“Old when my mother gave birth to me, yes. My madre was eighteen when she wed my padre. There were thirty years between them. She passed away when I was seven in a boating accident.”
They rounded a corner and headed up the opposing hillside.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Massimo didn’t have any immediate family. “Can you tell me where this royalty fits in?”
He motioned to the beaches out the car window. “My famiglia founded the isle. Declared by the Italy’s King as royal sovereigns, the House of Tittonis created their own small kingdom. His son, my grandfather, developed the resorts you see on your right. And my padre added the casinos alongside our beaches.”
“It’s very impressive,” Lex complimented him on Isola di Girasoli’s beauty, more than she expected.
“Today, the royal crest is a society title, tax break and a privilege to live on the isola during the holidays. But I’m hoping to change the misfortunes in years to come—rebuild our empire and its riches.”
“We have some things in common.” Lex deliberated on her finances and fought the urge to scream. “How much farther ’til we reach the airport?” she asked, reminding herself she needed to secure the fabrics and return to New York Fashion Week preparations. No time for new friendships.
“Almost there, it is up this bluff.” He shifted the racer into overdrive. “I do not get to be here often. Since I am the heir, the royal secretary keeps my schedule packed with appearances in France, Germany and England.”
“Wow, you sure do travel a lot. When I was a kid, we took vacations all over the world. Today I pretty much stick to Manhattan and work.” I have no life.
“I know what you mean. Any downtime I have is spent at my Milano home. It is close to the factory.”
“How does Girasoli Garment Company come into this?” Lex noted the brochures she received on Girasoli illuminated zero heritage on the brand. Girasoli severed itself from its origins and started anew.
“My great grandfather founded Girasoli Garments to make money on the side. He loved private enterprise and Italiano textiles. No money in being a royal. There are a few families in Europe who have separate income streams such as the Tittoni’s. My great grandfather flipped his sunflower cropping business to fabrics and Girasoli Garment Company began.”
“Interesting. I love sunflowers.” She thought about what it would take to get Massimo to vacate the fashion world and go back to growing plants
Massimo turned into the small airport, which boasted a dozen planes and a helicopter. “Ready?” He brought the hot wheels to a halt and added, “Flying time will be about an hour and ten minutes.”
* * * * *
Now is an appropriate time to start popping Xanax. Lex tried to settle her stomach from the car ride as she stepped away from the roadster. The dried clay left a film over her shoes with each step. The tarmac, situated at the island’s highest peak, overlooked the village, the palace and even Sicily. She walked over to the cliffside to clear her head. Inhaling aromas from lemon trees, farmed fruits and a briny ocean tang engulfed her senses. As she relaxed her shoulders, the scent put her in a peaceful mood. For a second, she forgot about her worries.
Lex noticed Massimo already at the plane and hurried over.
The single engine jet, although undersized, was striking. Similar to the prince’s sports car.
Cupping her hands around her eyes, she pressed her face to the window to see a tiny cockpit. “Where’s the pilot?”
“Right here.” He held out the keys, walking around the plane’s right side, smirking, and posing as Indiana Jones on the last crusade. She hoped they weren’t heading toward the Temple of Doom. Massimo rivaled Mr. Jones in hotness, she prayed not in adventure.
“Do you have a pilot’s license?” she asked, unsure if they taught aviation at The Royal Millionaire Playboy Academy.
“Sì, signorina.” He shook his head poking fun at her.
“I’m serious. Show me your license please?” Lex held on to the plane’s door as if it were a gate to hell. Christian Dior, get me outta here.
Massimo closed the distance between them in response. “Give me your hand.” Not waiting for her to respond, he grabbed her mitts from the door. “Bella, you are shaking,” he noticed and secured his fingers around hers, massaging her palm into his.
Strong hands. “You may call me Lex, not Bella. This isn’t Twilight.” She didn’t care for paranormal.
“Lex,” he whispered in a soothing voice meant for sarcasm, but his tone turned her on. Pillow talk fabulous, he continued, “You are in good hands. I fly, race, sail. I have licenses for many things. Per favore get in.” He held the door open as she stepped up. “Here, let me help you,” he proposed as his large square hands grazed under her ass, sliding her into the cockpit.
“Watch it!” Lex’s tits hardened in stark arousal. Light as air is how she became when he more or less threw her into the cockpit. “Ahhhhh!” She screamed. Massimo’s gentle intent was overlooked as she bounced when he lifted her up high.
“Scusi,” Massimo apologized. Taunting her, he hung in the doorway and stared down over her—as if they were in bed together. And he’d spread her legs and thrust upon her. But he didn’t. He gave her a confident nod, self-assured she wanted him.
I hate you. Flabbergasted into silence, she ogled him as he clicked her seat belt in. Mortification erupted as he slipped his hands under the straps grazing her erect nipples. Not because he touched her—hell, the prince could do anything he desired. But because Massimo confirmed to them both she was aroused. She wanted him. Her mouth said fuck off but her body danced fuck me. “You’re copping a feel.”
“Just making sure my passenger is in—nice and tight,” Massimo confirmed as he straightened—and rubbed—her legs. Stepping down, he uttered, “I would hate to see those long, sexy legs fall out, dropping you into a shark’s mouth somewhere over the Mediterranean.”
“Ha! Your airplane humor is lost on my American wits.” She pulled on the straps, showing she could manage fine without him. His focus on her ass, breasts and safety reminded Lex what she’d been missing while working away, building Easton Essentials. A man—a fifty-two-inch chested, six foot three standing, brown eyed, black haired, hundreds to billions dollars rich, hung as a horse, cocky, conceited, alpha man.
He went around to his side and hopped in. The cabin packed tighter compared to the racecar as Massimo’s arm jammed up against hers. He nudged her and joked, “Do you see room for a third person to fly us?” Familiar with the dashboard, he slammed the door and worked the instrument panel.
Lex half closed her eyes thinking about him touching her again—and again. I hate him.
The control panel lit up, resembling Manhattan’s downtown skyline, welcoming his command.
When Lex’s conscious returned to Earth post I Hate Him Please Fuck Me and her tongue sharpened, she bleated, “Most fitting for you, Prince Massimo Tittoni, to be flying this plane.” He’d been in charge since the get go. Massimo exuded many extraordinary talents, so much so it pissed her off and turned her on at the same time.
“Meaning?” he prodded as the jet started lunging them forward.
“You’re an adrenaline junkie.” She crossed her hands over her chest, covering her aroused nipples of which he’d become aware. “They have support groups for you guys back in the States—Adrenaline Addicts Anonymous.”
This man loved everything high tempo—racecars, big business, rich lifestyles and his many poolside lovers. It scared her for reasons familiar. Her father died the same way. He lived life in fifth gear to the point where no one returned without getting hurt.
You junkies never settle down.
Her ears popped as they took off. She peeked out the rattling window, surprised she enjoyed the prince’s flying much better than his driving. Hidden under her Tom Ford sunglasses, she hid her exhilaration from zooming over the Tyrrhenian Sea.
Shades shimmering in cyan, turquoise and ultramarine blended into t
he waves below.
She tried to take in the thin air supply without hyperventilating from the thrill, convinced she’d come in her seat if he hit an air pocket.
Chapter Five
Thank God, Gianni Versace and Alexander McQueen
My cock…is…precuming. Oh bella. The jet hit turbulence soaring over Genoa toward Milan. Massimo found Lex’s hand in his whenever the plane bounced against the vertical draft. He didn’t steer the aircraft into commotion on purpose, but he couldn’t help playing into it once he realized the cause and effect. Holding Lex’s hand gave him an erection and what he could feel was a little precum in his trousers. When he glanced down at his crotch, he noticed a quarter size wet spot on his slack’s front. Oh shit!
Lex laughed.
“Scusi,” he apologized. He took a deep inhale to calm his arousal. She smelled fresh and sweet, kiwi again.
Silence between them gave him time to fill his mind with dirty thoughts. Thoughts where he’d take this woman to his Milan mansion—kissing her, lacing her lips with his own, sucking on her tits, tracing each nipple with his tongue, filling her with his cock.
A black Maserati Quattroporte, driven by two Girasoli security guards, picked them up at the airport and shuttled them through the cobblestone streets to the factory. Located in Milan’s garment district on Via Monte Napoleone, the Girasoli center took up three city blocks. Today the factory was deserted.
“You weren’t kidding about it being closed, were ya?” she acknowledged as she stepped out from the limo into the hot sun.
“Italians take their holidays with feverish intent.” He typed in a ten key password to the main entrance. After deactivating the alarm, he pushed open the security door and motioned her through the main lobby.
“We are standing in the textile plant. This is where we bring the fabrics in from France, India and our own smaller factories in the northern countryside near Trent. The fabrics are dyed and cut, then sent to our second building, where they are stretched, packed and shipped.”
Lex walked through the aisles, and he watched in admiration as she glanced over silk and cotton. Her legs were longer than he’d remembered.
“Is this where the fabric is treated, as well?”
“Sì. We dry spin your fabrics with the elastin fabrics and blend the cotton.”
He walked her from room to room, passing the consumer showroom, a large department store mockup. His team had designed it to resemble Selfridges in London.
“I’ve seen your showroom in the magazines. The write up in Vogue Italia three years ago prompted me to call your sales office. I can’t believe I’m here in person, with you.” Her grin stretched ear to ear.
“It is my honor to share this with you.” It made him feel good to see her happy after yesterday’s pique. But he couldn’t give in to her demands.
“What’s this?” Lex walked into a space set up to resemble a boudoir.
“This is our new branded retail line going to the States next season.”
“This is your Easton Essentials knockoff?”
“I would not say it is a copy, Lex. You are here to witness how different our concept is. Maybe we are using the fabric the same way, but mine is more fitting to the female form.”
“How…different it is. It’s interesting,” Lex’s face turned sour. With each garment she picked up, a deeper frown pressed.
“What is it? Why are you making such a displeased look?” He stepped closer. Massimo expected her to be unenthused, but not repulsed.
“It’s nothing, you’re right. These designs are not copies.”
Lex took one off the hanger and went over to the mannequin form in the room’s corner. “This dress form is about a size four.” She slid the Girasoli over the mannequin and spun the form around, pulling the garment’s bottom. Stepping back, eyeing him with a questioning pop in her eyes which annoyed him, she tested, “Do you not see it?”
Never one to be quizzed, he attempted to retain composure. “I see a very sexy dress from compression fabric. It will go into production in six colors and be available with a scoop, X or V neck.” Not a copy reverberated in his head as he put his hands in his pockets to play with his loose change. What was she getting at?
“Let’s continue the tour.” She slipped the garb off the mannequin and put it back on the rack.
He put his hand up blocking her from leaving the boudoir. “You see something. Tell me.” He took her waist in his hand as she passed, pulling her back into him. “Please—”
Staring into his eyes, Lex smiled without a flinch and then turned back to the rack. “These are designed by Jemma. I’m sure she looks hot in them. But these are not appropriate patterns for anyone larger than a size six.”
“These dresses will be made up to a size Large, a size eight,” Massimo boasted.
“For starters, in the States, a size Large is a size ten, not a size eight. And on your hanger is a small. But the sizes can be worked out later, when you start production. Two, four, six, eight is not what I’m getting at.” She sighed in annoyance.
“Pardon?” he asked, his concern growing. “What are you trying to tell me?”
“Do you see the cut on the dress?” She held up the garment again.
“What is wrong with it?” He grabbed the hanger from her.
Lex pulled a booklet from her bag. “Here’s our catalog from last season.” She flipped open the pages. “See the models wearing soft shapes? Look at the dress form? How it’s fitted but flowing at the same time?”
“Yes, but Easton’s look is not Girasoli’s.”
“Massimo, if Girasoli is going to sell into the mass market channels, you’re going to have to go even softer on the lines than what I’ve done with Easton.”
He admitted it. Lex was right. Jemma designed garments for herself and her friends in Milan and Tokyo who wore haute couture. Not for the North American women buying apparel. He tried to imagine the dresses Jemma created in a catalog and realized they were wrong.
“What do you suggest?” He knew the minute he asked he’d owe a return favor.
“Use this elastic fabric in areas where the consumer wants to contour. But in areas they want to be loose, you have to incorporate another fabric and piece the look together.”
His unease settled deeper. He’d been mistaken all along and maybe even a little self-righteous. Massimo was surprised she didn’t rub his nose in it.
She flipped her catalog over to the blank backside, took a pen from her purse and sketched the outfit on the hanger. “This is what you have.” She held up the article and he nodded to confirm.
Then she drew a flowing bottom to the dress, made the bust looser and changed the V neck to a scoop. “This is what the consumer wants to buy from you.”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“My mom is the ‘accentuating the positive and eliminating the negative’ queen. You know?” Lex sang, “Ac-Cen-Tchu-Ate the positive.” She paused to see if she should keep singing.
Nodding for her to continue, Massimo enjoyed her voice.
“Latch on to the affirmative. Don’t mess with Mister In Between.”
Massimo questioned what she sang about.
She dropped her a cappella performance. “With this getup, you’re messing with Mister In Between. Don’t get me wrong, Mom’s figure stopped traffic when she was my age. At least Mom’s Playboy photos say she did. But years later, she found a few imperfections.”
“How has she carried on without your father at her side?”
“Fashion is therapy for Mom, for me too. She still creates her own clothing—weaving, cutting, deconstructing and bringing them to life. She always looks amazing. So if there’s one thing I’m certain of…”
He gave her a sidelong glance filled with utter curiosity, “What?”
“What a woman wants to buy when she goes shopping. It’s the mantra for Easton Essentials, accentuate the positive.”
“Are you and your madre close?” Massimo wondered what hi
s mother would be like if she were alive today.
“I’m a daddy’s girl.”
“Why?”
“Dad’s stardom became supernatural. People were intoxicated being around him. He enchanted everyone—his fans and even his family.”
Massimo noted Lex must’ve inherited Eddie’s star quality. She could take center stage and hold a crowd anytime she wanted.
“And your madre?”
“In ’82, Hugh selected Mom as playmate. Her singing career soared with two chart toppers, Am I Wicked and Lucifer’s Mistress. Soon after, she met my dad, gave birth to me, married and became obliterated in comparison to my father’s success.”
“Birdie sounds like a… neat lady.”
Lex inhaled and gave Massimo a smile then admitted, “She’d tell me over and over again how I’ve inconvenienced and ruined her career. I was five or six. No clue what she meant ’til I turned twelve. And my resentment for her increased as hers dissipated. You could say we took turns hating one another,” she joked.
He didn’t find it amusing.
She continued, “But something changed when…” Her voice became fragile and shaking.
“What is it?” His mother was suppressed into nothing more than a shadow by his father’s own doing. His childhood memories were few, but his mother he’d worked hard to remember. He’d journaled his dreams over the years to keep her memory fresh.
Her grip on the Easton brochure tightened more than she may have realized. “When Dad died, we sorta became society outcasts, bankrupt. People turn on you when you lose your money. A few friends stayed close. But Mom and I realized we were it, us two, together.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Lex.” He didn’t know what else to say. He didn’t know anything about her family. “I knew your father’s songs and your mother’s too. I never connected them to Easton Essentials. No one at Girasoli did.”
“We’ve worked hard to make sure the brand sells itself without any celebrity BS.”
“How did you come up with the concept?”
“Thrift shopping at La Boutique Resale, we didn’t fit into the European cuts. So we picked up the Girasoli elastic fabric in the garment district and started stitching it with the clothing we wanted to wear but couldn’t. You know, due to our physical imperfections.” She put her hands on her hips.