Ivan Press

[Erika Alexander] One thing of note: Erika does not question the cook or give him an odd glance. She knew better, expecially if he is Vor Y Zakone. That out of the way, the food is enjoyable. Erika manages to finish what's set in front of her, unashamedly.

Actually, she remains fairly quiet, content to observe for now. There is something very good about her current mood. And it seems to not have fluctuated much at all today. She encourages Cordelia to fasten herself in, doing likewise herself... regardless of the two-minutes' drive.

After they arrive at their destination, the older kin seems almost, what, giddy? Well, let's see... having already enjoyed half her weekend in consumer bliss, and the other being spoiled by Fang's hospitality, self-motivated though he may be. She could either act bored like a pretentious brat, or she could just enjoy the ride.

[Cordelia] It really, really is amazing.

She has scallpos and egs. Eggs 'n scallops. And, true to form, they really are fantastic. More than fnatastic, this burly fellow deserves to have sonnets written about him. Ode to an Evgeny chef or something to that regard. Cordelia doesn't write poetry though, and she doesn't even speak English. She just knows that the food is good. He asks about her hometown, and the only thing that makes sense is Madrid.

They load into a car that costs the same as some people's life insurance policies. Cordelia either ends up sharing a seat with Erika or the poor woman ends up on her lap.

Not that it's a bad thing, though. Alas, this doesn't happen, and she sits in the back seat. She crosses her legs and grins.

[Ivan Press] To be sure, some of this generosity and hospitality may be selfishly motivated. He's expressed an interest in getting both women into bed, after all; blatantly, openly, and, in fact, to both while they were in the same room. There's this to be said for him: he doesn't sneak around. He believes wholeheartedly in being upfront about some things.

And then there's this, too: that in large part, this generosity, this hospitality, this vivacity is simply how he rolls. Genuine, infectious joie de vivre, the backbone of his charisma and the reason why he makes friends (or flirtations) so damn readily. That, and the fact that when one literally has more wealth than one could possibly spend in a lifetime, acts of random generosity come easily and painlessly.

So now they're pulling up in the parking lot, and Ivan is getting out of the white Bentley and tossing his keys to a valet. Yesterday he was wearing the jacket of some exclusive uptown yacht club; this is not it. One can hardly blame him for keeping (one of?) his boat(s) here, though -- it's literally close enough to have walked. He's been in town two or three days by his own account, and he's already on good terms with the staff here. There are nods and hellos and smiles exchanged as he leads his small entourage through the boathouse, out the back, and onto the docks.

They pass the tiny rental rowboats and the small rental sailboats; as they pass the first of the private boats, out and out until they reach the larger power yachts, easily large enough to house four or five in luxury; seven or eight in closer quarters. He steps onto the unrailed floating dock, which rocks gently to the wavelets coming in to shore, then reaches up to help them down one by one.

"It's the one on the end," he says. "Krasota."

'Beauty.' Of course.

[Erika Alexander] The afternoon is more amazing than breakfast. She quietly goes along with whatever revelry takes place... to a point. Having spoke with him upfront about things the night before and maybe by getting a better grasp for what he's like, Erika becomes very much at-ease. It's difficult for her no to what without having seen a trace of anger from him yet today.

By the looks of things last night when Matthieu left, the kin looked as if wanting to set herself on fire rather than get in their way. Maybe it's the night's rest, the good times, or the sun... but the bad week she's had evaporates almost entirely. Erika laughs and rolls her eyes, bothering to go arm-linked with the super-tall, younger kinswoman if she'd have any of it.

"мошенник," she calls him playfully. One of many interpretations of this word: scoundrel, rascal, hound.

[Cordelia] He's nothing if not hospitable, and she's noticed this. In a word, IVan is fun. She doesn't understnad half the things that come out of his mouth, but he is fun. He does make this an enjoyable experience, and he does know how to have a good time with what he has. What he's earned. What he's given.

Fuck, the man knows how to show a guest a good time. the kind of hispitality that might make a Fiann jealous. Probably not a place you want to be.

BY the time they get to the boat, Cordelia doesn't hate the sun anymore, or at least she's forgotten that she wants it to die a slow and painful demise for cursing her with such fates. She isn't hating the sun. She's done hating the sun, poor sun, the sun that never did anything but love her and occasionally give her freckles.

"Bonito barco," is all she can think of to say.

[Hilary Durante] Out on the lake there's a great many boats. All shapes and sizes, all styles. There's power yachts and sailboats and at least one very exotic-looking yacht styled after a Junk boat. There's little motorboats zipping around leaving frothing white wakes, and there's the slower, bigger sailing yachts, like this one, which has dropped anchor far out on the lake. It's a seventy footer, and her name is Cielito. Large enough for perhaps a dozen people, it is currently occupied by a handful of teenagers and a single adult passenger.

This adult passenger is lounging on the flybridge under the canopy, and she is almost reminiscent of Old Hollywood: her hat is ridiculously wide-brimmed and just floppy enough, her sunglasses are enormous, and she wears a voluminous open robe made of multicolored silk over a strapless, simplistic black bikini with a twist between her breasts, helping make them look bigger than they are. Which is good, because -- let's face it -- they're barely mouthfuls.

Off the wet deck, the half-dozen or so teenage boys are swimming, or gorging themselves on trays of food set out for their growing bodies, but while Ivan and his guests are sailing out, paying more mind to one another and whatever else, occasionally one of the boys will drift up to the flybridge to. Y'know. Just like. Talk. Or stuff.

She doesn't seem inclined to go swimming, or take the sun. Her skin is fair, jewelry glitters on her fingers and from her ears and around her wrists, and

for some reason, the people on that boat stand out.

[Ivan Press] "Thank you," Ivan says, turning on his heel to sketch a rakish little bow at the both of them.

Bonito barco is right: seventy feet of clean, swept lines and glistening whites; gleaming chrome; privacy-tinted glass. A power yacht, there are no masts and ropes to clutter the deck. Less athletic and less engaging, to be sure, but this is a Silver Fang's vessel, and purely for pleasure.

Because -- yes. Ivan knew how to have a good time, and how to show guests a good time.

So they board, the Ragabash handing the women up the gangplank one by one the same way he helped them down to the floating dock. And it should surprise no one that he has people here, too: unobtrusive servant-sorts who were too lowly-bred to be of any use as breedingstock, but were still wellbred enough to serve as a trueborn's closest staff. As far as they know, Ivan didn't even have to call them. Either they live here or -- more likely -- Dmitri took care of that call while the Ragabash was en route.

There are two of them, a helmsman and a maid who welcomes them onto the pristine blonde-wood decks and into the richly appointed cabins. Once aboard, Ivan spreads his hands out, as though presenting the entirety of the vessel to his guests.

"Mi yacht su yacht," Ivan says, the same careless hospitality he showed at his home. "Feel free to explore or sun yourselves or ... whatever it is you might want to do. I'm going to help get us out on the water."


Which is what he does. And in truth, his helmsman does all the steering until they're well away from the docks, out of the range of shuttling boats and ships and potential crashes.

When they're well out on the lake and the city's skyline can be seen in its full panorama, Ivan takes over at the helm, lounging lazy behind the wheel with two fingers hooked through the bottom. Small wonder he crashed the R8 yesterday, if that's how he drives. Steers. Pilots.

There are other ships out here. He throttles down to let one cross in front of them, then steers portside to come parallel to another.

The people on this one stand out. And Ivan brings his yacht closer and closer alongside until there's a scarce twenty, thirty feet between them; close enough that his helmsman reappears on the bridge, clearly worried about imminent disaster.

"Hi!" Ivan shouts across the wind-whipped distance. "Care for a friendly race?"

[Erika Alexander] ((just a general post throughout whatever scene goes on))

Over the course of an afternoon, Erika learns to let go a bit of her reservations. Whether the other fair-skinned heiress joins them or not, Erika is as polite as usual, if not a bit giddy. The upscale digs she's wearing, while aren't her own, are very suited to her taste... and she's grateful for them.

Over the course of the afternoon, Ms. Alexander takes a bit too much sun, combines it with a drink or two, and sure enough, the kinswoman grows very sleepy. Assuredly, the vessel has someplace where the kin could nap out of the direct light. She earns a bit of a light flush from sunburn, even. Her flushed cheeks and nose make her look almost dollike, as usually happens when fair-skinned women (especially blondes) earn a burn.

Actually, this is perhaps one of the first few times it could be reasonable to say she would be a bit less plain should she get out of the office more. A normal schedule, semi-regular eating and sleeping schedule, less stress, and perhaps more weight would make Erika seem more like a healthy person, less gaunt and waifish... Of course, with her workaholic all-or-nothing lifestyle, this isn't likely to happen unless she feels the need.

Without risk of overstating her workaholic lifestyle, it is needless to say the day's activities go on fine without her... The slumbering kinfolk seems to have no worries.

[Erika Alexander] ((Gnight guys, thanks for the rp. I had fun))

[Hilary Durante] [Night!]

[Ivan Press] [night!]

[Hilary Durante] One of the teenagers is currently on the flybridge with the grown-up. He's naturally dark but the sun has given his flesh a lustre and depth that puts him at striking odds with the pale woman in the sunhat. Something about his face is a bit hard: heavy brow, expression given to glares and glowering more than smiles. Though that may be because right now, he's glaring at Ivan. He's just come up from swimming, and his black hair is plastered to his scalp. He drips.

Of the five teenagers littering the yacht, all but one are Kin. Ivan can tell even at this distance. The young man on the flybridge is ridiculously well bred, even moreso than the woman. One day he'll father heroes, or die as one himself and return to life as a monster for his trouble. They are not all Fangs, so they don't all matter. They splash and holler and show off for each other and hope that the woman up top notices.

She does not. She is mid-conversation with the teenager who is glowering at Ivan, and turns her head as the Russian hollers. With a slim hand she lifts her shades up and off and dangles them to the side, bangles glittering on her wrist. She considers him for a moment. Then, deciding, she slips the sunglasses back on, shaking her head No, and turns back to the young man before her.

He looks at Ivan a second longer, smirking, and goes back to his conversation with the woman.

[Hilary Durante] [Note: details and name of yacht subject to change. :D ]

[Ivan Press] Rather undeterred by smirking youngster as well as by the woman's cool negative, Ivan edges his yacht a perilous few feet closer and stands. He doesn't give warning. He simply lets go of the wheel. His helmsman grabs for it, holds it steady.

The Fang, meanwhile, goes to the port edge of his flybridge. His hands grip the railing. Lean, smiling, elegant even in casuals, he calls out again.

"All right, I get it. Your baby's built for luxury, not speed. Let's make it fair. I got a jet ski off my stern. I'm sure you've got one tucked away in that beauty." The Ragabash's eyes flick toward Hilary's scowling youth, and back. His smile slices into a grin. "And if you're concerned about breaking a nail, I'm sure one of your gallant young gentlemen would be glad to stand as your champion.

"How about it, friend?" That's to the young man. He straightens, unzipping his light jacket, peeling it off and dropping it on the bench. "You and me, out to the five-mile buoy?"

[Hilary Durante] The two of them cannot sense him, cannot scent him. They have no way of telling what he is when he's twenty, thirty feet away and just yelling at them from one yacht to the next. Theirs -- hers, one can guess -- is bigger. His is faster. He suggests jet skis! He goads the teenager into proving himself as champion to the woman he's obviously doting on,

and the teenager just smirks and shakes his head at him, dropping himself onto the cushions beside the brunette. The trophy. She, from behind her shades this time, considers Ivan once more. Impossible to tell what her expression is. She turns and says something to the teenager, who instantly looks even more disgruntled than he was when Ivan first got there.

A smile. A pat on the knee, familiar and yet not quite familial, and he's sent on his way.

The woman waits til he's headed back down to the wet deck to join his chums, and then she rises. Her robe furls around her legs, billows as she takes one, two steady steps to the railing facing him and grips it, placing her knees on the cushions. She's in heels for god's sake. And not little kittens, either. They're four inches high and make her six feet tall and the stilettos shine like gold in the light. One of the rings she's wearing is a rock on the third finger of her left hand that would sink her right to the bottom if she were to topple over and one of the teens didn't manage to save her.

"Now," she says, in a light voice, one that could instantly and easily be categorized as friendly, "that's not very nice, interrupting my pleasant day with my little boy and his school friends. You should be ashamed of yourself. Are you drunk?"

Coy, almost. Amused, definitely. She's lifting her sunglasses again, leaning on the railing.

[Ivan Press] Now, it may as well be said up front, plainly: Ivan is a playboy. Ivan is a womanizer. Ivan will hit on just about any woman of sufficient beauty or breeding or both -- sometimes not even because he likes them in particular, but just to keep in practice. Ahrouns train themselves meticulously, day after day, beating each other up until they're sharp as knives. Ragabashes; well, their tasks are more amorphously defined. Ivan, conveniently enough, defines conversational wit as part of his job definition.

All of which is to say: just because Ivan is an incorrigible flirt doesn't mean he has no standards, or no sense of relativity. Put three women in the room and he'll rank them instantly and automatically in his head; go after them in that order.

Which is also to say: put all the rest of his little collection-du-jour on the flybridge right here, right now, stark naked and sunning themselves, and he'd still be leaning over the edge talking to the woman on the catamaran.

"Why?" he shoots right back. "Calculating handicaps and odds?"

[Ivan Press] ["...as part of his job."]

[Hilary Durante] "I'm not the competitive sort," she breezes, tossing her hair off of one shoulder. Her robe slips down off that shoulder, and she doesn't bother to drag it back up over her skin. She does, however, continue to stay out of the direct sunlight, and she does continue to watch the young man harassing her on her lovely excursion with the brawny young boys below.

"You can go ahead and race us if you like, but since our anchor's down, the win might not feel quite so satisfying."

[Ivan Press] That makes him laugh, white teeth clipping his lower lip for a moment as he lowers his head. In the midday sunlight, Ivan's hair is as golden as it'll ever be -- and even here, even now, shot through with darker hues, textured glints of bronze and oak.

His shirt is dark, v-necked, nothing but the double-layering at the collar and sleeves and something about the cut, the way it skims his body without excess or skimp, marks it as a cut above. Everything about the Ragabash is a cut above: his lean white razor of a yacht; his silent watchful helmsman; even his two guests, different shades of awkward and plain as they are, with their oh-so-impeccable breeding.

When he raises his head he's still smiling, and he's still leaning easy and lazy on the rail.

"What's it going to take," he says, "to get you come over and have a drink with me?"

[Hilary Durante] Perhaps she's used to dealing with people who are a cut above. Look at that kid she was talking to, the one that could never have come from her in a million years but that she called her 'little boy'. He was as drenched in breeding as in water. Look at the company he keeps, almost all of them born to be the same sort of prizes that she appears to be. Trophies. Mates. Jewels in the crown. Look at the goddamn yacht. She does not seem impressed, nor captivated. Simply... amused, and rather openly so. He's different. He's novel, and a change of pace from the morning thus far.

She looks briefly taken aback by the question, just over the top enough about it to indicate its falseness. "I don't think my husband would like that very much. Terrible example for the children, too, you know."

[Ivan Press] Ah, yes. The husband. Giver of jewels. The one that put that rock on her finger, big enough to sink that boat she's on. Big enough to be clearly, glitteringly visible even twenty feet away, against the glare of the water. Ivan's eyes drop to it for a moment.

And in truth, Ivan isn't as well-bred as that boy who was definitely not her little boy. His family doesn't even come close; the collective purity of an entire generation of Presses may not amount to what's represented on the hundred-foot catamaran he's alongside now. However, diamonds, jewels, bling, wealth -- that's one area he and his more than measure up in, and he knows it.

So, his eyes drop to the rock. And flick up again. His smile takes on a crooked edge, unfazed. Blunt as the question was, here's an even blunter one:

"Would he really care?"

[Hilary Durante] Her name does not match her heritage. The Garou of her family line are not of the House to which the Durantes belong to. Her skin doesn't match her 'little boy's' skin. She seems utterly at ease with all this luxury around her, though, from the gaggle of young men eager to impress her to the diamonds and sapphires and the gold she wears here and there.

Sunlight hits her wedding ring and flashes in Ivan's eyes. From the wet deck, several pairs of eyes, some of them dark and some fair, are looking up and judging him in the appraising way burgeoning males ready to fight and mate and make idiots of themselves have when they have no idea what they're getting into.

This woman, who doesn't have a name though her boat claims to be paradise, leans back from the railing, slipping her sunglasses back on, and smiles. "That depends," she says, and makes some gesture to the helmsman, who has a crooked nose and beady eyes. He glances over at the power yacht alongside the beauty he's piloting, and their anchor starts to lift.

Ivan can hear her when she leans over a different railing, looking down at the teenagers. He can imagine them looking up, seeing that flat, white belly and the dip of her navel stretched out above them, her smile flashing as brightly and with just as much twinkle as the ring on her finger. "We're setting sail, gentleman," she calls down. "Make sure Randall comes up out of the water."

"It's Russell, Mrs. Durante!" corrects a fair-haired youth sitting with his legs in the lake a little eagerly, as the Italian boy in question comes splashing up out of the water to climb up on the stern beside him.

Her head tips. That smile warms. "Oh, my mistake. Lo siento, Russell."

Russell just grins up at her, shaking water off his face, looking a little starstruck. She waves to them and then turns to take her seat on the cushions again. She looks over at Ivan again, glancing at him over the tops of her sunglasses.

Purses her lips, blowing him a kiss.

[Ivan Press] There's a difference between being forward and being a fool. Ivan is plenty of the former. Of the latter, however: he always has known when to give up a lost cause; when to accept gracious defeat; when to bide his time for a second round. Cielo begins to ratchet up her anchor, and Ivan--

well; actually, Ivan stays where he is. No commands to his helmsman; no requests to sail the other way in a show of oneupsmanship. No directions, god forbid, to pace them and stalk the woman and her flock of adoring adolescents all the way back to dock.

He watches. A boy comes up out of the water. Randall, Russell. Her mistake. Her robe falling back from her body, her skin pale in the sunlight. All this he takes in, appreciative from his vantage point at the highest deck of the smaller, sleeker monohull.

There are those he chases just to keep in practice. Then there's this: true interest, flaring like sparks struck off flint.

The woman retakes her seat, and Ivan straightens. She blows him a kiss. His smile is a smirk as he sketches his way through a shallow bow at once ironic and flawless, but genuine when he rises from it. A grin.

Her sunglasses cover her eyes again, and that's when Ivan turns away to speak to his helmsman. A moment later both men disappear into the bridge proper.

A power yacht idling on the waves could easily pull away before an anchored sailing catamaran. Krasota stays where it is, though, politely waiting for half a dozen boys and at least one experienced helmsman -- plus a woman who's surely never pulled a rope once in her life -- to unfurl their sail and raise their anchor; catch the wind, leave the area.

After Cielo's wake has cleared the vicinity, the power yacht's engines cycle up. Ivan & co. continue eastward, across the expanse of the lake.