the Overnight Socialite by Bridie Clark Read Free Book Online Page B

to the kill. This was a pivotal night. She'd invested four grand in her outfit alone, and she needed to see a return.

    "Just get it already, Max," Mrs. Fairchild commanded, in a quieter but equally emphatic tone.

    Max charged out the door and raced toward the taxi. The girl was closing in on it, too, and as she saw Max coming, a wave of disbelief--then disgust--transformed her face.

    He gulped; this was not a proud moment. But what was the fleeting wrath of a stranger compared to the hours of verbal thrashing he'd get from his mother and sister? Max lunged, beating the girl to the door by less than a step. All those squash matches at the Racquet Club were good for something.

    "What is wrong with you?" the girl yelled as Max threw open the door and dove into the backseat. She struggled to maneuver around him, but he played great defense.

    "I'm really sorry," he muttered. God, she was soaked. She clutched an umbrella, but it still looked like she'd been out in the rain for days. Max slammed the door as kindly as he could, under the circumstances, and the girl smacked her open palm against the window in protest.

    "My sister and mother are right . . . up . . . there, under that awning," Max told the driver, ashamed of what the man must think of him.

    The girl--much to Max's chagrin--followed the car right down the block, refusing to accept defeat.

    "H-he just stole this taxi from me!" Max heard her appeal to Martha and Fernanda as they scurried out from the restaurant under borrowed umbrellas, opened the door, and dove in. "It was mine--"

    "Sorry, dear," the elder lady called out, shutting the door.

    Once safely inside, Martha turned sharply to her pouting daughter. "Do you think I don't know we need a driver, Fernanda? You think I choose to live like this?"

    Fernanda let out a deep sigh. Max shifted uncomfortably in his seat, pretending to stare out the fogged-up window.

    The Fairchilds possessed one of those painful family secrets that everybody knew. Henry Fairchild--Max and Fern's father--had been a fourth-generation wastrel who'd squandered a shocking amount of his family's once robust steel fortune. Unlike his savvy forefathers, Henry had a nose that pointed him toward get-poor-quick schemes and dot-com fiascoes. Then he'd had the gall to keel over at age fifty-three, leaving his family stranded in a classic eight on 82nd and Park.

    They weren't penniless. In truth, the Fairchilds spent more money in a year than most people could hope to see in a lifetime. None of them had ever scrubbed a toilet, hemmed a pair of pants, or walked their own dachshunds at an inconvenient time. They still had some of the influence and power conferred by their last name. So all had not been lost.

    But the rich have their own sliding scale for what it means to be truly comfortable. And thanks to Henry's ineptitude, the Fairchilds had slid. Max couldn't be counted on to restore the family fortune to its onetime glory. Fernanda still lived at home, which galled her. Just the other day, she'd had to ask her boss for a raise. Because she'd needed one. That had not been an easy moment to bear. Being past thirty and single made it all the worse.

    "Laight Street, between Hudson and Varick," Max said to the taxi driver. His sister and mother sat in grim silence.

    The long and short of it: Fernanda needed a husband immediately, if not sooner, but she'd already struck out with a stable of eligible men. Thank God for divorce, as mother and daughter agreed. The mere rumor of a marriage on the brink could buoy both their spirits. Thus they'd been downright thrilled to hear that Parker's wife had left him for her Vedic astrologer and a "simple life" in Arizona. Bon riddance , Fernanda thought, with the thirst of a vulture stumbling across juicy roadkill.

    Now she just had to get there first.

    Watching the second stolen taxi of the evening speed off, Lucy Jo could no longer hold back her tears. She was exhausted from trolling the lower 60s in