Secrets Of The A-List (Episode 2 Of 12). Clare Connelly

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.