Taming Her Billionaire

by Yahrah St. John

  Elyse reached for Lexia’s hands to still them, and then smiled. “My husband is just fine and there’s nothing wrong.” She placed a hand on her belly, then placed both arms together and rocked them back and forth.

  Lexia’s eyes lit up. She jumped out of the booth and rushed around to the other side. “You’re having a baby!”

  She nodded. The two women shared a hug. Once Lexia went back to her seat, Elyse wiped her tears. “The only thing that would make this perfect is if Janice was here.”

  She squeezed her friend’s hand and they fell silent. Janice rounded out their trio. Friends since the age of ten, they’d laughed, cried and basically done life together. Janice and her two daughters had been killed in a car accident a year and a half ago, three months after Oasis Café opened. Janice’s husband, Cameron, had been devastated when he lost his high school sweetheart.

  As if she’d read Lexia’s mind, Elyse asked, “Have you seen Cam lately? I’ve been so worried about him.”

  Lexia shook her head sadly. “He usually comes around every four or five weeks, but I haven’t heard from him in close to two months.” The tragedy had taken a toll on him and in the end Cameron had lost everything, including himself. “I’m praying he shows up soon.”

  She nodded. “When you see him, give him a hug from me.”

  “I will.” Silence stretched between them again and she offered up a silent prayer for her friend.

  Elyse slid out of the booth. “I’d better get back.”

  Lexia came to her feet. “Thanks for sharing your good news. Give my congratulations to Sheldon.” She opened her mouth to say something else, but went still when she noticed Khalil through the window. Their eyes locked for a brief moment. He shot her a sexy grin and winked. Lexia’s pulse skipped and the back of her hand tingled with remembrance of their earlier encounter. Irritated that he affected her this way, she jerked her gaze away.

  Elyse laughed and shook her head. “Should I be offering you congratulations, as well?”

  She frowned. “No.”

  “Whatever you say. We’ll see if you’re still spouting that nonsense the next time we talk.”

  “Nonsense is right. Been down that road before and I’d just as soon not go there again.” Even after almost three years, the sting of her divorce still left a bitter taste in her mouth. They shared another hug, said goodbye, and Lexia went back to her office to finish her supply order.

  Two hours later, she left her office and found a crowded café. Sam and the part-time server Lexia had hired were rushing from table to table as the chef barked out ready orders. She intercepted Sam. “What is going on?” The café closed at three and now, with an hour to go, the diner was more crowded than the lunch rush hour.

  “There’s some big meeting going on at one of the companies upstairs and this was their lunch break.” Sam continued to the table carrying an armload of plates.

  Lexia donned her apron and hairnet and joined the chef in the kitchen. She cooked, filled and carried plates. At two fifty-five, the last customers exited. She and Sam collapsed into the nearest booth.

  “I really appreciate all the business, but my feet and arms are about to fall off,” Sam said with a groan. “And we still have to clean up.” Because they usually only had a few stragglers after two, they were able to clean up and prep for the next day, and be gone by three thirty. Today, it would take much longer.

  Lexia chuckled. “Well, take five minutes. You deserve it.”

  “I’m leaving now, Lexia.”

  She turned to see Jayla with her backpack slung over her shoulder. “Okay. Thanks for staying a little later. You’re not going to be late for school, are you?” Nineteen-year-old Jayla Howard was a sophomore at UCLA, studying biochemistry. She had come up to Lexia after a food demonstration six months ago to tell her how much she had enjoyed the dish. The two spent several minutes talking and when Jayla mentioned needing a job to supplement her financial aid, Lexia had hired her to work four hours a day.

  “Nope. Class doesn’t start until six, but I’m meeting my study group. I already texted to let them know I’d be a few minutes late. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Bye,” Lexia and Sam chorused.

  A minute passed and Sam said, “That Khalil Gray is one fine man. I can’t believe you didn’t give him your number.”

  She sighed and leaned her head against the seat. “Sam, you know what happened the last time I gave a fine man my number.”

  “I do, but he might be worth another shot. I Googled him. Want to know what I found out?”

  Yes! “No,” she answered, hoping she sounded disinterested.

  Sam laughed. “Girl, you’re not fooling me.” She pushed to her feet and braced her hands on the table. “You know you want to know. And, ooh, the photos. Sexy!” She pulled out her phone, tapped a few buttons and fanned herself. She held the phone out to Lexia.

  Lexia ignored the phone and stood. “We need to clean up so I can go home. I have some recipes to work on.” The angle of the screen let her see just enough to know he was shirtless and it took everything in her not to snatch the phone and get an up close and personal view. “If you’re so interested, maybe you should give him your number.”

  “I would, but he didn’t ask me. Besides, I’m already dating someone.” Sam glanced down at the phone again. “Mmm, mmm, mmm!”

  She rolled her eyes and strode off. The temptation to see the photo was so strong, Lexia had to stop in her office and lock her phone in the drawer before returning to the front and starting on the display case. I am not interested in that man. His smiling face floated across her mind along with her body’s reaction and she groaned inwardly. The next time he came in, she planned to stay in her office, far away from temptation.

  Copyright © 2017 by Sheryl Lister

  Super Rich. Super Sexy. Super Addictive.

  SECRETS OF THE A-LIST

  You won’t want to miss a single installment!

  The wealthy Marshall family are untouchable. Or so they thought.

  Keep reading for the first episode in this explosive family drama!

  Can’t get enough?

  Read all 12 episodes in this scandalous and sexy new serial!

  Episode 1

  Episode 2

  Episode 3

  Episode 4

  Episode 5

  Episode 6

  Episode 7

  Episode 8

  Episode 9

  Episode 10

  Episode 11

  Episode 12

  Secrets of the A-List Box Set, Volume 1

  (contains episodes 1-4)

  Secrets of the A-List Box Set, Volume 2

  (contains episodes 5-8)

  Secrets of the A-List Box Set, Volume 3

  (contains episodes 9-12)

  When you have it all, you’ll do anything to keep it...

  SECRETS OF THE A-LIST

  (Episode 1 of 12)

  Joss Wood

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Prologue

  “He’s in the hands of the trauma surgeon.”

  “Status?” The words were supercharged verbal bullets. This information was well paid for—to hell with politeness.

  “Bad. Head injuries, broken bones. He was thrown from the vehicle as it hit the guardrail. If he’d been wearing his seat belt, he would’ve been part of the fiery wreck at the bottom of the cliff.”

  “Has the family been informed?”

  “Not yet,” the EMT replied. “I presume one of the nurses will make those calls in the next few minutes.”

  “Have the press gotten w
ind of the story yet?”

  Imagining the young woman glancing toward the entrance to the ER—her brown eyes would be scanning the hallway for the more familiar members of the press corps. “Not yet, but they will soon. News that Harrison Marshall is in critical condition will spread like a California wildfire.”

  A few low curses escaped. “Prognosis?”

  The EMT remained silent, in preparation to deliver the bad news, and sucked in a deep breath. “Not good. Prepare yourself.”

  Prepare yourself. Pity that suggestion didn’t come with a how-to manual.

  The Fixer disconnected the call and looked down at the hand clutching the cell phone, noting with annoyance the trembling fingers holding the expensive phone in a tight grip. Breathe, dammit. He’s not dead.

  Not yet, anyway.

  The Fixer swiped a thumb across the screen of the smartphone and looked at the call log, realizing the last conversation they’d shared was probably shortly before Harrison’s Bugatti Veyron made its acquaintance with the highway’s low guardrail. According to another source on the payroll, a California Highway Patrol officer, the responding officers had few doubts that this was anything but an accident—the Pacific Coast Highway had seen many cars leave its surface thanks to its unforgiving twists and bends—but, because Harrison Marshall was Harrison Marshall, world-renowned hospitality entrepreneur, his accident would attract investigation. And attention.

  Attention the Fixer did not need.

  At least the authorities wouldn’t find Harrison’s last call suspicious, as there would be records of twenty other calls from Harrison to this cell number this week alone. With luck the authorities would assume that the much-ticketed Harrison had been speeding again and lost control of his car when he threw it around a treacherous bend.

  Nobody had to know that there was a strong possibility that Harrison’s past—their past—had finally caught up with them.

  The Fixer walked across the second-story living room and onto the upstairs balcony to grip the wrought-iron railing with a taut grip. Casa de Catalina, named after the wife of the first owner of this property, a wealthy real estate baron, had views of both the Santa Ynez Mountains and the Pacific Ocean. Like everything else at Casa Cat, as it was fondly called, the views were world-class. The Fixer idly wondered how much money Harrison and Mariella had spent restoring the sprawling century-old mansion. The budget probably matched the GDP of a small third-world country. It was huge, tastefully decorated, luxurious and rich...the hub of the Marshall empire. Would Harrison see it again? Could he be allowed to?

  Alive or dead could be worked with, but brain injuries would be, well, difficult. To say the least.

  The Fixer stared down, eyes bouncing from the bright blue pool to the red tiles of the guest cottage and the contrasting greens of the landscaped garden, not taking in any of the details of the opulent estate. Had Harrison asked for something someone wasn’t prepared to relinquish? Had he stumbled on a secret someone was prepared to kill for? Could someone closer to home have accidentally-on-purpose caused his car to leave the Pacific Coast Highway?

  Or was this, simply, an accident?

  The Fixer didn’t know, and that lack of knowledge grated, frightened. Knowledge was power, and the Fixer was always, thanks to the Marshall-Santiago empire, in the right place at the right time to acquire that knowledge—privy to so many private conversations and all sorts of shenanigans. All it took was a whispered suggestion that a stubborn and embarrassing problem could be solved by bending the rules—for a hefty fee—and word got around.

  With Harrison’s “accident,” the spotlight would be very firmly focused on the Marshall family. Fuck. This news would be the leading story everywhere. The Fixer had no doubt that the Marshalls would rally together and face this challenge as a united front, but there was a strong possibility that the secretive nature of what they did would be revealed. No problem was unsolvable, however, as they had proved over the years. They’d dealt with vengeful wives and pissed-off discarded mistresses, bad business deals, royal muck-ups in foreign countries. They’d yet to fail, and now wasn’t the time to start. Not when so much was at stake.

  Every problem held a solution, and the Fixer recognized the need to step away from the fear, the worry and the emotion of the situation. When one looked at Harrison’s accident as a problem, it was easy to see that the quickest and most efficient solution was for Harrison to wake up and talk—or for him to die. Harsh but true. This was one of the few situations when money, dammit, was not the answer. It would help, it would conceal and confuse, stir up the already muddy waters, but a broken body needed time and skill and luck to heal. For today, the Fixer could try to contain the situation. A waiting game would be played, with eyes and ears wide open.

  The Fixer would give Harrison some time to recover.

  But not too much. Before long some far-reaching and tough decisions on Harrison’s future would have to be made.

  The Fixer would not hesitate to make those decisions. It wouldn’t, after all, be the first time...

  Chapter One

  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, powe
rful, 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.