Secrets Of The A-List Box Set, Volume 1. Joss Wood

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      Trans-Atlantic calls were always difficult, and when one tried to speak English in a French accent to a busy and stressed nurse, the process was slow and frustrating. She tapped her fingers against her eighteenth-century drop-legged table and imagined throwing the blue-and-white dragon jar against the closest wall. Ming Dynasty, she reminded herself, Jiajing period, late sixteenth century. Priceless. Extraordinarily expensive.

      “You said you are calling from Paris?” the nurse clarified, her nasal twang hurting her ears.

      “Oui. Yes,” she corrected. “I’m a friend of Monsieur Marshall. How is he, s’il vous plaît?”

      “I am sorry, ma’am, I am not allowed to divulge any information about Mr. Marshall’s condition to anyone outside his direct family. That’s his wife or children.”

      I’m Parisian, not a moron, she thought, annoyed at the explanation. She forced herself to breathe deeply and maintain control of her temper, remembering her last explosion, when she threw an engraved Dutch champagne glass, circa early eighteenth century, out of the window onto the terrace. The owner of this magnificent apartment on Boulevard Saint-Germain had not appreciated the way she expressed her disappointment with him and called her volatile Gallic temperament childish. She’d punished him for that, and he’d enjoyed every minute of it.

      In fact, he’d begged for more.

      Banging the receiver back into its cradle, Nora turned away, deeply frustrated. She wasn’t used to being thwarted, and when it did happen, it had the power to ruin the rest of her day.

      She had her wants and needs, and she was very used to having both fulfilled in the shortest time possible. And, right now, it was crucial that she discover the extent of Harrison’s injuries and what that meant for her. Oh, she was sad for him, worried even, but her future would be determined by whether Harrison lived or died.

      Merde! Stupid men and their stupid fast cars. Quel crétin!

      She trailed her fingernails across the back of an exquisite leather sofa, enjoying the contrast of the blinding-white fabric and her bright red nails, like droplets of fresh blood on pristine country snow. Tipping her head to the side, she pushed a strand of her blunt-cut bob behind her ear and touched the two-carat diamond stud in the lobe. Was it wrong to want more than this magnificent apartment on one of the best streets in Paris? It was decorated to her exact taste and style; apart from a few exquisite antiques being used as accent pieces, the style was modern contemporary. The apartment opened up onto a terrace and garden, allowing her the privacy she, and others, so desperately needed. Modern art was chosen for maximum effect, all subtly erotic, sensuous, oozing sex appeal. Her art and her apartment were a reflection of herself, sophisticated, a little dangerous and utterly stylish.

      She knew Paris, she adored Paris, but was it enough? Could it be when so much had changed? Plans had needed to be made even before Harrison’s accident, and now, today, her need was greater, the stakes higher.

      Danger might be a factor. Nora shrugged the thought away. Danger didn’t scare her. Being poor did—and she wasn’t about to let that happen. She still had a few aces up her sleeve.

      * * *

      Gabriel Santiago stepped out of the elevator and immediately recognized the curvy figure walking a few paces in front of him. If it had been anyone else but Elana, he would’ve appreciated the round ass in a too-short faded denim skirt showing off a spectacular pair of legs. Since those legs belonged to his cousin, his quasi sister, his protective big-brother instincts bolted to the surface.

      Ripped denim skirt and thousand-dollar shoes. Only in Elana’s world...

      “Elana! Wait up!” Gabe ordered, and when she turned around, his eyes scanned her face. He could read her better than most; he saw the fear and uncertainty in her eyes and knew, from her quavering chin, that tears were very close to the surface. Her long deep brown hair, the exact color of excellent Colombian coffee, hadn’t seen a brush that morning, and he could see a fine rash on her cheek.

      Razor burn. His cousin had just tumbled out of someone’s bed, and that someone, he was damn sure, wasn’t Thom. Not my circus, not my monkeys, Gabe thought. He had bigger problems to deal with than Elana’s sex life. In fact, he’d far prefer to assume that Elana didn’t have a sex life at all...

      “Gabe!” Elana opened her arms, and Gabe pulled her slight frame against his chest, burying his nose in her hair. She was like a cold, wet puppy, he thought, a little alone and a lot scared. He gathered her hair into his fist and gave it a tug, like he used to do when she was a kid. As he expected, Elana tipped her head back to look at him.

      “It’ll be okay.”

      Elana stepped back and tried to pull a smile onto her face. “I normally believe you, Gabe, but today I have my doubts. How is he? What do you know?”

      “Nothing more than what is on the news.” If there was ever a time that Luc and Rafe could drop their he’s-just-our-cousin routine, it should be today, but nope, neither of them had bothered to call him. Ignoring the slow, acidic burn of hurt, Gabe led Elana toward the doors leading to the intensive care ward, Elana’s hand in his. He was part of this family but not, part relative, part cousin, part servant. That wasn’t fair, Gabe thought—Mariella had never treated him like anything other than a beloved nephew. Neither, in fact, had Harrison. It was their precious sons who resented his presence in their lives, both in the Marshall empire and at Casa de Catalina. Neither Luc nor Rafe wanted to work at the family business, but they resented the fact that he did, that he had both Harrison’s and Mariella’s ears. They hated the fact that their parents trusted him with their family finances and consulted with him on all major decisions concerning the massive company they’d created. Because, while Harrison was the face of his empire, Mariella in many ways was the glue that held it all in place.

      When he was small, Gabe had liked to pretend that Mariella and not Ana, Mariella’s younger sister, was his mother. Who could blame him for not wanting to claim Ana, a wild child, sexually promiscuous and drug-addicted party girl? He’d lived most of his life with Mariella and Harrison, twenty-three of his thirty-three years, and in all ways he considered them his parents. Ana was just his incubator. But when a prominent couple, California royalty, took on a child that was not their own, tongues wagged and turned vicious. He was called the “Marshall outsider,”

      “the other one” or “the poor relative.” Two degrees in business, working his ass off, and California society still thought that the Marshalls were practicing nepotism by employing him.

      Gabe rolled his shoulders, trying to dislodge the massive chip on his shoulder. Annoyed with himself, he slapped his broad hand on the door leading to the ICU and pushed Elana ahead of him. The waiting room, as he quickly noticed, was empty.

      “Where are they? Where are my mother and my brothers? Joe?” Her face suffused with color, and tears shimmered in her big round eyes. Elana lifted her fingers to her mouth. “Oh, God, is Daddy dead?”

      Acquire, assess, act. It was one of Harrison’s favorite quotes. Gabe tried to swallow, conscious of the lump in his throat. Harrison was the only father he had, and he couldn’t be dead. He wouldn’t allow that. “Take a breath, Elana, and let’s ask. Don’t make assumptions.”

      “My father is in ICU, my family is not here and you can’t tell me how to feel!”

      I’m your family, too, Gabe wanted to point out, and I’m trying to help, dammit. But, as he well knew, there was no reasoning with Elana when she was upset. He glanced at the nurses’ station СКАЧАТЬ