by Nancy Martin
“I won’t do it!” His shout was barely audible over the thundering noise. “I hate girls! This is gross!”
Hemorrhoid tried to subdue his nephew. I couldn’t hear his words, but I saw his face as he reached to grasp the boy’s shoulders.
“No!” Orlando wrestled for his freedom, and his shirt tore. “I won’t! You can’t make me!”
The annoyance on Hemorrhoid’s face twisted into rage. Before I realized what I was doing, I stood up to intervene.
“Hem,” I said. But the noise was too loud around us.
From behind me, Richard caught my arm.
Hemorrhoid grabbed Orlando’s torn shirt.
“Hemmings!”
At the sound of my voice, Hemorrhoid loosened his grip and the child wrenched free. Orlando ran past the runway, ducked through the security team and knocked two spectators out of his way.
Hemorrhoid almost followed, but people turned their attention from the runway to watch him. At last aware he’d made an unpleasant scene in the midst of a spectacle, he sank back into his chair, pulled out his handkerchief and used it to dab his upper lip.
I pulled free of Richard’s grasp and struggled to climb over people. I stepped on someone’s foot and nearly fell into the lap of another fashion fan, but I finally made my way to the exit. I pushed past a knot of security guards.
Outside, Orlando was fistfighting his way out of Keith Rudnick’s headlock. “Let me go! Let me go!”
“Orlando!”
The boy bit Keith’s hand. Keith yelped and released him. Then Orlando rushed out of the warehouse. On the sidewalk, he ran slap into the arms of a small man who’d been waiting at the curb. The man was dressed in a traditional chauffeur’s uniform. He held his cap in one hand, but he managed to hug the boy against his gray wool overcoat.
The chauffeur was an older gentleman, with the wizened face and twinkling blue eyes of a leprechaun. “Hey, there, lad,” he said. “What’s all this?”
Overcome with fury and distress, Orlando could only cling to him.
The chauffeur looked familiar. I approached the two and said, “Gallagher? Is that you?”
He squinted at me, then broke out a grin. “Miss Nora? Why, haven’t you grown up pretty!”
I shook his hand with pleasure. “How nice to see you. I’m amazed you’re still working for Oriana’s family.”
Charles Gallagher smiled as he continued to hug Orlando around the boy’s pudgy shoulders. “I should have retired years ago, but I’m no quitter.”
I smiled. “You used to deliver Oriana and me back to college after holidays. You made us listen to bagpipe tunes in the car.”
“I did?” He looked delighted at my memory.
“We pretended to hate it, but now I actually enjoy bagpipes. Does he make you listen to awful music, Orlando?”
The boy’s face squinched. “Yeah, sometimes.”
“You two seem to be special friends.”
“He keeps me busy.” Genuinely affectionate, Gallagher tousled Orlando’s spiky hairdo, then pulled his hand away and looked at it with surprise. “What’s this?” he asked the boy. “Who’s put this grease in your hair, son? And how did you tear your shirt?”
“Uncle Hem.” Orlando twisted around to look up at Gallagher’s face. “He wants me to buy a bunch of gross girl underwear, too.”
Gallagher laughed and attempted to smooth over the incident for my benefit. “I bet you misunderstood him. Nobody’s going to make you do anything like that.”
“Uncle Hem said so. He wants—”
“You hush now,” Gallagher soothed. “Don’t worry.”
I said, “Perhaps this event isn’t appropriate for someone Orlando’s age. I think he wants to go home.”
“Then that’s where we’ll go.” Gallagher gave the boy’s shoulders another rough hug. “Ready, son? You can sit up front and read that confounded Global Position computer whatever. Where’s your coat?”
“Uncle Hem took it. He said it makes me look fat.”
“Let’s get you into the car then, before you freeze.”
The chauffeur’s presence had obviously eased Orlando’s spirits, but I followed them a few steps into the cold night anyway. They climbed into a long black Jaguar together. Gallagher waved good-bye from behind the wheel, and I watched as the car pulled into the street and disappeared.
Slowly I went back inside, glad Orlando had escaped, but wondering if things were worse for the boy at home.
I couldn’t fight back into my seat, so I stood in the doorway of the show. Nearby, a handful of very young magazine assistants squealed as the fashion parade continued, reminding me it was time to get to work. I took out my notepad and eased along the edge of the crowd. I asked opinions, and people were happy to gush between rapturous glances at the stage.
I soon bumped into exactly the person I needed to balance my story.
“Lexie!”
Lexie Paine, my best friend since day school and my heartless financial adviser since the death of my husband, looked stunning in a black Fendi suit that was both prim and sharp enough to subdue the bulls and bears who dared charge the bronze doors of her brokerage house. Around her neck, she wore three strands of Bulgari fabulousness—pastel diamonds on a delicate platinum chain, the latest thing. As always, her black hair was swept back into a sleek ponytail, refining her slender face and emphasizing the intelligence of her gaze and the wry set to her mouth.
She hugged me with enthusiasm. “Here to buy some undies, sweetie?”
I hugged her back and we moved away from the doorway so we could hear each other over the screech of Led Zeppelin. “I should have known you’d be here. Are you in charge?”
“Lord, no. At the last minute someone asked me to help with the fund-raising, that’s all, which meant having my assistant phone the usual suspects. Nora, is this event too tacky for words?”
“Only if it fails to raise a truckload of money for a good cause.”
She sighed. “In that case, we’re safe. The local blue bloods have come to see and be seen, everybody with checkbooks open, and there’s the full-court fashion press, too. But all this sexist flash for brassieres? While we’re trying to cure a terrible disease? I worry it’s in bad taste.”
“The money is green, Lex, and researchers will make good use of it.”
“I hope you’re right.” With a grin, Lexie said, “I saw Libby earlier. She outwrestled Mimi Tarbockle for some gift bags—no easy feat, considering Mimi spends twelve-hour days with her personal trainer.”
“Whatever you do, don’t ask Libby about her new line of work. You’ll end up buying something you can’t show your mother.”
“Yikes. Is Emma here, too?”
I sighed. “My little sister is back in rehab. We’re hoping she stays this time.”
Lexie’s expression softened. “Oh, sweetie, I know you must be worried sick. Fingers crossed.”
“Thanks.”
Since my husband had been shot by his cocaine dealer, all my friends felt obliged to tread lightly every time the subject of addiction came up. Coping with Todd’s drug problem and death had been a very public ordeal. Friends like Lexie saw me through.
She squeezed my arm. “Tell me what you’re wearing, sweetie. Looks like a pink mink!”
“Chinchilla. Don’t turn me in to PETA, please. This is the only thing I could grab and know it would keep me decent.” I unbuttoned and flashed Lexie a peek of my nightgown under the coat. “No time to be politically correct.”
Lexie let out a roar of laughter. “Button up, darling, before the fashionistas mob you. That’s a killer nightie. For all his faults, Todd had great taste in lingerie. And the fur? What are we supposed to do with an old one?”
“I was in a terrible hurry. Kitty called at the last minute—hoping I’d miss the assignment, I suppose. I can’t lose this job, so here I am despite the snowstorm.”
“And not even a minute to grab some earrings? Never mind, the stars in your eyes are better tha
n diamonds. Can I assume your new beau has spent the holidays lavishing or ravishing you?”
“A bit of both,” I said with a smile. “And thank you for the case of wine, by the way. Michael tells me it’s worth a fortune.”
“I hope it’s delicious with hot lovin’, sweetie,” she said with another laugh. “Thanks for the return invitation to your New Year’s Eve bash, by the way. I’m so glad you’ve decided to revive that tradition. Your soiree was always so glamorous.”
“Actually, I thought an intimate dinner might be better this year.”
My friend understood instantly. “So Michael can meet your friends in small doses?”
“If he shows up at all.”
Lexie’s elegant brows rose in delight. “The Mafia Prince is leery of social butterflies?”
“He’s more worried he’ll sully my reputation.”
“We could all use such sullying.”
My unlikely liaison with Michael Abruzzo had caused an earthquake in my social circle. His family—that is, the Abruzzo crime family of New Jersey—had made a name for itself in racketeering, illegal gambling and other nefarious deeds that I needed a law degree to understand. Michael had no business with his father and various half brothers—the ones who weren’t currently serving sentences, that is. At least, I was almost sure he had no dealings with them anymore. He had served time years ago for juvenile offenses and seemed determined to avoid doing so again. Still, I had not yet worked up the courage to ask for details about his various current activities, and so far he wasn’t offering any information either.
My friends knew I had suffered through one apocalyptic relationship, and despite her cheery banter I could see Lexie feared I was facing another catastrophe in my life.
Meanwhile, Michael was reluctant to go on display.
Thing is, I loved to entertain. I liked lavishing my old friends and nurturing new acquaintances. That ever-widening pool of friendship had always been my touchstone. It was time Michael understood. I wanted him to like my friends. And I hoped they would see beyond the crime-lord persona the newspapers tagged him with to the real man beneath.
Lexie correctly read my thoughts and said, “You know what I like best? You look happy. So damn what anybody else thinks. Let me bring my cousins. They’ll be in town that night and I simply assumed—”
Against my better judgment, I said, “By all means, bring them.”
“Good. They’ll adore seeing you again. And meeting your beau has them in a tizzy of excitement. Now, who were you chasing out of here a minute ago? The chubby kid?”
“You didn’t recognize him? It was Orlando Lamb.”
Lexie stared after him. “That was Orlando? Poor thing! He’s like a character in a Dickens novel now, isn’t he? First orphaned, and now chained to Hemorrhoid. Does Hem still color code his medicine chest?”
“And use Lysol by the gallon? I suppose so. Hem just told me he’s changing his own name to Lamb.”
“I can imagine what the Lamb family might have said about that.”
“Aren’t they all dead? I think Orlando is the heir to the whole empire now. With two dozen guardians, or something?”
Lexie nodded. “He won’t see a penny for years. A huge board of directors protects the assets, but they’re all in New Zealand. Hem was given a seat on the board when he became Orlando’s loco parentis. Now he thinks he’s a mogul. I suppose he dreams of Orlando expiring so he gets the whole enchilada himself.”
“That’s awful. He’s Orlando’s only living relative, isn’t he?”
“Yep.”
I noticed her expression. “You have your Wall Street face on, Lex.”
She continued to frown as if contemplating a Vatican political plot. “Do I? A rumor just started to make sense.”
“Anything I can know about? Or is client privilege at stake?”
“Not at all. I heard Lamb Limited is looking to expand. I wonder if they’re thinking of buying the Brinker Bra?”
“Is it for sale?”
Kindly, my friend said, “Everything’s for sale, Nora.”
I never pretended to understand how large fortunes were made. Personally, I only knew the other end of the tale—how families lost great sums of money. But with Lexie supervising my financial learning curve, I was holding the tax man at bay—at least until my next installment was due. I hated the monthly panic of raising more cash, though.
“Trouble is,” Lexie continued, “making a deal like this requires a lot of financial expertise—or else a very solid friendship at the core. Brinker and Hemorrhoid weren’t exactly best buddies as kids, remember?”
“Believe me, I remember.”
Lexie popped her eyes wide. “Of course! I’d forgotten! My God, Nora.”
“Don’t worry. I plan to leave as soon as the show is over.”
“I’ve been watching his videos.” Lexie indicated the rushing deluge of film that continued to spin over everything around us. “His obsessions haven’t changed, have they?”
Brinker’s stand-up comedy always felt like one angry man lashing out at people to prove himself smarter or more able to talk women into doing things they wouldn’t admit later to their friends. His rage at his parents boiled over. At first large audiences howled at Brinker’s routines—crude remarks made while a video of candid bumbling played behind him. Only when his images turned even more misogynistic did people begin to object to him. Finally a woman sued, and his rising star began to fizzle.
Then his comedy club conveniently went up in smoke, and the insurance money made him rich.
Lexie and I heard the music change, an indication that the fashion show was coming to a climactic end. I said, “Before the grand finale, how about giving me a quote for the paper? Something noble, please, to dispel the tacky factor?”
“Okay, I’m delighted to have any ally help us fight breast cancer. I hope Brinker’s combination of creative thought and good luck inspires scientists to seek innovative treatments.”
“Perfect.” I jotted down her remark. “And who’s the biggest donor? I’ll put their picture in the paper.”
“It’s me,” she said. “But why not ask Sue Mandell?”
“She’s here all the way from Maine?” I’d met Sue in college when I dated a naval officer who’d been one of her patients. Long after I parted ways with the young lieutenant, Sue and I remained friends, bonding over Brazilian music and Thai food. Now she was a respected oncologist, the ideal person to picture in the newspaper.
“She’s in town to see a patient, I hear. She and Steve are running up to see a show in New York later this week.”
“She’s the perfect choice. I’ll be sure we get her photograph.”
“Here comes the big finish,” Lexie said as we drifted back to the warehouse doorway. “Hey, see those twins? The models?”
I watched the two young women flaunt themselves for the crowd. “Yes. Are you wondering if their hair is real?”
“Not just their hair. But . . . I think I know them from somewhere.”
“The floor of the stock exchange?”
Lexie laughed.
We didn’t have long to wait for the big finish. The twin models disappeared behind the curtain at the back of the runway, and the lights brightened. The crowd held its collective breath.
Suddenly the futuristic theme exploded. No more hard rock or outer-space girls. Even the videos changed. The images became deep forests and tumbling waterfalls.
The curtain parted, and the lights struck the gleaming black coat of a magnificent stallion—a gigantic live animal snorting and tossing its thick ringlets as his rider spun him on his haunches and sent him strutting onto the runway. On his back was no astronaut girl in plastic harness but a modern Lady Godiva, clad in little more than a long red wig and artfully cast seaweed and, of course, a Brinker Bra that drew the eye to her beautifully displayed breasts.
Behind her strode Brinker Holt himself.
Brinker—tall and rangy in blue jeans and a T-shirt
that clung to his gym-rat physique—accepted his applause with unsmiling aplomb. Then he lifted his camera and began to film the crowd. We could suddenly see ourselves projected live against the walls, then spinning across the floor and climbing to the ceiling. Brinker filmed his applauding audience—an auteur recording his own adulation. An ego trip magnified.
But I wasn’t looking at Brinker.
I only saw the model on horseback. And recognized her instantly.
“Emma,” I said aloud. “What the hell are you doing out of rehab?”
She had a whip in her hand—a long one. With a strong snap of her wrist, she cracked it over the heads of the audience, then down beneath her horse’s feet. The animal danced, causing shrieks in the crowd. But Emma was in total control. She rode the enormous horse straight off the end of the runway and directly toward me. As the crowd behind her jumped to a standing ovation and the music crashed to a climactic conclusion, my sister effortlessly guided the stallion through the crowd and out of the warehouse.
Going past, she leaned down to me with a grin. “Hey, Sis. Happy New Year!”
Chapter 3
Emma disappeared, of course. Like a naughty genie evaporating back into her bottle.
Libby and I scoured the warehouse and the parking lot long after everyone else departed, but no luck. Emma was gone, and her horse with her.
“It’s not easy to hide a horse,” I said.
“Trust Emma to know how.” Libby shivered outside her minivan. “Why did she leave rehab?”
“She probably went over the wall in the dark of night like some kind of prisoner of war.”
“I thought Emma was getting her problem under control.”
“Me, too.” I should have known it wasn’t going to be as easy as dropping her off at one of Mama’s spas. But nothing about Emma was ever easy.
