CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Cesar Moreau looked at himself in the mirror, touching his neck and beneath his chin. It tapped it gently with the back of his hand, turning one way, then another. He smiled, frowning at the fine lines appearing at the corners of his eyes.
His skin was tanned, kissed by the sun of southern France. It wasn’t a cheap spray tan or some coffin-like tanning bed. It showed wealth and privilege. Tanned skin of a man who did very little manual labor.
He played tennis and golf, swam in the waters off his mansion every day, and most often swam in the nude in his swimming pool with young, energetic bodies around him. If he invited you to a pool party you should be prepared to wear little or nothing. Those were his rules.
He had many rules. If he handed you a drink, you drank it. If he told you to strip, your stripped. If he asked you to bend over in front of him, you did it.
Every guest attending his parties signed a non-disclosure agreement. They checked their phones at the door and weren’t allowed to touch them until they left.
He’d made a living from his face and body and took care of it, with a little surgical help.
He knew that his name alone had young men and women flocking to his home, begging for a chance to be in one of his films. Although, of late, there were fewer and fewer offers which only resulted in fewer young bodies willingly coming to his home.
His side interests were no different. Young bodies and film. There were millions to be made. If they cooperated, they could make money and become famous, desired even. If they didn’t cooperate, they were sold, used by his men.
Of course, he never showed his face. He allowed them to use his properties and he directed them on what he needed. It was that simple.
Thirty years ago when he was just starting out, he’d been to a state dinner when an older member of parliament dragged him into a room and forced him to service him.
Cesar hadn’t really minded. He enjoyed men and women. What he cared about was that the man paid him nothing. When he approached him a few weeks later, Cesar smiled and told the man he’d do it for cash. He happily agreed.
That’s when his reputation began. A beautiful body and face, a man with aspirations, and powerful men and women that wanted him seen with them.
It only took a few years and Cesar was able to refuse those same men and women.
He was too busy, too famous and he had photos of every single one of them. They didn’t dare retaliate.
He frowned, remembering his conversation with Lacroix. They’d been acquaintances for years. Not friends. Lacroix was ruled by greed and stolen pleasure. He hadn’t figured out that he could have all the pleasure he wanted if he just managed the women in the right way.
Cesar had never had to steal pleasure. A few promises, a little something in their drink, and women would fall into him, begging him for more. Lacroix’s obsession with the little nun was going to ruin him and Cesar wasn’t about to allow his mistakes to ruin what he’d built.
Years ago, the phone would ring every day with television and movie offers, even plays in London and on Broadway. He was able to choose his work, allowing him to indulge in his many pleasures.
Now, the calls were fewer and farther between. Except yesterday. Two young men coming at the behest of a famous Hollywood producer. They would be actors in the new movie and needed someone to portray their father-figure, teaching them about the ways of women.
It was a role made for him. He could play the young, handsome, knowledgeable father and perhaps, depending on how these young men looked, he could teach them a few things along the way.
He stepped back from the mirror, looking at his full-body profile. A pair of white linen pants, hinting at what was beneath should the young men want it. He had no body hair. Everything was shaved for aesthetic purposes, but also practical purposes. Hair left evidence.
His tanned feet were in a pair of Gucci sandals, his matching linen shirt open to the middle of his torso, the sleeves casually, effortlessly rolled to his elbows. His hair, a mix of brown and gray was combed back, the thick, waves giving him a sexy look.
He turned the lights off in his bedroom, smiling at the neatly made bed. His maid had cleaned the room while he’d showered and changed, not even a whisper heard.
As he stepped into the sunken living room, he stared out at the sea below. It was going to be a beautiful day and he could already see the young bodies on the beach, their scraps of material barely hiding their assets.
Looking at the photo on the wall, he cringed. It was an engagement photo from almost thirty years ago. Madeline. She’d been his one true love.
The problem was she didn’t share his sexual appetites, nor did she tolerate them. Had she not been the daughter of an extremely powerful crime boss, he would have had his way with her and then killed her.
Instead, he was forced to face the humility of a public break-up. She was the last woman he’d ever considered for his bride. When asked, he simply told people that she’d died. She had. Twenty years after their break-up in a car accident.
He heard the sounds of a sports car pulling into the driveway and his smiled, clapping his hands together.
“Let the hunt begin.”