Obsidian Faith (15 page)
Authors: Bev Elle
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—
Bev Elle
Stephen has lived most of his life believing he was an unassuming Cranford, son of Anne, a housewife and Douglas, a local family practitioner. He has finished college, begun a career, and is engaged to a swimsuit model. What more could an All-American Boy ask for?
On his twenty-eighth birthday, Stephen learns he is the sole heir to the fortune of Étienne François Masson, the legendary philanthropist and CEO of Masson Enterprises. To claim his fortune, and guard it against a hostile takeover by his father’s half-brother, he has to move to Paris to learn all the ins and outs of the empire his late father left him.
The company hires an assistant for him before he arrives, one who is fluent in both English and French, and is someone with whom he shares an intimate past—someone he’d sooner forget.
American born Nicole Parker has studied abroad since she was in grade school, and is an MBA and expert linguist. She is excellent at what she does, but for some reason she rubs Stephen Cranford, entirely the wrong way.
Excerpt from The Parisian Assignation
Chapter 1
Stephen Cranford tried not to dwell on the fact that within the hour, he would meet and have dinner with one of the richest women in the world. However, it was all he could do not to salivate over the mere size and complexity of her portfolio; it was the wet dream of any broker worth his salt.
He loosened his tie as he left the Loop where he worked as an Executive Commodities Broker and maneuvered through the remnants of rush hour traffic in downtown Chicago. He wove through stalled lanes and bottlenecks in the same manner he traded on the Market, anticipating openings and making aggressive moves to claim them.
After another brutal day watching commodities do things they hadn't done since the big one day drop in 2008, he was ready for a gourmet meal and an expensive bottle of wine. The Dow was down more than 2000 points. Fears about the European sovereign debt crisis and the crumbling U.S. economy dominated the marketplace.
These events created fluctuations in the Market much like the death of billionaire Étienne François Masson had done earlier in the year, but that had been a cakewalk compared to current conditions. However, for Stephen, Masson’s death had ranked in the league of a catastrophic event. The business tycoon had been his idol while in college.
Stephen would forever remember his location and what he’d been doing when he heard the news about Masson six months prior. He had been home, making love to Darcy, his fiancée, when a news bulletin interrupted his favorite jazz station.
Darcy had flown into Chicago for a photo shoot and declared it, in her own words, “Sex Sunday.” She stripped upon arrival and they had spent the day christening various pieces of furniture in his condo. The woman was nymphomaniacal in her love of sex; who was he to complain? They worked each other over whenever she was in town, and their sexual gymnastics usually held him until she breezed through town again, invariably on the weekends.
He had Darcy bent over the chaise in his bedroom. She had orgasmed once already, and he worked at a frenetic pace toward his payoff when the music was interrupted.
“Billionaire Étienne François Masson
,
a French businessman best known as chairman and CEO of the French conglomerate Masson Enterprises, the largest luxury-products company in the world, has died at the age of fifty-four in a skiing accident at his resort in the Swiss Alps. According to Forbes Magazine, Masson was the world's fourth and Europe's richest person, with a 2011 net worth of forty-five billion dollars…”
the radio announcer droned on about Masson and his accomplishments in life.
Stephen slowed his stroke and barked out a surprised exclamation. “Fuck me!”
“That’s what I’m trying to do,” Darcy gritted out through her panting, as he fell out of sync with her. “Move your ass, Cranford.”
He’d
felt her clench around him as hard as she could, like a reprimand. He reclaimed his rhythm, and in minutes had elicited another orgasm from her and found his own release. They collapsed in a heap on the chaise.
"You love me, don't you, baby?"
she’d
whispered, eyes vacant, her mind contained. She didn't expect a serious answer to her question which, in truth, was why their relationship worked.
She expected pithy, meaningless answers and he didn't disappoint. "More than a bull market." His heart was as inaccessible as her mind.
Within a minute or so, Darcy had exhausted her threshold for the obligatory cuddling after sex. When she began to squirm
, he’d
let her go. It was as if their roles were reversed in that respect.
The irony wasn’t completely lost on him that he felt stronger about the death of a man he didn’t know than for his and Darcy’s relationship.
As fiancées went, she was perfect for him. She could have been high maintenance, but she was a fucking anomaly if he’d ever seen one. Darcy Vale was a supermodel whose face graced the pages of the world’s biggest fashion magazines, but she worked all the damn time, traveling every week.
Th
at left him often to his own devices, which suited him just fine.
His engagement was as much a decision to yield to the status quo as
an arrangement
of convenience. He was twenty-nine and figured if
he
were to tie himself to anyone by the time he entered his thirties, Darcy would be the highest caliber of trophy wife he could get. There was no real love there, but she was gorgeous, a tigress in bed, and someone he didn’t have to romance. She was busy, as was he, and her approach to their relationship was as practical as his own.
It was an arrangement Stephen was sure even Masson would have appreciated.
Stephen had
often drawn parallels
between
Masson’s personal life and his own. The man had gone through women like
they
were a commodity. Stephen had done the same
years ago
when the girl he’d considered the love of his life cheated on him. What past event in Masson’s life had made him the kind of man he was?
While fascinated by the news about Masson, Stephen didn’t harbor any ill will toward him like some undoubtedly did upon his death. In fact, he had rather enjoyed delving into Masson's business and life
while researching his case study.
Now though,
it would seem that the man who had everything had died alone. Stephen would make damn sure that wasn’t him in fifty years.
With her physical needs sated, and appeased by their pseudo-emotional exchange, Darcy
had
dashed for the shower. Stephen
l
ounged on the bed and fired up his ever-present MacBook. Surely there was information about Masson’s death on the internet. If anything could be categorized as such, this was
breaking news,
and it would profoundly affect his job at the Flagler Group in the short term and change
market conditions
in the long term. Masson Enterprises used any number of commodities and by-products in the manufacture of their luxury goods. Ripples from Masson's death would be felt through Exchanges around the world.
He’d
quickly read the front pages of several ISPs and the financial e-zines to which he subscribed.
Bemused, Stephen realized that though he was saddened by Masson’s death, he’d been excited about how he’d clean up in the aftermath,
so much so that he considered joining Darcy in the shower for a celebratory round. He knew she would want dinner, and dancing at a club. There was always later, after the club, and Darcy with a few drinks in her was a whole other phenomenon.
The memory of that day six months ago had come flooding back when he received a phone call from Madame Delphine Masson’s personal assistant, requesting a meeting.
Stephen was glad he wasn’t still working on the trading floor, because his conversations with clients, juggling of portfolios, and doing a half-assed job manning his own monitors were all a blur. He was also fortunate he hadn’t worked on any discretionary accounts. Stephen could handle his more savvy clients' speculations and hedges with his eyes closed
, but the phone call had robbed him of his focus.
It was rare he left work early, but curiosity about Madame Delphine Masson’s request to meet had overtaken him, and he’d called it a day after putting in only nine hours, a record low for him. It was just as well; he had worked himself into a frenzy trying to figure out why
he
was summoned. Stephen would go just to see what she wanted, and how she had acquired his name. He didn't have to get involved in her "matter of a grave personal nature," as her employee had indicated earlier while making the appointment with him. What could it hurt?
~v
PA
v~
It was busy as Stephen entered Ria, The Elysian Hotel's Michelin two-star restaurant, but Madame Masson would have stood out in any crowd. Her regal confidence outshone the elegant simplicity of her attire. Stephen would guess she was dressed in the best that Masson Enterprises’ designers had to offer. She sat on a chaise in the vestibule, flanked by two suits—presumably bodyguards, judging by the intelligence-grade earpieces they wore. It would have been foolhardy for a woman of her net worth to be in a foreign city left unguarded. She appeared comfortable and undisturbed by the obvious interest of the other patrons who looked on, wondering who this woman was.
Recognition sparked in her eyes, as well as another emotion that Stephen couldn’t identify. Then, her stare became direct and blatant, her assessment bordering on rude. She was still a beautiful woman despite her advanced age. She stood with a warm smile as Stephen approached, grasped both his hands and squeezed them.
"Étienne, I am so glad you could join me," she said in perfect, albeit accented, English. She pronounced his name exactly as if she might have spoken to her own son. Stephen didn’t correct her. She’d lost her son in a tragic accident. The least he could do was allow her that one indulgence.
While doing his case study, he'd found that Étienne was the French version of Stephen, which meant “crowned.” He and the Madame’s Étienne shared a similarity in their names, but that was where the comparisons ended. Masson might have been crowned prince of a business empire, but Stephen had just begun to embrace his potential as a businessman.
"Your invitation evoked equal parts honor and curiosity, I must admit," Stephen said with his own earnest, yet nervous, smile.
Who wouldn't want to meet the mother of one of the most accomplished and admired businessmen in the world?
“Please forgive me, I have a hard time with the name Stephen,” she said.
“It’s quite all right,” he assured her.
The hostess approached, rescuing Stephen from the awkward greeting. "I see your dinner guest has arrived, Madame Masson. Your dining room is ready. Right this way."
Stephen stood aside and allowed Madame Masson to go before him as they followed the hostess through the restaurant to a private dining room. The hostess seated them at a table for twelve, but it appeared they would be the only two dining. The bodyguards remained outside the door.
Stephen noticed Madame Masson staring again, but this time her eyes glistened with what looked to be unshed tears. He wanted to ask if she were okay, but she spoke before he could form the words.
"I'm sure you must be thinking that this meeting has come from out of—what is that baseball term you Americans use?"
"Left field?" Stephen supplied.
"Exactly... " her voice was husky with emotion.”I cannot believe that I allowed my husband to deprive me of this joy."
Madame Masson spoke in ambiguities but seemed harmless enough, so he would humor her in whatever purpose she had in mind. He'd get a fabulous meal from the type of restaurant he only patronized when he tried to impress a woman.
Perhaps sensing his unease, Madame Masson offered her assurance. "I promise, Étienne, I may be advanced in my years, but I am in possession of all my faculties. We will come to the business of this meeting soon, but first, let us get to know one another, have a meal together and I will tell you why I have sought you out."
"I know it's after the fact, but my condolences on the passing of your son. He was brilliant, and the direction in which he moved the business was a true inspiration to me."
Her eyes misted, and she dabbed them with her napkin. "I wish my François would have had the opportunity to hear you say that."
Stephen felt like a cad for reminding her of her grief, but he wondered if they were speaking of the same man. “François?”
“Our family referred to my Étienne by his middle name,” she explained.
"My apologies, Madame. I know his death must still be difficult for you. By today's standards, he was still a young man."
“
Oui.
A mother lives with the possibility that her child might precede her in death, but prays all the while that it will not be the case. I am thankful for the fifty-four wonderful years he was with me.” She cleared her throat delicately and took a sip of water.
By the time they ordered, Stephen learned that Madame Masson had been born in Marseilles, and had met and married Nicholas François Masson when she was just seventeen. Nicholas had been fresh out of college and a lion ready to devour the world. His two companies and hers were the seeds that created the original conglomerate, but their son, François, was the mastermind behind Masson Enterprises as it existed today.
“What was your son really like?” Stephen asked as he tasted his first course, veal sweetbread
crosnes
. Madame Masson looked surprised, so he felt obliged to explain his interest. “I was somewhat of a huge fan in college. He was the subject of my graduate case study, but you can only get so much information from periodicals and the internet.”
Madame Masson’s eyes lit up in delight. “François was quite the precocious adolescent, but driven to achieve, and proved to be as shrewd a businessman as his father. He excelled in sports and was quite a passionate champion for the less fortunate. Later in life, he was branded as a fun-loving Casanova by the media, no matter how philanthropic and well-meaning he actually was. He lost someone very dear to him as a young man. I don’t believe he ever got over her.”