Heaven's Gift (Regalo Del Cielo): A Provacative and Passionate Love Story

By Angeline Duran

Ever since Michelle could remember, she had slept in the nude.
Drawing open the draperies, the piercing white moonlight filled the room. She quickly slipped on her silk robe and opened the French doors, stepped onto the terrace and took a deep languid breath. For a moment, her head grew light from the warm night breeze and the intoxicating scent from the flower garden below. She would sleep soundly tonight.
At the other end of the hall, Adolfo yanked the sheet soaked with his perspiration and threw it to the floor. He sat up. It was no use. He could not sleep. Thoughts of Michelle were driving him mad. The scent of her perfume, her wonderfully shaped mouth, her firm high breasts and her endlessly long legs haunted him. Tonight, his eyes lingered on her magnificently formed body as she walked away from him to her suite.
He rose from his bed; went directly to the bar at the other end of his suite and poured himself a cognac. Maybe if he had one last drink, it would calm him enough to sleep? Michelle had pushed him miles beyond his limit of frustration. .
Grabbing his robe he stalked from his suite. Determined, long muscular legs carried him down the hall.
He stopped at her door. Turning the knob, he let himself in. Quietly, he closed the door behind him.
There she was. Her body graced in moonlight. He watched as she slept.
Silently, he walked to her bed and quietly sat at the edge. Waiting a moment, he gently lifted her hand to his lips. Kissing the open palm of her soft hand, he held it close to his face and whispered her name. Opening her eyes, she didn't appear frightened. She sensed it was Adolfo.
"Michelle . . .Please forgive me" He took a deep breath. "Seeing you again tonight, I cant explain it. . .It's just that. . ." The tone of his voice changed. "Damn it! You know what I mean."
Not answering, she stretched out like a casually indifferent Cheshire cat. Letting the sheet fall from her body, she teasingly waited before she answered. "Theres no need to explain. You just happened to be walking naked outside my door and decided to chat with me."
Suddenly he realized he had been in such a rage, his robe was still thrown over his shoulder. Flinging the robe to the ground, he raised his voice in frustration. "Michelle, dont you understand? Even a blind man would be able to read my thoughts. Everyone knows I am in love with you. I would do anything for you, and yet. . ." He could not finish his sentence. He was lost, unable to find the right words.
Sitting up, revealing her nakedness, Michelle never imagined she would ever see him so vulnerable, so tormented. His defenses were crumbling before her.
With his last words echoing in her ears and finding their way into her heart, she reached up and drew him towards her, allowing him to fall into her arms, feeling for the first time his flesh against hers. His hands slide down her body, exploring her wondrous softness beneath him.
Parting her lips, she welcomed his tongue. Her breasts stirred with life, enlarging and brushing against his warm chest. Every pore in her body sexually ached.
Letting her hands explore, she discovered the hardness of every muscle and the thickness of every hair. The tips of her fingers slowly circled the muscles around his nipples and then let them travel down along his waist feeling the leanness of his body. She felt goosebumps rising on his buttocks and heard him moan as she reached down. She arched her back and pressed him between her legs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483671208

Angeline Duran

- Angeline Duran, former Director of Admissions and Public Relations Direction of International Academy of Merchandising and Design, President of Chicago Fashion Exchange and Associate Producer of Gauguin the Musical. Born and raised in Chicago. She fell in love with Acapulco and fell in love with her husband at first sight while sipping a Margarita at the hottest bar on the Costera of Acapulco. The balmy weather, beautiful beaches and dramatic sunsets of Acapulco beckon them back each winter to escape the cold winds and snows of Chicago. Duran was Director of Admissions and Director of Public Relations at the International Academy of Merchandising and Design and was President of the Chicago Fashion Exchange. Duran was also Associate Producer of Gauguin the Musical in Chicago. In her youth she presented the Olympic gold medals to the winners of one of the Olympic weight lifting divisions during the Pan American Olympics in Chicago. An event she will never forget. Her husband, John Lahey, in his youth was a star basketball player at DePaul University and played with the traveling team of the Harlem Globetrotters for 4 years. Duran has one married daughter and a wonderful son-in-law.

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CHAPTER ONE

Chicago, November 1973, 10:00 p.m.

T HE PIERCING SOUND of a cruel northeast wind echoed in the cold cloudless night. Gusts swept across Lake Michigan and spun westward, whipping trees like frail flowers on Lake Shore Drive.

Drake Devins cringed at the impact as he stepped outside of his townhouse and directed obscenities at the force of nature known to Chicagoans.

He grabbed the iron railing for support and made his way down the steep black Andes granite steps of his elegant Gold Coast home.

Reaching the walkway, he tightened the belt of his trench coat, pulled the collar snug above his ears, and shoved his hands into his pockets.

Lowering his head against the wind, he headed toward Bragno’s liquor store on Rush Street.

He picked up his pace and lost himself in happy anticipation of sitting in front of his fireplace, relaxing in its heat, enjoying the aroma of firewood bursting into flames, and popping open a cold bottle of sparkling champagne—a celebration he promised Neil.

A heightened gust of wind lashed at his face, awakening him from his dreamscape. He winced and raised his head. Bragno’s was fifty feet in sight.

Neil Newbarry stood silently at the bay window of the luxurious residence he and Drake shared. With his hands clasped behind his back, he nervously swayed from side to side as his eyes followed Drake. He watched him struggle north on Lake Shore Drive, make his way west on Walton Street, and disappear from sight.

Assured Drake would not return for at least thirty minutes, he drew the drapes shut, turned, and descended the spiral staircase leading to the den.

Reaching his destination, he picked up a long twisted hemp rope resting on one of the boxes that contained the summer wardrobe he had earlier begun to pack for pickup by a local charity. He stretched the coarse rope with both hands. Yes, it’s strong enough. Dragging a heavy Spanish oak chair across the floor from the corner of the den, he placed it in the middle of the room, directly under one of the sturdy wooden beams running across the ceiling.

Stepping onto the chair, he threw one end of the rope over the beam and knotted it. He tied a hangman’s noose with the dangling end and slipped it over his head. The hemp scratched at his neck as it tightened.

His calculated, cool demeanor quickly dissolved in the starkness of reality. He began to shake. Legs grew weak. His breath came in shallow gasps. Droplets of cold perspiration slid down his face onto his chest and crawled toward his stomach. Tears filled his eyes as his gaze lingered on his gold wedding band. He bowed his head, made the sign of the cross, and whispered, God, have mercy.

He adjusted the rope around his neck. Losing his balance, his feet teetered at the edge of the chair.

Steadying himself, he took a last look at the picture of his daughter that rested on the mantel of the fireplace across the room.

His hand reached up to wipe his tear-stained face. Then the thought occurred, It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters anymore.

He let out a final gasping sob, Michelle, forgive me. I love you. He closed his eyes and let himself drop.

His body swung from the sudden jolt. His neck snapped. Death came quickly.

#################

MICHELLE NEWBARRY

Chicago, Friday, March 10, 1989, 4:30 p.m.

Michelle Newbarry was a beauty—five feet seven of stunning seducing presence, huge haunting hazel eyes, and the slim long legs of a dancer.

She opened the white door, edged in intricate gold leaf, leading to her private executive suite. In the last twenty-four hours, she had not left Bennington’s, the oldest and most prestigious department store in the country. Michelle was exhausted.

Thank God her suite had all the indulgence of an elegant apartment, including an ebonized and gilded Biedermeier daybed set beside a rose marble Louis XIV fireplace, a dressing room, and a shower. Her forty-second-floor office captured the view of the waters of Lake Michigan. But today, all she could see was the rain streaming down her windows and hear the drumming of raindrops against the glass. She turned suddenly, startled at the roar of thunder in the eastern sky. Silently, she counted the seconds between thunderclaps. The intervals lengthened, indicating the storm would soon subside. Her feeling of relief was interrupted by a blinding bolt of lightning streaking across the sky. She shook her head, and a skeptical smile crossed her face as she recalled the early morning forecast of clear and sunny skies for the remainder of the day.

Since being hired two years ago as Bennington’s fashion director, Michelle had produced and coordinated hundreds of exquisite and intimate fashion shows. Tonight would be her first International Fashion Show, Bennington’s pinnacle of fashion productions. She had complete responsibility for everything in the show, down to the smallest detail.

Her energy drained; a few minutes of quiet rest were all she needed before the fashion show began in a few hours. An elegant silver teapot, filled with warm chamomile tea, set waiting for her, on a highly polished Empire pier table next to the daybed. She had instructed her secretary, Cecil, to leave for the day. There was no more Cecil could do. Tonight’s burden was now all on Michelle’s shoulders. Her last request before Cecil had left was a warm pot of gloriously soothing chamomile.

She sat on the daybed and poured herself a cup and stirred in a teaspoon of honey. She took the time to savor the aroma before drinking the comforting tea. Feeling the heat of the tea and enjoying the sweetness of the honey, she began to relax. Placing the cup down on its saucer, she propped up the large silk damask pillows, snuggled up on the daybed with her legs tucked under her, and rested her head on the welcome solace of the pillows. Letting out a sigh, her eyes closed. She instantly drifted off into a deep sleep.

Within seconds, she felt herself being swept away by a strange, ominous force. She was spiraling down a black abyss, falling deeper and deeper. Dizzy, disoriented, helpless, unable to stop her descent, she screamed and desperately prayed to be rescued from this terrifying nightmare.

Then, miraculously, the horror ended.

She felt a sensation of gently floating as if on a cloud. Her fears dissipated as the darkness faded and a light appeared. This unexplainable, strange journey had taken her back in time.

Michelle stared at her reflection in the window of her mother’s townhouse on Astor Street. She saw herself as a young girl of eleven wearing a red waistcoat, grege jodhpurs, and highly polished riding boots. Her hair was swept back in a ponytail with wisps of loose curls escaping to surround her face. She began to fidget, pulling at the wisps of curls and twisting them around her small fingers.

As the minutes ticked away, the excitement of her anticipated riding lesson faded. There was a somber silence on this Saturday afternoon. Only the last of the dried fall leaves breaking from their branches, floating to the ground, and skittering along the street gave it life. She pressed her face against the cold pane of glass.

Her eyes darted up and down the deserted street, searching for her father. For a moment, the gloom disappeared as tiny threads of the November sun broke through the dark afternoon clouds. She opened the gold heart-shaped locket dangling from her wrist. A watch rested on one side and a picture of her father on the other. A foreboding sensation swept through her young body as she noted it was one in the afternoon. In the five years her parents were separated, her father picked her up at precisely noon each Saturday. No sooner, no later.

Suddenly, her heart jumped as a shrill ringing sliced through the uneasy silence. She turned and watched as her mother answered the phone… Her mother’s voice grew hushed as she replied to the caller, Oh my god. The phone fell to the floor from her trembling hands. She looked at Michelle, unable to speak.

A ghostly sensation tore through Michelle’s body. Inhumanly, it revealed to her… her father was dead. Her mother didn’t have to tell her.

MICHELLE, WAKE UP! IT’S FIVE O’CLOCK!

Roused from her frightening sleep, she abruptly opened her eyes as Colette banged on her office door.

You wanted me to wake you at five.

Michelle shook her head and looked around the room, relieved to be awakened.

Thanks, Colette. Tell everyone I’ll be in the ballroom in thirty minutes. Be a doll and line up the models and begin a final rehearsal without me. I want to freshen up and get dressed.

Sure thing. See you downstairs.

Michelle sat up and pushed her long auburn hair back from her face. She looked down at the gold heart-shaped locket that was a present from her father on her eleventh birthday, three months before his death. Years ago, she had redesigned the locket. It no longer dangled from a gold chain. It was now elegantly styled to lie flat on her wrist. She pressed the small diamond seated in the center of the locket. It snapped open. The watch inside was again running five minutes slow. She made a mental note to take it to her jeweler to have it reset. Before closing the locket, she glanced at her father’s picture and momentarily pressed the watch to her heart.

Unconsciously, she wrapped her arms around herself, attempting to wipe away the chill that engulfed her body as it always did after she had the same unsettling dream that had haunted her since her father’s death. It always managed to leave her with a feeling of icy emptiness. She struggled to shrug off the lingering memory and forced herself to concentrate on what she had to do tonight.

Quickly, she walked toward the shower. Hopefully, the warm water would wash away the deep chill clinging to her.

#################

Night fell on the glittering streets of Chicago’s downtown, bringing along with it a bitter northeast March wind and a biting cold rain.

Colette looked down from the massive windows on the twenty-first floor of Bennington’s. She could barely see the flickering glow from the row of streetlamps lining the State Street Mall.

Giant potted plants and trees covered the mall, proudly displaying a hint of green from the budding leaves beginning to sprout.

It seemed only a few years ago that bulldozers, jackhammers, and roving-eyed construction workers relentlessly roamed State Street in a combined effort to complete the mall. Colette remembered it was then that she first met Robert Bennington Sr., president of Bennington’s. He had been impressed with her young, provocative designs, and she had been in awe of his magnetic personality and ruthless, powerful iron will. Within days, he lured her to Chicago from New York’s Seventh Avenue to add excitement to Bennington’s richly conservative design department.

Colette stared for the tenth time at the grandfather clock at the end of the hall. It was seven forty-five, and the fashion show was scheduled to begin at eight. Everyone and everything were exactly in place—except for her designs. She had slaved for a year on her collection, and as a reward for her efforts, Michelle had produced a staggering presentation for Colette’s designs in tonight’s show. They were in the next room, and that room was locked. Drake Devins, Bennington’s executive vice president of promotions, was in there and refused to open the door.

Running her hands through her mop of thick black curls in total frustration, she walked again to the locked door and leaned against it. For a brief moment, she thought she was having a bad dream. No, a nightmare. Yes, that has to be it. It’s a hideous nightmare. I can’t be awake. This isn’t happening. It’s all in my mad mind. She had to gain control of herself. Tonight was too important. Taking a deep breath, she held it for a moment and slowly released it. Damned if I’m going to let Drake cause me to hyperventilate!

Devastated, she covered her face with her hands. She couldn’t remember being this upset or depressed since the night her ex-husband called at three in the morning to tell her, Because we’re still such good friends, I thought you should be the first to know I’ve just gotten married. That bastard!

She took another deep breath. The pain was still there. Frantically searching her pockets for a Valium, she came up empty-handed. Right now, she would willingly sell her soul for a double gin martini… anything!

Trying desperately to gain her composure, she walked to the window facing State Street. With the palm of her hand, Colette wiped away a patch of moisture from the cold, dampened window and attempted to peer through the rain, in search of a full moon lurking through the clouded sky. Maybe that would explain the insanity behind Drake’s motives.

The pain was now in the pit of her stomach, and there was a strange numbness tightening her chest. Damn it! I’m hyperventilating. She turned away and screamed, Drake, you slime! Why can’t you screw in bed like everyone else? Open this door! My entire collection’s in there!

Nothing. Silence.

In desperation, she shrieked, MICHELLE! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?

##################

Bennington’s crowded Grand Ballroom was swathed in elegance. Waiters were still pouring champagne and clearing crystal plates from the tables.

The immense ballroom was decorated in glorious virgin-white art deco. Floors were covered with lush, antique white-on-white carpeting. Chrome and Lucite chairs with white velvet cushions surrounded the hundreds of sparkling round chrome tables that were draped with heavy white silk cloths edged in silver braiding. Lead crystal dinnerware and stemmed goblets were specially designed and imported for this yearly gathering of fashion elite as part of the Bennington Collection. White roses with delicate sprays of baby’s breath were placed in crystal and silver, perfectly shaped, oval vases on the tables. It was an Architectural Digest delight.

Dazzling lights poured from the imported Italian chandeliers and danced off the glitter of the priceless ceremonial jewelry worn by the old-monied dowagers that easily outshone the diamond tennis bracelets and single-carat diamond earrings worn by the North Shore nouveau riche.

Penelope Palmer-Bennington, wife of Robert Bennington Sr., chatted excitedly with her husband. She was deliciously dripping in her family’s famous Palmer diamonds and emeralds. Each magnificent earring represented a five-carat shimmering emerald followed by a sparkling ten-carat teardrop diamond. Her necklace was made of the same splendid combination of diamonds and emeralds, with the exception of a breathtaking, blinding forty-carat center diamond that had found shelter within the warm fold of her cleavage that was proudly exposed in her Oscar de la Renta strapless black silk gown.

Her soft white hand was planted firmly on her husband’s lap as they spoke. Penelope was Robert Bennington’s second wife and thirty years younger than her husband. Ten days after her twenty-fifth birthday and five days after seducing him by spreading her long young legs on the plush carpeted floor of his executive suite, they were married.

Backstage, behind the serene white facade, pencil-thin, tall models were in their final and frantic stages of being made up, buttoned, zipped, and given last-minute instructions before their entrance into the Grand Ballroom. Ten nervous models dressed only in their sheer French-cut pantyhose stood waiting for Colette’s missing designs.

Michelle Newbarry stormed from the cluttered dressing room backstage. Her long slim legs carried her in the direction of Colette’s hysterical screaming. She threw her hands up in exasperation. What the hell is happening, with the fashion show only minutes away? But then again, she suspected what the problem was.

All week, Drake had taunted her like a time bomb waiting to explode. Her gut feeling told her he was in that locked room with Tony, a handsome, male model from the Ford Agency.

Rushing past a NBC television crew at the back entrance of the ballroom, she caught a few words of the reporter’s spiel as the reporter spoke into her mike. "This is Robert Bennington’s baby—his Annual International Fashion Show. A monstrous amount of money has been raised through this event and donated to charity. Tickets are sinfully sold for thousands and easily resold to eager rich buyers for thousands more. Millions have been invested in publicity, top models, music, professional dancers, choreography, and staggeringly expensive props." The reporter caught her breath as she attempted to describe the cuisine, champagnes, and wines that were all chosen to arouse ecstasy in everyone’s palate.

Mingling with the crowd, the reporter instructed her camera crew to stay back and use their zoom lens. They had been ordered, in no uncertain terms, not to upset the elegant ambiance of the room. Michelle had the reporter fitted in a Givenchy gown to cover this event. She was to blend in. The reporter continued, La crème de la crème of Chicago’s social, fashion, and political hierarchy are here tonight—rubbing shoulders, libating and inhaling and exhaling the latest gossip with the decadently rich movers and shakers of the international set.

As Michelle reached Colette, she heard a click from inside the door. The knob slowly turned. Michelle watched as Drake walked out, barely able to steady himself.

In the past week, Michelle had helplessly witnessed Drake’s pitiful attempt to destroy himself. His excessive drinking and drug habit were on a high-speed collision course, along with a determination to grind his eclectic sexual appetite into everyone’s face.

Drake looked haggard with dark circles under his hooded eyes. He reeked with the distinct odor of alcohol and stale cigarette smoke. He held onto Michelle’s shoulders to steady himself as he spoke, Everything will be OK. I promise.

I’ve got to get this show on the road, Drake. We’ll talk later. She tried to pull away, but his grip was too tight.

I’m leaving. Don’t worry.

A feeling of uneasiness came over her as he continued to hold onto her.

You’re not afraid, are you, Drake continued, that I might ruin your party? That’s good. I like that.

Before she could reply, he released his grip and staggered past her, out of sight.

Colette grabbed the rack holding her collection and wheeled it out of the room. Her body still shaking, she noticed Tony hiding behind another rack of clothes, afraid to make a move. She slammed the door shut. Smiling to herself, she instructed the security guard who had accompanied Michelle, Lock it up tight. No one is in there.

The lights of the ballroom dimmed. Bennington’s baby was about to come to life.

From backstage, Michelle heard the warm-up music. She felt her heart pound faster. It wasn’t fright. It was the same surge of excitement she always felt before each show.

Tonight, she was using the exotic male dancers from the Sugar Shack as her opening number. Her friend, Sean Brannigan, convincingly told her, Trust me, Michelle. It’s a great idea. All women fantasize about having someone young and firm to hold onto at night. Sean, even though she was the mayor’s daughter, had an unholy appetite for good-looking men of all ages, shapes, and sizes. A delectable Hawaiian male dancer in tonight’s show was her latest conquest.

Where have you been? They’re waiting for you. Sean grabbed Michelle’s arm and pulled her toward the backstage entrance. You look gorgeous. Is that gown from Colette’s collection? She doesn’t leave much to the imagination, does she? How could you be so composed? I’m a nervous wreck.

Calm down, Sean. I’m the one who’s going onstage. You’re just nervous because everyone’s about to feast their hungry eyes on your boyfriend’s body.

That’s not what’s bothering me. Did you see what Colette designed for them… for this crowd?

She emphasized the obvious. Be happy she’s not as obsessed with what’s up front as you are.

You have such a beautiful way with words, and as always, you’re absolutely right. Sean squeezed Michelle’s hand for luck as they came around the side of the stage where Michelle’s crew was waiting to help her onto the suspended brass platform that was exquisitely blanketed with thousands of brilliant multicolored jewels.

With her impeccable taste for fashion, she had personally chosen every design for this evening’s event and managed to painstakingly coordinate every last detail that went into tonight’s presentation. This was also her first year as the show’s commentator. It was an exhilarating and exhausting task.

Within seconds, spotlights bounced off the jeweled platform and Michelle’s almost nonexistent gold lame gown. She resembled a sex goddess sent down from Mount Olympus. Her bare shoulders were covered by only a thin braid of gold that ran from the top of the left breast of her daringly plunging gown, crossed over her left shoulder, and gently slid down her totally naked back, three inches below her waist, where her gown began again. Her luxurious auburn hair was pulled back, away from her face, and loose curls cascaded halfway down her back. Only her huge, haunting, hazel eyes betrayed her excitement as she waited for her cue.

In the semidarkness, colored laser beams shot up from the floor of the runway and through the artificial rainbow-colored fog filling the stage. Hundreds of computer buttons were pressed as a sky filled with thousands of sparkling jewels appeared, timed with the music that broke through in a loud sonic boom. BENNINGTON PRESENTS ITS TWENTIETH ANNUAL INTERNATIONAL FASHION SHOW.

Michelle was off and running.

The music was dramatically mysterious as the male dancers slithered out of the fog. Seductively, they moved across the stage, wearing only gold mesh loincloths that barely covered anything. As they turned, Michelle could see a single gold string running vertically up the middle of their magnificently muscled buttocks. That single string was holding on for dear life to a gold string around their waists. From the tips of their pedicured toes to the tops of their Max Factored foreheads, every inch of their slim, fantastic bodies were good-enough-to-eat-chocolate-mocha tanned.

The music suddenly turned loud and wild as they bumped and jumped. Their golden sacs bounced up and down like excited puppies. The tension in the room was deafening as the usually staid, beautifully dressed women in the audience nervously sat on the edge of their seats, craning their elegantly jeweled necks, fighting to get a clearer view of the glorious male bodies set before them.

Taking possession of their territory, statuesque and sublime, one by one, the Bennington models descended onto the stage as the male dancers exited. Resplendent in dazzling sequins, hand-painted silks, and flowing organzas, they moved uninhibited to each beat of the music.

With nonstop sizzling excitement, Michelle presented the collections of Colette, Oscar de la Renta, Yves Saint Laurent, Perry Ellis, and Givenchy, ending with the Chicago designs of Becky Bisoulis, Mark Heister, and Richard Dayhoff.

Michelle had made sure all the problems during rehearsal and backstage had been kept from his Royal Highness, Bennington. If word leaked out that Drake had tried to destroy his show with his manic distractions, Bennington, without a second thought, would not only fire Drake but would also do everything in his power to destroy his career forever.

With a thunderous standing ovation still pounding in her ears, Michelle was helped down from the suspended platform by her crew.

Sean fought her way through the maze of people to get to her. They loved it. You were sensational.

Thank you. You’ve always been my favorite fan.

"I can’t help it. You remind me of