“But if he’s being difficult, why don’t we get legal involved?”
“There’s no time, Mom. We have the fashion show in ten days.” She tried to smile but couldn’t. “We’re desperate.” Ten days.
“Invite Vive and Taddy. I’m going too. We’ll shop, shop, shop.” Birdie attempted her onetime, overbearing tone she’d snorted up her nose and lost as an Eighties rock ‘n’ roll icon, many parties ago.
Shop—with what money? No inventory equals zero paycheck, Mother. “I’d love for you to come.” A white lie, but Lex attempted to sell it. “But you are needed here to finish the details on the fashion show. I’ll handle Girasoli.”
Her mother grew more worried than less and questioned, “On your own?”
Lex forced the impossible smile. “It’ll be fine. I’ll use whatever Amex points we have left to buy an airline ticket and rent a hotel room in town.” She realized they may be cash poor but were miles rich. “Then I’ll jet up to Milan for the industry event afterward. I promise to return with the fabrics.” Hoping she could keep her vow, Lex knew Isola di Girasoli was somewhere Mediterranean, perhaps off Sicily’s coast, but not much else.
The trip was daunting enough that she’d prefer companionship. She could’ve requested her two gal pals make the trip. Both remained devoted, even after she was left with zilch. Taddy Brill would’ve been her obvious choice. Except, Taddy’s PR firm was hosting a press trip in St. Barth’s and left strict instructions—not to be disturbed.
Backup bestie Vive Farnworth would’ve been her natural alternate. However, Vive gave new meaning to the term “high maintenance.” Her ever so demanding ways as Debauchery magazine’s editor in chief made a trip to the toilet a Vogue worthy affair. Lex didn’t have the energy.
Conscious she’d been fucked by the prince in a way she’d never imagined, she squeezed her mother’s hand and found her strength to carry on.
“I wish your father were alive,” her mother quavered.
“So do I.” Since his death, she’d longed for someone to lean on.
Chapter One
Holy Coco Chanel
Lex was almost there.
After ten hours, aboard two planes seated in economy and another four cramped in a reefer boat’s bow, she made out Isola di Girasoli in the distance. Salt water from the Mediterranean splashed her face as the boat dipped in a rhythmic motion. Focused on the tawny colored dot in the horizon, she didn’t care.
“Signorina, hold onto your seat. We’re pulling in to the harbor,” shouted the boat’s driver.
The ship glided to the dock and a still calm replaced the rocking sensation as the engines shut down.
Azimut yachts packed the bay, sleek in design. Each vessel sported bronzed, statuesque passengers sunning on the decks—nude. Talk about perfection.
“Fuuuck!” yelled a toned, tan, fit woman perched on the largest ship’s sun lounge in the inlet. She grabbed the shiny brass railing with her left hand holding on for dear life.
Oh no. “HELP, somebody—get a doctor.” Lex shouted to the captain. “She’s having heat stroke.”
The captain laughed at Lex and ignored the woman.
“Fuck! Fuuck! Fuuuck!” Flipping her long black tresses from her face, the woman’s eyes didn’t say heart failure. Neither did the wide smile gracing her lips—or her panting tongue.
Lex realized there was no medical issue. Pupils dilated, red faced, heaving, she was exercising, cardio perhaps?
The woman squatted—up, then down, up, then down. But her movements weren’t Tai Chi, Yoga, or Zumba either.
WTF?
“Sì, sì,” moaned a man popping his head up from underneath her. He buried his face in her breasts pulling down her metallic bikini top exposing her distended coffee hued nipples. He cupped them. He sucked them. He pinched them.
Lex appreciated the woman was a screamer, riding cock, on a cruiser in the open waters for everyone on Isola di Girasoli to enjoy. Happy to see someone’s gettin’ it.
She glanced beyond the harbor to what had to be Prince Massimo Tittoni’s palace, built on a cliff and overlooking the sea. Majestic enough, the royal residence made the White House look like a quaint bed and breakfast.
“Signorina, benvenuta to Isola di Girasoli.” The captain smiled and placed her luggage on the wharf. He pointed at a narrow walkway and instructed, “You’ll follow the sidewalk up the winding road until you find a tall iron fence. It’s electric, so don’t touch. The prince has top security. You’ll see the gated entrance to the palazzo. They’ll buzz you in.”
After slipping him a tip, she collected her belongings on the pier and asked, “What time is your last fare returning to Sicily?”
“I sail back in two hours. Bocca al lupo,” he horned after her as she headed up the hill.
“Thank you for your good wishes.” I’ll need it. Two hours—was this enough time? The knots in her stomach tightened. As an Easton rule, Lex should never be nervous at introductions. Until her father’s death and family’s bankruptcy, her life had overflowed with opportunities to mingle with society’s influential trendsetters. Her mother had made partying a priority.
Today, at twenty-eight she’d lost her money, her status in society, and any entitlement that went along with it. Nowadays she fostered being humble, hard working and honest—she called them her three H’s. Those were her assets and she’d put them to good use.
Lex didn’t know how she’d be received at the palace. She never met the prince, though she’d seen his picture in the tabloids. In fact, she’d never admitted this to anyone, but she even masturbated to his photos once or twice, letting sensual lip and strong hand thoughts take her body on a few rare occasions. Okay—more than a few.
In the morning, she awoke hugging her purple body pillow pretending he slept with her. Alone, late at night, she touched herself imagining he came inside her. And on the weekends when taking a bubble bath, she envisioned having him scrubbing her back—hard. No other man came to mind.
From what she could tell, Massimo embodied Jake Gyllenhaal cute, David Beckham bodied and Johnny Depp hot. People magazine named the prince the sexiest bachelor, tagging him this generation’s John F. Kennedy, Jr. A rare male specimen, his face as perfect as any Renaissance sculpture created. The photographers loved snapping Massimo shots, often shirtless.