by Avery Aster
Bebeee cacuuuse—
An echo made it impossible for her to hear what he said next.
Because why? And did he say Mr. Lex? The boss? She was the boss.
“Prince Massimo, you are speaking to Lex.” You buffoon—I’ve been buying fabric from you for two years.
A fresh burst of static crackled over the line.
“I’m the owner, Lex Easton.” Did he hear her? Maybe not. Damn this Verizon phone.
“Signorina, please tell Signor Easton I am on holiday for the month. I feel terrible we are unable to fill the order. Nevertheless, the wheels are in motion. I will send a certified letter tomorrow in effect. Now, if you will scusami, I am being rude to my guests.”
Rrrrerrkkkk.
The phone squealed.
“No! Please! What do you mean you can’t fill the order? Why not? Whose wheels are in motion?” I ride the subway. I don’t own any wheels.
He’d hung up. Her entrepreneurial window for victory—slammed shut.
Crap.
With the phone clutched to her chest and the black plastic cord wound around her fingers, Lex laid her head on the drafting table, succumbing to the headache dancing between her temples. Pain shot through her body as tears choked her.
“Rude to your guests,” she wailed, stomping her Christian Louboutin pumps under her chair. “What about being rude to me?” It was over for her. She’d be a laughingstock in the fashion community.
Lex predicted the grim newspaper headline: “Daughter to Late Rock ‘n’ Roll Legend Eddie Easton Closes Her Fashion Brand.” The evening’s news at eleven broadcasting, “Easton Essentials, American’s leading upscale apparel line, is unable to fulfill production and will not be showing at New York’s upcoming Fashion Week.”
Whatever sexual fantasy she’d dreamt for the prince flew out her twenty-first-story window along with her fabric. Massimo’s selfish refusal to deliver on her brand’s signature identity—the unique material which completed her line’s success—made him repulsive.
Her office door creaked open.
“Honey? Lex, you in here? There are three calls on hold for you.”
She avoided eye contact with her mother. To Birdie Easton, Lex’s despair would be obvious. “Please take a message, Mom, or send them to voice mail.”
“Line two is the handsome Wall Street fella, who keeps asking you out. What shall I tell him?”
“Tell him I don’t have time.” Her love life would have to wait. It always did. I’ve already kissed my sex life bah-bye, too. Hell, no man had touched her here, there, or anywhere in weeks, months, years. She was overdue. Infuriating. Did abstinence cause migraines?
Her mother’s arms looped around her shoulders. “Honey, what’s wrong? Did you talk to the textile plant? Will they release the fabrics?”
Lex sat up and studied her mother’s weathered face. “Maybe,” she hedged. She couldn’t tell her the truth.
After caring for a drug-addict husband while taming her own substance abuse demons, it was evident Birdie persevered, but at Lex’s expense. Her mother’s Malibu detox bills drained any savings Lex stashed. Although, Birdie had been sober for two years—and counting.
She continued, “Since they are the only supplier who manufactures what we need, I have to fly to Isola di Girasoli tomorrow to meet with the prince about the shipment.”
Yes, she’d go see him. Giving up wasn’t an option. Why should she allow Massimo to destroy her fashion company? Easton Essentials was the bloodline to her urban life. Designing fashion kept her going these past few years.
“Isola di Girasoli?” her mother repeated. “Why?”
“I need to speak to the prince face-to-face. I have no doubt I can persuade him.”
“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 one-time, 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’re needed here to finish the details on the fashion show. I’ll handle Girasoli.”
Her mother grew more worried 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.” She hoped she could keep her vow.
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 whispered, her voice quavering.
“So do I.” Since his death, she’d longed for someone to lean on.
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. Saltwater from the Mediterranean splashed her face as the boat dipped in a rhythmic motion. Focused on the tawny-colored dot on the horizon, she didn’t care.
“Signorina, hold on to 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 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 and 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 that 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.
But at that point, 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, hardworking and honest—she called them her three Hs. 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’d never met the prince, though she’d seen his picture in the tabloids. In fact, she’d never admitted this to anyone, but she’d 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, fantasizing he’d 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. Yes, Massimo was that hot.
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.
No man could have such good fortune and be endowed. The universe was never kind. But she’d heard stories quite to the contrary. And naked photos, leaked on several blogs the previous year, showed him swimming with his sweet dimpled ass in the air and his yummy cock hanging low. His dick, subjected to gossip, was touted to be as large as an Evian bottle. The memory from those images made her pussy ache with need. She wondered if she could take him—Jake, David, Johnny, JFK Jr., Evian bottle and all.
It’s the Taj Mahal. The Tittonis’ estate entrance stood as she imagined—baroque in design, ornate in style, gaudy in size and gilded from top to bottom. An expansive stucco exterior didn’t intimidate her compared to the Park Avenue high-rises Lex had lived in as a kid. It was the man inside who terrified her. The prince held her fate in his hands. At his whim, she could be relegated to poverty for a second time. It was one thing to rebuild once, but twice—impossible.
Pushing the intercom’s button, she tried to stand taller and licked her lips. Here I flippin’ go. A sweat bead ran down her neck, coming to rest between her breasts. The humidity increased by the second, causing her favorite yoga-style pullover—a cream-colored sheer jersey trimmed in chiffon she’d designed and titled “The Jet Setter”—to cling to her. It felt tight, shrinking. And her underwear rode up in places which hadn’t seen action in a long time. She should’ve at least worn a thong or maybe nothing at all. Why she’d sported her granny panties was anyone’s guess.
A small video screen embedded in the pillar to her left lit up. A man in a vest, no doubt a butler, asked, “Posso aiutarla?” The voice came over again, “May I help you?”
She smiled, despite the man’s brisk tone. “Yes, thank you. I’m Lex Easton, here to see Prince Massimo Tittoni. I’m from Easton Essentials.”
Thin lips compressed together before the man released and divulged, “I’m sorry, Signorina Easton. His Majesty is on holiday until the fall season.”
Massimo told her he’d be there. She needed to talk to him. “I spoke with His Majesty yesterday over the phone. I came from New York. I must see him. Please!”
His eyes widened. “Uno momento prego, I will check,” he grumbled, and the screen went blank.
“HEY! Hello?” Was the butler going to leave her out in the blistering sun and salty ocean air to ripen akin to a blood orange? Her skin would peel at any minute. This is Hell.
An eternity passed before the gates finally opened. Then a tall figure walked down the main driveway.
“Signorina Easton, my name is Roberto. We spoke on the phone. Benvenuta to the palace of the Tittoni family.”
Much better. Lex breathed in relief as he extended his hand, taking her roller bag. “I’m the estate manager. I live here on the island year-round.”
In a tuxedo? How uncomfortable. Wearing a black bow tie with matching cummerbund, he dressed similar to a waiter, perhaps one who served caviar at a five-star restaurant.
“Is the prince able to meet with me? Did you tell him I’m here?”
“His Majesty is aware you’ve arrived, but he can’t see you right now. He’s out by the garden pool entertaining. He asks in the interim I give you a complete tour.”
“How kind, although I’m not sure we have time. I’ve got to make the last boat to the mainland. It leaves in two hours, but I would care to use your restroom and freshen up.” She looked around for the garden or a pool and didn’t see either. “Where is the pool?”
He eyed her without conviction and responded, “We have three. The Olympic-sized indoor pool off the gymnasium. It’s used for calisthenics.” One long finger pointed south as he continued, “An ocean-view pool with natural saltwater for sunning, and my personal favorite.” He gave her a fake smile. “And the garden pool.” He stopped and stared at her. “It’s a nudist pool, for pleasure. His Majesty created it to resemble the Garden of Eden.”
“Nice to hear the prince lives up to his tabloid reputation. He gets publicity on his social activities.” She offered him a tight smile in return, but felt a little guilty for being snarky. After all, she came for business. She couldn’t let her mind wander about poolside pleasures.
“The prince instructed he will join you for dinner in the Tancredi wing’s formal dining room, on the main floor, at sunset. He’s offered to put you up at a villa for the night. The windows face the sea. You’ll have Malta views. Farther out is Tunisia. We’re very isolated out here. You may sun and swim your day away.”
She hadn’t packed a swimsuit. She didn’t own one.
“Thank you, but I won’t be staying. I’ve rented a room in Sicily for the night. Tomorrow, I fly to Milan for a work event. I need to meet with His Royal Highness and get my shipment cleared through customs from your factory.”
“Sì, I’ll show you to your room. You may use the facilities as you requested.”
Lex nodded, allowing Roberto to lead her through the grounds, passing row after row of exotic-looking flowers. Their sweet smell, heightened by the island’s heat, made the air rich, intoxicating and heavy, resembling steeping dessert tea with sugarcane. Her senses awoke, turned on by a flowery smell. Pearl-white dahlias, baby pink roses and amethyst lilac bushes reached for the sun’s rays, each blossom fuller than the last. In recent times, she felt she was those sweet flowers, reaching for the sky, ready to be plucked and enjoyed.
From somewhere behind the main manor, Lex heard high-pitched laughter. The direction remained unclear.
Those aren’t kiddies giggling.
“Here we are, Signorina Easton. You’re in the Plaza da Villa a smaller guesthouse. If I’d known you planned on visiting, I would’ve prepared our larger quarters, on the south side.” He pushed the oak double doors open, allowing the sunlight to spill into the suite.
A “small villa” there could be a penthouse in the Big Apple. Its imperial design included a master bedroom with spa, two smaller bedrooms, and a sitting area with fireplace, dinette, and four balconies with panoramic seashore views. The eye-catching suit
e dripped spectacular. How unfortunate she wouldn’t be staying long enough to enjoy its amenities. In any case, she loathed the beach. Pale as the moon, she didn’t care to show much skin.
She stepped into the lavish living area. “Roberto, I won’t be here long. I’ve taken up enough time, thank you.” She reached in her purse to pull out a tip but realized she’d given her last dollar to the boatman.
Offended by her attempt to compensate, Roberto informed her, “Signorina Easton, your generosity isn’t necessary. No gratuities at the palace. We are salaried royal employees to the House of Tittoni.”
“Oh.” Well, excuuuse me. I didn’t get the House of Tittoni memo.
He glanced at his wristwatch. “The prince dines at eight. Stay in your quarters until sunset. Take a siesta, rest or sunbathe, but please be ready when I come for you at a quarter to.”
Frustrated that he still expected her to wait for the prince, Lex didn’t have any intentions to dine with the royal. “I told you, the last boat circles back in less than two hours.” Glancing at her father’s scratched Rolex hanging loosely from her wrist, she croaked, “Correction, ninety minutes.” What was she thinking? She’d never make it. “I’ll meet with the prince now. I don’t mean to be rude, but I have no choice.”
“Hmm…” Motionless and non-responsive, Roberto stood still.
“If you can’t show me where he swims, I’ll find my own way.”
There was a long pause as the butler deciphered how to respond to her demands. Then he put out, “Signorina Easton, I don’t think you’re being wise. Let me see if I can get His Majesty’s attention and have him come here. Per favore, wait inside. I’ll ring your room in a few minutes with an update. If you need anything, press the zero on the bedroom phone. Good luck, Signorina Easton.”
“Thank you.” She settled as he closed her door.
After fourteen hours flying, boating and walking, she finally stood by herself. She put her luggage on the oversized bed, causing the plush satin cover to crinkle beneath its weight. Walking over to the sink, she splashed cold water on her face and checked her iPhone for messages.