Secrets Of The A-List (Episode 12 Of 12). Karen Booth

the Vegas strip. Was it too much to ask for a pleasant distraction? “My apologies, Trudy. I’ve been incredibly busy. What can I do for you so early in the morning?”

      “It’s the masquerade ball. Everybody’s talking about it and I haven’t received an invitation. I’m a little perplexed, to be honest. It’s tonight. I need time to prepare.”

      Gabe despised the way certain people assumed they would be invited. If only they knew how many hundreds of people were clamoring for a nod. “There were no mailed invitations. There is only a guest list. Hold on one minute and let me see if I can squeeze you in.” He shuffled a few papers around, even though he already knew what his answer would be. “It’s going to be tough, but I have space on the list for you, plus a guest.”

      “I really could use a plus two. I have friends in town, and they would love to come.”

      “I don’t know that I can do that. The list is impossibly tight.”

      “What if I tell you my friends are Megan Lowry and her husband? Certainly a major network news anchor will do you some good. She’s a big foodie, and she’d love to meet Mariella.”

      Gabe nodded. Things were working out very nicely. Mariella would be pleased. “Okay then. But just for you. At this point, we’re in danger of getting shut down by the fire marshal.”

      “Really?” There was so much pure delight in her voice she practically squealed.

      Gabe would never let things get that out of hand. Mariella would pitch a fit, and that would not convey the current MSM message: all is under control. “But don’t worry. Your spots are safe.”

      “Thank you so much,” Trudy gushed. “I’m really looking forward to it.”

      “Eight o’clock. Black tie for the men. Women are asked to wear dark colors. I’ll send you the flight details, and don’t forget your credit card. We’re hoping to raise a lot of money.”

      “And we’re wearing masks, right? Sounds deliciously naughty,” Trudy purred. She’d come on to Gabe last Christmas at a party at the Polo Club, but she wasn’t his type at all. She was all fake nails and phony conversation. Entitlement oozed from every pore of her body. If he entertained a woman with money, he wanted her to be the type who’d earned it, just as he had.

      “Yes. Bring your mask. ’Bye, Trudy.” He hung up and typed her details into a spreadsheet on his laptop. Looking at the numbers, that whole question of breaking some occupancy laws really could become a problem. He might need to give the fire marshal a phone call after all. In Gabe’s experience, a bottle of rare scotch and a promise of VIP treatment at one of the Marshall restaurants were usually enough. Luckily there was room on the fleet of private jets they had reserved, so at least one less problem there.

      Gabe’s personal preparations for the party were sewn up—his tux was pressed and ready, hanging in his closet near the elaborate mask Mariella had chosen for him. She’d ordered them for the entire family, custom-made in Venice, Italy, at a moment’s notice and flown to the US via jet. She never spared any expense, especially when she was hoping to make a big splash. He quite liked his, which was described as a Roman warrior mask—solid black surrounding his eyes, with silver metal scrolls that curled down on to his cheekbones and two muscled silver horses squaring off above his forehead, backed with black feathers.

      Normally, having things in order gave Gabe a sense of calm. Not now.

      He’d been bargaining with his conscience, begging it to stop bothering him. He’d done a lot of terrible things, and this had never been a problem before. So why in the hell was it niggling him now? A small voice in the back of his head gave him his answer—Vanessa was innocent. She’d done nothing more than catch the eye of another woman’s fiancé. But trying to apply reason to this situation was futile. The other woman, Rachel, was accustomed to getting whatever she wanted, when she wanted it. In most instances that wasn’t an issue for the Fixer. He kept most of his clients in line by selling them his expectations as their own. That didn’t work on Rachel. She was a venomous spoiled brat, and a connected one at that. She was the one person he’d encountered in his business of fixing who’d dared to tamper with his reputation and threaten to keep doing it.

      He couldn’t afford that. Not with Harrison unconscious in Malibu. Not when the Fixer’s reputation now seemed to hang in the balance because his cousin couldn’t keep his dick in his pants. He’d have to cross a line he’d sworn never to step over. There was no way around it.

      He unlocked the small box now sitting on the desk and removed the Glock nine-millimeter. The grip was more than comfortable in his hand. It fit perfectly. He didn’t like to brag, but he was an excellent shot. Harrison had gone through a hunting phase when Gabe was a teen. At the time, there was a big movement in the culinary world for chefs to be well connected to the food they prepared. Harrison had started by learning to butcher, but eventually moved on to hunting, taking several trips all over the country with other chefs. The killing part never really took with Harrison, but he did enjoy guns, and while Luc and Rafe often declined an invitation to go to the shooting range with their dad, Gabe always accepted.

      He cherished those memories with Harrison, the times when they most felt like father and son. His real dad wasn’t much more than an anonymous sperm donor. Harrison, however, had been eager to fill that paternal role. He’d embraced Gabe and put in the time, which made the accident and the aftermath that much more difficult to deal with, almost two months later. Time had made nothing easier.

      As for Vanessa, his plan was simple. She was staying in an economy room on a lower floor and near an exit, where the security cameras were cheap and obvious, and it was easy for anyone to gain access and get out quickly. Using the hotel master key he currently had in his pocket, he’d disable the cameras, and slip into her room right after the family had left for the party. He would dispatch her with a single shot delivered with a silencer. He would then ransack the room, take any valuables, and get to the party right away, where his alibi would be firmly in place. A few rounds of drinks should quickly dull any memory of what he’d done, and then he would move on.

      Thus was his job as the Fixer.

      Vanessa’s body likely wouldn’t be discovered until morning, when Mariella needed her. In fact, it would likely be Gabe who would be sent looking for her. He could see it now—Mariella furious that Vanessa was not answering her phone or replying to text messages. The police would quickly determine it was a random robbery, and that would be the end of that. Gabe didn’t worry about any negative publicity. If anything, it would most likely only make people feel sorry for Mariella, having to deal with the tragedy of a murdered member of her staff.

      And then, Gabe could tell Rachel to go fuck herself.

      Yes, he still felt horrible about this job, but he had to remind himself that whoever had sent Harrison off that cliff had upped the stakes and set a new tone. They had shown zero regard for life. Maybe that was the way business had to be done now.

      * * *

      “No. Absolutely not. It’s awful.” Mariella glared at her own reflection in the full-length mirror in her bedroom suite at the Grecian, where the family had six suites on the forty-fifth floor for the weekend. “It’s completely hideous. Unzip me now.”

      “Yes. Of course. There are other dresses to try.” Vanessa complied with Mariella’s wishes, thinking that she couldn’t look hideous in anything if she tried. She had an enviable figure and the gown she had on was particularly gorgeous—black French lace with a plunging neckline and elegant beading on the slim-fitting skirt. The designer had sent it straight from Paris the minute he’d heard the Marshalls were hosting the Halloween masquerade ball.

      “What about this one? The dark red with the sweetheart neckline?” Vanessa asked, pointing to one of the many gowns laid out on Mariella’s bed. Five had been deemed noes in this impromptu fashion show, and there were another half dozen left to be tried. Vanessa had spent hours steaming wrinkles out of them overnight and had them on the corporate jet at 6:00 a.m. as ordered. Mariella had sent most away with a single glance and a flick of her wrist.

      Vanessa