Masque - Chapter I

Please enjoy the 1^st Chapter from my upcoming series, “MASQUE”. This is what I have been working on past several months. I have already published the “PROLOGUE” on the blog. This is just the draft; it may be different when it's published. The book is going to be similar to 50 Shades, but different in its own right. Just like I’ve been writing on the blog, it’ll be from the male POV. You will love Ronan David Gibson! And, yes, there will be a second book in the Pella Series. The blog will also continue with Christian’s POV for the duration of Book V. But, more will be coming up and I don’t want to give that away just yet (Para Neusa e 50 tons de amizade. Amigas para sempre. 💖)

La Vita Nuova

In that book which is

My memory . . .

On the first page

That is the chapter when

I first met you

Appear the words . . .

Here begins a new life

-- Dante Alighieri

1

EVERYTHING AND NOTHING

Thump! The quiet hum of the jet engine is broken first by a magazine tossed onto the custom made coffee table, then followed by Stephane’s joking, cheerful voice. I swivel my chair around to see his towering height. He drops himself into the plush leather chair and puts his feet on the coffee table. My inner circle and I are 35,000 feet in the air en route to France for the Cannes Film Festival on my private jet.

“Cheer up Ronan! The world is praising your desirable ass,” he nods at the magazine he tossed onto the mahogany surface of the coffee table.

“I’ll pass. Still going through our plans for when we meet this German based firm. I need to know who the fuck this tycoon really is. The man is a wild card and I will have over one hundred million dollars at stake.” He ignores my comment completely.

“Your mood over the past couple of weeks has been as dark as that night sky hovering over the Atlantic Ocean, man. Frankly, your staff is jumping like cats on a hot tin roof.” He says half joking, but laced with a note of concern. The sky outside is pitch black. Unpalatable. Not unlike my mood. Lately, no amount of challenging work, grueling workout or hard fucking seems to tame, let alone eradicate my disposition. I feel like a live-wire, completely untamable. Whatever I accomplish, no matter how big, no matter who I fuck regardless of her talent in the sack, I feel unquenchable. I have everything I ever desired, set out to accomplish, acquire and conquer. Yet, everything is not quite enough.

“How’s that my concern?” I answer Stephane like a petulant child.

“You’ve been a slave driver and to top that off, you’re working harder than all of us, bro. You know what they say about all work and no play.” I raise my eyebrows at him. I work hard, true. But I play much harder. He knows that. As if to respond to my unspoken thought he responds.

“Not lately! Fuck man, you know women are throwing themselves at you everywhere you go and just a glance in their direction makes them drop their panties. Get some pussy from a starlet or three and let them bring the sun out again! For all our sakes.”

He nods with his head to the magazine again. “You should take a look at that article. If I didn’t know you any better, I’d have thought you created Mount Everest. At least Forbes thinks so.”

“Maybe later,” I dismiss him again. He’s not giving up. Officially, Stephane Winthrop is my CFO and the Acquisition Director. In short, he’s my excessively capable, very bright right hand man for my company, the Gibson Technology Integrators Incorporated. Unofficially, he is my best friend but acts more like my fucking shrink.

Shaking his head, he grabs the magazine from the coffee table, clears his throat then with a wide, wicked grin, he summons my inner circle.

“Gather round children, time to worship our boss.” He’s addressing my assistants Jude and Eliza as well as my personal protection detail Dre. I think Dre rolls his eyes but sits across from me still clutching his laptop and Jude with his iPad sits on the adjacent seat. I think Eliza has fallen asleep with her notes in her hand.

“Is it that time of the day already?” I mock him. Putting my tablet on a side table, and in its place, I take the tumbler with the dark scotch in it. I contemplate swallowing it down in one big gulp.

Donning his best imitation of Gregory Peck, Stephane reads the cover title splashed across the page in bold letters: “At the tender age of 31, Ronan David Gibson runs a considerable portion of the economic world in the United States.” I hate that sort of publicity. I alone know the true extent of my powers, and the depth of my secrets. I alone control them. Even my inner circle is only privy to compartmentalized information, on a need to know basis.

“A bit of an understatement, don’t you think? Mr. Gibson runs a good portion of the global economy.” Jude feels offended on my behalf and points at the Stock tickers scrolling on three different monitors displaying stock market information from Wall Street to China. “Mr. Gibson is a volcano, a tornado, and a hurricane all combined in one. Destroyer and recreator of the financial world should he wish.”

“Care to top that Dre?” Stephane asks.

“Fuck off, Stephane,” Dre says without taking his eyes off his project on the laptop with a slight smirk on his lips, “I’m betting Mr. Gibson is pissed at the magazine about that article.” Dre doesn’t need to explain more. He knows that I don’t like the press taking liberties to dig into my affairs, whether it’s business or personal. It’s all the same. They all would like to know how big a billionaire I am or who I am fucking.

“Ding ding ding! We have a winner!”

Their banter shifts gears when Marissa, our flight attendant steps towards the group. She fluffs her blonde locks and asks if there’s anything we need at the moment. Her approved flight uniform skirt seems to hug her hips firmly accentuating her long legs and round buttocks. The uniform shirt buttons seem to amplify her bosoms and she leans in a little too far, giving an eyeful of her cleavage to all the male occupants in the cabin. When everyone declines, she stands up turning her back and with the strut of a runway model, she walks away beyond the door. Dre’s eyes follow the sway and movement of her hips stealthily. When she leaves the room, he reverts his gaze back to his project he has on his laptop.

“Why is Marissa prancing around the cabin?” Jude asks.

Stephane smirks, “Because…” he says pointing his head in the direction of Dre who has his head in some layouts for security measures before arrival.

Jude blurts out in surprise, “You hit that?” then turning to me he adds, “Excuse me Mr. Gibson.”

Dre lifts his head up, “do you mind? Do we have to talk about who I got to fuck last?”

“Man! You’re breaking the cardinal rule, I told you not to shit where you eat. But no, Captain Long Dong Silver here had to do Princess Seka,” teases Stephane.

“Are we going to have a problem here?” I ask in a serious tone though teasing my 6’4” fearless, seen many wars and very seasoned Black Ops trained personal security captain.

“No, sir! As for the rest of you, go fuck yourselves.” He says giving them a finger while he’s still going over his work on his laptop. Then he lifts his eyes, narrows them and scans us.

“The relationship just ended. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. It just took its natural course until death we parted,” he shrugs. “She fell into someone else’s bed, and if time permits, I shall into a French chick’s.”

“Who said romance was dead?” I say shaking my head.

“I’m sure she’s trying to gain his attention, since Dre is such a romantic. Now, could we just go over the spreadsheets for the profit projections for the film and our plans in Cannes?” Jude asks.

 “Let’s.”

In a few days, we will meet the two movie producers back in Los Angeles to see whether I’d like to invest in their up and coming film project. I have a good knack at picking a blockbuster having grown up on the movie sets my father directed. But, I like to invest as a venture capitalist. My main goal is to establish a business relationship with a German tycoon who is also invited to have the first consideration for investment. After the financial projections for the film, we go over our schedule.

“Tomorrow evening, we’re going to the soiree thrown by the German Embassy based in Paris with some German and French film distributors who want to become a part of the deal. Keeping a low profile will be quite difficult, but Dre will explain the measures he and his team have put in place.”

My face is on every other serious magazine and every gossip magazine. This is the perfect time to be in Cannes because all the people I need to see in this environment will be here. But that also means that the amount of paparazzi will be overwhelming: staking out all the hotels, every single event and restaurants. We’d be lucky if we can keep our anonymity for a day; until then, the element of surprise will be on our side.

“Good morning! This is your captain speaking! We have been given the green light to land at the Aeroport Cannes Mandelieu. It is May 12^th, Tuesday and the local time in Cannes is 8:47 a.m. The temperature is currently 67ᵒ with clear skies. It is expected to reach...” My pilot’s voice echoes around the bedroom signaling our arrival to our destination.

Jetlagged and exhausted we finally get into the black SUV chauffeured by one of the French security officers hired for the duration of our stay here. Another black Mercedes SUV follows us to Hotel Martinez. The Penthouse Suite was already occupied by a Hollywood executive before I made a last minute decision to fly to Cannes. But I never settle for second best. The hotel knows my ‘never say no to anything Ronan Gibson asks’ expectation well and they don’t even try to offer me another suite; they simply moved the executive to another room to accommodate my arrival. Seasonably warm sun greets us when we exit the vehicles. I scan around from behind my shades. A light breeze brings in the ocean’s salty scent invitingly like a seductress. I’m in fashionably aged and ripped at the knees low hanging jeans. My crisp white shirt tucked in, with the sleeves rolled up. A few sprinkles of chest hair barely showing from the two unbuttoned top. With my leather boots completing the ensemble, my presence is turning several buffed and polished female and some male gawkers in my direction who seem to have been made up by squads of beauty virtuosos. Maybe they’re trying to place me as an actor. Thankfully the Concierge and the personal butler whisk us into the VIP area before they finally gather the mindset to bring up their phones and start snapping photos.

Without even taking a good look into the grand suite I know well since I occupy it almost every time I come, the last thing I remember telling the butler is not to disturb me until I wake up on my own. With my grueling schedule of the last two months coupled with the long flight, sleep takes me under and I fall into a dreamless state.

I’m showered and dressed in my black tuxedo. It’s 8:30 p.m. I stand before the mirror and tie the bow-tie into a perfect knot. I’m in my element. Maybe I will take Stephane’s advice and find a stunning French woman or two who don’t know who or what I do tonight and fuck them senseless, in order to release this pent up energy. That’s what I will do.

When we finally arrive at the chartered mega yacht for the soiree, the frenetic energy hits us faster than the breeze coming from the ocean. Almost as soon as we exit the limo, the music is blasting, assaulting the senses with pulses of music reverberating through the air, almost orchestrated against the constant blended sound of human noise and bright lights. The hustling bodyguards and uniformed chauffeurs are opening the doors of some of the most expensive vehicles on the planet, letting out the wealthiest, most talented as well as aspiring young men and women who have been sculpted to near perfection in the gym and on the table of a plastic surgeon either in the company of arm candies or alone and on the prowl. This is their chance to land a part in a movie, a business partnership, and in between meet and greet, deals have been made, and future rendezvouses are arranged within a few minutes as these meetings go in these settings. The excessive money, prestige, exclusivity and power holders are already causing the scantily dressed starlets to begin competing against one another to land into one of their beds for better acquaintance and hopefully a part in a movie. They are indeed behaving like baby sharks who are going after their first prey not realizing these are the masters of the ocean, the planet and the universe. Many of them won’t even remember their names as soon as these beauties are done riding their cocks. A few lucky ones may get another meeting, or a chance for an audition or on the fuckable roster of one of the old goats.

Our invitations and identities discreetly verified before we are escorted aboard. This is truly a billionaire’s playground. Most attendees are the wealthiest people in Europe and the U.S. The identities are kept strictly confidential for those who requested it, and for others, it’s an opportunity for publicity. Let the games begin. Waiters constantly refreshing the visitor’s champagne flutes and various drinks of choice, a live band is playing music, and deals are already being made. I observe it all.

An elegant, confident woman parts the crowd with her gaze fixed on me. Dre is standing as close to me as possible, looking impassive. She has long dark hair to her back and pale blue eyes. She tucks a strand of unseen dark hair behind her ear, lifts her chin in an elegant fashion indicating her class and breeding and extends her hand to me as she comes face to face with me.

“Mr. Gibson, how nice to see you in Cannes again,” she says in a very cultured Londoner accent. I don’t recognize her, but she recognizes me.

“To what do we owe this rare visit to Cannes?”

“Business as you can see…” I indicate with my hand.

“Ah, but I wouldn’t know. My father drags me to these events often. I only seek pleasure,” she says with meaning. I let go of her hand, but she holds onto mine. I pull it back, making and releasing a fist.

She is indeed stunning but I don’t like to be hunted. I choose. I am the hunter.

“I beg your pardon, Mrs.” I don’t know who the hell she is, and right now I don’t seem to care.

“Miss Elisabeth Holloway. It’s Miss,” she reiterates. “I’ve recently read that you were chosen as the “Sexiest Man Alive” and apparently topped the chart on ‘the most fuckable’ list. Rich, too. But then again, so am I. These accoutrements make you the most desirable man on this ship, and I call dibs. You. Won’t. Regret. It.” She says slowly.

“I can even give you a preview of what I’m offering.” She's laying all her cards out to tempt me.

“When I do make mergers and acquisitions deals, Miss Holloway, it’s because I chose it, have assessed it, and simply close the deal. When there are other offers to be had, I don’t think I want to settle for the first one just because it’s been presented with an offer of free sampling.”

“I apologize Mr. Gibson. When you find out you’re not satisfied with the other merchandise on this ship, here’s my card… Call me,” she says as she smiles with a knowing glint in her eyes and shoves her business card into my palm, then walks away.

The chartered mega yacht leaves the Port de Cannes with the blow of her horn.

Jennifer Lopez ft Pitbull - On the Floor

Guests are occupied in all three levels with various activities. Thumping music is coming from the first tier of the yacht packed with starlets, A-listers, old and new money, all on the chase. Bodies dancing in a drunken orgy-esque fashion. I head out away from the noise making my way towards the deck within the crowd. Dre follows me.

Nearly three hours into the night, I have assessed all of the investors, production companies I would care to know as well a few starlets I could possibly show a good time tonight. Maybe by sunrise tomorrow morning, my mood will have shifted. I need some air first. But when my attempted exit from the room is spotted by a flamboyant gay designer who has been eye-fucking me all evening, he quickly makes a bee line towards me. He comes about four feet away from me, puts his left hand folded on his wrist right over his waist, and waves the other one in a grand gesture.

“Ohmigod! I thought you were him!” he says and places his hand over his heart. “You my dear, are just a sweet piece of eye-candy! Pleased to meet you Mr. Gibson! I’m Michael Kraus, but you probably already know that…”

“I didn’t,” I reply with little patience left in me. “But, nice to meet you. This is Andre Bennett. Weren’t you and Stephane talking about how superb his design lines were? Meet Mr. Kraus himself. I am going to the deck to smoke this cigar and drink my champagne. I’m sure Stephane would love to meet him,” I say lifting the Cuban cigar up. “You two have fun!” I fix my bodyguard Dre in his place staring at me with a priceless look on his face, feeling this immeasurable need for some fresh air and to be left alone for a few minutes before we dock.

The second I close the door behind me, the starry night covers me like a blanket, blowing away the haze from my head with the breeze. I walk to the edge of the railing on the second tier deck watching the sea, shutting out the buzzing noises, the fake breasts, and silicon filled lips and meticulously made up faces stuffed in designer clothes and listen to the sounds of the night.

As the yacht glides over the waters of Mediterranean, shearing the waves with its sleek stern on her return journey back to the port, deals have already been reached, phone numbers exchanged, some contracts signed and e-mailed to their respective high priced attorneys and the real fun, the after party has already begun.

The moon glistens above the Mediterranean Sea, chasing the shadows from the dimly lit decks. The breeze brings the scents of the night, the salty air assaults my nostrils, hitting me all around like the rush of adrenaline, cleansing my mind. I don’t see anyone on the decks, because the real action is inside. Near acts of sex on the first, second and third level decks are for the real wolves. I stare at the growing, glimmering city lights quickly approaching, sinfully inviting you to come and join her. I stuff the cigar back into my jacket pocket and just take a sip of my champagne.

The beat of the music gets louder momentarily as someone exists the first floor activities on the lower deck. Fast paced clicks of heels carry a young woman to the bow of the ship. I thought I’d seen everyone on the ship, but I don’t remember seeing her. Her long locks falling onto her back, covering what her flowing white dress left open, moving about giving glimpses of her milky skin. When the breeze coupled with the speed of the yacht hits her face, her hair lifts into the air forcing her to move into a slightly sheltered position. I can see her profile clearly now. She doesn’t look drunk though almost all of the passengers are so inebriated to varying degrees. In fact, her face looks sober, melancholy. She looks back in the direction of the door again then turns back into the distance, her face and hair caught in the glimmer of the moon. The wind stirs her hair again, then rustles her dress, playing with her, caressing her body. She absently rubs her arms without taking her eyes away from the ever growing city lights, but almost not seeing, she’s absently staring in the direction of the skyline.

Tal Bachman - She's So High

I can have any woman on this ship or beyond, yet, at this moment, I don’t want any of them, except... I shake my head to clear the thoughts. I should look away. Yet, I feel like a voyeur, unable to take my eyes away from her. Her elongated silhouette is very sensual, almost other worldly as if carved by an old master sculptor who was seeking to create the divine beauty. The yacht speeds up and dips into a comber spraying foamy waves. To avoid getting wet she turns quickly. Fuck! I see her completely now! She’s Aphrodite personified, born out of the foam of the sea! She sees me gazing at her. Her eyes meet and lock on mine. But something she hears makes her turn her head in the direction of the door. A young man prowls towards her, his eyes solely locked on her. Is she here with him? Her body stiffens, she takes a half step back, holding the railing. As he’s closer, she lifts her head proudly, like a little kitten pretending to be a lion.

He definitely knows her. I can’t hear what he’s saying to her, but her response to him is monosyllabic. His hands reach out to her shoulders, runs them down the length of her arms. She remains motionless while she says something to him. He’s holding her arms firmly, possessively. The unexpected twinge of jealousy makes me want to peel his barnacle hands off her. She finally shakes her head refusing him clearly and puts her hands onto his chest pushing him away. But that only excites him. He pulls her closer to him, grabbing her waist and starts kissing her lips and neck.

“Hey! Let her go!” I shout. Clearly she’s refusing him. Either the noise of the music is closer to them, or he doesn’t care. She tries to shove him away again, and struggles to escape his grasp. When he corners her to the railing, I rush down the stairs to the first tier deck.

“Leave her the fuck alone!” I shout but my voice is drowned out by the yacht’s horn alerting our impending approach to the dock. As I run towards them cornering the deck to their location, he slaps her across the mouth even I can hear the sound of the contact to her face. The bastard has already walked away by the time I get to her side. She stands there stunned, shaking, one of the shoulder straps of her dress is off and over her arm, and her lip is bleeding. The crimson colored hand print is still visible on her left cheek, but she isn’t crying.

“Are you okay?” I manage to murmur. She nods wordlessly, breathing hard.

I take out my monogrammed handkerchief from the tuxedo’s pocket and lift it up to show it to her so she isn’t startled.

“You’re bleeding.” To my absolute surprise, my voice is gentle and protective. I gently dab the corner of her mouth. The bastard not only smacked her, but bit her lip! She lifts her shaky hand up and presses the handkerchief over her lip. I reluctantly withdraw my hand, feeling bereft. Noises grow around as the yacht docks. Drunken laughter followed by shattering glass and a falling tray by a waiter tripped by intoxicated passengers break my attention on her for just a moment.

“Look, I’ll help you file a complaint…” I say turning towards her, but she’s gone. Gone in the blink of an eye!

What the hell just happened? Did I just imagine this whole fucking thing? Did I have too much to drink?

“Are you ready to leave Mr. Gibson?” I hear Dre’s voice.

“Yes, in a minute,” I say trying to hide the disappointment in my voice. As I ready to take a step forward, I see the tiny glints of light reflecting off the floor. I lean down to take a closer look and pick up the small item. It looks like a ruby and diamond earring. I wasn’t dreaming of Aphrodite! She was here!

“Come on! We need to find a girl!”

“They’re on the ship…” Dre responds confused.

“Not those girls.”

“What does she look like?” he asks.

“She looks like fucking Aphrodite.”

As we run to look for her, concern for her well-being rises in me, but I also realize that the dark clouds once occupying my head have vanished.