Erica Orloff - The Golden Girl

“John, a pleasure.”

John extended a hand.

“Are you from the Palm Beach Hernandez family?”

“No.” He grinned sardonically. “I’m from the Spanish Harlem and Bronx Hernandez family.”

The senator, a consummate politician, didn’t bat an eye or miss a beat. “Good…I carried those districts in the election, you know.”

John nodded. “I was one of the people who voted for you…. But I won’t again unless education funding goes up.” He winked at her, and she laughed.

“Madison, seems I have a constituent to appease.”

“Yes, ma’am. And he’s a tough customer. A teacher at the Harlem Charter School for Excellence.”

“I’ve heard of it. We’ll have to talk, John. And I’ll have to do my best to see school funding isn’t shortchanged by the Washington bureaucrats. And Madison, please give your father my regards.”

“Of course.”

Madison and John moved away from the senator, passing her security detail, who all had on earpieces.

“Look,” John squeezed Madison’s hand, “there’s CeCe Goldberg and Cara Phillips.”

CeCe was a major anchor/producer for a network newsmagazine. Cara was another on-air talent, a blonde with a penchant for sleeping her way to the top—at least that was the rumor Ash and the Gotham Roses had whispered on to Maddie.

“Let’s avoid CeCe, if you don’t mind. Her show is planning on doing a segment on Claire’s murder. I really don’t need her pumping me for quotes. She’s a bit of a shark.”

“Too late.”

CeCe was charging straight at them, her perfectly coiffed brown hair not even moving a strand. Sixty, she was dressed in a dignified Oscar de la Renta red gown—befitting the start of the holiday season—and plenty of diamonds.

“Think she has enough bling-bling?” John whispered just as she reached them and stuck out her hand.

“Madison Taylor-Pruitt…congratulations on the CEO announcement. You’re a mover and a shaker, that’s for sure.”

“Thank you, CeCe.”

“So tell me, how is your father holding up?”

“Holding up?”

“I hear a grand jury may be convened as early as next week.”

“My father isn’t the sort to worry about maybes and innuendo, CeCe. He’s far too busy for that. And you can quote me on that.”

Madison smiled, but made sure her eyes were cold and unfriendly. She took John’s hand and moved along without saying goodbye.

“Man…”

“What?”

“Now I know why you run that company of yours—you’re not somebody to mess with. I sure hope you never look at me the way you looked at CeCe Goldberg.”

“That old battle-ax? CeCe thrives on scandal, and on making people cry on camera. You learn really fast not to give people like that an opening.”

“And I thought the mean streets were tough.”

Madison stood on tiptoe and pecked him on the cheek. “We are from two different worlds of toughness. I’m glad I have you to be…myself with. We don’t have to be tough with each other.”

The two of them continued to “work the room,” as Madison called it. They even greeted Jane Kimball, the second-in-command at the CIA. Madison knew her from a Democratic Party fund-raiser she’d attended over the summer. Jane was utterly brilliant, and one of a new wave of CIA who was fluent in Arabic—and Swahili. She was an army brat who’d lived all over the world. Madison felt a special kinship with the woman now that she herself was an agent working for the United States government. Of course, Kimball didn’t know that…or did she? Madison mused.

Madison also saw several acquaintances from the Gotham Roses. They were all assigned to Renee’s table. Before John and Madison could make their way there for the first course, though, Madison saw, with dread, that Fluffy Peters was making her way toward them.

“Oh, no…”

“What?”

“See this woman heading straight toward us?”

“The older woman in the tiara?”

“Yeah.”

“Isn’t a tiara a bit much?”

“Not for Fluffy.”

“That’s a cat’s name.”

“It’s also the name of the most vicious Palm Beach socialite of them all. She winters down there, but unfortunately doesn’t leave until December 10 every year, just so she can make the first round of Christmas balls in NewYork. Brace yourself.”

Fluffy, her skin so stretched from plastic surgery that no emotion registered on her face, thrust out her hand.

“Madison, dah ling,” she said, accentuating her syllables in an affected form of speech.

“Fluffy.” Madison smiled.

“You look smashing, dear. Simply smashing.”

“Thank you, Fluffy.”

“And who is your gentleman friend?”

“May I introduce John Hernandez.” Madison patted his arm in a gesture of affection.

“ Ohhhhh, how lovely. Of the Palm Beach Hernandezes? I know them quite well.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Well, then where? Where would I know you from? The Puerto Rican sugar family? I met some of them last winter at the Breakers in West Palm. We were both there for a wedding.”

“No. I’m actually from New York.”

“New York? There are no Hernandezes in the social registry from New York that I know of.”

“He’s not in the social registry, Fluffy dear…Do tell, who designed your dress?”

Fluffy looked down, as if she couldn’t remember what gown she had worn. “Oh…this? Carolina Herrera…I’m always loyal to Carolina. Now, go back. Where do you know each other from?”

“He’s a schoolteacher, Fluffy. I met him through my work with the Gotham Roses.”

“Oh…” She managed a wan smile, though not a single crease appeared on her Botoxed brow. “I see…I misunderstood that he was associated with your charity. I thought he was your date.”

Madison decided she had had quite enough of Fluffy Peters.

“He is, darling. Why, we’re ever so serious. In fact, my father can’t wait to meet him. And if I could tell you the way this man drives me wild in bed…but, really, we must be getting to our table.”

Madison linked her elbow through John’s arm and giggled as they walked through the crowded ballroom.

“You are really naughty, Madison. Why would you do that to that poor old woman?”

“That pompous old snob? She deserved it. You can’t ever use the word poor associated with Fluffy. Trust me.”

Madison expertly steered them to their table—set for twelve—all Gotham Roses and their dates—including Ashley, accompanied by a male-model friend of hers she knew from Chic.

Madison sat next to Ashley and introduced her to John. Ashley introduced her date, who went by the one-name moniker Tryce.

“Nice to meet you, John.” Ashley smiled as handshakes were exchanged. She was wearing a Richard Tyler gown in a rich chocolate brown, and her hair was set in pin curls, like an old-fashioned flapper.

“Your hair looks great, Ash,” Madison offered.

“You like it?”

Madison nodded. “It’s so different. Bet you anything you’re copied, and at the next function a half-dozen women do their hair like yours.” It wouldn’t be the first time Ashley set off a chain reaction with her sense of style.

Their waiter came over and Madison placed her drink order—champagne. While John was ordering his drink—a cold Heineken—Ashley whispered in Madison’s ear, “Forget what I said about slumming it. He’s delicious. Positively edible.”

Soon, their table was full, and Renee had joined them. Madison was amazed at how she greeted those at her table, not revealing in the slightest that she was anything more than the woman behind a charitable organization—certainly not a woman with a veritable mini-Quantico beneath her town home. She smiled at Madison warmly, not a single look or even a blink letting on that they were up to their necks in a dangerous case, or that Madison and Troy had nearly met their end in the Caymans.