Chapter 1

“Fire and Ice—and not so nice”

Paige Turner lay naked on her back, twisting fitfully between the satin sheets of her king-size bed in her Trump Towers Fifth Avenue penthouse suite. Awaking slowly in late morning, groggy and disoriented, still in a dreamlike state, she imagined that she was struggling to free herself from the dominance of a sexual bondage, slave master who was forcefully binding her thighs, disciplining her movements, and trying to subjugate her with an absolute submissiveness to his authority that overpowered her free will and any attempt to resist his lustful desires or disobey his strict commands. As she fully awoke and her brutish and faceless assailant fled into the subconscious realm of her darkest and most erotic fantasies, dizziness and a burning sensation of nausea surged into her stomach and throat. She writhed free of the constricting sheets, closed her eyes tightly, pressed her palms to her temples, and exhaled a slow, labored sigh.

Time and again, as she had done in countless and too many mornings, she surrendered to the awful realization that the soothing warmth of late morning sunshine, streaming through eight-foot high, beveled glass French doors near the foot of her bed, would do little to relieve her aching body and temples which throbbed with the most painful hangover of her life induced from drinking to excess at the loudest, sexiest, most exciting celebrity party she could remember.

Her escort was Mick Jagger, legendary lead singer for the Rolling Stones, who had pestered her for months to accompany him on a date since he first met her during a luncheon with movie stars, the purist cream of high society, and royal sons, daughters, and exotic mistresses from a dozen Asian countries sailing on a billionaire’s four-hundred foot yacht bound for the 2006 Cannes Film Festival.

Turner was the personal guest of the yacht’s owner, a fifty-three year old German industrialist who, shortly after docking at a private Cannes marina, was to become another in a long line of powerful billionaire suitors and playboys, enchanted and captivated by her beauty and independent spirit, who would fail to win her heart or the pleasure of the slightest sexual intimacy.

The billionaire, as countless other billionaires, playboys, and sons of royalty had done before and after him, would nevertheless continue futilely to pursue his elusive prize. He would send Turner weekly, handwritten, passionate notes declaring his undying love and devotion to her, accompanied by what seemed to be an unending cascade of gifts delivered by private messengers and limousine drivers to the Trump Towers concierge—long-stemmed roses; rare and beautiful orchids from South America; mink, ermine, sable, and leopard skin coats and hats; diamond, emerald and ruby necklaces, bracelets, rings, and other precious“baubles” from Tiffany’s, Cartier’s, Harry Winston, and Leo Rosenberg of London; and“blood diamonds,” purchased from black market merchants and thieves in exotic lands that only the wealthiest people in the world would be able to afford.

Jagger felt the same intense passion. He was hopelessly captivated by Turner’s beauty and sensual charm. What man could feel differently after he had met her? Paige Turner was a brazenly confident woman in her early twenties, with a figure too well-proportioned and a fair complexion and skin tone too flawless and firm to seem real. She was a statuesque 5’9” tall without her signature stiletto high heels or Italian, calf-skin leather boots, which she wore on almost every occasion, and seldom wore more than a few weeks before tiring of them and tossing them at the end of the day into the nearest wastepaper basket. Her housemaids, risking exposure and certain dismissal by their employer were their luxury scavengin