A Tiara Under the Tree

Bloody hell. Mariella made a conscious effort to hold on to her temper. There was only one way to gain back control, and it was a tactic both she and Harrison used to great effect. She planted her feet, lifted her chin and pulled the corners of her mouth into a shark smile. That particular smile, it was said, had the power to shrivel the sacks of presidents, dictators and serial killers. The questions stopped, feet shuffled and Mariella scanned the crowd standing in front of her. When her eyes connected with some of the junior journalists, more than one tried to step backward. The lobby was now packed with reporters, security was looking anxious and the reporters were impeding the foot traffic moving in and out of the hospital. Rafe and Luc still stood just outside the doors, looking miserable.

Mariella lifted her hand. “I suggest that we move this outside, and if you stop shouting questions at me, I will give you a brief statement.”

The reporters, helped by security, escorted her through the automatic doors, and she took her place next to Luc and Rafe. She placed a hand on each of their backs before turning to face the members of the fourth estate. God, what to say? How to say it? She had to walk the line between showing them that she was genuinely worried—she was—and optimism, which she didn’t, currently, possess. She had to give them enough to satisfy them but not enough to exacerbate the situation and provide more speculation than necessary. Mariella felt like her head was about to explode.

“I can confirm that my husband was in a car accident earlier this morning. Harrison was flung from the car and sustained several serious injuries. I am not going to detail the extent of those, so do not ask. All I can say is that he has undergone emergency surgery and that he is in the ICU.

“I’m asking the press for privacy as we deal with these horrible circumstances.” It was standard practice to ask to be left alone, but it wouldn’t happen. “That is all I have to say at this time. I will have our press liaison release an update when we have more news.” Like hell she would, but she had no problem lying to the press.

“Where is Elana?”

“Was he speeding?”

“Where was he going at the time of the accident?”

Mariella turned away from the questions, relieved when the security personnel started to herd the group away from her. Mariella jerked her head at her sons, who stepped closer to her. Putting her back to the press corps, strategically positioned so that no one could photograph her face, she skewered them with a hot look before herding them away from the press and out of the range of their keen hearing. “What the hell do you think you were doing, engaging with them? We have a rule—any news fed to the press is sanctioned and signed off by your father or myself. What did you tell them?”

“Nothing more than you did,” Luc replied, sending Rafe an annoyed look.

“Thank God for small mercies.” Mariella felt the burn of tears in the back of her throat and clenched her hands at her sides. God, she couldn’t afford to fall apart, not here. Sucking up her last reserves of strength, she raked her glance over her sons again and shook her head. “I’m going upstairs to wait. If you two know what’s good for you

, you’ll leave me alone until my temper is under control. Are we clear?”

“Crystal,” Luc muttered, his eyes blazing with fury.

“Yes, Mom.” Rafe nodded, looking contrite. “Sorry.”

Mariella, unable to stay angry when Rafe looked so very miserable, patted his cheek. “We will get through this,” she told him.

“Yeah,” Luc said, his eyes still cool, “but the question remains as to whether we will be everything that we were when we do.”

Mariella bit her bottom lip, bone-deep scared that he might be right.

* * *

Rafe watched his mother walk away and thought, as he frequently did, that his mother had the biggest set of balls in the world. Bigger, possibly, than his father’s, and that was a hell of a statement. Rafe turned his attention onto his still-simmering brother and wondered how long it would take for Mr. Perfect to blame this latest fiasco on him.

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six...

“You shouldn’t have answered that first question,” Luc told him in his oh-so-familiar patronizing tone. God, he was so sick of being in Luc’s firing line. “Once you answer one question, it opens the door to fifty more.”

“I told them that we had no more information than they did,” Rafe argued.

“They can smell bullshit from fifty paces, Rafe! Of course we know more than they do.”

“Like what?” Rafe challenged. “He had an accident, his Bugatti left the road and he’s in ICU with extensive injuries. I never said he was in a goddamn coma, did I? Why the hell are you busting my balls? You also engaged with them.”

If Luc could blame him for climate change and the Syrian crisis, he would. He was, he’d come to accept, a disappointment to his man’s man father and his incomparable older brother. Funny...if he’d been nerdy, geeky and awkward, his life would’ve been easier. He was just the opposite. He was possibly even more naturally gifted at sports than Luc and probably had a bigger brain. Every sport he tried he mastered; there wasn’t a test he couldn’t ace. His dad and Luc hated the fact that he jumped around, moving from opportunity to opportunity. He was wasting his talents, his intellect, they fumed. He had so much potential...

Rafe didn’t understand why his lack of commitment to any particular career bothered them so much. He had a lot of interests, and he liked having the freedom to explore them all.

He felt ill, sick with worry about his dad, but underneath the despair, resentment bubbled. Rafe was so tired of feeling less than because he chose to walk a path that was different than that of his father and brother, tired of the confused looks, the snide comments, the haughty condescension.

Rafe heard the discreet beep of Luc’s phone, indicating that he had a message. Luc pulled his phone from the inside pocket of his tailored Armani suit and looked down at the screen.

“Fuck, I can’t deal with that now,” Luc muttered.

Rafe frowned. “Problem? Was it a journalist?”