LITMIR.BIZ

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joking. “Oh, come on, Elana! You’re making this out to be some b-grade MISSION IMPOSSIBLE spin-off.”

      “Don’t dismiss this,” she said softly. “I’ve been thinking about it all night.” When she wasn’t thinking about ending her engagement or being screwed senseless by Jarrod Jones, anyway. “Something about this is really off.”

      “No, it’s not. Dad had a car accident and we found out there’s something a little strange going on in his business. Something he’ll probably be able to explain away when he wakes up.”

      “What if it wasn’t an accident?”

      Rafe was very still. A thread of tension ran down his spine. Was it possible Elana was on to something?

      “What do you mean?”

      “Call it a hunch,” she said quietly. “But I think there’s way more going on here than we can see. And there’s one person I can think of who’ll be able to give us some damned answers.”

      Rafe lifted a single dark brow.

      “The Fixer,” she hissed impatiently. “Whoever the Fixer is, we need to find out. And we need to demand he or she tells us what happened.”

      “You say that like it’s going to be easy,” Rafe said. “But Dad was able to keep this person hidden from his own family—probably for years.”

      “But we weren’t looking before.” Elana lifted her head as the sound of tires crunching on gravel alerted them to Luc’s arrival. He pulled the car up just behind Rafe’s and opened his door. He flicked off the ignition, and Elana’s eyes winged together as she studied her oldest brother through the tinted windshield of the car.

      Luc Marshall was different from her and Rafe. He was the most like Harrison—determined, intelligent and ruthless when he needed to be. Was it possible that the Fixer was far closer than they’d imagined? She lifted her face to Rafe’s and saw the same speculation in his expression.

      “What’s going on?” Luc asked as he stepped out of the vehicle, his glance encompassing the both of them. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

      * * *

      The Polo Club sat perched on the edge of the Pacific Ocean. From the four-level building there were views in all directions—over the polo fields and then the ocean on one side, toward the mountains and forest on the other. It was one of their earliest acquisitions and it had always been special to Mariella for that reason.

      At one time it had been the jewel in their crown. Mariella pulled into her reserved space and looked at it for a moment, feeling the swelling of pride that never failed to fill her when she contemplated how far she and Harrison had come.

      This building was symbolic of that. It had history and prestige, like her when she’d met Harrison. But when they’d bought it, the previous owners had let it slide, so that the attention to detail and quality were no longer in place. Nobody believed it could be transformed.

      Just like her parents had sworn she would regret marrying a nobody like Harrison Marshall. He hadn’t been good enough for Mariella Santiago. So they’d said!

      How wrong they’d been. Three children, an empire, and thirty-two years of marriage to the man had shown her how important it was to hold fast. She had stood up to her parents and married Harrison despite their disapproval, and she would stand by him now, even when confusion about this mysterious Fixer made her wonder how many secrets he’d been keeping from her.

      How adroitly he’d maneuvered this entire portion of his life away from her. How trusting she’d been—when he’d received calls and excused himself from the room, she had never doubted it was a business matter. A real business matter, not something strange with this sideline concern of his.

      But she wouldn’t judge him. She was determined to listen to his explanation, and that meant waiting for him to wake up. And he would wake up. Just like he’d won her heart, faced her parents, and gone from a chef to a restaurateur to a billionaire.

      Mariella squared her shoulders and stepped from the car, her slim frame silhouetted by the midday sun. It was a warm day. She relished the sensation of the heat on her back as she moved through the enormous glass doors.

      She remembered the first party they’d hosted in the elegant ballroom. It had been a sensational affair—European royalty, sheikhs, American celebrities. Now, the restaurant and bar were busy. She moved past the din of conversation with her head bent and sunglasses in place, avoiding being drawn into any unnecessary conversation.

      The staircase was made of marble and the banister was gold; an enormous crystal chandelier hung perfectly above it. Mariella took the stairs with her head still tipped forward, her mind running over Harrison, her children and the empire that she would need to keep in her own control. Not the Fixer’s.

      The ballroom had been designed for maximum impact. It took the entire top floor of the building and had windows on either side, covered in dark red curtains. Mariella paused a couple of steps from the top and drew in a steadying breath then continued up. She removed her glasses at the top, sliding them into their case and replacing them in her handbag without breaking her step.

      “Veronica,” she said as she entered, her gaze landing on the woman instantly. Veronica Waterhouse, a former Miss America, was still whippet thin and extraordinarily beautiful. Like most of her contemporaries, she’d had so many little modifications to her face that she hadn’t just halted the aging process—she’d reversed it and shaved several decades off her appearance.

      “Mariella.” Her accent was clipped, courtesy no doubt of the sort of finishing school that women of her generation and social sphere had been encouraged to attend.

      Mariella eyed Veronica’s cocktail, a full glass beside an empty, and nodded to one of the milling staff. “Mimosa.”

      The bartender made a small gesture of understanding, and Mariella sat with ingrained elegance in the seat opposite Veronica. “I take it there’s a problem?” she prompted, trying to keep her irritation from her voice. “With the wedding?”

      Veronica compressed her lips. “I hope not. I need everything to be just perfect. I’ve promised Katherine that her wedding will be the last word in style.” Veronica leaned forward conspiratorially. “Of course, you know what it’s like when they’re getting married. I imagine you’re going through this exact same thing with Elana. First they want this, then they want that—so many decisions, only one wedding.” Veronica laughed, a brittle sound in the cavernous space. “We hope!”

      Mariella nodded, but her mind was rejecting the statement. After all, Elana had barely shown a glimmer of interest in her wedding plans. Weddings aren’t really my thing. Why don’t you surprise me? she’d told Mariella. The sense that it was slightly odd settled uncomfortably around Mariela’s shoulder. It was not something she had any mental space to reflect upon. Elana had always been a law unto herself.

      “Yes, well, we want it to be just right. What would Katherine like?”

      “Initially she was happy with the idea of caviar-topped oysters, but it seems Chester’s become mixed up in a conservation cause,” Veronica said with a hint of distaste. “Apparently caviar is on their hit list.”

      Mariella suppressed an urge to roll her eyes. “Our caviar is the world’s finest, but if it would upset Chester...”

      “Apparently it would,” Veronica was quick to agree. “Which would, in turn, upset Katherine. And...”

      “We can’t have that,” Mariella clipped, beyond grateful when her drink appeared. She ran her finger up the stem of her mimosa. “We always source nonspawning Kumamoto oysters. They’re delicious on their own. We’ll skip the caviar.”

      Veronica winced. “The problem is,” she said with a smile that bordered on apologetic, “Chester II is allergic, and Veronica thinks it might seem disrespectful...”

      “I see,” Mariella said, nodding, moving

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