator. A brace encased the strong neck she’d like to bite when they were feeling frisky, and his face, Dios mío, his face...

Beneath the tubes and equipment, Harrison didn’t look anything like the man she lived her life with. He was beyond battered, beyond swollen. He looked like a horror-house version of himself.

Mariella crossed herself and fought the urge to run from the room, screaming that this wasn’t her husband, her life, that this didn’t happen to people like them! She flicked an eye to the door and back to Harrison’s face. They’d taped his eyes closed, and Mariella wished she could see them. Harrison had the prettiest, prettiest eyes. They jumped from cornflower blue when he was amused to Carolina blue when he was focused to a Prussian blue when he was aroused. Mariella knew his eyes, could read his eyes, and she knew that if she could look into them, she’d be able to see if Harrison, in a coma or not, would make his way back to her.

Mariella pulled a chair closer to the bed and gripped Harrison’s cool fingers with her own. Feeling her head spin, she gulped for air and abruptly sat down, instinctively dropping her head to her knees. She could not faint, she would not faint! Yes, she felt heart-stopping fear and bone-crushing anxiety, but she wouldn’t be helping anyone if she collapsed. She needed to be strong, dammit. Mariella heard soft footsteps and looked up to see a nurse approaching the bed.

Her experienced, knowing eyes raked over Mariella’s face. “Are you okay, Mrs. Santiago-Marshall?”

“I’m fine,” Mariella stated, her tone suggesting that the nurse not argue with her. “Is there anything you can tell me?”

The nurse shook her head. “Time will tell. But talking to him couldn’t hurt. Tell him you’re here, let him know that he’s not alone.”

Mariella nodded, and when she heard the snick of the door closing, she looked at her husband—who looked nothing like her husband—and sighed. “I told you not to buy that stupid car, Harrison. I said that it was too powerful, that any car designed for a track shouldn’t be on public roads.”

Jeez, not even a coma gets me a break from your nagging.

Mariella almost smiled as Harrison’s sarcastic reply popped into her head.

“I’ll nag you until you come out of this coma, Harrison.”

God help me.

Mariella placed her elbow on the bed next to his chest and touched his bare chest, his chest hair flecked with gray. He looked old, Mariella thought. When did that happen? “We’ve spent a lifetime together, Harrison, and it can’t end like this. I won’t let it end like this.”

Not up to you, sweetheart.

His voice in her head was so loud that Mariella thought that Harrison had spoken aloud. But imaginary voice or not, the words were a powerful—and annoying—reminder that there were some situations, and people, she could not control. That had been the case with Harrison and, she admitted, had been, and still was, so damn attractive. When you were Mariella Santiago, a direct descendant of Don Juan Santiago, men tended to bow and scrape.

Harrison, big and brash, did the exact opposite, and his indifference to her history and status had intrigued her. It was only after they’d married that she’d realized how much influence her family’s social connections and her lineage played in his success. Harrison wanted to prove to her, to her family and to himself that he was worthy of her, and he’d done that. He’d worked his ass off, and he was seen as a rags-to-riches success. They’d met when he was a hotshot chef, poor but talented, and through grit, determination and sheer bullheadedness, he made the transition from innovative chef to restaurant owner to billionaire entrepreneur. His drive and relentless effort resulted in a company that began with his restaurants and expanded into specialty gourmet products, a television network, vineyards and a chain of hotels, cocktail bars and nightclubs.

Mariella filled her lungs with air, exhaled and did it again. Feeling calmer, she spoke again. “I refuse to accept that you might die, that you’ll leave me here alone. We have our children’s weddings to attend, grandchildren to spoil. Yeah, we scream and fight and bitch and growl, and there have been times that I’ve wanted to smother you in your sleep, but we’re a team. I need you. I can’t be Mariella Santiago-Marshall without you.”

An alarm beeped, and Mariella jumped, her head whipping around to look at the bank of machines keeping her husband alive. God, he would hate this; he would loathe the idea of being connected to this technology, to being kept alive by ventilators and brain shunts. Harrison was an I’ll-do-it-myself-or-move-on type of guy. If Harrison could talk, he’d be telling her to get him the hell off this crap and let him take his chances; it wouldn’t matter that his chance at survival without the machines was less than zero. It wouldn’t be the first roll of the dice he’d made against the odds. But that was business and this was his life...

A life that he’d come so very close to losing.

Chapter Three

They allowed Mariella to stay with Harrison for a scant fifteen minutes, the nursing staff telling her they’d given her five minutes more than they usually did. Mariella would never admit it, but she was grateful—she didn’t know if she could sit next to Harrison’s unresponsive body for much longer, the noise of the machines her only company.

God, how long would he remain like that? Mariella pushed her fingers into her long, lustrous hair and pulled it off her face. Her phone was still buzzing, and habit had her looking down at her screen. Jonas Halstead was both a friend and a client, but she wasn’t up to talking to him in either capacity right now. Friends and business could wait. For now.

Mariella, seeing that the waiting room was empty, frowned. She knew that Luc wasn’t particularly happy with her—nothing new—but she’d expected him to wait for her, along with Rafe and Joe. Where were they? Mariella looked around and saw a group of nurses standing at the window, their faces alight with curiosity. Instantly suspicious, she walked over to them, and her imperial command to move out of her way had an instant effect. The nurses moved aside, and Mariella looked down into the large parking lot, the one directly outside the main entrance to the hospital. The area was full of news vans and reporters waving microphones in front of her two sons.

Mariella muttered a curse under her breath and spun around, knocking the patient file from a young nurse’s hand. Too angry to apologize, she stormed toward the bank of elevators, silently cursing the inquisitive press. She could’ve anticipated this, she thought as she stepped inside the empty stainless steel cube. The Santiago and Marshall families, on an individual basis, were two of the wealthiest and most recognized clans in the world, and as a couple, every move she and Harrison made, their children made, garnered attention. They didn’t live in a fishbowl—they lived in the biggest tank in the busiest, most visited aquarium in the world. And what did Luc and Rafe think they were doing, dealing with the press on their own? They’d grown up in the eye of the cameras; they knew that you never held impromptu press conferences, that you didn’t step into the school of piranhas when they smelled blood in the water.

Dios mío!

Mariella slammed her hand against the emergency button of the elevator, and when it stopped, she pulled her bag off her shoulder. It was a long-ingrained habit to run a brush through her hair, to inspect her face. She wiped away a minuscule fleck of mascara from her underneath her left eye and slicked another layer of her trademark deep-red lipstick across her full lips. There, her armor was on. The cameras would flash when she left the elevator, and then the pack would converge on her. She wouldn’t flinch. She would take control of the situation, since her sons obviously couldn’t.

And where the hell was Joe and why hadn’t he stopped them? Mariella slammed the side of her fist against the emergency-stop button to set the elevator in motion again. Two seconds later it stopped again, and Mariella stared straight ahead as the doors opened. They mob was still outside, and no one had noticed her yet. Good.

“Mariella!”

Busted! Mariella did an internal eye roll as faces and cameras turned to look at her through the glass door. The men and women pushed their way through the automated doorway and formed a tight group around her, blocking the elevators in the process.

Mariella narrowed her eyes against the insistent, constant flashes of high-tech cameras. Needing to get to Rafe and Luc, she walked across the lobby, her expression daring any reporter to get in her way.

“How badly is Harrison injured?”

“Is he going to live?”

“What was the cause of the accident?”

“Was there anyone else in the car with him?”

Bloody hell. Mariella made a conscious effort to hold on to her temper. There was only one way to gain back control, and it was a tactic both she and Harrison used to great effect. She planted her feet, lifted her chin and pulled the corners of her mouth into a shark smile. That particular smile, it was said, had the power to shrivel the sacks of presidents, dictators and serial killers. The questions stopped, feet shuffled and Mariella scanned the crowd standing in front of her. When her eyes connected with some of the junior journalists, more than one tried to step backward. The lobby was now packed with reporters, security was looking anxious and the reporters were impeding the foot traffic moving in and out of the hospital. Rafe and Luc still stood just outside the doors, looking miserable.

Mariella lifted her hand. “I suggest that we move this outside, and if you stop shouting questions at me, I will give you a brief statement.”

The reporters, helped by security, escorted her through the automatic doors, and she took her place next to Luc and Rafe. She placed a hand on each of their backs before turning to face the members of the fourth estate. God, what to say? How to say it? She had to walk the line between showing them that she was genuinely worried—she was—and optimism, which she didn’t, currently, possess. She had to give them enough to satisfy them but not enough to exacerbate the situation and provide more speculation than necessary. Mariella felt like her head was about to explode.

“I can confirm that my husband was in a car accident earlier this morning. Harrison was flung from the car and sustained several serious injuries. I am not going to detail the extent of those, so do not ask. All I can say is that he has undergone emergency surgery and that he is in the ICU.

“I’m asking the press for privacy as we deal with these horrible circumstances.” It was standard practice to ask to be left alone, but it wouldn’t happen. “That is all I have to say at this time. I will have our press liaison release an update when we have more news.” Like hell she would, but she had no problem lying to the press.

“Where is Elana?”

“Was he speeding?”

“Where was he going at the time of the accident?”

Mariella turned away from the questions, relieved when the security personnel started to herd the group away from her. Mariella jerked her head at her sons, who stepped closer to her. Putting her back to the press corps, strategically positioned so that no one could photograph her face, she skewered them with a hot look before herding them away from the press and out of the range of their keen hearing. “What the hell do you think you were doing, engaging with them? We have a rule—any news fed to the press is sanctioned and signed off by your father or myself. What did you tell them?”

“Nothing more than you did,” Luc replied, sending Rafe an annoyed look.

“Thank God for small mercies.” Mariella felt the burn of tears in the back of her throat and clenched her hands at her sides. God, she couldn’t afford to fall apart, not here. Sucking up her last reserves of strength, she raked her glance over her sons again and shook her head. “I’m going upstairs to wait. If you two know what’s good for you, you’ll leave me alone until my temper is under control. Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” Luc muttered, his eyes blazing with fury.

“Yes, Mom.” Rafe nodded, looking contrite. “Sorry.”

Mariella, unable to stay angry when Rafe looked so very miserable, patted his cheek. “We will get through this,” she told him.

“Yeah,” Luc said, his eyes still cool, “but the question remains as to whether we will be everything that we were when we do.”

Mariella bit her bottom lip, bone-deep scared that he might be right.

* * *

Rafe watched his mother walk away and thought, as he frequently did, that his mother had the biggest set of balls in the world. Bigger, possibly, than his father’s, and that was a hell of a statement. Rafe turned his attention onto his still-simmering brother and wondered how long it would take for Mr. Perfect to blame this latest fiasco on him.

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six...

“You shouldn’t have answered that first question,” Luc told him in his oh-so-familiar patronizing tone. God, he was so sick of being in Luc’s firing line. “Once you answer one question, it opens the door to fifty more.”

“I told them that we had no more information than they did,” Rafe argued.

“They can smell bullshit from fifty paces, Rafe! Of course we know more than they do.”

“Like what?” Rafe challenged. “He had an accident, his Bugatti left the road and he’s in ICU with extensive injuries. I never said he was in a goddamn coma, did I? Why the hell are you busting my balls? You also engaged with them.”

If Luc could blame him for climate change and the Syrian crisis, he would. He was, he’d come to accept, a disappointment to his man’s man father and his incomparable older brother. Funny...if he’d been nerdy, geeky and awkward, his life would’ve been easier. He was just the opposite. He was possibly even more naturally gifted at sports than Luc and probably had a bigger brain. Every sport he tried he mastered; there wasn’t a test he couldn’t ace. His dad and Luc hated the fact that he jumped around, moving from opportunity to opportunity. He was wasting his talents, his intellect, they fumed. He had so much potential...

Rafe didn’t understand why his lack of commitment to any particular career bothered them so much. He had a lot of interests, and he liked having the freedom to explore them all.

He felt ill, sick with worry about his dad, but underneath the despair, resentment bubbled. Rafe was so tired of feeling less than because he chose to walk a path that was different than that of his father and brother, tired of the confused looks, the snide comments, the haughty condescension.

Rafe heard the discreet beep of Luc’s phone, indicating that he had a message. Luc pulled his phone from the inside pocket of his tailored Armani suit and looked down at the screen.

“Fuck, I can’t deal with that now,” Luc muttered.

Rafe frowned. “Problem? Was it a journalist?”

Luc looked up and nailed him with another supercilious, distant look. “No, it was an email saying that the American Association for Plastic Surgeons has nominated me for an award.”

Of course they had, because he was the perfect, successful brother. “What... Best Boob Uplift? Bodacious Booty of the Year?”

“Fuck you, Rafe.” Luc’s words erupted like bullets. “You’re just jealous because the only award you’ve received is the yearly what-the hell-are you-doing-with-your-life paper cup.”

Luc’s words held enough truth to feel like he’d taken a punch to the heart. “You love that, don’t you? You get off on telling me how useless you think I am! You’re such a control freak, but you can’t control me, and it drives you crazy.”

Luc looked around and slapped a hand on his chest. “Will you calm the fuck down and shut up? Do you want the press to come back?”

Grabbing Rafe’s wrist like he was a toddler, Luc pulled him to the end of the main hospital building and into a small alley. Above them was an open walkway the hospital staff used to move from the pediatric wing to the main building.

Out of sight of the parking lot, Luc released Rafe’s wrist and lifted his shoulders, still confused. “How did my idle comment about an email I received piss you off so much?”

“You deliberately mentioned it, wanting to rub my face in the fact that you are so much more successful than I am!”

“Not everything I say and do is about you, Rafe! Honestly—” Luc’s lip curled into a derisive snarl “—I genuinely don’t think about you much at all.”

“Why can’t you accept me for who I am?”

Luc’s fist clenched, and Rafe welcomed the anger in his eyes, the tension on his face. “I don’t give a crap about who you sleep with. This is about your aimlessness, your capriciousness.”

“Oh, here we go again! I like what I do and how I do it! You and Dad never got that, never supported my need to do something creative. And it’s not like you are saving lives in your fancy LA practice, so get off your stupid high horse! You’re the king of Botox.”

Luc gripped the bridge of his nose, and Rafe could see the tension building in him. He welcomed it—he felt like a valve under immense pressure.

Luc threw up his hands. “Our father is fighting for his life in there, and you’re out here screaming at me like a petulant child. Grow the fuck up!”

It was a refrain he’d heard all his life: get it together, Rafe. Stop being childish, Rafe. Why can’t you be more like your brother, Rafe? Well, here, today, he could try. By its own volition, his arm lifted, and Rafe plowed his fist into Luc’s perfect face. Nothing gave him as much pleasure as hearing the smack of knuckles against his cheekbone, the sting that rocketed up his wrist, the sheer burst of adrenaline. Shit, this was almost as good as sex. Possibly better, because, hell, it had been so long since he’d had any he couldn’t actually remember how good sex was.

Right here, at this moment, he felt like Superman and Wonder Woman and Hercules and Gerard Butler. He could kick ass—specifically, his brother’s ass. Then Luc nailed him in the stomach, and all the air rushed from his lungs and his knees threatened to buckle. Pain spread like a red tide through his body, but his anger roared and clawed. This time, this one time, he wouldn’t let Luc walk all over him. Rafe dropped his head and charged his brother, wrapping his arms around his waist and twisting so that Luc toppled over, falling to the sidewalk. Rafe’s blow skimmed his eye socket, and he barely felt Luc’s fist connecting with his jaw. As his head flew back, he saw Luc’s confused expression, the my-toy-Pomeranian-just-nipped-me look on his face.

“What the hell, Rafe?” Luc shouted in his ear, using his arms to push Rafe up and off him. He quickly jumped to his feet, his hand cupping the side of his face and his blue eyes blazing. “Have you lost your fucking mind?”

Possibly, yes. But it was worth it. And holding his own in a fight with his older brother was freaking amazing. It was, Rafe decided, worth the pain and a long time coming.

Luc slowly stood up and briefly closed his eyes. When he spoke, his words came out sad and solemn. “That award? It’s a recognition of the pro bono work I did for Médecins Sans Frontières, doing reconstructive surgery on kids with cleft palates, burns and other facial disfigurements. The T and A jobs? That money allows me to do that, so...screw you.”

Rafe stared at the ground and reluctantly admitted that while he got some good hits in, Luc’s last comment was the verbal punch that nearly dropped him to the floor.

Chapter Four

The blindfold and spanking were a little kinky. Elana, lying on Jarrod’s chest, the TV droning on in the background, was trying to decide whether she liked it or not. She liked how excited it made Jarrod—and he’d used that excitement to maximum effect.

It had been fun...well, mostly fun. She hadn’t minded the blindfold, but the jury was still out on the spanking. His big hand against her skin didn’t do anything for her but sting her ass. His growls that she’d been a bad girl and that she needed to be punished were too similar to what she’d heard all her life for her to be turned on. Nobody had ever, as far as she could remember, actually spanked her, but the threat was always tossed out when she became a little too much to handle.

Which was practically all the time. When she thought she might have pushed the envelope too far, she’d hightail it out of Casa Cat and belt down the driveway and onto the road, running the short distance to her best friend Thom’s house. Thom would calm her down, make her laugh, and an hour or three or four later, she’d wander home, hoping that the storm had blown over. No one worried where she was; they all knew that Thom’s house was her bolt-hole, her place to run to. Elana always returned to Casa Cat, but on her own time, according to her schedule.

Thom...jeez, he was going to be pissed that she’d been out of contact for so long. Elana twisted a piece of Jarrod’s T-shirt around her finger, wincing as guilt flooded her system. A massive red diamond solitaire rested on her ring finger, a symbol that she was planning to marry Thom in a few weeks. Dammit, whatever had possessed her to say yes to his proposal? Thom was wonderful, but...

Okay, so she didn’t quite love him, but he was her best friend, the one person who’d never disappointed her, never let her down. He knew her inside out and loved every flawed inch of her. But Thom couldn’t give her this. A hot, raunchy, sweaty time in bed. Oh, she and Thom made love, infrequently, but it was polite and discreet and quick. There was no swearing or laughing or rough demands and light bruises from his fingers pressing too hard and long scratches from her nails on his back. There was no passion between them and, dammit, she needed passion.

But...he was the only person she fully trusted. And their relationship, engagement and upcoming marriage was a fairy tale of epic proportions—he was rich and gorgeous! With his mother’s warm cocoa skin and dark brown eyes, she knew her groom-to-be was stunning with a capital S. And, true, they’d been friends all their lives. Her family adored Thom and his parents, and on paper it was a match made in heaven. But she needed to be with Jarrod, and she needed this outlet to blow off some steam. Thom was a lovely man, perfect for her...but she craved Jarrod.

Rock, meet hard place.

“Elana!” Jarrod said, shifting underneath her, his fingers pinching the skin of her waist.

Elana jerked away from him and sent him a blistering glare. “What the hell? That hurt, Jarrod!”