The Golden Girl

by Erica Orloff

  As she walked through the impressive executive-level offices at Pruitt & Pruitt, she noticed how both she and her father were looked at more intently than usual. Though Madison, at first, had been scrutinized closely right after college when she started working, after a while, people got used to her being “the big guy’s daughter.” When her colleagues saw she was a superstar, when they saw she was in the office by six forty-five in the morning and was usually the last to leave—sometimes at ten or eleven at night—they stopped thinking of it as nepotism and started thinking of her as the future leader of their company. After a while, Madison had relaxed and no longer felt as if she was in a fishbowl—until now.

  Her father called her into his office. The two of them had corner suites in opposite corners of the top floor. His was furnished to impress with a desk bigger than some conference tables, and floor-to-ceiling windows behind him revealed the skyline—his skyline. One of Pruitt’s towers dominated the center of his view.

  After Madison shut the door, he started into her.

  “You’re attacked in your own apartment, and then I can’t get ahold of you for two days? That’s just unprofessional, Madison. You’ve got to hold yourself together. And that includes in here. Everyone’s watching us to see how we handle the situation. You need to stay focused and professional every minute of the day. Pulling a disappearing act is childish.”

  “Professional?” Madison arched an eyebrow. “You want me to remain professional? I’m sure everyone thought it was professional when you started sleeping with in-house counsel—a woman your daughter’s age. Oh, no, wait, not just your daughter’s age but her best friend.”

  She saw him clench his jaw.

  “That was uncalled for.”

  “Hmmph,” she snorted. “There was so much uncalled for in your relationship, I don’t know where to start. And now she’s gone.”

  Jack Pruitt stared at his daughter—glared at her was more like it. And she gave it right back at him—which she’d been doing since she was a precocious kid off to nursery school, who insisted on not holding hands. But then, he did something completely uncharacteristic. He put his palms to his face, and his voice grew hoarse with emotion, “Maddie, I swear to you, we never meant to hurt you. And now, I feel like my world is shattered.”

  It took a few seconds, but Madison softened. “Oh, Dad…I’m sorry. I miss her, too. This is all just like a bad dream.”

  “Her parents are having her cremated. And they refuse to let me attend the memorial service. They’re taking her home to Boston. They never approved of us. Worse, everyone’s looking at me, as if I could have harmed her. I couldn’t have hurt a hair on her head, Maddie. You have to believe me.”

  “I do,” Madison said softly.

  “I’m sure our stock is also going to take a tumble. If this case doesn’t get solved soon, if they don’t bring her killer to justice, I have no doubt the board of directors will ask me to pull a Martha Stewart. They’ll keep me as a figurehead, but install a new CEO.”

  “Well…it would be temporary, even if they did that. But I don’t think it’s necessary.”

  “If it ever becomes necessary, you better be named CEO.”

  “What about Uncle Bing?”

  “Eh…you know, he’s great, but he’s not as involved in the day-to-day as you are.”

  Madison nodded. “All right, Dad. Listen, I have a negotiation for the new hotel in the Meatpacking District. I’ve got to get going. You hang in there.”

  “I will. Look, while Marcus tries to figure out that security breach on your apartment, I thought of having Frank Killian come in and act as your personal bodyguard.”

  “No!” Madison said a little too hastily.

  “Why? Your safety should be the most important thing, Maddie. Think of Claire. We still have no idea who killed her—or why. And you seem to be the next target.”

  “No, Dad,” Maddie said, more measured, calmer. “I just meant that I have Charlie to drive me anyplace. Marcus has been posting an extra guy outside my apartment at night. I’ll be fine.”

  “All right,” he said reluctantly. “But we’ll play it by ear.”

  Maddie nodded and left the office. What she hadn’t said was that Frank Killian would make her undercover work impossible. There’d be no way she could fool him, slip away when she needed to, nothing. Charlie…well, he was devoted, but she still had her own life. Killian was the type of security professional who didn’t even let her use the restroom alone.

  Walking briskly back to her office, she soon got lost in her day, racing from meeting to meeting. Next thing she knew, her watch read two o’clock. She hadn’t taken a lunch break, and her head was pounding. On top of that, it was time to head to Harlem. Her charity, the Harlem Charter School for Excellence, was expecting her.

  Maddie changed in the private bathroom off her office. The bathroom was equipped with a shower stall big enough for five people, a whirlpool tub and an immense walk-in closet, none of which she ever used, except the closet. She wasn’t a clotheshorse. Not in the traditional sense. In fact, she employed a personal shopper named Vanessa Guzman, who basically stocked both her personal and professional wardrobe so Maddie didn’t have to shop. She was too impatient to waste her time—another trait she’d inherited from her father.

  Still, she liked designer clothes, sunglasses, shoes and bags—and she liked to dress in an unfussy, clean, elegant way that recalled a timelessness. She liked showcasing new designers when she had a charity ball or holiday party. Ashley Thompson had showcased her clothes choices in Chic—a photo essay on “young heiresses.” According to Tallulah James, a young designer who’d branched out on her own after apprenticing with Richard Tyler, after Madison appeared in Chic in the infamous “Hepburn” dress, a little black number that brought to mind a sexier “Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” Tallulah received enough orders to put her firm in the black—after one season—which was unheard of.

  In her dressing room, Maddie shed her work clothes, surveying herself in the three-way mirror. The bruises from both her attack and Jimmy Valentine’s training showed when she was naked. She had one bruise on her thigh that had turned an eggplant color. Still, Maddie was proud of her body—taut, busty yet athletic—she knew she looked good. Her abdomen was completely flat, her upper arms toned.

  She dressed in a black Donna Karan bodysuit and black jeans. Then she donned a pair of black half boots, pulling the leg of her pants over them, creating a lean silhouette. She put on a black blazer, twisted her blond hair into a loose chignon and touched up her makeup. She added a green scarf around her neck that instantly emphasized her eyes. She scrutinized herself extra carefully.

  Maddie tried to kid herself, but then again, she was a no-nonsense person. The truth was she was excited to see John Hernandez.

  Exiting the office, she told her administrative assistant she’d be gone for the rest of the day.

  “I have my cell phone, though. If Ryan Greene calls, have him call me. That jerk is trying to steal the Aberdeen building right out from under me.”

  Her assistant, Carla, smiled. “I swear he does that just to get to you.”

  Maddie smiled. “I think he does. But he knows damn well who he’s messing with.”

  She left the office and then walked ten blocks to the train station, grabbing a subway car bound for Harlem. She could have had Charlie drive her but she always took the train, not wanting to call attention to herself among the children at the school. There, she wanted to be an ordinary volunteer.

  The Harlem Charter School for Excellence was the charity she chose for her work with the Gotham Roses when she joined a year ago. She had raised considerable funds for it over the year or so of her time with the Roses. But it was the gift of her time that meant the most to her. Renee always insisted that the Roses spend time—not just money—with their chosen charities. “It’s only by pruning ourselves, tending to our inner qualities of compassion, that we can really bloom,” was one of her sayings.

  At the ch
arter school, which was also supported by very large donations from the Pruitt Family Trust, she went by Madison Taylor. Only the principal knew her true identity. So she was able to show up once a week on Mondays, cutting short her day even though she usually returned to the office to work until the wee hours, to be a homework tutor with John Hernandez’s students, and she was able to do so without everyone thinking of her as the spoiled heiress “slumming it.” That wasn’t who she was or what she was about, but she wanted to be taken at face value.

  Unexpectedly, over time, her friendship with the dark-haired young teacher grew until she found herself uncharacteristically with sweaty palms as she walked into John’s class each week. This week was no different.

  “Here’s our homework angel,” John said. “Class, say hi to Ms. Taylor.”

  The classroom full of sixth-graders gave her big smiles and a chorus of hellos. John held her gaze for a few seconds and smiled. Her stomach flip-flopped.

  “Hi, everyone,” Madison said. “Hello, Mr. Hernandez,” she added with a playful tone to her voice.

  She left her blazer on but put her purse in his file cabinet and immediately went to the computer-lab area to start helping the kids who were gathered there. She knew all of their names and most of their stories. And her heart both broke and soared for each one.

  To be accepted to the charter school, each student had to sign a contract swearing off gangs, drugs and alcohol. They had to commit to two-hour homework sessions four days a week, and to achieving a B average or better—or be put on academic probation. Ideally, John had told her, the parents and family—or grandparents or involved adults—would also commit to the charter school’s principles. But that wasn’t always the case. Still, these kids made Maddie proud every week.

  She leaned over the shoulder of Anna Williams, a favorite student of hers, and checked over her work.

  “Great job, sweetie.”

  Anna beamed. She had high hopes to be a lawyer, and like all the kids in John Hernandez’s class, an “anonymous” donor had agreed to fund a college education at a state university for anyone who maintained a B average or better all through high school. Maddie was secretly thrilled to think that someday, perhaps Anna, who was being raised by a very elderly great-grandmother in a wheelchair, might find herself an attorney for Pruitt & Pruitt.

  But it was John Hernandez himself who intrigued Madison the most. Little by little he had shared his story. A crack-addict mother, a father shot dead in a drive-by shooting, little John Hernandez was raised by a grandmother who adored him. Even so, he found himself in a gang at ten for protection. He was shot not once, but on two separate occasions, in drive-bys, and he was stabbed in the chest during a fight over turf, the blade narrowly missing his heart.

  Lying in a hospital bed in intensive care after being stabbed, he had told Madison that he had been “visited” by the spirit of his father while in a morphine haze, lingering in a netherworld between life and death. John, the most honest person Madison had ever met, had told her his father informed him he would be dead soon if he didn’t change his path. Then his father’s spirit, John said, laid hands on him and cured him. When John came to hours later, he discovered he had “died” for a full two minutes, only to be paddled and brought back by the trauma team. His young heart had apparently stopped beating and the doctors found a clot they had missed.

  John, nearly sixteen, returned to his grandmother’s apartment a changed young man. He left the gang, got a job sweeping a Harlem store for minimum wage and worked his ass off to graduate high school on time. Eventually, he started college, applied for grants and got better and better jobs, his disarming good looks and smile winning him fans wherever he went. He had jet-black hair that he wore just a touch long, letting it curl at his collar. His cocoa-colored skin was smooth, and his eyes were so dark you couldn’t see his pupils in the black sea of his irises. Full lips, a strong nose and high cheekbones completed his look. Then there was his body, which Maddie decided was perfect, right down to the cross tattoo on his huge left biceps, which she’d spied once when he wore a polo shirt.

  Eventually, John Hernandez worked his way up from the mailroom to a clerical position at Wade and Gonzalez, Attorneys-at-Law. Hector Gonzalez, a partner there, was impressed at the drive John had and mentored him, helping to put John through college with a loan with generous payback terms. Gonzalez always assumed John would perhaps become an attorney, but when he instead went back into his community to make a difference, Gonzalez couldn’t argue with him—and admired his commitment.

  All Maddie knew was when, at the end of each Monday, he climbed on his Harley and drove away, she felt something inside that Ryan Greene and the other men who could discuss the bull or bear market, the fluctuation of the dollar and the impact of the Pacific Rim’s downturned economy on the American economy just didn’t do for her. She’d return to the office to work—often until midnight—but uncharacteristically her mind would often wander and replay each word of their conversations.

  Maddie and John spent all afternoon with the kids. Every once in a while, he would come over to her and lean over the same student, his shoulder touching hers or his hand leaning on hers as they both held on to the back of the student’s chair. The kids would occasionally exchange giggles. Mr. Hernandez’s crush on Ms. Taylor was getting harder and harder to hide.

  After they had sent the last student home, straightened the desks, shut down all the computers and tidied the room, John said, “Maddie, you’re an angel, you really are. You never say why you do this, really, but I’m just grateful you make it here each Monday. I couldn’t do this without you. One of me…twenty-five of them. Not a great ratio.” He laughed, pulling on a leather jacket. “Um…want to go for a drink?…I mean…I’m sorry. I don’t even know if you have plans. Or a boyfriend.” He looked at her intently.

  “Drinks would be great.” Finally, she thought. Okay the timing wasn’t perfect, but she’d felt something between them for months.

  He broke out into an easy grin. “I know the best Tex-Mex place about five blocks from here. Margaritas sound okay?”

  “They sound better than okay.” Hell, she needed a respite from this last week.

  “I was hoping you’d say yes,” he said sheepishly, pulling a spare helmet out of his storage closet. “I didn’t want to assume, but I brought a helmet. Mind if we take my ride?”

  She shook her head and reached up into her hair and pulled out the bobby pins holding her chignon in place. Her hair fell to about three inches below her shoulders. She ran her fingers through it and thought she heard him sigh—a good kind of sigh.

  They walked out to the faculty parking lot, climbed on his bike and headed the few blocks to the Tex-Mex place called Tequila Sunrise. Riding there, her teeth chattered a bit, but she wasn’t sure if it was from the cold, the vibrations of the Harley, or from gripping him tightly, her hands on his taut stomach, her thighs against his thighs.

  She could tell he was a bit of a daredevil—and he liked speed as much as she did. The motorcycle weaved in and out of traffic, the wind whipping her face, and she quickly learned to lean when he leaned, and to become one with the bike—and the driver.

  Over drinks, she was amazed at how easily they laughed and talked. She was able to keep steering the conversation to the world at large and away from anything too personal. If he asked her something, like, “What are your parents like?” she didn’t lie, but she did commit the sin of omission.

  “Oh…they divorced when I was about twelve. It was very bitter. I shuttled between their apartments.”

  Of course, she left out, “You might have read all the gory details on the front page of the papers. Including how my monthly child support was more than the average teacher’s yearly salary.” She wasn’t ashamed of her wealth—heaven knows she now worked hard enough for it—as did her father—and gave enough of it away. But she feared John would be intimidated by her background, and until he got to know her better, she felt it best to keep him a little
in the dark. The photo the newspapers sometimes used was so formal, it barely looked like her—and she didn’t tell him her last name was Pruitt. She was simply Madison Taylor.

  After drinks, he asked if he could drive her all the way home.

  “Oh…no. That’s all right, really. I was going to take the subway home.”

  “At this hour? Not safe, Maddie.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “At least let me hail you a cab and give you cab fare.”

  “No…really. I ride the subways all the time.”

  John had signaled the waitress for the bill and paid it.

  “I won’t take no for an answer.”

  “How about a compromise? I’ll take a cab, but I’ll pay for it. You already got drinks.”

  He hesitated but finally nodded.

  Outside the restaurant, they walked back to his Harley.

  “It’s a beautiful motorcycle.” It was—black and lots of chrome.

  “It’s impractical in the city in a lot of ways, but I love to take it upstate, riding in the mountains. Maybe I can take you some Sunday.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Maddie?”

  “Hmm?”

  “What would you say to dinner on Friday?”

  Friday was actually a board meeting, and she knew she’d be working even later than usual at the office. Plus, she wasn’t quite sure how to juggle undercover work with regular work—with volunteering and now a date.

  “Um…I have to work late. How about Saturday?”

  “Great.”

  They looked at each other, an awkward moment passing between them. Then John leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. Next thing Maddie knew, she was kissing him back, hungrily. The months and months of exchanged glances and brushing up against each other culminated like an explosion. He had his hands in her hair, gripping her to him, almost making her wince—she was still so bruised from her ordeal.

  She bit at his lip sexily, eliciting a moan from him.