Mariella Santiago-Marshall stood in the parking lot of St. Aloysius Hospital in her hometown of Santa Barbara, and abruptly realized that nothing would ever be the same again.
Harrison, God... Harrison was in there somewhere, broken. A car accident, they said. He was in surgery, they said.
Dios mío.
It was a plea, a curse, a demand. An appeal for mercy, a curse toward the God she wasn’t sure she believed in anymore, a demand for information.
Feeling tears burn the back of her throat, Mariella pushed her long black hair behind her ears and dropped her designer sunglasses over her eyes, sighing when the dark lenses cut through the glare. Habit had her eyes drifting over the busy parking lot, and she was relieved to see no paparazzi either sitting in cars or loitering, cameras around their necks and the thrill of the hunt in their eyes.
Mariella knew that it wouldn’t be long before the news of Harrison’s accident broke, so she’d take this time, this short period, to gather her thoughts and her composure.
Mariella’s eyes skittered to the automatic doors leading to the busy ER and touched the tip of her tongue to her top lip, tasting her expensive lipstick. Where was Harrison? What were they doing to him? Why couldn’t they tell her anything?
Frustration, anger and a need to walk had propelled her out of the ER, a part of her knowing that if she didn’t leave, she’d cause a scene of epic proportions. She was terrified, and when she got scared she lost control...
Tears burned a path from her throat to her eyes, and she quickly blinked them away, cursing herself for her weakness. Mariella Sofía Jimena Santiago-Marshall did not cry. Or, if she did, she never let anyone see her do it.
She was a Santiago, dammit, a part of a powerful, prominent family whose roots could be traced back to California’s early history and Don Juan Santiago, who saw California pass from Spain to Mexico and then into American hands. Juan’s warrior blood flowed through her veins. When their backs were to the wall, Santiagos came out swinging, and they always fought dry-eyed.
But damn, she wanted to howl, sob, fall apart. Mariella wrapped her arms around herself and fought the panic climbing up her throat. She wasn’t used to feeling helpless, out of control, useless. She’d been Harrison’s partner, his right hand, his shadow, his best friend and his wife for more than three decades, and waiting around, doing nothing, went against every instinct she had. There had to be something she could do...
There wasn’t.
Mariella had lived a life many envied and 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...
That way madness lay.
She was out of his reach. He should accept that and move the hell on.
Luc heard hurried footsteps approaching and snapped up his head. He straightened as he watched the lanky frame of the middle-aged doctor approach, his tie askew and his eyes sunken from exhaustion. A hand was thrust in his direction. “Dr. Grant. You are Dr. Marshall?”
Luc shook his hand and folded his arms across his chest. “What’s the status on my father?” He saw and appreciated the respect that flashed in the older doctor’s eyes at his unwillingness to be mollycoddled.
For the next ten minutes, Luc listened to Dr. Grant detail his father’s injuries, the steps they’d taken to treat him and his prognosis. The explanation was full of technical and medical terms, but it was a language they both understood. Joe had passed on the information he’d gathered from talking to the cops about how the accident happened—too fast, car flipped, Dad was thrown through the windshield—but now Luc had solid and concrete information about Harrison’s prognosis.
“So, basically,” he mused, “I need to tell my family that Dad’s brain smacked against the inside of his skull on impact with the steering wheel or the windshield. After hitting the front of the skull, the brain probably bounced back and slammed against the back of the skull. Major forces were involved. There is tissue and blood vessel damage. And swelling. That’s why he had to be rushed into the OR to relieve the pressure, but the trauma has caused him to slip into a coma.”
“You know this,” Dr. Grant added. “If he survives the next two nights, he’s got a fighting chance, but the chances of him making a full recovery are—”
“Minimal at best.” Luc finished the sentence for him.
Dr. Grant nodded. “Yeah.”
Luc sent him a hard stare. “We’re not going to give up on him. Our family has resources...”
Dr. Grant sent him a sympathetic smile. “You and I both understand that there are some situations that money can’t fix—only time and luck can.”
Luc closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, Dr. Grant was striding away. Luc threw a quick glance across the room and noticed that Rafe hadn’t moved from his position at the window, his bottom lip between his teeth.
God, Rafe. It was easier to focus his attention on his brother than to think of his father hooked up to machines, bruised, bloody, broken.
Damn, his brother annoyed him. Luc didn’t give a shit about his sexual orientation, but Rafe’s lack of motivation, his aimless life, irritated Luc. Like him, Rafe was naturally talented at pretty much everything, including sports and academics. Everything Rafe touched turned to gold. He could be anything he wanted to be and be the best at whatever he did, but instead Rafe dabbled, moving from one interest to another—interior design one week, furniture design and landscape gardening the next. He was the dilettante Marshall, helping Mariella design and stage their bigger catering events, and he also worked as a consultant when one of the many Marshall hotels or restaurants needed a design revamp. From what he’d gathered, Rafe strode in, tossed his ideas around and left as abruptly, fully expecting the minions to implement his ideas. Rafe didn’t believe in getting his hands dirty.
Luc, as artistic as a lettuce leaf, knew Rafe was talented. He could see his distinctive signature all over the Marshall properties. He could be an amazing architect, interior designer, set designer, artist—he was that talented. He just had the attention span of a puppy. God, what a waste of that phenomenal brain.
Luc flicked a glance at the doors leading to the ICU. Harrison appreciated Rafe’s talent, but he related better to Luc, who was, he supposed, the more “conventional” of the two. Rafe had once told Luc, in a moment of rare, deep conversation, that he’d never lived up to Harrison’s expectations and walking in his macho older brother’s footsteps hadn’t helped. Of course, some of Rafe and Harrison’s emotional distance could be blamed on Rafe’s sexual orientation. Harrison paid lip service to the idea that it was fine that his younger son was gay, but the truth was that Harrison, a man’s man, wasn’t quite sure how to treat, or interact with, Rafe.
But if there was a chasm of misunderstanding between Rafe and their father, the same could not be said for Rafe and Mariella. Their mother and Rafe were exceptionally close, able to communicate with a look or a laugh. Of all of them, Mariella loved Rafe with a depth of feeling she’d never quite managed with him or their sister, Elana. No matter how much Luc tried to impress his mother, from exceptional report cards and success at any sport he tried to defending his brother from schoolyard bullies and his sister from bad boys—or any boys—Mariella never looked at Luc the same way she looked at Rafe, or even Gabe, his cousin.
He wished...oh, hell, he wished for so much. That his family was normal, that Rafe could find something or someone that made him happy, that Elana wasn’t such high maintenance, that the love of his life would...
Luc scrubbed his hands over his face. No point in going there.
Knowing that he needed to be strong, Luc pushed his shoulders back, walked over to Rafe and placed a hand on his shoulder. Rafe turned his head to look at him, anguish in his face and his eyes. “And?”
“He’s in a coma. He has a traumatic brain injury and a bruised spleen, various broken bones. It’s the TBI the doctors are most concerned about. The surgery relieved most of the pressure, but they have to wait for the swelling to subside before they can make a judgment call on his future. All I can say is that he’s in very bad shape and the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours are crucial. If he survives the night and tomorrow night, he has a slim chance.”
Rafe swore, and Luc caught the shimmer of tears in his eyes. “Goddammit,” he whispered.
Luc turned as the door to the waiting room opened. A nurse dressed in scrubs held a clipboard and sent them a quick, distracted smile. Luc frowned and looked around. “Rafe?”
“Yeah?”
“Where the fuck is Elana?”