Friday, February 12, 2016

Cannes - Killer Diamonds - Emeralds

Alexander Crown Trilogy

The entire view was synthetic, like trying to eat a piece of plastic, radiating sensational vibes that couldn't stop this slick environment. But was the view synthetic? No! The view was natural; diamonds and emeralds set into an exquisite setting of gold and silver and don't forget the platinum sidebar on the entire necklace that was designed and made by Michelangelo over 500 years ago.

I possessed it but it wasn't mine, it belonged to the Italian Historical Society that I had given the necklace to. They tried to bury it, hide it beneath a mountain of paperwork and prejudice and politics, so I took it back, stole it right from under their crazy eyes without them realizing it. Did they know that I had taken it back? I didn't give a fuck whether they did or not. I needed the gorgeous, priceless necklace to produce monetary results.

This meeting I arranged was a fistful of rumors, whispers and myths, but my intel gathering moved with purpose, proving that with purpose and lots of ambition and energy I did convince the new group of jewelry buyers that Michelangelo's necklace was priceless, that it is for sale by me, but not revealing my real purpose for shoving it into the hands of creepy power money mongers.

I'm in Cannes, France, during the Cannes Film Festival where drugs, drinks and dimwits converge, corrupting and smothering all competition. But that is another story for some other time.

With clean movement of my muscles and the warmth of my legs I savored the passing moments waiting at the sidewalk café in Cannes, France. Busy street, busy café, busy walkways, full restaurants and tourists galore filled this small seaside resort, home of the Cannes Film Festival, and the Festival is about to begin, a place I'd rather not be, the place where I had originally stolen the necklace from a security guard at the Film Festival three years ago. I now convince buyers it's for sale, don't give them the merchandise but take their money anyway, by force most times, and then give the cash to support my orphanage in Cape Town, South Africa. That's what living is all about, sharing and giving, as well as taking away from those who can afford it.

The group of two brown suited bald men and one underdeveloped woman in a short white dress, Nike running shoes, big red hair and strong hands with which one carried a small paper bag, were walking toward my table. The bag was my rule of carrying the cash they would give me. I rolled my shoulders, shucked my gloves and dropped them on the table beside the black felt bag that contained the necklace. I pushed myself straight up and stood to greet my buyers.

They stopped at my table but were unable to surround it due to the wall behind me. The smaller man drew his hand across the table to shake my hand. His senses were sharp, his breath came easy. I felt power in his handshake like I was shackled in irons. He was free and alive much like me but I was more alive.

Three Berettas were drawn from some unknown place and targeted me, one in each of their hands. The one who shook my hand was left handed and that was a huge mistake, I saw his gun traversing from his backside  as we shook hands. He made a little squeak when I ripped his Beretta from his palm. The other man and woman where like dead trees with week branches ready to break. They dropped their guns on the ground when I pointed my newly acquired gun at them.

I snatched the paper bag from the woman's hand and peeked inside it. Fresh American bills in twenties totaling ten thousand dollars. The woman's face dropped like a dead week. The two men were as still as crickets. Of course my escape depended on the large crowds meandering about, the auto traffic down the road, nearby alleyways, high rise buildings and Cannes, the most advertised city aside from Paris and New York as the city to visit.

I held the gun low and in two hands, my finger resting gently on the trigger. It felt good. The gun was molded for my hands. I started breathing heavily thinking I was preparing myself to run, but I felt a little dizzy. With their eyes locked on mine without trying to overtake me I realized what had happened. The little man's handshake stung like I was stuck with a pin. I was stuck with a pin that carried something either lethal or paralyzing so I needed to work fast. But perhaps working fast made the shot work faster. I didn't care.

Stepping forward like I was working in slow motion I slammed the Beretta upside the left handed guy's head. He fell like a sack of onions. The café crowd went berserk, jumping from their seats, screaming and scrambling and bumping into the other man and woman confronting me. I hands were show but I slammed the gun into the woman's head and followed through by slamming it to the second man's head. They slumped on top of each other at my feet. Stepping over them was a struggle among people scattering like cattle in a stampede.

Staggering and then tripping I maintained an upright position as I drifted down the street holding my gloves, the berretta and the paper bag containing the ten thousand dollars. Wouldn't want to forget any of those items.

Are you in need of reading more of Alexander Crown's adventures? Click on the link and preview the Alexander Crown Trilogy.

Thursday, February 11, 2016

Killer Diamonds

She tried to back away from me, but I restrained her, my right hand holding the point of her trusty three inch Swiss blade on her throat. If the brunette wasn't wearing three inch orange stilettos to match her tank-top, the kind wife beaters wear, which she was naked and undernourished underneath, or her tight black Bermuda pants, I would say she is less an assassin and more of a negotiator, perhaps even a sexual solicitor but contrarily she's an assassin.

Today at this sidewalk café in Amsterdam she is both an assassin and negotiator. How could I just hand over my priceless Michelangelo necklace that was designed and crafted by that great painter and sculptor over five hundred years ago? I couldn't. But that's what she demanded from me. I told her the price is one hundred thousand Euros. She laughed in my face while we sat at a small round table on the sidewalk drinking cups of espresso. Perhaps the caffeine spiked her nerves or she has PMS, whatever her problem is, whoever she works for, I ignored her demand to hand over the necklace free of charge.

I stood up from my hard wooden chair. She jumped out of hers and charged me with her knife. I slipped around behind her, snatched the small knife from her fingers, twisted one arm behind her and stuck the knife on her neck, drawing a few teardrops of blood from her skin. They blood rolled down her neck onto her chest and stained the edges of her orange tank-top.

She wrestled, I held tight, she wiggled and I strengthened my hold. The tip of the knife went a quarter inch into her neck. She relaxed but I held tight.

"This necklace is priceless," I said. "Did you believe that I would hand it over to you or even accept the one hundred thousand Euros I had asked for? You're boss is an idiot, young lady, and so are you for attacking me."

"Fuck you, Mr. know it all Alexander Crown." Her accent was delicious, something between Russian and Greek. "

She struggled with me again and I heard a pop, the register of a pistol, and then heard a thud as the bullet enter the my assailant's chest. Life was leaving her body as I supported it against mine as a shield from the onslaught of bullets. All Customers jumped off their chairs which shielded me more. the shooting stopped, I dropped the body across the table and hightailed my ass down the block headed for my rental car two blocks away.

Diamonds and death follow me everywhere I go. While I was running to save my own hide I thought about all the women I had sex with in college, in Africa, in the United States, in Croatia and a few other countries, and the ache I felt in my groin wasn't from guilt it was mostly from loneliness. I'd have to go visit Ms. Borghini in Lucerne, Switzerland, my ex-girlfriend.

Thank you for reading. This link will take you to "Vitruvian Man" where Alexander Crown discovers Michelangelo's necklace.

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My belt was a classic black Levi, silver one prong buckle, waist 34", soft cowhide. I slowly unbuckled it and pulled it from the loops on my well used Levi jeans. I usually wear Levi's, soft brown leather boots, a blue t-shirt and dark brown leather jacket. You know, one of those soft lambskin zipper front jackets with a Nehru collar? Yeah, it's so comfortable. Oh, and by the way I don't usually carry a weapon.

The assassin's eyes followed each of my fingers as I slipped my belt from the loops. I'm sure he wanted to break all my fingers if not one at once then all at the same time. Some assassins like to torture their victims before they kill them, and other assassins want to kill immediately. This assassin wanted an immediate kill.
We are at St. Ives, a coffee shop on Victoire Boulevard in Paris, a splendid sandwich and coffee shop. The tiny eatery seats 45 customers either sitting on counter stools or standing, and this morning twelve customers were sitting and drinking and conversing while watching streaming Internet deals on their iPads and phones, except for one adorable female. She sits tall  on a stood, legs spread, white jacket with shapely calves highlighted with black heels, her fabulous twinkling bedroom eyes glued to mine, or are they killer eyes?

I liked to drink my deep roast coffee black while standing and that's what I was doing making eye contact with a potential that potential sexual partner, when this fucker came up behind me and pulled a fillet knife. I caught the glint of silver in a sliver of streaming sunlight through the front window.
If he wasn't going to slice me like a fish he should neither have jerked the knife at my neck nor pulled the handgun from underneath his jacket to shoot me like a hoodlum. Sitting on the floor below me after I had kicked his left knee hyperextending it, and consequently stomping on it and breaking it, he'd have been a happy camper with me dead on the floor at his feet, examining my priceless Michelangelo diamond and emerald necklace between his fingers, the exquisite necklace Michelangelo had designed and made. This fucker would have snatched the jewels from underneath my leather jacket pocket.

But now he's cradling his leg and whimpering like a baby. The gal on the stool didn't flinch or scream, of just off her stool, she watched with that unnerving twinkle in her eyes.
Being on the run from big money execs and government officials on the take isn't a fun profession, but I'm not on the run, I'm not afraid and I rather enjoy being in control taking out the best of the best assassins, not actually killing them but incapacitating them for pretty much of the rest of their lives. Most of them know the consequences of losing a fight but don't consider losing since they believe they're the best at what they do. I don't lecture them or lecture anybody else, but situations aren't always in one's favor and you have to be prepared for that special time.

As all the customers in St. Ives watch me as I wrap my Levi belt around this stupid guys neck. They cringe and whistle, a couple applaud and one or two stand to get a better look. The three employees lean against the other side of the main counter and stretch their necks across it to watch the proceedings.

It's not that I'm going to kill the fucker, after all he is the son of somebody, he possibly even has a brother or sister. Maybe he has a wife and child. Perhaps he's a university graduate, or a high-tech entrepreneur trying to make a fast buck by killing me. Whatever he is, I'm not going to end his miserable life, I'll just teach him a lesson or two.

He grabs my belt as I tighten it around his jugular. He pulls against the soft belt trying to loosening the choking leather. I tighten it by twisting it and pulling it up and watch his face turn pink and his fingers whiten underneath the strong leather. He face turns reddish then slightly purple, I release my belt and he falls back smashing his head on the tile floor. With a broken knee and now unconscious, all the customers silently watch me as I unstrap my belt, loop it through my Levi's and buckle it.
Sirens screech in the background and it's time for me to leave with my Michelangelo necklace secured inside the black felt bag that's inside my jacket pocket. Out the front door carrying my black coffee, standing on the sidewalk in front of St. Ives, the pale glow of the morning, such a natural packaged charm, lit some mischief I had on my mind when that young seductive woman who was sitting at the counter took my arm in hers and smiled.

The fug of auto traffic and pedestrians is an excitement I couldn't ignore. This day is going to be wonderful. I gently smiled back at the woman, and we walked up the block. Would I get laid today by a fragile but not helpless straw blonde with a long neck and bedroom eyes? Take a guess.

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Monday, February 8, 2016

Paris Liberation

Alexander Crown Trilogy

On a mission two months ago in Paris the weather wasn't cooperating. Sitting alone at a sidewalk café on the West Bank, dogs and cats rainfall chilled me. I was drinking a hot cup of chai underneath a narrow awning with my black leather coat collar raised up. A brunette approached me dolled-up in a forest green designer suit. She placed her umbrella on the ground beside her. She hugged an iPad and held a large black bag under her other arm.

"Vous avez l'air américaine , êtes-vous?"
"Yes, I'm American. You look French, are you?"
She sat on the vacant chair across from me. "Votre accent n'est pas américain. Vous regardez croate."
"I may not have an American accent, but I'm not Croatian."
She looked across the street and spoke in English. "Can you help me?"
"Une faveur pour une faveur," I said. "Comment puis-je vous aider?"
"I give favors," she said, "within reason. You can help me by looking across the street and tell me what you see."
"Are you in danger?"
She nodded and pushed her iPhone across the table. I didn't look at it and I didn't look across the street. My eyes were glued to hers. The ocean could only be so blue. She nudged her phone at me. I ignored it. She tilted her head sideways silently saying, look across the street.
"Êtes-vous en danger?" I asked again in French.
"Je suis amoureux," she said, and dumped the iPad in her large bag.
"You're in love?" I said. "That's the worst danger ever."
Her sweet laughter filled my life. The pretty way her lips puckered, the soft complexion of youth, hair that etched her face into a Monet. How could that be? Me, a wealthy philanthropist whose purpose is supporting an orphanage in Cape Town, Africa, and not falling in love on the whim with a gorgeous French woman whose demand is for me to look across the street.
"What do you see across the street? she asked.
"I see nothing but you," I replied, and took a sip of my tea.
"Ils veulent vous tuer. Ils m'ont dit de vous dire et de donner à ce téléphone pour vous."
"Who wants to kill me?" I asked. "And why do they want you to give me the phone?"
"They will tell you where to meet them so they can kill you."
"Nothing can be more predatory," I laughed. "Are you with them?"
"No. I'm a stranger shopping and they asked me this favor."
"Are you bugged?"
"I don't know what you mean."
She lied, I saw it in her eyes. "Tell you friends," I said, "if they want to kill me they can do it right now."
Her snicker killed me on the spot. She stood, winked at me, picked up her umbrella and left the phone on the table, turned and walked down the sidewalk in the rain.
I stood, put three Euros on the tabled for the tea, turned and walked in the opposite direction down the sidewalk in the rain.
Three hoodlum looking men ran across the street, picked up the iphone and ran after the pretty French woman whom I knew fell in love with me.

Alexander Crown Trilogy

Friday, February 5, 2016

All the World is a Stage It's all about believing in something, and Prettyboy: Fabulous Fifties Hollywood is the new belief in humanity. It's available now. Marilyn Monroe, James Dean and Marlon Brando have never been better than playing with Prettyboy in Hollywood during the 1950s. Their intertwined lives are more than what Hollywood is made of today, they proved the way for this new Hollywood of actors that shine.*Version*=1&*entries*=0

Wednesday, February 3, 2016

Africa - Love in Malawi

Christian Love's pheromones are free to those who want them. Women want them inside their minds and bodies. His pheromones are free, his love is free, but not all is free with the fate of women who devilish ravage his sexuality.

You want casual eroticism and you want classical erotic literature. You've come to the right blog. Tessa Blade has written an explosive piece of erotic literature. It's more than hot salsa inside your mouth, it's juicy wet like warm ink on your skin.

Love in Malawi is just a start. It's the first book in the Christian Love Triangle of three complete novels.

Warning: Love in Malawi contains explicit sex, naughty language, empowerment, seduction, and is fashionably pornographic with insights on life, death and love and passion.

Sexual encounters were next to the last thing on his mind, falling in love was the last. Dziko, Evelyn, Bonnie and Janet had only one thing on their minds when Christian Love stumbled in their sexual games in Karonga, Malawi. His first is to meet with the family of his deceased nanny. His second mission is to save the world. His missions were averted when sexual desire, appetite, craving, lust, infatuation and obsession, all of which crashed into his soul with four equally sexy women. His life’s missions felt incomplete with their sexual introduction.

Streetwise, caffeinated and wonderfully eclectic, the lovelorn heart of Christian Love is the very lens through which we watch him encounter four seductive women, completely and irresistibly forbidden. This is his sudden and sexy intimate story about his adventure in search for freedom and love.

When shock takes hold nothing else matters but your equilibrium.

Tessa Blade is working on the second and third Christian Love novels. They will be sold separately and the sold as a Christian Love Triangle Boxed Set later on. Take your erotic passion and read Love in Malawi, you might become a better person and lover because of it.

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Czech Before Noontime

Her straw blonde hair, long neck and tired eyes didn't stop me from approaching her. The low lingering voice with moist caress like a lion licking your face was another one of her special aspects that kept me attuned to her prowl. Was the crazy lady dressed from head to toe in blue after my five hundred year old necklace, or did she plan to kill me? I would find out. It wouldn't be too difficult.
Paris is a funny city, a place so old I felt out of place, a city steeped in history its age meant nothing. But the Eiffel Tower, that's another story. The blonde kept me on edge as I circled around her table at the Le Bonaparte street café then sat down opposite her. She had two coffees waiting, one for her and one for someone else. I hoped that someone else wasn't me.
'You called my office in Venice and asked for a meeting?'
'I did,' her growl was spicy, her uneven face a makeup of deceit. How did I know that. I didn't, but the sneer in her voice and the twitching of her eyes said she was lying. Or was the twitching because of he piercing sunlight.
'I'm here now. Where is my expense money?'
She pushed a tiny paper bag my way. I lifted the corner and peeked inside. One thousand U.S. currency. I liked that but left it on the table in front of me.
'I may have something for you,' I said. 'Where are you from?'
'What does it matter? I would love to see what you have for me.' 
'What is it you want?' 
'You,' she said flatteringly, 'and a special kind of necklace. I was told Michelangelo, the famous Italian sculptor and painter, had designed and crafted it many centuries ago.' 
Sitting back in my hard, metal folding chair I spied on the hard woman. She relaxed in her chair as if her life was molded by cold, unforgiving metal. How could I not like this well-structured business woman full of anxiety and insincerity? She practical and she’s half-pretty in cobalt blue, short leather jacket, blue sweater, blue pants and blue fingernails. 
‘Your accent sounds Bulgarian,’ I whispered, ‘but you could be Romanian or Hungarian.’
Scrutinizing tired scanned over me. ‘What does it matter? Drink you coffee.’
I decided to trust her. ‘No thank you. What’s your name?’
‘Forget names, how much do you want for the necklace?’
‘You could give me a fake name?’
“Angelina,’ her laugh was real something like a happy child, ‘Angelina Jolie.’
‘Perfect,’ I joined her laughter. ‘You are Czech from Městská čast Praha 3, the Municipal District which is socioeconomically diverse, has a high concentration of brothels, strip clubs and cheap bars and it’s a short distance away from nice apartments and a new shopping mall with expensive stores. The National Monument, with its giant equestrian statue of Jan Žižka is in Prague 3 as is the 216 metre-high Žižkov Tower, Prague's tallest structure.’
Her posture tensed. Her face twitched and her lips formed words she didn’t want to say. ‘How do you know all that?’
‘It’s part of my DNA,’ I said. ‘Drink your coffee.’
‘No thank you.’ She copied my reply to her. ‘What is your name?’
I decided to come clean with her. ‘Alexander Crown. The necklace is not for sale. I had given it to the Italian Historical Society in Florence and three months later they gave it back to me.’
‘Why would they do that?’
‘They said it was too dangerous to possess.’
Her half-pretty face shot sideways suddenly aware she was with a dangerous man. I didn’t consider myself as dangerous since I had lived a life in danger. Had she looked sideway to signal someone, or was I being paranoid?
‘In that case,’ she looked back at me, ‘if I don’t want to purchase the necklace will you tell me how much you want to sell it for?’
‘It’s not for sale,’ I revealed. “I use the necklace as a coy to rip buyers off. They put their money up front and I merely snatch it from them and disappear.’
‘Where are your operatives?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Your people, your co-conspirators, are they across the street, behind me, inside the Le Bonaparte?’
‘I don’t have co-conspirators.’
‘Are they carrying guns, knives, sharp tongues, perhaps one or two of them have sharp fingernails like yours.’
‘You’re funny, Alexander Crown. Why do you suspect that?’
‘One secret will change everything,’ I said, ‘I’m suspicious of everyone.’
‘I have no secrets. Is your profession that dangerous?’
‘Everybody had at least one secret, and yes, when people are trying to kill you everything and everybody reeks with danger.’
‘I’m not here to try and kill you, Alexander Crown. I set the meeting on the premise to purchase the necklace. Since you won’t sell it then we have no business together.’
‘I agree. I’ll keep the two thousand expense money and take you out to dinner.’
‘My two thousand was a down payment. You must return it.’
‘I would return it if my children’s orphanage in Cape Town, South Africa didn’t need it for clothing and food. What about dinner?’
‘Children’s orphanage is news to me.’ her lips pursed. ‘Keep the money, feed and clothe your children. Is that why you rip-off the necklace buyers to finance your orphanage.’
‘You are smart and intuitive, Angelina Jolie,’ I said. ‘What about dinner? You see, when everything is possible, possibilities are endless.’
Infectious and stubborn, her smile was acceptable. A long time has passed since I had come clean with anyone about my profession. More time has passed since I had propositional an average looking woman, a person of substance, a lady of integrity, a female that didn’t turn me on and try to kill me simultaneously.

'Alright, dinner then,' she said and stood. 'My name if Brigita Brabec. Be here at Le Bonaparte at seven. I expect you to be on your best behavior. And, you are correct, I am Czech but I am from Prague 4 and not 3. I have one last statement for you; when love conquers all you must enjoy the moments.'
I stood with her, shook her hand and thanked her for the coffee, which we didn’t drink. She released my hand and winked at me with her tired, spicy eyes. I smiled knowing that getting to know her wouldn't be too difficult.

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