Chrystabell's Secrets

By Lee J Morrison

To some people, beautiful Chrystabell Markham might have appeared successfull, working for Le Planet Nouveau Fashion Syndicate in public relations, but inside she was traumatised and lacking in confidence. She had been determined to make it on her own, designing and modelling, defying an overbearing but well meaning Father, Joel, a construction magnate.
When her partner, Journalist Nigel Millbanks, left her, she was more devastated and hurt than even she realised, cutting herself off from her family and avoiding close relationships, untill she met handsome Peter Lanyon, a billionaire with a reputation as a playboy.
Peter lived a double life, and there was more to him than he led people to believe. With his inner circle of friends, Willhelm and Ingrid, Alfredo and Marcia, James and Annetta. Peter restored Chrystabell's confidence and liberated her sexuality like never before, as they embarked upon a passionate, whirlwind, international romance.
Some things Chrystabell may never tell ---

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jan 4, 2012
• ISBN: 9781467881456

Lee J Morrison

Dr. Lee J Morrison was born in the UK, in Lancashire, with an Afro Caribbean father and ancestors from Kenya. His White English mother was from Derbyshire, with French ancestors and Viking ancestors from South Yorkshire. Lee qualified for a BA honours degree in London and graduated from the University of Reading, Berkshire (affiliated to Oxford), with a master of fine arts degree. Studying also in Paris, Lee taught at the University College London. He is now a PhD graduate. Lee was also a tutor with the University of Sussex, at Brighton, and at Hastings. Whilst married for twenty-five years and living in Brighton with a son and daughter, Lee extended his life experiences in other professions. These included construction and a very enjoyable time as a head chef at a popular restaurant next door to the Opera House. For several years he operated a successful landscape gardening business and sold and exhibited his own graphic art and paintings on a regular basis. Working also in London theatres and behind the scenes at the Royal Ballet, Lee counts actors and dancers amongst his friends. His musical tastes are diverse and he enjoys jazz, opera, Latin, and Caribbean genres. He was a semiprofessional singer and dancer himself with several musical theatre groups, a stand-up comedian, and a street performer in St Tropez and appeared on stage in Tunisia and Brazil. Writing has always been close to his heart, and he has penned poems, songs, and short comedy scripts throughout his life. Brandon developed along the lines of a detective story. Again it is based upon elements of reality, but it is definitely a fictional story. Although written in the first person, the book is not autobiographical to the author. Brandon is a young graphic artist and painter teaching at a university in New York. He finds himself endangered after he discovers one of his close friends, Hanwell Nnagobi, murdered in mysterious and gruesome circumstances in the South River. He becomes entangled with a subversive mob carrying out heinous crimes against humanity in his attempt to track down his friend’s killers, who are a threat to his own and his family’s safety. He is befriended by chief detective inspector McArthur, whose son Nigel is one of his students and who is also trying to crack the ring. Brandon’s relationship with his wife, Naomi, deteriorates, and there is much heartache to face with his children before he meets the mastermind of the ring face-to-face. As usual, Lee J Morrison presents his characters poetically with humour as well as with traumatic sadness, but here he moves away again from the passionate romance genre of his previous novels in the Chrystabell Trilogy and the happy ending of the romantic detective story The Many Faces of April Jade. He is acutely aware of social issues in the world and has travelled fairly extensively, but he nevertheless aims is to be entertaining and to present a gamut of emotions which encompass Brandon. The original hand-drawn black-and-white illustrations by Derek Vernon-Morris highlight the author’s vision of the drama, Brandon. Previous publications include the following: —Chrystabell’s Secrets (December 20, 2011) —Theo: A Nephew of Chrystabell (June 5, 2012) —Christina: A Sister to Chrystabell (June 28, 2013) —The Many Faces of April Jade (January 24, 2014) —Xerses Franklin: The Saga of Gabriel & Melona (January 30, 2015)

Book preview

Chrystabell’s

Secrets

SKU-000534613_TEXT.pdf

LEE J MORRISON

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AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2011 by Lee J Morrison. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 12/20/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4678-8143-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4678-8144-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4678-8145-6 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Dedication

Preface

Chapter 1 The Victorian House in Victoria

Chapter 2 Dinner and Deserts

Chapter 3 Breakfast & Beautiful People

Chapter 4 Diamonds and Designs

Chapter 5 Aziff International

Chapter 6 Sandbanks Afternoon

Chapter 7 Sandbanks, Strip Poker

Chapter 8 Sandbanks, Sea and Sand

Chapter 9 Sandbanks Lagonda & Ferrari

Chapter 10 Commuting and Cacophony

Chapter 11 Secrets and Security

Chapter 12 LeeRoy and Anton-Mario

PART TWO

Chapter 13 Suspicions and Secrets

Chapter 14 Chrystabell and Dirk, Contemporary Icons

Chapter 15 The House in Victoria revisited

Chapter 16 A Weekend in Wiltshire—Lanyon Hall

Chapter 17 A Weekend in Wiltshire, An Engagement

Chapter 18 A Weekend in Wiltshire; Lanyon Celebrations

Chapter 19 A Weekend In Wiltshire. Sunday, Rodney E

Chapter 20 A Weekend in Wiltshire. The Hog Roast

Chapter 21 A Headliner at LPN

Chapter 22 Rhineland Reunion

Chapter 23 Revelations in Rio

Chapter 24 The Funeral

The Author

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my dear friend Mo Lewis, in memory of all the happy times we spent together as students, in and around London, Devon, Bournemouth, and Sandbanks.

Preface

All the characters introduced in the following pages are fictitious, and not intended to represent any living persons. Like wise, the businesses and organisations mentioned are not representative of existing business organisations or political parties in any area of the World.

Having established those facts, I hope that the reader will find the world of Chrystabell’s Secrets very real, full of the aspirations and conflicts that may affect many people in all walks of life, on this Planet.

There is a saying that money makes the world go around, but money can not buy true love, well maybe this true—may be not.

There is a song which claims that everybody needs somebody some-

time, and a belief that being at the right place at the right time can make the difference between success and failure,—maybe or maybe not.

Some believe that everything happens at the appointed time whatever individuals try to achieve or change,—maybe, and maybe not.

This tale is a passionate love story, a success story, an interweaving net of emotions, and irrepressible physical attractions. Chrystabell is the catalyst who escapes from a well meaning but overbearing Father, emerging from self doubt and broken relationships, to find sexual freedom and love with Peter and a group of friends, who in turn are able to find fulfilment through her influence.

From the Rhineland to Rio. From Salisbury to Stockholm. From Poole to Port Louis. From Monte Carlo to Milan. From Camden to Canada, join Chrystabell on her journey. There are some things that she could not tell her Grandaughter, and some things she may never tell.

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Chrystabell walked with an easy grace.

Chapter 1

The Victorian House in Victoria

Chrystabell walked with an easy grace along the damp pavement. The sound of her plum Lubon heels echoed crisply in the slowly quietening evening traffic. It was warm early summer but she was cool in her shimmering silver grey Bevee shift dress elegantly tailored to the calf, with a small slit to the left knee. Her right hand held a plum coloured clutch bag, with a real silver clasp, which matched the round filigree earings.

To complete this stylish image, her luxuriant neatly step cut mid red hair was loose about her ears, and the raised halter neck of her dress framed her naturally light tanned face.

Her full lips were understated with pale flame gloss, contrasting with slightly dreamy large eyes of an indefinable azure-to-deep violet. Their calmness hid the strange anticipation that she felt deep inside.

Chrystabell had been on several dates since the break up of her last long term relationship, but recently she had rather thrown herself into her work which involved a fair ammount of travel; yet, this strange anticipation was something new, which is why she had chosen to walk a little way to the large Victorian terraced house, in London’s Victoria.

Suddenly a large brass plate indicated the residence of Peter Lanyon. Chrystabell climbed the couple of steps and pressed the polished intercom next to the light oak and glass polished doors within the short collonade. The black and white diamonds of the tiles looked original as she expected, when she glanced quickly at her shoes and hem line.

Then Peter’s friendly, pleasently resonant voice was greeting her cheerily, and the heavy door opened easliy to her light touch at the sound of the buzzer.

Chrystabell was almost dazzled by the marble Terrazzo polished floor of the large high entrance hall, yet her heels gripped reassuringly.

Hello Chrystabell, so glad you could make it—have not been back long myself. I can see punctuality is a strong point and you have not taken the liberty of keeping a chap waiting. intoned Peter, as he ran down the central staircase, his arms open wide.

He took both her hands and gave her a light kiss on both cheeks, loving the subtle and exotic aroma of her perfume. His well tailored back suit and royal blue cummerbund were immaculate, thanks to his Italian stylists DoGe. White dress shirt and small shiny black bow tie completed his outfit with patent black leather shoes.

You look stunning he added as he put his arm lightly around her shoulders, come and have a drink before dinner.

Again she felt the strange anticipation rise. She loved his quiet long lashed hazel eyes flecked with black in his young animated face, and small well groomed moustache. His mid brown hair was short and fashionable yet very neat. His six foot athletic frame was protective as well as vibrant, and yet there was something more… .

It was then that she noticed a younger man and a slightly older woman, as they entered a large dining room with a substantial bar on the left.

Oh, by the way we will not be alone. I hope that you do not mind, but a couple of business friends sort of invited themselves when they discovered I was planning dinner here this evening.

Not at all, Chrystabell heard herself saying, and the old Donna Summer song played momentarily in her head—Thank God It’s Friday.

Please may I introduce Chrystabell Markham Peter was saying, and this is Interior designer Ingrid Hesse Von Guttenburgh.

Ingrid’s full but well proportioned figure rippled under a black and green fitted ankle length dress, with ‘v’ neckline, and beset with green and yellow and blue sequins in a Peacock tail design culminating at the breasts. Her raven black hair was bobbed to ear length with a hint of a fringe, framing her warm ivory complexion. But, the most striking feature were her bright green eyes that seemed to twinkle with a foreknowledge of something… .

Very pleased to meet you ingrid was saying, as she held out her hand from a pointed sequinned cuff, any friend of Peter’s is a friend of ours

Peter was clearly radiating as the host, with a slight pinkness on each cheek, And this is Willhelm Stig Von Rhine, of the famous Rhineschlossen wine and lager empire.

Chrystabell almost stepped back, having just managed to tear her gaze from Ingrid’s emerald eyes, she was accosted by the brightest of blue eyes that flashed at her like saphires. A young well chizzelled face was the owner of these eyes, framed by bright sleek blonde hair. Long thin lips which seemed to withold endless merriment greeted her with a pleasent lilting accent.

Hello Chrystabell darling, it is so pleasing to be making your aquaintance.—and she knew that he meant it, as he took her right hand and kissed it theatrically. His charcoal grey suit with a thin cream pinstripe was also immaculate, and his brown DoGe square toed shoes matched his brown velvet bow tie. His shirt was the latest German retro fashon with bold stripes of pale brown and grey with a large rounded white collar.

Well now the formalities are over, what would you like? Peter intoned. A Manhattan, A Vodka Martini, Sherry, or something slightly more adventurous, like a Sheperd’s Delight?

Oh, I think I would like to try something new Chrystabell heard herself saying. She could not believe herself, she felt tipsy already, and as a P&R executive for a Fashion Syndicate, she was used to meeting and organising large numbers of people.

A Shepherd’s Delight it is then, and Peter handed her a tall Champagne glass with ice and rose pink liquid with marashino cherries. (It was one part Dark Rum, three parts Sparkling Rose wine, and a shot of French Brandy).

Chrystabell meant to sip daintily, but as her mouth had suddenly turned dry, she took a gulp of the instantly intoxicating cocktail, and was relieved at the close proximity of an original Art Deco bar stool. Ingrid also draped elegantly over a stool, savoured her glass and held it up to the spotlight. The thick plaited gold chain around her neck looked rich and primitive, like something from an ancient civilisation.

Why do you call this Shepherd’s Delight? Chrystabell ventured, It is lovely

Oh, Peter waved his hands in an open gesture—I have family ties in Wiltshire, and there is an old saying that ‘red sky at night Shepherd’s delight, red sky in a morning Shepherds warning. If you hold the glass up to the light like Ingrid it looks like a fabulous sunset.

Ah, I see. said Chrystabell relaxing slightly, for the first time that evening, she was begining to feel at home. Are some of your family sheep farmers?

We have connections with sheep and the Textile Industry, said Peter a little cagily. If she did not know already, he did not want to reveal just yet how wealthy they really were, and he wanted to keep a few surprises in case their relationship flourished, as he hoped it would.

In some circles Peter Lanyon was well known. A dashing playboy, lover of fast cars and fast women. Charming, educated and intelligent, but some would say shallow and frivulous. A good sportsman especially in his slightly more youthfull days. A formidable squash player still, with a couple of trophies to his name, and known also to turn in a good rugby performance. He had trained as an Olympic hopeful in the British swimming team, and had won a bronze medal, but somehow the alternative pleasures of his days at Oxford University had put an end to that. As a teenager he showed promise as an acrobatic diver, but he was sometimes too diverse to stick to a regular course of training, and wanted everything yesterday, too eager for tomorrow and new activities. He had rowed for his Oxford team, however, on two winning occasions. He was a valuable asset to the family organisation, but compared to his more serious elder brothers Martin J, and Albert E, and his younger sister Christina, his life style was a constant cause of concern to his elderly parents.

Chapter 2

Dinner and Deserts

Chrystabell had heard vaguely of plaboy Peter Lanyon of Lanyon Enterprises, but untill now his international circles had eluded her. She was here because of their meeting at a private fashion viewing for selected clientelle at the Ritz Hotel, London, the previous Monday. Le Planet Nouveau, fahion outlet, agency and Magazine for whom she worked, often organised exclusive viewings, and after discussing several items he was interested in purchasing for friends, he invited her to dinner on Friday.

She could not connect this man with the vague rumours she had heard. He had aroused something within her, and she was curious. Again she heard the strains of an old Donna Summer song from her teenage years, playing momentarily in her head—‘Rumour Has It’—

‘Someones looking for a girl like me, where can she be found.

I hope its who I think it is—really him—there’s a Rumour—

and when he finally found her—

it was the most wonderfull moment in her life she had,

but when he up and left her, well, it hurt so bad. There’s a Rumour—’

Maybe it was some of the music they had played for the Young Miss show that she had hosted recently, anyway here was Peter taking her glass and leading the way to the dining table with an array of silver warming dishes. Jacobean silver candlesticks held large candles, and a modern crystal chandalier glowed with energy saving bulbs above.

Chrystabell noticed again how dapper Willhelm appeared in his pin stripe DoGe suit and the retro stripey shirt enhanced those saphire eyes.

She noticed with pleasure also that Ingrid’s Al-Keen dress was as beautifully decorative from the back, as it was on the front, as she swayed with natural seductiveness, and somehow gave the impression of a beautiful Cobra snake, rather than a Peacock, in her green JayWoo heels.

Dinner was a splendid affair. There was Poached Egg on Salmon Mousse to begin, served with a medium white Pinot Grio, drunk from 17th Century French carved crystal glasses. Next a mixed platter of Game, with gudgeons of Pheasant, Guinea Fowl, Chicken and Osterich, served with a small timbal of white rice and garden peas, a garlic and sweet pepper salsa, and also a mango and apricot sauce. The wine was changed to a Vintage Shiraz Reserve, with its peppery and plum flavours, to complement the strong tasting birds.

The caterers had appeared discreetly from a comfortable sitting room adjacent to the kitchen, to clear the first course and serve the second. Peter had planned the menu, being a bit of a Cordon bleu Chef himself, but as this was an outlet supervised by his cousin Annabell, it was another of his perogative perks.

The main course served with a robust sweet Red wine from Halkadiki Peninsular, Greece, was again courtesy of Willhelm. No zey do not usually export zis, but it is by vay off vone off my contacts. (He enjoyed his accent and sometimes accentuated it)

Yes, rath-her, added Peter, it is jolly swell to have friends like Willhelm in the alcohol business. All these are first class wines.

Well sank you darling Willhelm replied, his blue eyes sparkling. He flashed Crystabell a look and she was transported into the sea and the sky of a sunny Carribean day through those saphire eyes.

Vee always aim to please. he added as he held her gaze. The Stroganoff was somehow very light and melt in the mouth Beef, with just enough paprika and cayenne to heat the blood without it being a curry, or a chillie. Unusually, Peter had this served with Jersey Royal potatoes, and al-dente Broccoli florets and Asparagus spears.

There were small bowls of Greek Salad, in case anyone desired them.

This must be the best Stroganoff I have ever tasted Crystabel enthused.

I am so pleased that you like it, replied Peter with sincerety and almost appologetically, "you know, I never thought to ask wether you were a vegetarian or not, I kind of took it for granted that this is what you would like.

Perfect, she smiled seductively, you know me so well already.

Ingrid was in fine form also, relating tales of a disastrous dinner at the embassy in Hungary, and the excessive feasting of some of her relations in Tonga.

yes—my Mother was from Tonga, she met my Father Heinrich on a cultural diplomatic visit, when he was in government service. Later that year, when on a visit to Australia, he had a few spare days, so he called in on my Mother, whose name translates as Ruth. Well, he obtained a diplomatic extension, and stayed a while. He proposed; and they had a large Cathedral Wedding in Strassburg, where his Mother’s family hailed from, she was Marriella Countess Weiner-Strasse. Then, bear with me my dear, as Ruth was a high ranking Tongan, and women always rank higher than men do there, they had a traditional Island wedding, some of the customs are pre-Christian you know.

Well darling, interjected Willhelm, you vill be telling us next zat you were around before time began.

You know you love a good story, and well, maybe I was.

Absolutely fascinating declared Chrystabell, my Mother Katalina was from Mauritius, and her Father was from Kenya, another British Commonwealth Country, or for a short time in its history anyway. Father trained as a surveyer, and structural engineer. He was doing his work experience year in Kenya and one of the project managers Juomo, in the British based company, had his daughter visiting. They dated before she returned to Mauritius, and she invited Joel to stay with them for a holiday when he was free. Grandmother Antonina was from a large Mauritius family, and her brother Leontard was an Ambassador. Grandfather Juomo, later became a Director in a large American company building hotels, which enabled him to work back in Mauritius.

Lovely. Ingrid said, genuinely interested.

I have heard of Markham Construction, and Markham Steel, but I did not really connect you with them, you being in the world Fashion, untill now. Peter said very intrigued."

Oh but tell us more darling especially unmentionable family secrets. Willhelm rarely dragged his saphire eyes away from her beautiful features.

Not really any skeletons in cupboards, and we are not as big as Mittal Steel by any means, but Dad expanded on the family business that Great Grandfather Michael Markam started, and branched out into various aspects of Construction, and Heavy Plant Supplies, and went into partnership with a small foundry in Sheffield to produce his own Steel for his Construction, and the manufacturing of some of his mobile Cranes and so forth.

Well, a beautiful woman with a good grasp of business too, beyond which nail varnish matches your lips. Ventured Ingrid with a twinkle of those emerald eyes, and maybe a subtle suggestiveness.

Chrystabell drained her glass of sweet and heady red wine rather more quickly, and less delicately than she intended, as she felt that strange anticipation rising again.

Peter leaned forward, his quiet eyes fully absorbing her, "Tell me—

would it be improper to ask if there are any more at home, as gorgeous as you?"

Why? interjected Willhelm, Do you vant to be fixing up a cousin of yours?

She was glad of the quick humour as a thrill of heat rushed through her body, and her answer may have been a squeak. She suddenly wondered had she given too much away, having quite forgotten her customary cool for a moment.

There is a younger sister, Cordelia, by two years, and two elder brothers. Christian manages the European office in Lyon, and at present Claude, the eldest, is negotiating a project in Ecuador. Mother and Father are based in Dorset, close to Dorchester.

A handsome man of medium build from Bahia, Brazil, with skin as black and silky as his suit interupted the conversation temporarily, as he quickly cleared the first three courses. His tight curls glistened beneath the chandelier, and Willhelm could not help but lick his lips and his heart gave four mighty beats, so loud in his ears, that he thought everyone else must hear. This was a catering manager, well more than this, a family friend, and he and a well built Chinese young man, a tall blonde Austrian young woman, and a grey haired Cockney woman did a great deal to promote Annabel’s Home Catering Service, with their quiet efficiency and charm.

They left the table laid with cheeses, coffee, fruits, tiramasu, chocolates, and a creamy strawberry compote.

Thank you so much Alfred Peter enthused, that was par excellence, that will be all for tonight, Rosie will be in tomorrow. Annabell will see that your usual commission will be available on Monday.

From a small remote box Peter lowered the chandelier above the table, and turned off all the other lights except for the bar. He swiftly administered large glasses of Vintage French Brandy, and they helped themselves to the various desserts. The Jacobean candles were snuffed and they were all mellow, but not bloated. They knew how to enjoy many courses, by taking a little of a lot, rather than a lot of a little. They were inebriated but not drunken.

Chrystabell felt reaxed, and almost like a child on Christmas Eve again, in spite of being the sophisticated business woman that she was.

Through the softly lit dining room and hallway Chrystabell had almost floated to a bedroom, where she had willingly melted into Peter’s caresses.

The silver grey designer dress was easily discarded, earings and clutch bag on a dressing table, and somehow the plum Lubon heels placed neatly underneath.

Peter’s hands had gently and expertly popped off the silky bra, and thong style panties, to reveal her well honed body. She was fit, and found time to swim and work out in her busy schedule.

With gentle caresses and with hands well suited to stimulating erogenous zones, Peter had brought her to orgasmic point before he fully entered her, and she readily returned his thrust and ebb. She felt like she was undulating in a vast sea of sensuality.

Peter had barely reached ejaculation point when a door opened, and a beautifully naked Willhelm, already in a state of excitement threw himself upon Peter, and quickly entered him. Peter let out an additional gasp and turned slightly, and Chrystabell did not mind the slight extra weight, he stiffened again fully inside her and a silent scream of unbelievable pleasure escaped from her lips. This scream did not develop into sound, as Willhelm’s mouth sought hers around Peter, with the most audatious of french kisses.

Peter braced himself, and now it was Willhelm’s hands that fondled her beautiful firm and lightly tanned breasts. If she was going to die of pleasure then this was the way to do it Chrystabell decided.

Strangely, it turned her on also to see Peter in the grip of pleasure he could not control and he groaned as he succumbed to Willhelm’s love bite on his jugular and his insistant rhythm. She felt both of their lustfull rhythms, like beat and off beat, and almost laughed at one point as a joke she overheard two carpenters relating to each other about a cure for sore throats flashed through her mind; she wondered how much further Peter was going to extend inside her. She stroked his head, she stroked Willhelm’s head. Peter’s tongue excited her nipples to the point of pain, she closed her eyes again.

Luckily the bed was double King sized. Willhelm temporarily satiated, rolled off Peter’s back and reclined. Peter withdrew from from Chrystabell and rolled over into Willhelm’s arms exhausted (and it took quite a lot to exhaust Peter Lanyon).

Before Chrystabell had time to move she was aware of a new sensation as Ingrid’s ample breasts lay upon her own, and softer hands caressed her hair and neck, almost like a Mother at first. She gave an involuntary start and a surprised little shout, which was absorbed by the thick and luxuriant fabrics of the bed and tapstries on the wall. A new wave of sensuality swept over her and set her heart pounding. She returned the caresses eagerly over all of that sensuous yet snake like body.

More, more she almost shouted—maybe she did—as Ingrid’s mouth and tongue caressed her body afresh, and somehow with legs stretched wider than she thought possible, brought her to an incredible climax, which brought tears to her cheeks as though her whole life had led her to this point. Momentarily her body her soul even was Ingrid’s with complete and utter (she thought) emotional satisfaction and release.

Chrystabell had been right to feel the anticipation she was not quite sure of. As Ingrid’s arms enfolded her in a strong final embrace, she felt that strange combination of Motherly love and complete sexual arousement.

Just before she inadvertently dozed, a fresh shriek from Willhelm invaded her warm satisfied contentment—

Oohh da-arling you are so-oo strong. he uttered as Peter recovered from his temporary exhaustion, grabbed both his legs, dragged him to the foot of the divan, raised them in the air, and entered him unceremoniously, with the aid of Spermicidal anti bacterial gell. There was a bulging at a slight resistance, then he

Reviews for Chrystabell's Secrets

[leejmorrison · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A story of success, and interweaving emotions, as Chrystabell Markham, becomes an overnight sensational Fashion Model and Designer, and later a Film Star, aided by her billionaire Husband Peter Lanyon. With Peter and his inner circle of friends, Chrystabell finds new sexual liberation as she emerges from an unhappy relationship, and the overbearing influence of her well meaning Father, Joel Markham, but there are some things which she may never tell...This is a story of intense passion and romance, and a lyrical and humorous exposition by Lee J Morrison, with ten original illustrations.