Capricia Volante
von dutch
C / V ◆ RUNNING A CON
Capricia Volante
LOCATION / CANTO BIGHT WITH / MR. LESARAV
The small yacht floated elegantly toward the waterfall from the air, and its knife-edge prow cut into the water, seamlessly transitioning from flight to sailing like it was nothing. On the deck, Capricia Volante stood with a champagne flute in one hand, the bubbles tickling her nose, the other holding the hand of an older man. Washa Lesarav, because it was the only way to stop him from putting it somewhere he oughtn't.
It was getting more difficult to keep the man at arm's length. Capricia -- acting under one of her aliases, Inez Corin -- had run into him at a yacht party earlier in the day. He was wealthy -- too wealthy for his own good, the kind of wealthy that made him believe that everything and everyone he saw could be had for a price. That was the kind of man who gave Capricia the chance to make a quick cred. So when he had propositioned her, it was a no-brainer.
After all, he could be well-assured that Inez Corin was no gold-digger, no homewrecker. She was one of his kind: wealthy, possibly titled, definitely entitled, and in it for the thrill. Everyone knew her, of course. Inez, good old Inez. That was the way things worked in these circles; no one did know her, but everyone was so afraid of being caught out not knowing someone who so obviously belonged that they simply went along with things. Half would swear to have shared a table with her at the Cantonica Club and the other half would have sworn she covered their bets at the Fathier races before mumsy and pupsy could wire the credits. Our Inez, always reliable, game for a laugh.
The craft approached the docks, where they were met by a rickshaw. Capricia set her untouched champagne flute down and helped the older gentleman -- maybe twice her age, no more, though he walked with the frailty of an elderly grandfather because of the amount of alcohol he had consumed -- down the gangway and into the rickshaw that was waiting for them. The ride to the hotel was fast, and once there he checked into his suite while bellhops handled the luggage. "Ah, Mr. Lesarav. And, Miss...?" asked the manager, letting his eyes linger on Capricia. He looked conflicted for a moment; these types always seemed to recognize the scent of tawdry scandal, and though he thought she was somehow out of place, Capricia didn't look like some cheap floozy looking to rip off his client.
"Mrs. Lesarav," Lesarav said. He knew this drill better than the manager. Not his first time, she thought, offering the manager a cool, dignified smile.
The manager's eyes widened a little and he bowed his head. "Ah, of course. Here you are." He slid two keycards across the desk. "These will grant you access to the penthouse room and serve as payment for anything you require while you're here -- at the restaurants, the shops, the casino cashier, or any of our transportation or leisure facilities."
"Mmh," grunted Mr. Lesarav.
"If you'll just sign here, sir," the manager said, presenting a datapad. "Confirming your permission to charge the source we have on file."
Lesarav signed with the kind of mild indignation wealthy people sometimes had when being confronted with the pedestrian details of spending it, grunting again.
In the elevator Lesarav kissed the back of Capricia's hand, up her wrist and forearm before, luckily, a trio of guests entered. He had some capacity for shame, after all, which was good. This gig relied on obscene wealth (check), limited self-control (double-check), and shame -- shame that would prevent him from calling the police when he realized he'd been taken. If he realized he'd been taken. For some of them, they never noticed. Some people have too much money, Capricia had thought to herself.
Once alone in the penthouse, Capricia popped the cork on the bubbly that the management had thoughtfully provided for their high-rolling guest and his wife while Washa loosened his tie and slurred about all the things he wanted to do to her. Thank goodness it didn't come to that. All she had to endure was a little light slobbering on her shoulder and neck before he passed out. He had lasted longer than Capricia thought possible, given the total volume of liquor he had consumed over the last few hours.
"Sleep tight," 'Inez' muttered as she washed her shoulder and neck in the 'fresher with a washcloth so hot she could hardly stand it. "Now, time to go shopping."
It was getting more difficult to keep the man at arm's length. Capricia -- acting under one of her aliases, Inez Corin -- had run into him at a yacht party earlier in the day. He was wealthy -- too wealthy for his own good, the kind of wealthy that made him believe that everything and everyone he saw could be had for a price. That was the kind of man who gave Capricia the chance to make a quick cred. So when he had propositioned her, it was a no-brainer.
After all, he could be well-assured that Inez Corin was no gold-digger, no homewrecker. She was one of his kind: wealthy, possibly titled, definitely entitled, and in it for the thrill. Everyone knew her, of course. Inez, good old Inez. That was the way things worked in these circles; no one did know her, but everyone was so afraid of being caught out not knowing someone who so obviously belonged that they simply went along with things. Half would swear to have shared a table with her at the Cantonica Club and the other half would have sworn she covered their bets at the Fathier races before mumsy and pupsy could wire the credits. Our Inez, always reliable, game for a laugh.
The craft approached the docks, where they were met by a rickshaw. Capricia set her untouched champagne flute down and helped the older gentleman -- maybe twice her age, no more, though he walked with the frailty of an elderly grandfather because of the amount of alcohol he had consumed -- down the gangway and into the rickshaw that was waiting for them. The ride to the hotel was fast, and once there he checked into his suite while bellhops handled the luggage. "Ah, Mr. Lesarav. And, Miss...?" asked the manager, letting his eyes linger on Capricia. He looked conflicted for a moment; these types always seemed to recognize the scent of tawdry scandal, and though he thought she was somehow out of place, Capricia didn't look like some cheap floozy looking to rip off his client.
"Mrs. Lesarav," Lesarav said. He knew this drill better than the manager. Not his first time, she thought, offering the manager a cool, dignified smile.
The manager's eyes widened a little and he bowed his head. "Ah, of course. Here you are." He slid two keycards across the desk. "These will grant you access to the penthouse room and serve as payment for anything you require while you're here -- at the restaurants, the shops, the casino cashier, or any of our transportation or leisure facilities."
"Mmh," grunted Mr. Lesarav.
"If you'll just sign here, sir," the manager said, presenting a datapad. "Confirming your permission to charge the source we have on file."
Lesarav signed with the kind of mild indignation wealthy people sometimes had when being confronted with the pedestrian details of spending it, grunting again.
In the elevator Lesarav kissed the back of Capricia's hand, up her wrist and forearm before, luckily, a trio of guests entered. He had some capacity for shame, after all, which was good. This gig relied on obscene wealth (check), limited self-control (double-check), and shame -- shame that would prevent him from calling the police when he realized he'd been taken. If he realized he'd been taken. For some of them, they never noticed. Some people have too much money, Capricia had thought to herself.
Once alone in the penthouse, Capricia popped the cork on the bubbly that the management had thoughtfully provided for their high-rolling guest and his wife while Washa loosened his tie and slurred about all the things he wanted to do to her. Thank goodness it didn't come to that. All she had to endure was a little light slobbering on her shoulder and neck before he passed out. He had lasted longer than Capricia thought possible, given the total volume of liquor he had consumed over the last few hours.
"Sleep tight," 'Inez' muttered as she washed her shoulder and neck in the 'fresher with a washcloth so hot she could hardly stand it. "Now, time to go shopping."
