by Nigel May
Lovers and Liars
An addictive, sexy beach read
Nigel May
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Epilogue
Letter from Nigel
Also by Nigel May
Deadly Obsession
Addicted
Scandalous Lies
Trinity
Acknowledgements
Copyright
To Louise Porte
For love from SW17 to E17 and beyond
‘This one’s for you for bringing sunshine into my life’
Prologue
The paint on the domed ceiling of the Velvet hotel’s specially erected sports arena was barely dry before the boxing match was announced globally. Hatton Eden, reigning welterweight champion of the world, the man known to his legion of superfans worldwide as ‘TMM’ – The Main Man – was to take on newcomer Orlando Vince in what TV sports channels around the globe had dubbed the ‘Belter in the Swelter’ from the moment tickets for the 18,000-seater arena went on sale. The boxing world had lived through the legendary ‘Thrilla in Manila’ and been hypnotised by the ‘Rumble in the Jungle’ and now a new gladiatorial pairing was set to make sports history.
The Belter in the Swelter was the perfect title for the match which would take place at the famous Velvet hotel in Barbados, the island’s six-star celebrity haunt and the flagship of the lucrative worldwide chain of luxury hotels owned by Sheridan Rivers. Situated on the west side of the island, the hotel was a triumph of cool, with the Hollywood elite, fashionable rich-kid popstars and megabucks media moguls alike booking in to sample its many amenities and to feel their skin change colour as they lay on the powder-fine sands under the blistering heat of the Caribbean sky.
It was Sheridan who had fought to have the arena built at Velvet in the first place, determined to draw the boxing crowds away from Las Vegas and bring the sporting superstars of the world to the tropical jewel in his billion-dollar crown. And when Sheridan Rivers decided he wanted something, nothing or no one could stand in his way. The Brit businessman had not built his empire, now with twenty-plus hotels around the world in destinations ranging from Tokyo to Honolulu, by rolling over and submitting to money men who said no, planners who tried to wrap him in red tape or architects who said that something couldn’t be done. Everything was possible in Sheridan’s world so long as you didn’t have to listen to other people’s opinions and surrounded yourself with ‘yes’ people who would always loyally agree with everything you suggested.
And after months of hard work the night of the bout had finally arrived. Sheridan couldn’t have been happier as he watched the crowds starting to take their seats at the beginning of the evening. He was watching from the highest point of the arena, a gangway that ran around the top edge of the dome. It was the perfect vantage point from which to calculate how much money he would be making from the evening. He’d spent a lifetime looking down on others so why stop now? All 18,000 seats had been filled, with tickets ranging from $1,500 through to $7,500, and then there were the pay-per-view TV rewards to be considered. All in all, he’d make a tidy sum out of tonight’s proceedings, maybe enough to open another hotel, which considering everything that had happened in the run-up to fight night was pretty incredible. It had been quite some ride and he was glad that the night was finally underway.
He gazed down at Blair Lonergan, famed DJ and worldwide music star, the man spinning his musical web of wonder from a purpose-built stage on the far side of the arena. His latest chart-topping collaboration, a funky slab of dance-floor-filling beats mashed with vocals from some vacuous pop starlet of the moment, boomed out from a bank of speakers either side of the stage. New Yorker Blair was adored worldwide and even Sheridan had to admit that he could see why – even if he wasn’t his number-one fan. He was ridiculously handsome, his chiselled features giving him an almost action-hero quality. His blond buzz cut, streetwise air of cool and rock-hard abs had made him the poster boy of the DJ world and the face and body of countless fashion houses. He was Abercrombie & Fitch fit with a talent that had seen him bag DJ residences around the world, including a twelve-month run at a succession of Velvet hotels across the globe. He was the best and that’s why Sheridan had employed him, both for regular nights at his hotels and also to keep the party pumping before the evening’s main event.
‘Make the most of it though, you fucking upstart,’ sighed Sheridan as he watched. ‘Because this is it.’ A smile spread across his face, a grin of knowledge and power puffing out his chest as he spoke. Sheridan felt good – he always did when he was on top.
A female voice sounded beside him. ‘It’s time to get ready, sir. The fight starts in about an hour and a half and you need to be looking your best – the eyes of the world are upon you tonight. Not that you ever look anything less, of course.’
Sheridan turned to look. ‘Thank you, Kassidy. Is my suit ready for tonight?’
‘Yes, sir. Clean, pressed and set for wearing.’
‘And my diamond cufflinks are here?’
‘Two commissioned diamond boxing gloves arrived by courier from London this afternoon.’
‘Shoes polished?’
‘I had one of the bellhops shine them until he could see his face in them.’
‘My daughters?’
‘Nikki will be here despite everything. Have you two managed to—’
‘I’m not talking about that now.’ Sheridan’s words, brusque and sharp, cut Kassidy off in full flow. ‘What about Heather?’ Sadness washed over him as he asked.
‘Well, boxing’s not really her thing but she said she’d be here. I’ll check for you.’
‘And my wife?’
‘Mrs Rivers has booked herself into the hotel spa for a last-minute manicure and facial and says that she’ll see you at your seat for the fight.’
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sp; ‘Typical Sutton,’ stated Sheridan. ‘So, we’ll be alone again in the penthouse then, Kassidy. Mind you, my wife’s not slept there for days anyway.’ He moved towards her and gave her backside a squeeze as he walked past. Not as firm as it used to be, he thought to himself. ‘Good, I’m thinking there might be some last-minute odd jobs that need doing.’ He gave his growing erection a squeeze too as he felt it through his linen trousers. ‘You reckon you can sort that for me, too?’
‘Of course, sir,’ smiled Kassidy. But it was a smile riddled with doubt. After ten years of being both Sheridan and Sutton Rivers’ personal assistant, a job she had started when she was just nineteen, Kassidy Orpin was more than a little over blowing the boss whenever he demanded. But as she trotted off behind him in the direction of his hotel penthouse she knew she’d be on her knees within a few minutes – it was what she did. If she wanted to get ahead and realise her ambitions then giving head was just one of the many things on her to-do list. It was how she’d secured the job in the first place. A willing mouth and no gag reflex could erase a CV stating that she left school at sixteen back in Dublin with no real qualifications, especially if your potential boss was a player who couldn’t keep his prick in his pants. And Sheridan Rivers had been good to her over the years, which is why she had loved him, both in and out of the bedroom. But only when he chose. And only when Sutton was not within nagging distance – and preferably in another time zone.
‘I knew there was a reason I’ve kept you on the books all these years,’ announced a naked Sheridan ten minutes later as Kassidy, on her knees, expertly worked his length and took a mouthful of his seed back in his suite. He withdrew his cock as she swallowed, and patted her dismissively on the head, as if she were a puppy. ‘Cheers for that. Now, I’d better start getting ready for this fight. Where are those sodding cufflinks?’
Kassidy stood up and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Cheers for that? A valid reason? Is that all I am these days? she thought to herself. Sheridan never used to say things like that but lately he seemed to more and more. She’d have to make it stop.
She walked over to a marble-topped dresser in the corner of the suite and picked up the diamond cufflinks. ‘They’re here, and your suit is laid out on the bed.’
There was no answer. Sheridan was already in the bathroom, soaking his body – now rounder and less defined than it once was, but still in very good shape for a man of fifty – under the forceful jets of the power shower. He was singing, a rather tuneless rendition of ‘When You’re Smiling’, one of his favourite Rat Pack tunes, at the top of his lungs. Dean, Frank or Sammy he was not, but back in the day they would have played at Velvet hotels, Sheridan knew that. They were his idols. Style, cash and a dangerous edge – what more could any man want? Oh yeah, and women flocked to them. The ultimate kudos. Just how Sheridan liked it.
‘See you ringside in about an hour or so,’ said Kassidy, standing in the bathroom doorway. He didn’t hear her; he didn’t care to.
She sighed to herself and left his suite, the sound of his dodgy singing still filling her ears. The sooner she could break free the better.
It was round five of the fight and Hatton Eden knew that his luck was running out. Despite months of rigorous training under the watchful eye of his personal trainer and manager, Fidge Carter, the man who had steered him to world domination in a sport he had taken up when he was growing up in Eastern Europe, he knew that he was not at his best. He’d felt it from the moment that he’d entered the arena to a fanfare of jubilation from the 18,000-strong crowd, pumping his fist in the air to his signature tune, ‘Here Comes The Main Man’, sung by rapper Daddy O, who walked alongside him on one side while reality star Nova Chevalier, diva of the telly world, flanked him on the other. This was showbiz and theatre after all. But he had other things on his mind and Hatton did not fight at his best if his normally razor-sharp brain was not firing on all cylinders.
By round five he was sporting a split lip, a bruised eyelid already turning a deep shade of purple and if he wasn’t mistaken he could feel a dose of boxer’s knuckle coming on from his constant attempts to try and land the perfect right hook or upper cut on his opponent, Orlando Vince.
Fidge watched fearfully from the corner of the ring as Orlando planted a short jab squarely into Hatton’s face. The drop-dead gorgeous face that had managed to secure the boxing star multi-million pound contracts and sponsorship deals for everything from energy drinks to skipping ropes. A long stream of deep red liquid shot from the corner of Hatton’s mouth as Orlando’s punch took its toll, landing with a sickening splat across the boxing-ring canvas. Fidge could see in Hatton’s eyes that his fight was disappearing. He could read that face like a book. He knew every line, every pore. Most of the time he could tell what Hatton was thinking before he knew himself. And something was wrong.
The fight had been doomed from the sound of the bell signalling round one. The timing was far from perfect. He should have called it off; his sixth sense had said so. But there was too much to lose. A world title, for one. Though it would take a miracle for Hatton to be the one holding the title belt aloft tonight. Fidge could see the possibility flowing away like the thickening rivulets of blood running down Hatton’s face. How had all their hard work come to this?
Fidge placed his hands to his face and looked on in horror as Orlando delivered yet another pole-axing blow to Hatton’s forehead. For a moment, Hatton swayed, his face a mask of confusion and distress. A fountain of blood erupted from a newly formed cut, the crimson mixing with the deep scarlet of Hatton’s famous red-hot locks. And then he fell, unable to hold himself up any longer, his muscled frame succumbing to weakness and defeat. As he hit the deck, the crowd gasped. This had not been expected: the champion was down. His face bounced off the canvas, the spirit bulldozed from him. The bloodlust of the crowd burst into life as nearly 18,000 people stood on their feet and applauded the man destined to be their next champion, Orlando Vince. The referee scuttled towards Hatton, his still, tattooed frame spread across the floor.
‘Ten, nine…’
Fidge Carter heard nothing as the crowd began to chant, their euphoria erupting into a bacchanalian dance. The only sound he heard was that of his own heartbeat pounding inside his ribcage.
‘Eight, seven...’
DJ Blair Lonergan was forced to his feet by the rapper, Daddy O, who was sitting alongside him. It was not where Blair had chosen to sit, but that choice had been taken away from him. As Daddy O wrapped his arms around Blair, a mass of gold clanking around his neck as he wept for his fallen hero, Blair didn’t respond. Who had hit the deck? He really didn’t know; he hadn’t been paying attention. He had other things spinning through his mind.
‘Six, five…’
Nikki Rivers, Sheridan’s older daughter, bit nervously on her fingernail as she saw Hatton Eden lying prone on the floor. She looked over her shoulder nervously, as she had been doing all evening. Checking. Just in case. Was everything finally resolved, her worries finally over? Her mind was on fire, burning against her skull. There were familiar faces in the crowd, not just those she knew from stage and screen, some she was happy to see and others not so much. She longed for the night to be over.
‘Four…’
Heather Stoneham, Sheridan’s younger daughter, had no idea why she was there. To support her father? That was a joke. She should have flown back to her house in St Lucia, but her beachside home seemed empty. It was that way every day now. Just her and the staff. It had once been so full of life, so full of promise. Not anymore. So despite her dislike of boxing, such a violent, angry sport, she had to come to Barbados, to her father’s big match. She needed to. There were things to attend to. But despite being surrounded by a huge crowd, Heather had never felt more lonely. Nor more angry.
‘Three…’
Kassidy Orpin could still taste the flavour of her liaison with her boss earlier that evening. Not that she relished the taste, not at the moment. Had she not had to sort out a
million different things, as ever, she would have headed back to her room, showered and mouthwashed to remove the taste. But as usual she had been making sure that everything was right for the man she had been a slave to for the last ten years. But that was changing: it was time for a new beginning.
‘Two…’
Sutton Rivers was in turmoil – not that her Botoxed face showed it. Her range of emotions could run from rhapsody to suicidal and back again and her face would remain wrinkle-free. What did they say about black skin? Black don’t crack? Well, Sutton was never going to take the risk of that happening. With a face pumped full of the most expensive purified proteins that dermatologists in America, Canada and Europe could buy, there was no chance of any cracking. She needed her skin to be as smooth as Indian silk, especially when she had reality TV royalty like Nova Chevalier sitting on her left. Sutton wasn’t about to let any telly bitch outshine her. Especially not one who looked like she’d applied her make-up by throwing the whole vanity case into an overhead fan and seeing what she caught as it fell to the ground. But not even Hollywood heat like Nova would know that Sutton was volcanically bubbling with inner turmoil as she applauded the demise of Hatton Eden’s world-championship defence in the ring. Sutton cast her gaze towards the empty seat to the right of her: it had been empty all evening. It was the man who should have been sitting there who had caused her turmoil. Torn her world and her family apart. But maybe now it was finally over. She pulled her faux-fur stole tight around her shoulders and continued to stare into space.
‘One…’
Sheridan Rivers never made it to his seat on what should have been one of the most pivotal nights of his professional life. He should have been there to walk alongside his wife and daughters, schmooze the celebrities, brag to the press about his new arena, publicise his chain of Velvet hotels and congratulate the winner in the ring. But he wasn’t. He was no longer singing, that was for sure. And he certainly wasn’t smiling. He was lying face down in a pool of his own blood in his penthouse suite, a large, heavy object lying on the floor beside him. The collar of his pristine white shirt and the nape of his neck were a deep red. As red as the blood that continued to pour down Hatton Eden’s face as he lay on the canvas in front of the Belter in the Swelter crowd.
