Ms. Money Bags

Chapter 1 Lorna Presley Monroe lifted the slender wine glass to her lips and took a sip. The Chardonnay was crisp, cold, and it rushed across her palate leaving traces of flavor that many people found delicious, but to her tasted like hair spray. She concentrated to keep from wrinkling her nose in disdain as the bitterness filled her mouth. This was, after all, the best Chardonnay made in Italy. A guest of a renowned vineyard, she was being served by the owner himself, Conteggio Domenico Bolsena. He was a Count whose ancestry reached so far back through time in the Umbrian wine region that he was as much a part of this country as the rolling hills and sparkling lakes. Nobody could ask for a better wine drinking experience than this one. The Count, that’s what she called him since his name was so much to pronounce, controlled half of the province in Italy where her family’s business interests were looking to expand into eco-tourism. They needed his cooperation and blessing to move through the mountains of red tape associated with such things. She could not wrinkle her pretty little nose at his wine selection. It cost too much. The nose, not the wine. Lorna, known as Presley to both her friends and enemies, delicately took a pale round cracker from the lavish charcuterie board in front of her and nibbled the edge. She had managed to eat next to nothing today despite the constant spread of cured meats and cheeses that seemed ever ready here at the Count’s grand estate, Villa Pallotta. One cracker wouldn’t kill her. As the cracker snapped between her teeth she sighed inwardly. Though bland, it was lightly salted and crispy and the mere act of chewing on it awakened food cravings that should have been successfully suppressed by her Garcinia supplement. She doused the urge to eat quickly with a healthy sip of hair spray wine. “You like, Ms. Monroe?” the Count asked eagerly. She nodded, doing her best to put off the correct mixture of politeness and boredom. “It’s very nice,” she said. “And, please, call me Presley.” The Count beamed. Presley hated being called Ms. Monroe. It reminded her of her mother. And she was definitely not her mother. Presley put a lot of stock in names. She believed it mattered what people called you in life. A name could make or break a company, a product, and a person. She had always dismissed her first name, Lorna. That was her great-grandmother’s name. Given to her only to appease her father, Malcom Peter Monroe II, a billionaire businessman who was known to his friends and family as ‘Mack’. To the public all across the world he was known as ‘Mr. Money Bags’. Her middle name, and chosen moniker, was also given to her by her father. For his love of Elvis, obviously. Presley had suffered a brief stint as Lorna Presley Monroe-Calhurst in her early twenties when she had made the huge mistake of marrying Lawrence Calhurst. That had not lasted. Not at all. The marriage had been a disastrous three months in real life, though closer to two years on paper. Larry had swept her off her feet during her last year of college with gross displays of romanticism and a charming smile that she learned, after they married, was a device he liked to use on many women. Many, many women. Young and stupid, she had taken the bait. It still irritated her that she could have ever considered marrying someone who went by the name ‘Larry’. Thank goodness for pre-nups. Her short time as a Calhurst was what she referred to as her rebellious stage. The one and only time she veered from the narrow path her father, Mack, had laid out for her since she was a little girl. “You’re the oldest, Presley,” he had told her throughout her life. “I’ve built an empire for you and your sister and brother. And you…” here he would always lay his massive hand on her shoulder and smile. “You were built to be in charge.” And take charge she did. In fact, Presley had taken charge as CEO of Mack Industries since her father's part-time retirement two years ago. Mack was a huge, broad man with a booming voice and a reputation for taking over his competition by the strength of his personality alone. He had a strong jaw, sandy blonde hair, which started turning white in his early forties, and a larger than life presence that had not faded as he aged. Unfortunately, though his personality remained in tact, his heart had weakened over the years. Too many late night meetings and down to the wire stock takeovers had taken their toll on his health. And after one too many scary doctor visits he had been delegated to the back seat of Mack Industries by their long time family practitioner, Dr. Zalman. Mack handed Presley the keys to his legacy, literally, in an over the top congratulatory party her mother threw to celebrate the transition. He shook her hand and smiled for the cameras and gave her full control of the real estate holdings, the hotels, the portfolios of stock investments, various other construction and industrial businesses, and the chain stores that had started it all, Mack Extras. The specialized convenience stores with the kitchy name were owned and operated throughout the United States, Europe, and most recently Asia. All of this had been put under Presley’s exclusive command. Her father built his billion-dollar empire from humble beginnings. He invested all of his life savings into purchasing a convenience store located in the lobby of a popular hotel in Santa Barbara. The first Mack Extras store. He had focused on providing high end convenience items to hotel patrons. Nothing tacky. Only the best of the best snacks, toiletries, clothing, books and entertainment were sold at Mack Extras. The first one had caught on and became a second and a third, then he had moved into purchasing the hotels and nearby real estate. The rest, as they say, was history. Presley had watched him work his way up in the world since she was a little girl. Unlike her younger sister and brother, she could actually remember the ‘good old days’ when they only owned a few shops and lived in a one story ranch style house. She and her sister, Veronica, had shared a bedroom and their mother had made dinner in the small, narrow kitchen. She was a terrible cook. Those days were long over. Thankfully. The Monroe’s lifestyle was significantly and forever changed through Mack’s business prowess. They owned nothing but sprawling mansions, too many to remember sometimes, in the most beautiful corners of the world. Their mother hadn’t cooked a meal in over 30 years. The initial struggle to succeed was over. The Monroe family had made the Forbes list of American billionaires for more than ten years and Presley had the reins. She kept a tight grip on those reins and vowed every day to protect and improve the fortune her father had worked so hard to obtain. “Would you like more wine…Presley?” The Count hesitated slightly when he used her first name. He tipped the wine bottle toward her half empty glass. She shook her head, “No, thank you.” His smile stopped, but only for an instant. Presley politely reassured him, “It's delicious. I'm simply a little tired from my trip.” “Of course, of course,” the Count was filled with contrition for not recognizing her fatigue, counterfeit as it was. Presley had arrived from New York mid-morning. Traveling on a private jet was not nearly as fatiguing as flying on a commercial airline. Mack Industries jets were equipped with comfortable seating, King sized beds, luxury bathrooms, and full kitchens complete with a chef and staff. Using jet lag as an excuse to avoid offending people who she wanted to do business with was a standard tactic and almost never failed. The wine tasting room at Villa Pallotta was in the basement, cool and dark. Lit with massive candles as big around as tree trunks resting on tall iron stands, and rustic iron electric chandeliers placed strategically from the 15-foot high ceilings, it was not dim. The lighting gave it an almost glimmering feeling, as if they were under water instead of under ground. The walls were made of stacked clay bricks, likely handmade and hundreds of years old, if not thousands. The floors were clay tile, lain in a swirling pattern so they gave the illusion that one was walking on waves in a stylized ocean. They were seated in massive high backed chairs at a heavy wood table that had to have been more than a century old, full of nicks and knife marks, and black burn spots, but polished to a dull shine. Light classical music surrounded the small party seated around the antique wooden table. The party included the Count, but not the Countess who had remained upstairs to oversee dinner preparations. The Count’s nephew was in attendance, as was the Winery captain, and the CFO of the Count’s affairs. Representing Mack Industries was Presley, her personal assistant Jaxson, and the president of Mack Industries Hotels European division, Drew Beeker, who had arrived from London just after Presley landed. A few quiet yet efficient waiters and waitresses hovered around the perimeter, monitoring the food, fetching whatever the Count requested, and whisking away used items. It was all very pleasant for a wine tasting party, but this was not a party. It was a business meeting. One that Presley could not quite wrap her head around, which was irritating. Mack Industries had always been about elegance and glamour in their hotels and the Mack Extras stores. But eco-tourism was beyond Presley’s experience and she didn’t know why they were kicking off this project with a meeting in a wine cellar. They weren’t in the market for another vineyard, not after the mess her mother had made of their vineyard in France. When her father had called her late last night and insisted she attend this meeting in person, Presley had had questions. A lot of questions. Mack had promised to fill her in on the details before she sat down with the Count and his people. Yet, here she was, sipping her least favorite type of wine and searching for excuses to stall. Presley glanced at Jaxson, who was usually able to read her mind. He was jotting notes down by hand with a stylus on his tablet. A slight wrinkle of her brow caught his attention and he responded with a barely perceptible shake of his head. Presley did not keep her cell phone on her while in business meetings and relied on Jackson to inform her of any urgent messages. He knew she was awaiting further instructions from Mack, but Jaxson's negative response to her unspoken question told her that her father had not yet been in touch. “If you'll excuse me,” Presley stood, which triggered all of the men at the table to stand. This chivalrous move never failed to please her. “I would like to take a short break and use the restroom.” “Of course, of course,” the Count agreed wholeheartedly. “Please take your time. A small walk around the grounds may refresh you.” He spread his arms wide to encompass everyone at the table. “We will all take a small break and I will check with the Countess to see when dinner will be served.” In the bathroom Presley surveyed her reflection in the full-length mirror. She smoothed her hair. She was back to blonde after a few years as a redhead. She’d gone just above shoulder with her length at the suggestion of her hairdresser, Phillip, and the ever style conscious Jaxson. Her straight, thick hair ended in a flirty blunt cut right at her collarbones. The look suited her, she thought. Lightened her up. She pulled a red matte lipstick from her Chanel clutch and leaned into the mirror, reapplying and dabbing with a tissue to soften the lines. Running a shining red manicured fingertip carefully under her eyes, she wiped away any tiny smudges of makeup that may have occurred during the wine tasting. This close to the mirror she took a moment to glance over her face. Small wrinkles had begun to form at the corners of her eyes and lips when she turned 30, and increased exponentially at 34 when she took over as CEO. Presley wasn’t one to waste too much time worrying about plastic surgery. Not anymore at least. Besides, her nose looked perfect, a gift she had given herself after her divorce in her 20’s. And her eyes were still that crisp Monroe blue, inherited from her father. Presley pulled away from the mirror and smoothed her houndstooth pencil skirt. She had chosen a plain black long sleeve knit top to go with it and liked the total look. The black was a nice contrast to her blonde tresses, plus it made her eyes pop. And she had on a new pair of Manolo Blahnick pointed toe pumps, which she liked. Very much. “Presentable,” she said, giving her reflection a brief nod. She wondered what time it was. Without benefit of her cell phone she was at a loss and wished she would have grabbed it from Jaxson’s safe keeping before she came to the bathroom. Not being on 100% sure footing when it came to business, or life, made Presley tense. Mack’s special blend of part-time retirement did not always include keeping her up to speed on certain dealings. And not knowing gave Presley twinges of anxiety. She didn’t like it. “Come on, Dad,” she muttered to herself as she stepped back into the wide, empty hall. She wanted to give her father as much time as possible to get in touch before heading back to the meeting, so she decided to take the Count’s advice and go for a quick stroll outside. Get some fresh air. Turning right instead of left when she emerged from the bathroom, Presley followed the hall as it sloped up and up until she found a heavy wooden door that led onto a terra cotta patio looking over rolling hills of vineyards. She stepped into the sunshine and immediately wished she had shoved her sunglasses into her clutch. Coming from the cool darkness of the wine cellar, the glorious mid-afternoon sun was positively blinding. Presley squinted, trying to see her surroundings. Her eyes watered fiercely and she instinctively raised her clutch to her forehead in an attempt to shade them. They refused to open more than the tiniest slit in the too bright day as she stepped onto the smooth tiled patio. This move turned out to be a mistake. Her brand new pointed toe pumps slipped on the smooth tile and she lost her balance. Reaching blindly for what should have been a handrail along the edge of the patio to steady herself, Presley found something slender and solid to grip. It was definitely cool iron in her hand, but as she leaned her weight on it for support, it swung away from her unexpectedly. Her eyes streaming tears of protest and refusing to open, Presley stumbled forward. She lunged one foot in front of her, arms flailing to each side in panic, but her foot did not come down on terra cotta patio, or any kind of solid surface. Air. Her foot found nothing but thin air. Presley felt her body careening through that thin air towards an unknown abyss. For one terrifying moment she remembered that the Count’s mansion had at least four stories and she let out a frightened shriek.