Erica Orloff - The Golden Girl

“I thought you were killed,” the man growled as he stared up at her. “I saw you. You were dead.” His eyes were wide, and Madison thought he looked spooked.

Taking advantage of his shock, she kicked a foot to his face. He grabbed it though, pushing her backward. Falling against the small hotel table, Madison lost her balance. She and the bastard who’d killed Claire both scrambled to their feet. She used Jimmy Valentine’s leg-sweep method to bring him down again. Then she added a sharp kick to his diaphragm, knocking the wind out of him.

Wasting no time, she kicked his windpipe, and leaned hard with her foot on his throat. She heard a sort of sickening whistle. Then he clawed at her leg. He was gurgling, fighting for air, and she leaned down her weight more. Finally, the man passed out. She ran to the bedside table, lifted the lamp, and came back and smashed it on his head for good measure. Then she raced to Troy and felt for a pulse. It was there, a little weak, but there.

She didn’t know if she should call for an ambulance. She was essentially in a foreign nation with an FBI agent and a man she’d just single-handedly beaten up. She stood and went to the bathroom, wetting a towel with cold water and coming back to Troy and pressing it on his head. In a minute or two—during which she tried to fight her fears—he started to rouse. He coughed, and then his eyelids fluttered.

“What happened?” he croaked.

“I’m not sure. I saw your door open a bit, came in, and that guy—” she pointed to the man on the floor “—was choking you until you passed out.”

“Jesus…” He sat up and rubbed his throat, which was very red. “Can you get me a glass of water? And shut the door in case someone walks by.”

Madison did as he asked. Then Troy stood and looked down on the man. “Do you recognize him?”

The guy on the floor was extremely well-built, almost to the point of being muscle-bound, with close-cropped dark hair and a square jaw. He had a scar near his left eye, and a single diamond stud earring.

“No. But he recognized me…um, Claire. He said that he had seen me—dead.”

Troy leaned down and felt the man’s carotid. “He’s still alive.”

Troy rolled the man on his side and found his wallet. “No ID.”

“What’s that?”

“What?”

Maddie knelt down and rolled up the man’s sleeve. “Look. A tattoo.”

“I’ve never seen anything like that.” It was an intricate dagger—truly a work of art.

“It’s Russian.”

“What does it say along the dagger?”

“Kremlin Killers.”

“Mob. They’re infiltrating some of New York’s drug trade, not to mention Moscow and some of the fallen Eastern European countries. Heavy into the prostitution biz. Drugs. Murder for hire.”

“So what do we do with this guy?”

“We call the local authorities. I also have to call in to my boss at the Bureau. Oh, and hey, thanks for saving my life. He caught me off guard.”

“Well, I owed you. Now we’re even.”

“Not by a long shot, but thank God you came across the hall.”

“I had something to tell you.”

Maddie explained to him about the accounts for William Pruitt.

“Shit, Madison…we’re going to have our hands full with the forensic accountants.”

“No kidding. Listen, you call the police. I’m going to pack…eat something. Get ready. Now that I did what I need to, can I change out of my Claire look?”

“No. You need it for your seat on the return flight. Since 9/11, it’s a lot trickier for us to fly commercial and make changes. Use her passport, same as on the way here.”

“All right, but as soon as we land, I’m losing the wig. It’s itching me like mad.” Because it had been put on expertly by the stylist, Madison was afraid to take it off and put it back on herself.

“You got it.”

Maddie left Troy’s room and headed over to her own. Once inside, she opened the minibar and took out a little vodka bottle. She poured it into a glass and swallowed it in one swig to settle her nerves.

Kremlin Killers.

What the hell had Pruitt & Pruitt gotten mixed up in?

Chapter 15

In The Know With Rubi Cho

So is one of our city’s fairest heiresses finally getting some much-needed R&R?

The lovely and always perfectly put-together American heiress, Madison Taylor-Pruitt was snapped at JFK airport in this photo with a hunky assistant. Business or pleasure?

Our poor Madison has been chained to her desk for far too long, and with the police closing in on Jack Pruitt, and Madison being eyed for even greater responsibility, we can only applaud her. Head to the islands—or the slopes of Aspen—our dear Madison. We think it’s high time you remembered you’re one of the city’s most eligible bachelorettes.

Chapter 16

Madison awoke on Saturday, checked her e-mail from the office by hookup from her apartment, attended to her electronic scheduler, left voice mails for about three dozen employees and enjoyed two cups of coffee. Then she saw her picture in Rubi’s column. After the flight, she had gone into the ladies room in the airport and taken off her wig. Her hair was matted and flat, but it felt good to run a brush through it. Then she pulled it back into a ponytail and headed to baggage claim with Troy. By chance, a photographer spotted her and snapped away.

At 11:00 a.m. the phone rang—an interior phone from the concierge or front desk.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Pruitt, there’s a John Hernandez here.”

“What?”

“Yes, ma’am. And he’s parked his motorcycle outside. Is that all right, ma’am?”

“Um…yes. Oh, dear…” Madison was completely flustered. He had to have seen the paper. Rubi’s column wasn’t in the financial section—it was way up front.

“Shall I send him up?”

“Yes, do. Oh…God, what a mess.”

Madison ran to the bathroom. Her hair was pulled up in a loose ponytail, she had on no makeup, and she was dressed in her yoga outfit.

“Damn!” she said to her reflection. The last two weeks or so were starting to take their toll. She swiped some concealer under her eyes to get rid of the dark circles, but there wasn’t time to do anything else.

The doorbell to her apartment rang, and Madison’s hands started shaking.

“Great,” she muttered, “I can practically kill a man with my bare hands, but at the thought of seeing this guy, I’m mush.”

She went to the apartment door and opened it. John stood there, looking gorgeous in a black sweater and worn jeans that showed off his well-muscled legs. He was holding a copy of the newspaper open to Rubi Cho’s column. And fury was registered on his face.

“That’s not a very good picture of me,” Madison offered, trying to defuse the situation, smiling halfheartedly.

“So let me get this straight. I’m good enough to fuck, but apparently, I’m not good enough to tell even the first thing about your life to.”

She recoiled at the curse, as if she’d been physically slapped. She’d never heard him use curse words before. “That’s not how it is, John.”

“Isn’t it? This guy—” he thrust the paper toward her “—he looks like he’d fit in with your life on Central Park West.”

“It was business. Please…please come in. If I had it to do over again, I swear to you I’d have told you right from the beginning.”

John shook his head. “I’ve been played,” he said and started to turn.

Madison grabbed his arm. “Please…you haven’t been played. I was just too scared to tell you the truth.”

Jaw clenched, he half faced her. “Scared? To admit you were rich?”

“Please just let me explain. Please?”