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nd most were fascinated by; she was the wife of an immensely powerful man, the mother of three successful children—four, if she included Gabe, and she did—and the CEO of MSM Event Planning, the catering arm of Marshall International. But at this moment, everything she’d achieved, everything she was—strong, powerful, rich—meant nothing.
Her husband was teetering on the edge between life and death, and there was damn all she could do about it.
If she allowed it to, panic would bite and burn, her lungs would close, and the air would turn to soup.
If she allowed it to.
Mariella opened her mouth and sucked in a deep breath of fragrant September air and dug her pale pink fingernails into her toned bicep, the pain enabling her to push away the almost overpowering feeling of despair.
Santiagos didn’t buckle; neither did Marshalls. She was one by blood, one by marriage, and she wouldn’t embarrass either family by dropping to the grimy, greasy asphalt in a dead faint.
The first responder to the accident, a young highway patrol officer, had been waiting for her when she arrived at the hospital and had quickly, concisely recounted the morning’s events.
Mariella now had a better idea of how the accident had happened and wished she didn’t. His words played on an endless loop in her head.
“Accident investigators might prove me wrong, but it looks like Mr. Marshall lost control of the Bugatti as he navigated a particularly sharp corner. He swiped a boulder and the car lifted, the immense power flipping it over. Mr. Marshall wasn’t wearing his seat belt, and he was tossed through the windshield only seconds before the car crashed through the guardrail and tumbled down the cliff.”
Mariella heard the familiar low but powerful growl of a sports car and her head snapped up. She narrowed her eyes and saw the snazzy silver Aston Martin convertible whip into the parking lot. Even at a distance, she could see the worry on Joe’s face, could sense his despair.
Joe Reynolds, Harrison’s oldest and best friend and business partner, their rock, was finally here, and she wasn’t alone. Joe was the strong rope that connected her and Harrison to the ground, their sounding board, their confidant and adviser.
There was no one else she wanted, or needed, at her side. She needed his strength to reassure her that everything would be all right, so she could be strong for her children.
Joe roared toward her, slammed on the brakes and in one smooth movement cut the engine and hopped, with all the energy of the twenty-year-old he’d been a lifetime ago, over the door panel. He hurried around the hood of the car and opened his arms, and Mariella stumbled into them, her face buried in his neck, the familiar scent of his citrus cologne drifting up to her nose. She placed her arms around his trim waist and pushed into him, seeking comfort, reassurance, waiting for his calm strength to seep into her psyche.
She felt Joe kiss the top of her head, his broad hands warm on her back. Here was comfort, support, a lifetime of unconditional love.
Her best friend, and Harrison’s, was here. The day could only improve.
Mariella, strong, confident, proud, felt a wave of emotion crash over her, and she finally, finally allowed her control to snap. She sniffed, hiccuped and allowed one small sob to escape. She would not allow tears to run down her cheeks, drip off her chin and wet the collar of Joe’s polo shirt, his tanned skin. She was Mariella Santiago-Marshall, and she would not allow anyone but him to see her as anything other than the tough, independent, composed woman the world knew her to be.
But this man, who’d known them for so long and who had seen so much, was the one person she could allow to see her cracks and chasms. In his arms was the only place she could show such weakness, such lack of control.
She both loved and hated that Joe had that power over her.
* * *
Luc Marshall did the ninety-minute drive from LA in an hour ten, which was fast, even for him. Throwing his Mercedes-AMG into the first parking space he could find, he shot out of the car, and his long legs ate up the distance to the hospital entrance. He barreled through the mirrored automatic doors and nailed the blonde at the reception counter with a hard look. “ICU?”
She responded to his brusque, taut tone with succinct directions, and Luc lifted his head in thanks. Too tense to wait for the elevator, he found the stairwell and ran up to the third floor, slowing down at the top of the stairs to rake his hand through his hair, to smooth down his tie. He was the medical professional in the family; if his mother and siblings saw how worried he was, they would lose it. It was better that he appear calm, that he pretend that their world hadn’t been tipped upside down, that he establish the facts and plan a course of action. All he knew was that his father had been in a car accident, that he was coming out of surgery and would be moved to the ICU shortly. He needed more facts, and it was his job to translate the medical jargon into words his family could understand and then guide them as to what to expect. To do that, he needed to detach, to be a doctor, to temporarily forget that the patient was his father, his role model, his flawed hero.
Luc took a deep breath and pulled open the door to the waiting room just outside the ICU, immediately noticing that Rafe stood by the window, staring down at the parking lot below. Rafe looked as if he’d just rolled out of bed—his hair was mussed and his jaw was heavy with stubble.
“New car?” Rafe asked, not bothering to turn around. “Your Tits and Ass practice must be doing well.”
Luc jammed his hands into the pockets of his suit pants and tipped his head back to look at the ceiling. He knew Rafe was trying to act normally—he jabbed Luc about being one of the best boob surgeons in the state and Luc mocked him about his inability to commit to anything—but today he couldn’t summon the energy to step into the ring with his younger brother.
“Not now, Rafe.” Luc said. He looked toward the closed doors leading to the entrance of the ICU. “Is he in there yet?”
Rafe lifted one shoulder. “They won’t tell me or Mom anything. She got so angry that she went outside for some air. Maybe you can find out.”
Luc nodded his agreement. He walked away from Rafe and crossed the room to the nurses’ station. Explaining who he was, he asked the duty nurse to page Harrison’s doctor, his doctor-in-charge voice suggesting that she not argue. The doctor was paged, and Luc was told to wait. He placed his hands on the counter and straightened his arms, looking down at the floor below him. He should join Rafe, should try to comfort his brother, but he needed a minute—or ten.
It was at a time like this that Luc wished that he and his brother were closer, that Rafe was someone he could lean on, who could sometimes support him instead of the other way around.
But, God, they were just so different and always had been. He was, on paper, the perfect child. He was everything his father had wished for in a son—handsome, brilliant, the top of his field—but not the field Harrison wanted Luc in. Instead of following his dad into the family business, Luc had followed his passion and become a doctor. Luc often wondered if Harrison ever looked beyond what he did to who he was. Luc had done everything right—he’d been a varsity athlete in college, a brilliant student in med school. Still, Harrison seemed to love him but didn’t know anything of the man he was beneath the model-son facade.
Luc felt his cell phone vibrate in his pocket, and he pulled it out, glad for the distraction. Relief turned to disappointment when he saw the name on the screen. His girlfriend Rachel wasn’t the person he most wanted to talk to. Luc knew that wishing she’d call him was like waiting for a boat at an airport—consistently futile. Luc let Rachel’s call go to voice mail and immediately regretted the decision. Rachel, and her father, Congressman Nicholas Franklin, would not appreciate hearing the news about Harrison via a friend or a news feed. Not up to talking to Rachel, he sent her a quick text message updating her on the situation. Luc stared down at his phone, resisting the urge to make another call...
