The Florida Girl

The Florida Girl Copyright © 2023 by Elle Gray | James Holt All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. Table of Contents Title Page Copyright Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Chapter Thirty-Four Chapter Thirty-Five Chapter Thirty-Six Chapter Thirty-Seven Chapter Thirty-Eight Chapter Thirty-Nine Chapter Forty Author's Note Connect with Elle Gray Also by Elle Gray DAY 1 10:30 am. Star Island, Miami, Florida “Damned flea-infested rat!” The sound of the neighbor’s dog destroyed the relative peace of this morning’s first G & T, clutched in the ageing hands of one-time TV and commercial star Marjorie Collins. Majorie Collins, star of such classics as Love Tango! and EverBrill Lipstick, had taken to a poolside recliner of her palatial Miami Beach home mostly in the hopes to shake off the beginnings of a nasty hangover, but also partially to recover from this morning’s even earlier intrusion of shouting voices from ‘The Russian’ next door, before his damn mutt had decided to bark its head off, that was. “How many times!?” The seventy-three-year-old who was three times married, two times divorced, and one time widowed was not a force to be taken lightly as she rose from the recliner, her fragmentary attempt at peaceful inebriation shattered. Moving with titanic majesty, Marjorie clutched her silk dressing gown about her person as she stalked past the giant palm trees to the edge of her property to see the usually calming blue waters of Biscayne Bay, attempting to peer past the giant Leylandii hedges to where ‘The Russian’ next door had clearly allowed his rabid nuisance of a floor rug to run rampant once again. The Russian was a man named Aleksandr Bodrov, a new arrival to the mansion community of Star Island, a man-made island connected to the McArthur Causeway that joined Miami Beach to downtown Miami. Marjorie heard the murmur of some bassy, thrumming music which did nothing to stop the incessant yapping. “I bet the damn commie can’t even hear his own dog! That’s it.” This was going to be a complaint to the concierge service, at least. But Marjorie had never been one to turn down an opportunity (hence why she had managed to amass a seven-figure income on product commercials). “Hey! Hey, you over there? Can’t you shut that thing up!?” she shouted over the hedge. She was sure that The Russian had his pool on the other side, certain because she had made sure to look at the architectural deeds of her neighbor, just in case he had been planning to build anything that would disturb the intoxicated serenity of her later years. “Hey! I can get you thrown off and back to Mother Russia, you know! I know people in immigration!” she hollered. The music, and the dog, continued. Marjorie Wallace, her dyed blonde bouffant shaking, said some words that she would never have been allowed to be broadcast in the twenty-first century, let alone 1968. “Fine. A complaint to the concierge and a letter to Judge Rudi, you have got it coming, Mister-!” Marjorie set off at pace to the black iron gate at the front of her property, turning to march across the sculpted lawns to the large, white security gates of her partner. “Come on out of there! I’ve had enough of this!” she shouted, kicking the gate with a heavy clang before cursing at the pain that shot up her heel. “Ff! And if I just broke something I swear to God I’m going to sue, goddammit!” “Der’mo!” There were muttered voices and a mechanical rolling sound as the eight-foot, white security gate started to pull backwards, showing the annoyed faces of the two large security guards on the other side as they hurried out of the gate house – and releasing the sudden small orange blur and excited yapping of the offending canine. “Peaches! Blin! Peaches, come back here!” the nearest of Aleksandr’s security guards shouted, as Peaches shot past Marjorie Wallace’s legs (she aimed a kick at it, but the thing was too fast). “Out of my way! Is he in!? Of course he is. This has gone too far!” Marjorie took the opportunity to march past the guards in the confusion, as one of them scrambled after the chihuahua while the other looked uselessly at what they were to do about the ageing star. “You touch me and I’ll get you all deported!” Marjorie shouted as she marched down the gravel lane, past the vast mansion of the Russian oligarch and towards the pool. “Mrs. Wallace, you cannot enter there! It is private!” the security guard, his accent thick to Marjorie’s ears, flailed his arms a little helplessly, and chose to follow her as fast as he was able. “Oh, don’t you Mrs. Wallace me, young man! Ms. I haven’t survived three useless men to be a Mrs. by the likes of you!” She continued to stalk, passing the white-painted walls and arches of The Russian’s