Sunday, May 10, 2015


Jackman DuVall was in a quandry. He had a conference deal with Tokyo and Wall Street was on the other line, asking him for urgent advice. He wrote “SELL” on a post it and held it up to the window. His assistant, Deborah passed the message on. She mouthed “Thank You” to him, and a glimmer of satisfaction passed over his chiselled features as he completed the transaction in flawless Japanese.
 If only that had been his only quandry.
Fox Maison was a comet in his skies. A palomino kicking magnificently in a field of shetland ponies.
A thoroughbred.
Jackman DuVall hated Shetland ponies. As a child one had tried to bite him and he had never forgotten it. His first business transaction had been a particular sort of glue factory. In business, it paid to be cut throat. And the throats of your enemies were that much more deserving of the chop. He gazed out the window, at the bustling traffic. A single rose, abandoned, no doubt, by an errant lover rested on the pavement. The lush scarlet of its petals was in stark contrast to the concrete, and the surrounding capitalist monuments. Fox was beautiful like that rose, mused Jackman. But she was also good at business. Her company had turned an impressive profit. Even in it’s first year. And he should know.
She’d let him see her books.
He had thought of her every day since last they’d met. But something had prevented him from picking up the phone and buying her presents until she slept with him. Jackman DuVall was not known for his reserve, but he knew how to approach a woman, all the ways. From the front, from behind, from the side. Diagonally. On the phone. On a plane. In a boat. There were so many ways you could make a woman want you. And he was well-versed in all of them.
So why was this one different?
He found himself, for the ninth time that day, on Linked In, scrolling through her skills and endorsements. He knew what skill he would like to endorse her in.
Pretty-Face having.
Jackman DuVall had vowed once, as a boy, never to let a woman make him weak. And he wasn’t about to start now. Fox Maison was a beautiful puzzle. But until he could take possession of her, body and soul, without giving anything in return, his granite cliff-face would eschew her alabaster curves.

He would protect his heart. For though, he was a businessman, he was secretly quite tender, and he feared discovery.

Thursday, May 7, 2015


Carbon Worcestershire was in a bit of a pickle. As he would say himself in an adorable working class British accent that he sometimes practised when he thought no one was listening. When he had stolen the ‘copter from the ‘copter garage, he had never expected that it would crash on a tropical island. And that his phone would run out of battery so quickly. It was the apps. He never remembered to turn them off and it was stupid.
“I ‘ate Candy Crush” he muttered, as he lashed some branches and leaves together to make a sort of hut. Carbon was the kind of man who was good with his hands. All his groupies said so. And they would know. He wished he’d brought a spare t-shirt. The one he was wearing was all ripped. It left nothing to the imagination. And his pale skin was part of what made him so compelling to the kind of girl who wished vampires were real so she could marry one. Seventy percent of his fan base loved vampires. He never used to think in percentages. When Red Sauce Connection started, they were just five exceptionally handsome lads in a garage, with instruments and music and a dream.
Carbon hadn’t realised that as lead singer he would be the breakout handsome one. And how much of a struggle that would be. Being adored could take you to dark places he mused. Like the ‘copter garage with a bottle of Jack Daniels in your hand and a GPS that said ‘the moon and back’.
It was amazing that he’d survived at all. His bruises and cuts were all small and, to be honest, flattering. He’d collected rainwater in banana leaves and  built a makeshift pilates studio out of other banana leaves. He had a duty to the fans to keep it tight. No, thought Carbon, screw the fans. He had a duty to himself to keep it tight. He looked up at the azure sky, blithely unaware that there was a celebrity underneath it. He would like to be as blissful as that sky, as careless. And maybe he could be.
All he had to his name was three bottles of champagne, a guitar, a bottle of ab oil, some diamonds and half a helicopter. And ‘is ‘opes and dreams.
Carbon Worcestershire smiled, revealing the kind of teeth that women lost it to on Prom night. Being away from everything might be just what he needed. He oiled his abs for the sixth time that day, and wondered how he could build a massive waterbed out of banana leaves and sand.

Just in case.

Wednesday, May 6, 2015


Fox Maison hadn’t expected her mother’s death to hit her quite this hard. I mean, the woman had given birth to her, for sure. But she had also encouraged her to be independent. Baroness Monique Therese Yolanda DuMaison had been a loving, but absentee mother for the most part, and under her tutelege, Fox had grown the wings of a beautiful albatross and flown the coop as soon as she was able.
She had been closer to her beautiful, indulgent mother than she was to her beautiful indulgent father, but she was used to leading an independent life of gilded pleasures and low intensity. The emotions she was experiencing now were profound. Like an exceptional fawn startling through the private woodland of a fancy Earl, she felt full of vulnerable adrenalin. And the business had never been better, which was a sterling silver butter knife in her soft and creamy woman’s heart.
Plus Jackman DuVall hadn’t called since their business meeting, which was worse in many ways. She’d really thought there was a connection there, a pulse of attraction beneath the cool steel blade of his robber baron sex-veneer. And Fox could use some passion right about now. The world was a harsh and unforgiving place, where even the rich and beautiful could perish.
Her mother’s will was going to be read on Tuesday and Fox didn’t think she could face it alone. She gazed at Jackman’s number on her contacts list. Dare she ring him? She needed a friend, someone strong and brave and hard enough to take all of her grief and soak it up and dry her tears with sexy flames of passion. Someone who could buy her a yacht the way normal men bought their girlfriends panninis. Chicken and bacon paninis with cheese and pesto. Fox could eat all the paninis she wanted and never gain an ounce because of genetics. Even in her grief she was startlingly lovely.

With faltering fingers, she dialled Jackman’s number. A woman’s voice answered. Fox hung up immediately, in floods and floods of tears. Jackman DuVall had betrayed her for the last time. She was never, ever speaking to him ever again. Period.

Tuesday, May 5, 2015



Swept away by waves, Eduardo Khan found time to ruminate. Who would have expected the world’s most luxurious cruise ship to hit an ice-berg? Not he. Though, he had to admit, justice had been served. All the hoi-polloi, flailing for their lives like so many victims of their own opulence. Weighed down by all their gold, by all their diamonds. It was probably ironic and certainly satisfying.
It was a grim satisfaction though, mused Eduardo. Sometimes he thought the only true satisfaction he’d ever known was in the arms of a certain baroness. He’d seen her floating past, on a raft she had made from lashing two cabana boys together. She had always been resourceful, but he doubted even she, his muse, his love, his nemesis, could escape the inexorable wrath of Poseidon.
Though her lithe form could tempt a God to fall. Women such as she turned Gods to men. And, Eduardo mused, stabbing a passing sailor with dusky introspection, turned men into monsters. Her peculiar brand of sex alchemy was done now and he thanked the Gods for it. For though cabana boys were bouyant and pliable, they provided no shelter against the coming storm. If she weren’t dead already, Eduardo ruminated, strangling an orphaned prince to obtain a slightly bigger raft, she would be soon. He and the sea would make full sure of that.

The waves rippled with a dark promise and the sun hid its’ sexy golden face.

Saturday, April 11, 2015


Fox Maison could hardly bring herself to listen to the priestly drone that bade her mother, Baroness Monique Therese Yolanda DuMaison farewell. Father Finnerty had known her mother better than many people. They’d been friends and, to call a spade a spade, passionate star-crossed lovers, since childhood.
But it didn’t feel real.
Her mother didn’t feel dead. In the pit of her heart where Fox kept all her feelings her mother seemed so very much alive. And not just because they had failed to recover her pert, sun-kissed body.
White roses and Tiger Lilies littered the graveside. An alleyway of Jo Malone votive candles led the procession of mourners to a grave. They had nothing to bury, but Carlow Von Cleef, Fox’s father and the hottest music producer in all eight continents, even the secret ones that only the upper echelons of the pleasure classes knew about had insisted on a grave. “For Closure.”
Father Finnerty was openly sobbing now, calling her his Mary Magdalene. His beautiful sin. Carlow VanCleef didn’t know where to look. His wife’s indiscretions had never felt so sadly indiscreet. The team of handsome masons he’d hired stalwartly continued to fill in the grave, pecs rippling subtly through black cashmere.  Within lay a single photograph, her on their first wedding anniversary, a little Fox in her arms, gazing up at him and smiling widely. This was the shining woman he remembered. This was his precious bride. He wished he’d made her happy. He really wished he’d asked another priest to give the mass.
Fox put her delicate hand on the priest’s black-clad shoulder. He was taller than her by far and yet her steely expression confirmed that it was she who held the upper hand. Father Finnerty had been the Baroness' playmate as a child, sure, but he’d been the housekeeper’s son. He’d risen through the clergy to become the parish priest of a range of exotic locations. He was a powerful man, a man of God. But she was to the manor born. And they shed their tears in private.

“Father, pull yourself together” her tone was kind but it was unmistakably a command. The Irishman wiped the tears from his ruddy face, and rolled up his sleeves like the peasant he was. The grave was filled. They served h’ors d’oeuvres. A tasteful statue of her mother aloft in the centre of the room, a champagne fountain beneath her. Nothing tacky. What she would have wanted. A send-off befitting a baroness.