My latest offering, The Heiress is now available for download from the Kindle Store. Whet your appetite with this sample of the first chapter.
Some people never discover
what they are truly capable of, they may be confident that they can achieve
this ambition, or boast about being able to fulfil that requirement if
necessary; yet in reality most never get to experience the limit of their
potential, not through any external inhibition or misfortune, but simply
because they don’t have the motivation to push themselves to the boundary
between what is possible and what is not.
"Madame?" An
accented voice disturbed her brief introspection, Monique lifted her chin from
the hand which cradled it and turned to face the speaker.
"Thank you," she answered
in a prim and slightly nasal voice, flirtatiously holding eye contact for a
little longer than necessary, the waiter laid her cappuccino and Danish pastry
on the table before dashing across the shiny cobbles and back inside the dark
interior of the cafe.
She watched as he re-emerged
and glided between the tables, his tight, white shirt provided little camouflage
to what she presumed was a sensationally fit body. All the indications were
present, there were bulges and creases exactly where she expected them to be;
his pecs strained the fabric which covered them, which was just thin enough for
her to make out the shadowy outline of his nipples. Monique took coffee in that
corner of Covent Garden most mornings on her way to some engagement, she
flirted shamelessly with him every time he served her, yet learned little about
him, other than his name was Paul and that he had moved to London from Brazil. Establishments
of such calibre expected their staff to act with decorum and propriety, which
was why she would patronise no other cafe in the West End, that and the fact
that they served the best coffee she had tasted outside of mainland Europe.
Monique dropped a lump of
rough Demerara into her cup, it sat on the froth, resisting the inevitable,
before reluctantly dropping beneath the surface. She prodded the spoon inside
and almost without purpose, scanned her eyes over the glass roof of Covent
Garden market, revelling at the prospect of another day under the rich, blue
sky; unbroken by clouds, with only the feint sharpness of vapour trails disturbing
the absolute solidity of colour.
It was still early, barely
nine o'clock, yet already over twenty degrees and forecasted to rise to in
excess of thirty by mid-afternoon. Monique took a silver compact from her cream
Hermes bag, she checked that the shading around her eyes was as she wished it
to be and fingered her short, golden fringe back into position. A feint breeze grazed
her bare legs as she savoured her coffee, the air felt fresh and unpolluted as
it passed through the flimsy fabric of her dress; come a later hour, London
would be stifled by too many people and an excess of heat. That morning
differed from Monique's usual Covent Garden coffee, the caffeine was less of an
indulgent aid to complete the process of waking up, and more a necessity to
keep her on her feet after an energetically sleepless night.
She re-positioned her elbow on
the wooden slatted table, rested her chin on top of her closed fist and dreamily
reminisced the previous night's activities through her fuzzy mind; her tired body
weakened even further by the recollections of her coquettish enterprise. As
Jimmy's bold proposition echoed through her thoughts, Monique's slender body
fluttered and fizzed, arousal and desire coursed through her almost as much as
it had done the first time she had heard those words.
Monique Bobotte had been born
in London, the daughter of a French businessman and an English chorus girl; she
grew up in Paris, educated at Oxford and was the heiress to a fortune which she
could neither calculate nor comprehend. Throughout her childhood and
adolescence she had only wanted for something as long as it took for her father
to ensure that her wishes were fulfilled, both parents had lavished unfettered
finery and extravagance upon their only daughter. Monique encountered no
difficulties in chasing and realising her adult desires, which almost
exclusively involved men. The young heiress had an unquenchable addiction to
the rugged sex, their look, touch, smell and mere presence caused a chemical
reaction inside her which meant that she never tired of being in the company of
men.
Jimmy's suggestion rattled
through her body, the heat of exhilaration prompted her to finger the round
neck of her fitted navy and taupe Teddy dress, she hunted absorbedly through
her long, blonde hair in a quest to satisfy the slight itch on her naked back.
The breeze suddenly changed direction, a nick of cool air passed over the fresh
moisture between her legs, she flinched from the realisation that she was so
aroused in public. Although Monique possessed an entirely liberal and
progressive attitude to sexual behaviour, she had never been so aroused by a
mere memory; but then again, she had never been so utterly fulfilled as she was
the night before.
A little flustered, Monique
sipped her coffee and took a bite of her Danish in an attempt to distract
herself from the lascivious recollections of her sluttish behaviour. She looked
up through her immaculate lashes at the hurrying office girls in their light
summer dresses and drummed her nails against the white china cup; with her head
tipped forwards and vision partially obscured by her asymmetrical fringe, she
watched delivery men unload boxes from their vans, already sweating from the
exertion of their work, tourists taking pictures of each other outside the
opera house, and street performers staking their spaces for later. A lone
soprano went through scales outside one of the restaurants in the lower section
of the market, the euphonious tones floated out and around the square, the
scent of roasted coffee beans, cooked breakfasts and expensive perfumes helped
to cement an atmosphere which could not have been confused with any other
square, in any other city.
Monique watched men saunter
past the cobbled seating area, stealing a glimpse of her, keeping their eyes
fixed on her mesmeric form until she looked up and met their gaze, when most
dropped their eyes in mock denial, before sneaking one final look as they
passed her. Some held eye contact and coaxed a smile from her full, glossy lips,
she usually complied, Monique was unforgivably vain and not only craved, but
sought reassurance from the never-ending male attention she received; the
gesture of returning a smile was the least she could do.
"Come back to the house
and let us all fuck you," he had shamelessly roared in her ear over the
monotonous music of the slightly disappointing club. Her big, brown eyes glued
to his face, slowly lowering the glass from her lips and postponing the sip of vodka
and lemon she was about to take, she watched the corners of his eyes to see if
his face was about to crack and disappointingly reveal it to be another one of
his cruel jokes. He watched her too, waiting for a response; his sharp, blue
eyes locked on her ponderous expression. Moments passed, he held his nerve, she
spoke first.
"Us all?"
"Yes." He affirmed,
Monique squinted in curiosity. "The team."
"The team?" She questioned, with parted lips and widened eyes.
"Uh-huh," Jimmy grinned,
unable to contain his self-satisfaction, his confidence was pure arrogance, but
narcissism was a trait Monique admired. Without hesitation, she slid off the
stool, took Jimmy's hand and lead him bullishly through the club. It was one of
those swankily ostentatious places in the heart of the city, a redeveloped old
bank where the basement vault had been turned into a VIP suite, deposit boxes
lined the walls and the regulars were still stuffy stock brokers who
perennially congratulated themselves on moving another imaginary fortune from
one pot to another. She had attracted to the glances and ganders of the
glass-chinking, guffawing financiers all night, and was no less conspicuous as
she strode purposefully across the white marble floor, the heels of her black
Zanotti stilettos dissecting the tedious drone of experimental house music.
Monique's hair swayed and swelled with her walk as though it were orchestrated
by Chopin, the many shades of blonde contrasted beautifully against the black
chiffon of her summer dress.
The doormen scrambled to bid
Jimmy and his lady goodnight, yet he mindlessly dismissed them as they breezed
into the temperate July night. He released his hand from hers and placed it on
the small of her back, holding her close to him, with his other hand he gently traced
his fingers over the side of her face. Monique's mind was a hive of activity,
she knew what to expect, but was curious to discover how the infinite
possibilities would play out. Jimmy knew her to be an adventurous girl, she had
admitted herself that her sexual appetite was so voracious and unquenchable
that she doubted it could ever be entirely fulfilled. 'No' was not a word which
passed Monique's lips very often.
She dabbed her mouth with a
napkin, remembering the first time she had left with Jimmy, shortly after
moving back to London from Paris for the second time. They had been introduced at
a dinner party hosted by a mutual friend and immediately became attracted to
one another, neither of them had been blinded by the delusion of a potential
romance, yet found the other to be charming, fun and exhilarating. At the end
of the night he had audaciously offered to escort her home, Monique's silent
response and questioning eyes were answered by the defence that he didn't want
anybody to take advantage of her; what he really meant was that he didn't want
anybody except him to take advantage
of her. She admired his way of thinking and as soon as they passed through the
door to his house, set out to obliterate even his most fantastical
expectations.
A tall, tanned man in a light
grey suit trod briskly past her table, his fleeting wink relieved Monique's
doubting self-assurance that she could still enchant, even without sleep. Her
appearance and other people's perception of it was of the utmost importance,
Monique's wealth afforded her the luxury of not needing to be anywhere until
she was satisfied with the way she looked; appointments, engagements meetings
and dates were all put on hold until she had satisfactorily glanced in the full
length antique mirror, dismissed her lady’s maid and breezed through the door
of her Bloomsbury apartment. She may have felt a little fuzzy inside, but
Monique radiated the vibrancy and vitality of a screen siren from the golden
age; like Taylor, Loren or Monroe, Monique Bobotte had an ever-present aura, it
was not only a magnetism which attracted the attention of anybody within her
immediate vicinity, but also the ability to make everybody else around her seem
less interesting. It was not just her bright blonde hair or perfectly
proportioned body, with legs a little longer than she probably ought to have
had, her blemish free, golden skin or even her impeccable style and sense of
fashion which drew the attention of all eyes around her, there was simply an
elegance about Monique which made it impossible to ignore her; her very presence
inspired curiosity.
Quite rightly, she never stepped
out without make-up, that morning she was delicately dusted in bronze, a subtle
navy and black eye detail drew attention to her mesmeric eyes. She felt tight
from tiredness, yet gave no indication of such an ailment, her skin still had
enough youth in it to forgive her a night without sleep, it was taut and
tanned, her figure and form were doll-like in their proximity to perfection. As
she re-crossed her legs, the effort required to lift the weight of her
platformed black Laboutin's was evidence of how much her whole body ached, a
reminder of the shameless debauchery to which she had been subjected to just a
few hours earlier.
To buy 'The Heiress' on Amazon.co.uk, click here
To buy 'The Heiress' on Amazon.com, click here
