The Golden Girl

by Erica Orloff

  Within minutes, they were roaring through Manhattan. At a couple of lights, she looked over her shoulder. No one appeared to be following her and John, and she felt herself relax and actually enjoy the ride. She assumed that the two mobsters had decided that a scene in broad daylight—when she was with a well-built, tough-looking guy herself—was not in their best interest.

  Eventually, they drove up the Palisades Parkway, which snaked up along the Hudson River all the way to Bear Mountain and West Point. The farther north they got, the more traffic there was—which was the opposite of normal—when closer to the city usually meant more traffic. But Madison remembered the morning newscaster rating the day as one of the top choices for fall foliage. She did marvel at the hues of gold and burnished reds. She felt, as they drove on into the mountains, the colder air as it hit her face. She buried her right cheek against John’s back. She was amazed at how much just touching him on the motorcycle gave her feelings she frankly had never thought she’d have. She was too controlled, too much like her father, too much a woman who had to play with the big boys and never let them see her break a sweat.

  He slowed the Harley as they came to the circle near West Point.

  “You cold?” he shouted over the roar of the motorcycle.

  “Just a little.”

  “We’ll stop in a little bit for some coffee. I know a roadside diner.”

  As they completed the circle, she saw John look in his side-view mirrors and felt him stiffen.

  “What?” she shouted.

  “Some asshole is creeping up on my tail.”

  Maddie glanced behind them and saw a black Mercedes sedan with black-tinted windows speeding up on them.

  John revved the bike and leaned forward a bit. But the more he sped up, the more the black car kept up with them. “What the hell…” John shouted against the wind.

  Maddie instinctively leaned against him, almost as if she willed him to go faster. She could handle the speed.

  “Hang on!” he yelled. Suddenly, the motorcycle’s full capabilities were on display. John had the bike going ninety-five miles an hour, and he zipped in front of two slower cars, trying to put some distance between them and the Mercedes sedan.

  However, Maddie could glimpse the sedan in his side-view mirrors. The driver of the car—and she assumed it was the Russian or his sidekick—had no respect for the law—or safety. The car pulled out into the no-passing lane and gained on them.

  John urged the motorcycle faster, and they raced along the winding turns of the upper Palisades Parkway as other cars leisurely drove, taking in the sights of the fall trees in all their glory.

  “I have an idea,” he yelled back at her.

  Maddie gripped him tighter, moving her lips in an involuntary prayer of the Our Father, though she hadn’t been to church in years.

  John sped along the parkway, slowed slightly, and made a turn into the Bear Mountain Park. He exited the park almost as soon as he entered it, by making a 360-degree turn in the parking lot, leaning the bike way down, almost on its side. Maddie leaned with him, trying to meld their bodies as one so there was no resistance. The sedan spun around, too, and followed them as John drove back the way they had come. Soon they arrived back at the West Point circle, only this time, he headed right toward the West Point campus. Slowing, they arrived at the entry gate, where soldiers manned a sentry post.

  West Point, aside from being an officer-training school, was also a huge tourist attraction. It had a beautiful view of the Hudson, not to mention incredible historical significance, and a museum. John paid to park, acting as if they were tourists, after telling the guard on duty they were there to sightsee.

  As John pulled the bike onto the campus, Maddie marveled at all the gray-uniformed cadets, walking ramrod straight, eyes forward, cap bills pulled down. John was brilliant, she decided. There was no way, in this political climate, that the two guys in the Mercedes would try anything on the campus. She felt John relax—and so did she.

  They found a parking spot and climbed off the bike and removed their helmets.

  “Who were those guys?” John asked.

  Maddie shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe some random weirdos.”

  He stared at her. “Maddie…random weirdos in a hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar cars don’t decide to run people off the road in broad daylight. Did you get a look at their faces?”

  “No. I was too busy holding on for dear life.”

  “Look, is there something you’re not telling me?” His voice was filled with worry.

  “Like what?” Maddie opened her eyes wide, feigning innocence.

  “I don’t know…forget it. Maybe they were just screwing around with me because of the Harley. A testosterone thing. Speaking of…” He pulled her to him and kissed her. “As long as we’re here, want to take a walk around?”

  She nodded. Anything to get his mind off the motorcycle ride. “First I need to use the ladies’ room.”

  He craned his head, saw some signs, and they made their way to the museum, where she went into the ladies’ room while he waited outside. Once she was in a stall, she dialed Troy.

  “Agent Carter here.”

  “Troy, it’s Madison…listen, I don’t have a lot of time. I was out on a date when the Russian and a stocky pal saw me in Central Park—they were obviously following me. Long story but my date drove me out the city. Then the Russian and his friend nearly ran me—us—off the road.”

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Fine. Now.”

  “Where are you?”

  “West Point.”

  “The military academy?”

  “That’s the only West Point I know, Troy.”

  “Sorry…it’s just you’re way upstate. I’ll leave now. These goons still around?”

  “No. And I’m actually going to be heading back to the city soon. I’ll be fine. I just thought you should know. You told me I should check in with you. You know, after the whole thing at the warehouse.”

  “You actually listened. I’m shocked, but stay put until I can get there.”

  “And how will I explain that to my date? Look, I’m going back to the city. I’ll check in, I promise. But for now, I’m safe.”

  Troy didn’t respond. After a few seconds, Maddie said, “Hello? You still there?”

  “Yeah. I’m weighing whether or not to let you go back on your own or waiting, which has its own risks. All right…you can head back on your own, but check in.”

  “Okay. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Maddie broke the connection and emerged from the stall. She left the rest room, and her heart skipped a beat when she didn’t see John. Then he rounded the corner, carrying two hot chocolates in plastic cups.

  She smiled and wrapped her hands around the steaming cup he handed her.

  “Warm up…it’ll be a cold ride back to the city. I thought, to be safe, we’ll cross the Bear Mountain Bridge and head back on the Westchester side of the Hudson.”

  “You’re the pilot.” She grinned at him as they left the building, blending in with the crowds of tourists enjoying the fall foliage.

  They walked back to the motorcycle, and before they put on their helmets, John asked her, “Are you sure there’s not something you want to tell me?”

  She nodded.

  He looked at her skeptically. “Okay…Listen, instead of that Tex-Mex place, I was thinking of cooking for you. I’m no gourmet, but I make a mean paella.”

  “Sounds delicious.”

  “Then hop aboard my magic carpet and off we go.”

  The ride back to the city was uneventful, but Maddie kept looking over her shoulder anyway, and John kept glancing in his side-view mirrors. Finally, they reached the outskirts of the city. As they sped along the streets of Harlem, they eventually reached an area that was gentrifying. Buildings were spruced up, townhomes were showing signs of renovation, and small shops and groceries and bakeries were bustling with afternoon activity.

  John pulled next to a small town house, a
nd parked his bike in a spot next to the building. Painted on the blacktop was white paint that read Apartment 2B.

  They took their helmets, and she followed him into his building, a brownstone divided into two apartments on each floor.

  Apartment 2B was a one-bedroom with a large, open living-room area that doubled as a dining area, and a decent-size kitchen. Long, narrow windows with crown molding let in a little afternoon sun onto hardwood floors.

  “This is really lovely,” Maddie said, looking around. “I like the floors—old-fashioned hardwood.”

  “Did ’em myself,” John said proudly. “They were here, but under the most god-awful carpet you ever saw. I had to refinish them. I got into this building ages ago when, trust me, you wouldn’t even want to walk down the block. I fixed the apartment up, put in the crown molding, did those shelves there. Spruced up my place, and little by little, the neighborhood spruced up, too.”

  Maddie looked around. His furnishings were eclectic—if she had to put her finger on it, she’d say there was a vague Asian influence mixed with some flea-market finds. On one table sat what looked like a real Tiffany lamp. She walked over and touched it.

  “That was my grandmother’s.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “What’s your apartment like?”

  “Oh…you’ll see it one day. It’s nice. You know…um…a little more traditional. But nice.”

  She felt herself getting in deeper and deeper with her lies.

  “Come on over here, and I’ll pour you some wine while I cook.”

  He uncorked a bottle of cabernet, and Maddie sat on a wicker stool at his breakfast bar and watched him while he carefully prepared dinner.

  “Can I help?”

  “No. I decided yesterday I would rather cook for you and spend an evening alone together, talking, instead of in a noisy restaurant, so I’m all set. If you want, go turn on the stereo over there. I have it preset to some stations. I think the second button is a jazz one. The first is classical. Moving up it gets into rock. One hip-hop.”

  Maddie climbed down from the stool and turned on the stereo, ultimately choosing the jazz station. She pulled out her cell, text messaged Troy “IM OK,” then she went back to watch John as he busied himself in the kitchen.

  Funny, she thought, she had grown up with a chef in her home. But he treated the immense kitchen with its restaurant ranges and subzero refrigerators, and built-in wine coolers, like a restaurant. Joseph would chase her out of “his” kitchen, and because her mother insisted on a macrobiotic diet—the better to avoid adolescent weight gain, she told Madison—the “poor little rich girl” had never even licked cake batter from beaters. Or watched anyone prepare an entire meal. She tried to imagine Ryan Greene—or any of the men she knew, for that matter—chopping onions or peeling garlic.

  Over wine, John told her more about his childhood, and his first forays into the gang.

  “Have you ever really hurt someone?” she asked him, thinking clearly for the first time of pulling the trigger at the warehouse.

  He nodded. “One of the requirements for getting into the gang was you had to commit a mugging. So I did. I was so tired of getting jumped on my way to school. The gangs offered a street family. So I mugged someone—an older guy on his way home from work. He had on a uniform for a gas station. Old guy, like I said. Looked a little frail. But he ended up having a gun. I wrestled him for it…and I hit him on the head.”

  “Was he okay?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I’m sure he had a big welt the next day. But I felt terrible.”

  “It’s hard to picture you doing something like that. When I see you in class, those kids absolutely revere you.”

  “Well, at the end of the day, it’s about making a difference. It’s not about how much money you have, or your possessions…”

  She thought about being an agent. Would she be able to make a difference so that Claire did not die in vain? That was part of how Renee put it. She had a chance to do something.

  After an hour or two of simmering, dinner was done. John uncorked a second bottle of wine and lit some candles. While he did that, she helped set the table. On his refrigerator, she noticed pictures of his class—including one of her, front and center on the fridge, leaning in next to Anna as they worked on the computer. She smiled to herself.

  Over dinner, they sat and ate, as usual the conversation not lagging. After they finished, he invited her into the living-room area. “When we’ve digested dinner, I’ve got a homemade dessert. I made flan yesterday, but I’m too full—unless you’re still hungry.”

  “Not me. Stuffed for right now. But dinner was wonderful.”

  He refilled her wineglass and sat next to her on the couch, draping an arm around her. She was surprised at how comfortable she felt around him. She was so used to being cautious.

  He turned his face to her, his dark eyes full of passion and intensity, and began kissing her neck. He moved his arm from her shoulder to take her face in his hands. Soon, they were kissing ravenously.

  Madison had never felt anything that she would describe as raw passion before. Her few boyfriends over the years had been as tightly wound in their careers as she was. They scheduled sex into their PalmPilots and BlackBerry PDAs and arranged dates after board meetings—often canceling at a moment’s notice for business reasons. But this, with John, was a hunger, and they hurriedly undressed each other, moving from the living room to his bedroom, which was cozy and lit by a small night-light.

  When he entered her, she was amazed at his strong, hard body, but more than that, she was breathless from the emotions he seemed to project, this intensity that took her breath away. He grabbed at her hair, and she found herself wrapping her fingers in the dark curls at the nape of his neck, moaning in rhythm to the way he made love—because that’s how it really felt—to her.

  When they were both spent, it still wasn’t over—not the way she was used to. They kissed for an hour, maybe more, eventually their passion growing again. And in some ways, Madison Taylor-Pruitt knew she would never again be satisfied with trust-funders again. It was John Hernandez she craved.

  After he finally fell asleep, his breath heavy on her shoulder, his arms tightly wound around her, she thought again of the bad guys following her. They were just one of many secrets she now kept from John, and she found she wanted to wake him up and tell him everything, but something held her back. And she hoped, and even prayed a little, that one day John would understand.

  Chapter 10

  “Slumming?”

  She and Ashley were drinking Blue Pearl martinis at the Blue Pearl Club, known for its signature drink. At sixty bucks a pop, the martinis had an ever so slight bluish tinge, almost like an abalone shell, and real pearl dust—edible, Ash explained.

  “I’m not slumming.”

  “Well, you’re screwing some hot Latino lover from Harlem, honey, what would you call it?”

  “Ashley…give me a break. I’ve known him a long time through my charity. This has been developing.”

  Ashley tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear—where diamond earrings hung from her delicate lobes.

  “I once went slumming. It was the summer of my senior year of college, and my boyfriend at the time—you know, the rum-and-whiskey heir I told you about…the one with the big bankbook but the tiny penis—well, he was boring me to no end. Knee deep in some kind of merger. Always at the office. And things in the bedroom weren’t exactly rocking my world.”

  Madison sipped her martini. It was delicious, she’d give Ashley that. “And?”

  “And my father was whisking me off to Monaco for a little R&R while he handled some kind of business. And I met a Frenchman.”

  “Since when is a Frenchman slumming it?”

  “When he’s a croupier, darling. He worked in a casino in Monte Carlo. And he looked absolutely delicious in a tuxedo.”

  “You’re incorrigible.”

  “You don’t know the half of it. As a lover, he spoiled me
for eternity, Maddie. Oh, what that man could do in bed. But, after a while, I realized it was somewhat mechanical. You know, like he was such a good lover, it was all about how he could play me like a violin, rather than any real passion. Still…a great summer.”

  “Well…” Madison mused. “This was real passion. Real.”

  “So what does he think of the fact you don’t blink at dropping sixty bucks on a martini? Or the fact that your great-grandmother used to spend the summers with Eleanor Roosevelt? Or the art collection…?”

  Madison blushed.

  “What?”

  “I haven’t told him yet.”

  “You are kidding me.”

  “Nope. I kind of wish I was.”

  Ashley shook her head. “Girlfriend…you are asking for trouble. Because the way you talk about this guy, I think you really care about him. And that’s dangerous. Have your boy toy, Madison, but settle down with someone like Ryan. Someone who really gets you. Otherwise you’re going to have a mess on your hands, I promise you.”

  “Give me a break. Look, even when socialites wed ‘their own kind,’ like you’re talking about, it doesn’t usually work out. Can you honestly tell me that you would really be satisfied having a boy-toy gardener or whatever on the side while pretending to be happily married in some socially acceptable marriage?”

  Ashley had a twinkle in her eye. “Ever notice how my mother always looks so refreshed? Well, trust me, my father is gone on business—with his secretary—about a hundred days of the year. And Mom? She’s got a very hot yoga instructor who gives her private lessons right in her home.”

  “You’re horrible, Ash!”

  “No, just practical.”

  The two women soaked up the scene. Madison spotted Tatiana—one of the other Gotham Rose agents. Tatiana walked by her and Ash and winked at Madison.

  “What was that?” Ash asked.

  Madison shrugged. She decided to head home. Ash volunteered her limo, but Madison wanted to clear her head from the events of the weekend.

  She walked the fourteen blocks to her building, every nerve on fire. She kept waiting to run into the Russian. She stayed alert, and felt at her back for the gun she wore. She wondered if she would ever get used to wearing a gun as an agent. She wondered if she would ever get used to being an agent.