Penelope Goldman woke up alone in a huge bedroom with a wide view of Lake Como. She touched her face gingerly and brushed over a couple of bruised spots. Her arm hurt and she had finger marks on her throat. She smiled a little. The previous night was hell; just as she and Serge liked it. Their individual perversions complimented one another. Unfortunately for her, she might be his perfect match.
She called for him but he wasn’t in the suite so she got up and examined herself, naked in a mirrored wall reflecting the green hills across the lake. On inspection she didn’t think she looked too bad. The bruises on her face and neck were faint and a little makeup would do the trick. He’d bitten her in more than a couple of places but those wouldn’t show. She remembered and laughed out loud on her way into the bathroom. He’d been in quite the celebratory mood. Some big deal or another had gotten him revved up. Money and conquest intoxicated Serge. Penelope craved the aggressive sex and the coke.
She worked for almost an hour to pull herself together and when she made an appearance downstairs the houseman told her Serge had already gone out.
“Where?”
“I couldn't say, ma’am. Perhaps he's available on his cell phone.”
“I think I’d prefer breakfast first. What’s on the menu?”
“I’m sure we can prepare almost anything, Lady Goldman.” The houseman was English, gay, and quite proper. By his age Penelope guessed he might have worked for the late Queen Mother. The thought made her laugh aloud.
“Shirred eggs, a muffin and a glass of champagne,” came as a statement and not a request, delivered in the tone of someone accustomed to being waited on in their own home.
“My pleasure, Lady Goldman. Would you like breakfast served on the terrace?”
“Yes.”
“May I show you the way?”
“No.” Her tone was flat and her eyes said, “Go away.”
“Of course, your Ladyship.”
The so-called lower terrace was a full flight of steps down from the main level and afforded a scenic view of the hills north of Quarzano. A large glass-topped wrought iron table was positioned to take advantage of the vistas and the shade of a beautiful old tree towering above. As Penelope Goldman stepped onto the terrace she was surprised find her escort enjoying the morning air and doing a passable impersonation of Cary Grant.
Clad in a cashmere sweater and well tailored slacks he held a cigarette in one hand and a newspaper in the other. He was handsome enough and his family had almost as much money as hers, but for reasons they kept to themselves, Jean and Penelope were on equally bad terms with their parents. So, she circulated with people like Serge and Jean Robert lived by his wits. At times he agreed to keep women company for pay.
“Well, good morning, Penelope. Did you sleep last night?”
“A bit.” She situated herself in a chair across from him.
“Surprising to say the least,” Jean Robert commented without turning away from his paper.
“What kept you here?”
Jean held a hand up and rubbed his fingertips together in the universal sign for ‘money’.
“Oh, of course. Well, I suppose this one will need to go on my tab, dear.”
At last Jean Robert turned and looked straight into her smoky gray eyes. “One more time, Penelope, but you must settle up before I do this again.”
“I shall, but for now you got a pleasant trip to Laglio, and I assume the chef took good care of you last night.”
Jean-Robert gave her a hearty laugh and a broad grin. “I had a superb veal chop as a main course and the chef for dessert.”
“Brilliant! I had no idea you're bi.”
“Not at all. The new chef is an awesome redhead from Edinburgh. I let her mop the kitchen floor with me after which I returned the favor.” He punctuated the statement by taking a long slurping sip of his coffee.
“Delightful. May I watch next time?"
"I'm hoping there is a next time."
Jean Robert went back to his paper and a waiter served Lady Goldman’s breakfast, prepared as ordered.
“God, Serge has a well trained staff.”
“So I found out. Accommodating, too. But I suppose the laggards are floating somewhere near the bottom of the lake. That might explain the damn pollution.” He waved his arm in the general direction of Lake Como.
“Now, Jean.”
“Speaking of Prince Charming, where is the sick fucker?”
“I couldn't tell you. He left before I got up.”
“Hmm. Well, you appear to be remarkably un-bruised.”
“Yes, he was disappointingly gentle. I had a good time anyway. A few bite marks, but they are covered. Delicious!”
“I'm delighted you enjoyed yourself. Of course, you’ll never get back in the family’s good graces if you continue to keep such bad company. Speaking of which, I need to pay a visit to the kitchen.”
“As you wish, but not on my nickel.”
He shook his head and left Lady Penelope Goldman to breakfast alone. Jean-Robert Trieste reached the top of the steps and, finding no one in sight, punched a speed dial number on his phone. When connected he said only, “Ogre on the move. Location unknown.”
Then he slid the phone back in his pocket he made a beeline for the kitchen and, with some luck, a morning assignation with the voluptuous Chef Mary Murdoch.