Read Lonzo: Book 1 (Tycoon Series Book 1) Online
Authors: Kat Madrid
Lonzo: Book 1 (Tycoon Series Book 1)
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
LOVEMATCH DIGITAL
A Division of
Lovematch/SD&M Publishing
SD Printshop, Capareda Street, Lagao, General Santos City, Philippines 9500
Copyright © 2014 by Kat Madrid
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
Cover designed by LM Digital
ISBN# 9710378074 (Print Edition)
ISBN# 9781311409713 (Smashwords Edition)
ASIN# B00LMU9PSA
Acknowledgments
Let me start by thanking my editor/publisher/confidant and fellow tennis junkie, Eve Montelibano, who is as talented as she is badass. Sending my work to Lovematch Publishing was one of the best decisions I had ever made.
To the admins and members of The Official LM Readers Group, LM Readers’ Page, Club Bitch, Lothario Haven and Friends, and Book Lovers Nook.
Mabuhay kayo!
My pressure crew, you know who you are.
To my readers. Thank you for taking a chance on me.
Last and certainly not least, my family and the Almighty.
Without your support, I won’t be here.
Kudos to you all.
Your First Stop for Anything Juicy!
HOME SCOOPS! NEWS PHOTOS LINKS
Cherry-Poppin’ Alert!
*Gasp*
*Gasp some more…!*
Check this out, peeps! After blurting out last month that her cherry’s ripe and up for pickin’, catwalk superstrutter Jordana Almueda was recently photographed in flagrante delicto with…OMG!...take note of this: Lonzo Vitale! In full living color! (click
here
to see how gorgeously scorching these two are in their full, naked glory).
Who is Lonzo Vitale?
Seriously? You don’t know?
Where have you been living lately? Under a rock?!
Well, in case YOU did, he is one hawt, hawt, hawt Italian who happens to be well-hung…err..loaded down south. No wonder Ms. Virgin Supermodel had her vee-card stamped when she saw how nice the junk, errr, package is. Teeheehee. We can’t blame her! Did I forget to mention that this fine man is also a billionaire industrialist? IKR?! I’m so jealous of this girl’s good fortune that I’m choking on my own drool!
Soooo, what’s the official story here? Did he or did he not can her cherry? We’re still waiting for the juicy deets from their respective publicists.
Will they fess up or what? The waiting is killing me!
Laytah!
Chapter One
MERCEDES BENZ FASHION WEEK
NEW YORK CITY
She was a bonafide glamazon.
Well, that was according to Vogue, based on the strength of her second cover. She was now on her seventh—for the Parisian edition alone.
As for others…well, she stopped counting already. Unlike some fellow models she knew of, she wasn’t a vanity whore who liked to selfie at every possible moment. She wasn’t overly fond of staring at her image. The novelty had worn off a long time ago.
But her face had allowed her access in the most prestigious events and the most exclusive places all over the world—palaces, private clubs, and ultra high-end resorts…she’d been there at one point or another.
The media had repeatedly said she brought the sexy and curvy back on the catwalk. She was now mentioned along the likes of Giselle and the Big Six of the 90s.
Her first name had global recognition—attached to over fifty product endorsements for this year alone. She got big ad campaigns and modeling gigs that thousands of models in this business could only dream of.
Tonight, she ruled Lincoln Center—the Acropolis of New York Fashion Week. Inside its long marble floors and makeshift runways, careers of models and fashion designers were both made and unmade on a regular basis.
She did miss the white tents of Bryant Park, though…especially the Atelier. Everything was so accessible there…as the location was but a stone’s throw away from the workshops and studios of top designers. But that was the way in the ever-changing-and-cutthroat world of fashion. Even fashion capitals get old and die out like ancient empires and supernovas.
She knew one day she’d be making her final appearance. No one can compete with time.
But not today.
Today, she was being hailed queen and this was her universe—a highly competitive and oftentimes, cruel one. A dog-eat-dog world where high glamour meets creativity head-on.
She was a supermodel.
And her name was Jordana Almueda.
The week-long event was drawing
to a close tonight but instead of winding down, the atmosphere behind the scenes were indescribably electric.
NYFW resembled an elaborate, well-choreographed wedding ceremony. Think royal wedding. On steroids.
Everywhere she looked, there was a hubbub of activity—from the runway crew, assistants, designers, and especially the models. A
mélange
of fashion editors, directors, stylists, celebrities and press people from all over the world were all vying for a seat at the front row.
It was organized chaos.
For the second time, she thanked her lucky stars she wasn’t involved in micro-managing so many egos under one roof.
She could hear the drone-like sound of the audience amid the loud, new wave-themed runway music while being primped backstage for this final show.
The hair/make-up team was a study of synchronism, using the models as their human canvasses to come up with a look that was an echo of the cash-strapped, but flamboyant 80s. The minimalist look was not on their plate tonight, as her tresses were teased into massive volume, held by a ton of hairspray.
“Ouch!” she yelped when the stylist tried to disentangle a clump of her hair from his brush. Her scalp burned. She was so sure she’d be sporting a bald patch tomorrow.
Can I rock the bald look? Because if this continues…in a year or two, I’ll have no hair left.
“Beauty is pain!” came the stylist’s acerbic reply, not even bothering to apologize. “No pain, no mane, no gain!”
Oh, yeah? Bet you won’t say that if yours were pulled.
She thought crossly but she held her tongue. She didn’t need any more drama tonight.
She glanced at the harried face of the stylist. Fixing close to twenty girls in a span of two hours was no mean feat. No wonder he was tremendously catty.
She was on her feet as soon as the surly man told her he was done.
Next was makeup. The problem was how to get there. The station was on the other side.
The middle section of the backstage served as a huge dressing room. She navigated her way through hordes of models. It was tricky but she managed without stepping on someone’s hemline or worse, toes.
The makeup station resembled an assembly line. Unlike the surly hair stylist, Felicia, the person assigned to apply her make-up was a doll and a light touch. Jordana was able to take a nap as the makeup maven prepped and airbrushed the electric pink eye shadow on her lids.
“You’re done, J. Marlina! You’re next!” Felicia said as she motioned for the next model.
She stood up and sleepily made her way back to the middle of the backstage, where a small corner was made available for her use.
Before she could blink, she was nude and being dressed thanks to Zoie, a professional dresser. Zoie carefully zipped her up in a champagne-colored gown with a proficiency of a Marine assembling a rifle. Even her panties wasn’t spared.
“Why can’t I keep my panties?!” she asked, aghast.
The dresser shrugged. “I’m just following orders, J. Vera said it might ruin the drape of the dress.”
Fine!
This was one part of runway shows that she can never get used to—getting dressed like a life-sized Barbie doll in plain sight of everyone who would care look. It was a constant battle with her modesty.
Shoes and accessories came next. A few more pin tucks here and there and finally, she was done. All glammed up. Ready and set for the runway. What a relief that was.
She carefully placed tissues on her armpits. With the heat, hobbling and excitement around, she was beginning to sweat. She was the show opener and she can’t afford to ruin the fabulous gown with damp underarms.
She made a quick look around.
Fellow top models who were waiting for their cues were being interviewed by a network. Probably FTV.
Several were doing yoga poses or whatever rituals that worked for them to get in the zone. Yes, mental prep was necessary to appear graceful while wearing five-inch stilettos without wincing.
Bits of commentaries, shop talk and plain ole bitch talk from other models floated around her like the buzzing of bees.
“I saw JLo schmoozing with her current flame, you know…the boytoy? That girl found the fountain of youth…if you get my drift. She’s wearing Versace…hmmm…predictably slutty…but my…she’s got the cutest Manolos…”
“What? She’s not in the front row?! Serves her right after Leo dumped her fat ass! My, my…how the mighty have fallen!” one model shrieked with malicious glee.
“I think this collection is her best so far…” she heard snippets of conversation between former supermodel Heidi Klum and a TV lifestyle correspondent.
Hearing all these, she was tempted to peep and to stargaze.
Nah
. Better conserve her energy and relax a bit before the show started.
She carefully sat on a stool.
Remarkably, she wasn’t feeling fatigued.
Her agent, Francesca of IMG, initially booked her for ten shows today. Her business manager, Leandro Bastian, had to put his foot down because she was too accommodating say no to dear old Francesca. He knew how draining the event could be, even for a seasoned pro like her. For the past week, she was sashaying an average of eight shows a day. Which was a lot.