Secrets of the A-List, Episode 10 Page 5

  “I do.” He tucked her hair behind her ear, feeling tender. Happy. Infinitely happy, now he had the woman he loved in his bed. “I admire you, Mariella. I always have.”

  She smiled, not saying the words, but he felt them. She loved him.

  Maybe it was time he stopped running scared and considered what he could build with her at his side.

  * * *

  The following morning, Gabe sat with Mariella and Teresa St. Claire at the MSM Event Planning offices as they worked with the association planning a motion picture award ceremony next year.

  “Harrison is still recovering, but of course he’ll be in fine form by then,” Mariella assured them smoothly.

  Gabe backed up the blatant lie with a negligent nod. The sudden call from Teresa that the association was threatening to pull the contract had both him and Mariella charging in to show solidarity and say anything necessary for damage control.

  “Whatever ridiculous rumor you might have heard is being circulated by our competitors. They’re trying to take advantage of a very temporary situation to steal your business, when you know as well as I do that our team works seamlessly with yours—and I am in charge of MSM Event Planning, not Harrison. And, frankly, we put on a better event than anyone else,” Mariella said, appearing unruffled.

  Only Gabe saw the hint of tension in her smile and the way her hand was fisted below the edge of the table.

  This ceremony was the fun one—for the attendees. On the MSM side, it meant serving and clearing a five-course meal in ninety minutes or less to four thousand people who were knee-walking drunk before the emcee told his first joke. No one stayed in their seat, wardrobe malfunctions abounded and the staff were not to be seen once the cameras rolled. It was a nightmare, dreaded by all, but incredibly lucrative and a tremendous feather in the company’s cap.

  And, since this was a milestone year, they were pulling out all the financial stops. MSM Event Planning could not afford to lose this one. Not this year.

  “The rumor about internal problems was actually something I heard through my real estate agent,” the gravel-voiced client said. “Concerns were raised as to whether Harrison would recover at all, and whether you were up to the task in his absence. I need to know. This isn’t something we leave to chance.”

  “There’s nothing to know except what we’ve told you,” Gabe said firmly. “We are business as usual, completely solid and absolutely your best bet for this event. Don’t change horses midstream. Your predecessor tried that six years ago, wanted to reinvent at the last minute, and it was a disaster. I notice he’s not in this room today.”

  The man’s absence was unrelated. The Fixer had helped with his firing and relocation to butt-crack Minnesota, but Gabe wasn’t above twisting facts to secure a deal.

  “What has our competitor offered that we can’t? Gold tablecloths and flatware? Tacky, but certainly we can do that,” Gabe agreed, noting the concerned look Mariella shot him. She would never insult the client’s tastes.

  “It’s the movies,” the client’s partner said. “There’s no such thing as over-the-top.”

  “Of course,” Mariella replied with her most charming smile. “As for your request that we create food reflective of the best picture nominees, that’s something we’ve done with great success in the past. The release party for the movie about the magician was well received, wasn’t it?” she turned to Teresa to ask.

  “Extremely. The amuse-bouche was dove-shaped foie gras nestled in baked crackers shaped like top hats.” Teresa waved at the tray that had been brought in on their arrival. Delicate bites of tartine with pea sprouts sat between baby oysters with soy mignonette and shot glasses of apple and cucumber foam with fennel sprinkles. “See for yourself. Taste for yourself.”

  The Fixer line rang in Gabe’s pocket. He’d been waiting for another call from the woman who called herself R.

  It was damned poor timing, but he touched Mariella’s arm. “Excuse me. I have to take this.”

  She smiled and nodded, but he felt the smack of her sharp glance. He would hear about this later, but if they lost the award ceremony contract, they would need this commission.

  He left the small boardroom and headed to his office. He closed the door but didn’t take the leather chair, choosing to stand.

  “So you don’t have proof that he’s having an affair,” Gabe summed up after listening for a moment. “I’m not saying you’re wrong, but you realize that cheating spouses are so common in SoCal, we have private investigators who specialize in following, photographing and preparing the file for divorce attorneys. Look it up. Or I can recommend some good, discreet ones. You don’t need me.”

  He had a brief thought about the one who had been trailing Harrison and wondered yet again what had become of the man.

  “My needs are more complex,” his caller said snippily. “I don’t want to break my engagement. I want her out of the way. Gone from his life so I don’t have to worry about my own future, you know? I understood that was something you could accomplish.”

  Gabe debated a moment. Mariella was determined to discover the Fixer’s identity and expose him, which made him cautious about taking this commission, but relocating a mistress was a bread-and-butter job, not something that would take much effort or expose him too greatly if he were discovered. In fact, if he had to defend such a thing to Mariella, she would no doubt approve.

  “Hello?”

  Maybe just this one, then he would give the Fixer a rest, let his profile cool off. To ensure this job could be his last for a while, he said, “As I explained before, I’m expensive.”

  “Like, a million dollars expensive?”

  His gaze unconsciously came up to the horizon, blurring as he concentrated on the voice, still thinking she sounded familiar. And she was that loaded? Surely he knew her.

  “Is that what you’re offering? This is important to you,” he said dryly.

  “If that’s what it will take.” She sounded very blasé about it.

  Hell, if she was that high on the food chain, this was as much a personal favor for a friend of Harrison’s as it was a job.

  “That is what it will take,” he decided. “I deal in cash. I’ll need half up front.” He gave her the details for one of their numbered companies and told her where to drop off the cashier’s check.

  “What do you mean, drop it off? We’re meeting to discuss this, aren’t we?” She sounded rather strident for his tastes. He felt a little sorry for the fiancé, saddling himself to such a harridan for a lifetime.

  “For our own protection, we both remain anonymous. But I’ll need the woman’s name, obviously. Of course, once I know that, it won’t take much to find out yours. Do you wish to continue?”

  Silence, then, “How do I know you won’t turn around and blackmail me over this in the future?”

  “I’m a professional.” And a little insulted. “Did you hear any complaints when you were given my number? I’m discreet and reliable.”

  “You had better be, because if anything leaks, there will be hell to pay. That’s a warning.”

  I’m shaking, he thought with an eye roll. “You really want to threaten me? You’d better think again. Leave the check at lifeguard tower five on Leadbetter Beach.”

  “It’s October. No one is swimming. There won’t be any lifeguards to leave it with.”

  “Then you should put a rock on it so it doesn’t blow away, shouldn’t you? Because if I don’t get paid, your job won’t get done.”

  Another fuming silence, then, “Fine. I’ll have it there within the hour. Let me know when you’ve picked it up.”

  An hour to have that kind of money in hand? She was serious about getting results.

  He ended the call, then contacted a runner he occasionally used for such pickups, a bartender at a local winery. When the
guy was unavailable—turned out he’d gone up north, to law school at Berkeley of all things—Gabe tried to get another runner to make the pickup, a trainer at his exclusive members-only gym. But she was out of town and wouldn’t be back for a week. With no other trusted hands around, he’d have no choice but to make the pickup himself.

  Fuming for a few minutes at the unnecessary risk, he left his office, bypassing the closed door where Mariella was still putting the thumbscrews to their client, saying to his assistant as he headed for the parking garage, “Tell Mariella I had to go out.”

  She nodded, and he drove to his gym, where he changed into his running gear. Then, realizing he could hardly take his very visible Porsche to run this particular errand, he stopped at the concierge desk and rented a low-key sedan from their in-house service, noting that for once, his exorbitant membership fee would come in extra-useful. Then he parked at the beach, at the end closest to the bluff.

  The wind was holding the merest suggestion of fall, tipping whitecaps on the crests of the waves. Not enough air for kite surfing, too much chop for paddleboarders. The place was deserted, exactly as he’d expected.

  He put on his sunglasses, baseball cap and Fitbit, then went down to the sand to stretch. As he did, he scanned far up the beach, seeing a willowy figure skulk—there was no other word for it—from a black sedan down to the water. From her body language, she looked like an unhappy housewife contemplating suicide, not a local out for a walk. Definitely not a socialite arranging a dirty deed.

  If there was something in her hair color or the set of her shoulders that seemed familiar, he couldn’t quite place it and couldn’t risk getting too close. She might recognize him. He waited until she had stopped by the tower, looked around, then retreated to drive away.

  He went down to where the wet sand was firmer and began his run, going straight past the drop without even looking, just in case the woman—or anyone else—was watching. On his return, with the beach still deserted, he veered up to tower five and scooped up the envelope, slipping it into the slit pocket on his shorts, not even opening it until he’d finished his run and was in his car.

  Then he wiped his face, drained half his water bottle, and used his finger to tear open the seal.

  A five, five zeros and a name.

  It jolted him into lifting his head for a sharp look around, half expecting them to be watching and laughing. Nothing. He read it again.

  “You have gotta be kidding me,” he said, laughing. “It would be my pleasure,” he said aloud. “Rachel.”

  Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who suspected something was going on between Luc and Vanessa.

  Luc was an ever-present thorn in Gabe’s side, wearing the title of eldest son and heir, so effing full of himself that restaurants and hotels weren’t good enough. He had to be a doctor. Hell, Gabe thought, as he backed out of his space and headed to the gym for a shower, a congressman’s daughter wasn’t good enough for him. He had to diddle his mother’s housekeeper on the side.

  How’s that working out, Luc?

  All the little asides Gabe had heard his entire life, everything from being “the Marshall outsider” to “the other one,” still had the power to wash in like foamy tide, leaving him feeling clammy and churned up.

  But here he was, cleaning up after Luc. Mr. Fucking Perfect wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all his fiancée.

  He would love to take a million dollars to send Luc’s side piece back to Kansas—or wherever the hell she was from. He would have done that for free. The part where doing it stuck Luc with a shrew like Rachel Franklin? That was pure icing.

  This would be his easiest, most pleasurable job ever.

  * * *

  Rachel wanted to lower the binoculars and check the time. She was supposed to meet Luc to look at a house, but she couldn’t risk taking her eyes off that envelope. She didn’t even dare trying to get a better look at the runner on the beach, in case he wasn’t the Fixer.

  Just as she was thinking she couldn’t linger any longer, the runner veered up to the tower and snagged the envelope so smoothly, she jostled the binoculars, trying to double-check whether he’d grabbed it or not.

  Then she had trouble catching him and refocusing to get a good look at him.

  Holy shit.

  She lifted her head and sucked in a breath, taking a quick look around the parking lot of the bistro where she’d pulled in so she could watch who picked up her drop.

  She quickly got the man back in her sights. Hold me down and fuck me hard. He’d reached his car and was getting into it. Yeah, that was some nice fake-out attempt with the car—honestly, who around here drove anything as plain as a Volvo?—but the rest was all Gabriel Santiago, all right. Gabe’s hair, Gabe’s shoulders, Gabe’s ass. Gabe, you little fucking sneak, you.

  Chapter Five

  White stucco and red tile roofs were de rigueur in Santa Barbara. Rachel loved Spanish colonial, but it had to be the tasteful kind. Which came at a price.

  Fortunately, Luc had connections through his new brother-in-law and was willing to pay for the right property. The right location. This one overlooked the ocean from virtually every window, yet was still a doable drive to his clinic in LA.

  The house itself flowed in multiple levels and rounded staircases, almost as if it had been carved by wind and tides from the Santa Ynez Mountains they could admire by stepping into the guest wing. Inside, the main floor was an open plan, but there were enough alcoves and terraces to break up the blanket of hardwood into intimate dining nooks and cozy conversation areas.

  Rachel had been here once already and was charmed all over again. Her mother’s nod of approval had sealed the deal in her mind. Luc’s walk-through was a formality. She would ask Rafe to weigh in on the furniture, but her mother had already suggested focusing on mid-twentieth-century pieces by Milo Baughman, Edward Wormley and Finn Juhl.

  The granite-topped kitchen area came with the most important feature any house could have, the agent reminded. A housekeeper already came in for a few hours every day if they wanted to keep her on.

  “I’d love that,” Rachel said, glancing toward Luc, who was staring at his phone.

  Seriously?

  “Do you mind giving us a few minutes to, you know, get to know the place ourselves?”

  “Of course. I’ll be in my car.” The agent slipped out the front door.

  Rachel set down her bag with a small grunt that drew Luc’s glance. She had been so astonished by discovering Gabe’s secret, she had jammed the binoculars into her bag. She should have left them in the car.

  “Look at the hot tub. I’d like to get naked and try it out right now.”

  “Hmm?” Luc had already gone back to his phone and had wandered to the other side of the room so all she saw was his stubbled profile. He was still wearing the clothes he’d put on this morning, minus his linen jacket and blue tie. “You go ahead,” he said absently.

  She scowled. “Luc. You didn’t even kiss me hello. What’s going on?” She crossed to where he stood near the unlit fireplace.

  He clicked off the phone and gave her a distracted look, leaning in to kiss her, which she dodged. “What?” he asked.

  She was frustrated and bursting at the same time. The news about Gabe was so big, her skin was going to burst trying to contain it, but she had studied well at her mother’s knee. Information was gold, meant to be hoarded and spent only when its value had reached its highest potential.

  “What do you think of the house?” She waved at high ceilings.

  “It’s fucking huge.”

  “Better for entertaining.”

  He scowled and started to say something, but his phone pinged with a notification, drawing his glance.

  “Who are you chatting with?” Her first thought went to her, which had her nerve endings sin
geing with alarm.

  “Dr. Aebischer. He’s sending me information.”

  “About your dad?”

  “Case studies. Research papers. One of the drugs looks really promising, but it’s only been tested in low dosages over several weeks. He’s still running a number of tests and says Dad’s brain waves are showing responsiveness to stimuli and verbal suggestions.”

  “So he’ll wake soon! That’s good news!” She grabbed his sleeve. Another obstacle to their wedding day knocked down. Yes!

  Luc released a pained sigh. “It’s not that simple, Rach.”

  God, she hated it when he patronized her. She pulled out her mother’s wide-eyed concern. “Of course, it’s good news. What else would it be?”

  “Well, yes, it’s better news than the alternative,” he allowed, vaguely impatient.

  She privately smirked at forcing him to admit he was wrong.

  “But it doesn’t mean he’ll wake up soon.” His thumb and fingertip stretched across his forehead, briefly squeezing as though trying to release tension there. “I hope to hell he does, very soon, but there’s no way to put a timeline on it.”

  She heard that as the stall tactic it was. Why couldn’t he see what a great team they would make? He just had to let her lead the charge.

  “It’s still something to celebrate,” she coaxed, sidling closer. With a little wiggle, her breasts brushed his arm. “Maybe we should christen this place. You seem like you need to relax.”

  He gave her a pained look and glanced toward the front door.

  She rolled her eyes. “Come on. I doubt we’d be the first to steal a quickie in one of her client’s homes or that hot tub.” She grinned, liking the idea of doing something so nasty.

  “Why are you in such a good mood?” He frowned, seemingly in puzzlement, maybe a hint of annoyance? He wasn’t pocketing his phone, leaving her thinking he was anxious to get back to it.

  Her genuinely high spirits were in danger of going into free fall, but she kept her smile in place.