Lovers and Liars: An addictive sexy beach read

by Nigel May

  Again Radko smiled. ‘My brother owns a small hotel just two streets away from here. I will phone him and he will let you stay there at no cost as our guest for as many nights as you need.’

  ‘No, no… There’s no need. I’m quite happy to pay,’ stuttered Fidge, somewhat taken aback by the man’s generous offer.

  ‘No, my friend, you have given me many hours of pleasure with your fighting so it will be my family’s honour to have you as a guest in our country.’

  Fidge was beginning to wonder why he’d never been to Bulgaria before. Some celebrities were ‘big in Japan’ – he was obviously ‘big in Bulgaria’. Who’d have thought it, he pondered.

  Radko wrote down the address of the hotel and gave some simple instructions. As Fidge was leaving his office he was already on the phone to his brother.

  When Fidge returned to the gym a couple of hours later, freshly changed and fed on stewed leg of mutton, thanks to Radko’s equally smiley brother, the crowd gathered for the boxing match between Penko and his opponent was already gaining momentum. Rows of plastic seats had been set out around the ring and already a group of nearly a hundred boxing fans was waiting for the bell to sound for round one.

  Radko spotted Fidge enter and beckoned for him to come and sit alongside him in the middle of the front row. He greeted him with a bear hug.

  There were two boxers in the ring, each bouncing up and down on his boots and psyching himself up for action. As Fidge sat down the lights in the gym dimmed and it was clear that the fight was about to begin. Both men stared into each other’s eyes and after an introduction of which Fidge couldn’t decipher a word, the sound of the first bell rang out and the men began to try and punch each other with all their might.

  Fidge could see straight away that there was a real difference in the way that the two men fought. Penko was good (Fidge knew it was Penko due to the ‘P’ appliquéed on his shorts) but Radko was right: there was an arrogance to his moves, a swagger that didn’t always match up to the lack of skill he was showing in his jabs and uppercuts. Fidge found it hard to believe that the men he had heard talking about Penko back at the gym in London had been talking about this particular man. World-class, he was not. Fidge could only assume that they had lost their professional eye or that Penko was obviously having a horribly bad night. By the end of round three, his opponent was clearly points ahead and had it not been for him, Fidge knew that he would be checking out of his hotel and heading back to the UK first thing the next morning. Penko was giving a performance that was not so much stone as dead weight.

  His opponent, though, was captivating and Fidge hadn’t been able to take his eyes off him from the moment the first round commenced. He was totally easy on the eye, no more than eighteen or nineteen years old and with a body that wouldn’t know an excess ounce of fat if it was served with salt and vinegar. His hair was ginger and messy, his body decorated with a scattering of basic tattoos. Straight away Fidge fancied the bubble butt off him but he wasn’t there to pull. This was business and he needed to keep his personal persuasions private.

  But he marvelled at the way the young boxer out-danced Penko and landed punches on him that were clean, forceful and as skilled as if they had been learnt from a master himself. By the start of round four the redhead was clearly on his way to victory. It came quickly as he delivered a knockout blow to Penko’s cheek. Penko hit the deck: the stone had fallen.

  The crowd, including Radko, stood to applaud the newcomer. The look on the face of the victor showed that he had obviously succeeded in doing what he set out to do. There was a gritted determination about his gaze and the way that he stared down at the defeated Penko, a hatred fused with anger fused with something akin to justice. The delivery was deadly and deliciously expert in its rawness. Fidge might have come to Varna seeking out Penko but what he had found was something beyond his wildest dreams. The fighter before him had a burning energy that he knew he could tame and nurture.

  As Radko took Fidge into the ring and introduced him to the crowd, a murmur of excited respect encircled the gym, especially from the two men who had fought inside the ropes. Fidge took the shield and handed it to the winner. He took his hand in his, enjoying the contact, and held his arm aloft.

  ‘What is your name? I want to talk to you more,’ he said. It didn’t occur to him that the boxer might not understand English.

  ‘Zlaten,’ he replied.

  ‘Hatton?’ said Fidge, unable to hear the Bulgarian properly over the applause of the crowd.

  ‘Yes, if you like. Hatton, I like that.’

  Fidge was suddenly very grateful that he had been given free accommodation in Varna. He would need to stay there long enough to persuade ‘Hatton’ that he knew exactly where his future was heading. Also, he couldn’t help but think about how perfect it was that Varna was the site where the oldest gold treasure in the world had been discovered. As he stared into Hatton’s eyes he knew that he had just found a brand-new treasure of his own. And there was a glint in the boxer’s eyes that suggested he was feeling exactly the same way.

  Fidge couldn’t wait to show Hatton his seahorses. The two of them stood proud across his upper back, his personal reply to Hatton’s bald eagle, the tattoo that spread itself across the left side of Hatton’s rock-hard chest.

  His chance came hours later, when he returned to the mews apartment he sometimes shared with his secret love. Hatton was lying on the sofa, wearing only his sweatpants, ploughing his way through a large container of tuna and rice.

  ‘I’ve got something to show you,’ said Fidge, proudly peeling off his shirt to reveal the new tattoo. It was still wrapped but visible through the film covering it. ‘I wanted two seahorses. They symbolise mates for life, like you and I. They are monogamous and together. I wanted something to echo the sentiment of your bald eagle, as I know you chose that because they too choose a partner for a lifetime.’

  Hatton put down his food to study the tattoo. As he did so, he began to laugh.

  His reaction confused Fidge. ‘Why are you laughing?’

  ‘Seahorses are not very often monogamous, Fidge. They have lots of different partners and have been known to breed in groups, so although I love the idea and think the tattoo looks amazing, they are not as faithful as the majestic bald eagle I wear with pride. Thinking seahorses are in love with just one partner is sadly not always true.’

  Fidge was slightly crestfallen, especially after the hours he had spent in the tattoo artist’s chair. ‘But I saw it on a TV show.’

  But Hatton was well aware of Fidge’s TV habits. ‘Did you watch it all? Or did you become bored and flick onto a sports channel like you usually do?’

  Hatton was laughing at his question but he knew the answer.

  Fidge chose not to give one and slipped his shirt back on. Thankfully he was a better manager, trainer and partner than he was a wildlife expert.

  21

  Nothing prepares you for the moment that an earth-shattering piece of bad news is delivered to your door. No matter what you’re doing, where you are or who you are with, suddenly your world implodes on itself and becomes a vacuum of hurt, misery and what ifs.

  Sutton Rivers had been dining with her friend Caitlyn Rich at SUSHISAMBA, the tri-cultural restaurant perched on the thirty-eighth and thirty-ninth floors of London’s Heron Tower. One moment she had been discussing youth-enhancing procedures and bemoaning the fact that Hatton Eden had ‘somehow, unbelievably turned me down’ to her cosmetic surgeon’s girlfriend and the next the phone had sounded and all colour seemed to drain from her features as she heard the news. All thought of potential uplifts and dermal fillers disappeared in a millisecond as she contemplated what she was hearing. Leaving an understanding Caitlyn to pay the bill, Sutton had rushed from the restaurant, making a call to organise one of the Velvet private jets: she knew where she needed to be.

  Nikki Rivers could taste Sambuca on her lips as she opened her eyes, the sound of the call awakening her from a deep sleep.
She looked at the phone display, noting the time. It was already mid-afternoon and she could see the New York sky outside her window, a fusion of the hopeful blue of a bright Big Apple day and an onslaught of grey as the afternoon contemplated marching into evening. Jesus, she’d slept all day! No wonder, given the night that had just passed. What time had she crawled into bed? Was it 7 a.m., maybe later? She wasn’t sure. At least it was her own bed – there was some comfort in waking up in the Velvet hotel suite. She hadn’t had very far to stumble after the excesses of the night before.

  Blair Lonergan certainly knew how to entertain. The DJ’s set had been phenomenal. Nikki could understand why he was billed as the demon of the decks and why her father had booked him to play at Velvet hotels around the world. From the moment he had played his debut track, sending the fashionable New York partygoers into a frenzy of ecstasy, to the rapturous, laser-lit, roof-raising note of his epic finale, he had worked his DJ booth with skilled perfection. He was like an artist creating masterpiece after masterpiece of musical magic; every creation unique yet all equally majestic. He was the Pied Piper leading the crowd wherever he chose. Nikki had watched him from the privacy of the VIP area she shared with her socialite friends, close enough to his booth to see Blair in action but far enough away to be hidden from the paying public. She and her partying partisans were able to feed on the music served to them by Blair and use it to fuel their excitement. They had drunk the best fizz, downed the best spirits and snorted the finest drugs. Each of them, including Nikki, had lived the ride that Blair had taken them on. For Nikki it had been the perfect way to forget about the dramas of the day that had been and the continuing threat of blackmail. There was a new man to take her mind off things and when Blair had joined her in the VIP area after his set there was only one way the night could continue.

  Nikki turned to look at the naked body alongside her in her bed as she pressed the answer button on her phone. Blair Lonergan. They had taken the party back to her suite after the set, just him and her. They had barely made it through the door before clothes were ripped off and lips met, an urgent kiss that led to a bout of frenzied, drug-fuelled carnality that Nikki had never experienced with such spice before. Their lovemaking was fierce and frantic yet she was sure that there was also some kind of connection and respect between them. And she thought that Blair might have felt it too. As she answered the phone and walked from the bed she could feel her legs wobble and start to buckle beneath her. It could have been from the exuberance of the night before – but it wasn’t. It was a sudden weakness at the news she was hearing. Overcome with misery, she fell to the floor and wept.

  Heather Stoneham heard the news as she lay in her Crete hotel room wishing that her husband would hurry back to her side. Her stomach wasn’t hurting anymore, maybe it never had. Perhaps she had deliberately chosen to come home from the meal with Max, Kassidy and her father, her own wishes causing the momentary feeling of nausea she had experienced in her belly. She wasn’t sure any more. But she knew that she had to come back to the hotel. There was something she wanted to do. She’d had a feeling all day – for longer, to be honest. But she needed to find out.

  Heather picked up her phone when it rang. It was her father’s number. She listened as he spoke the words. One word tumbled and blurred into another as she tried to take them all in.

  ‘Heather, it’s your dad. Listen there’s been a car accident. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news. I’m at the hospital. The ambulances brought us here. I’m fine but I’m afraid Max isn’t. They tried to resuscitate him at the scene but his injuries were too great. He’s dead. I’ve told Kassidy to bring you to the hospital.’

  Heather never heard Kassidy’s knock at her door or indeed the door opening as she entered. All she heard was the sound of her own scream. A scream so loud and heart-wrenching that it must have been heard all across the blue waters surrounding Crete and as far as Athens. She felt the tears running down her face, tears she feared would never stop. Max was gone. Her Max, the man who had always been by her side. It couldn’t be, but she had just heard that it was: the news that had accompanied the sound of her own heart snapping into a million broken pieces.

  ‘There’s a car here to take us to the hospital,’ said Kassidy, motionless in the doorway. She wanted to comfort Heather, to rush to her side and put her arms around her, to tell her that everything would be okay. But she knew it wouldn’t be. How could it? Max was dead. Sheridan had phoned her to tell her the news. He had said a lot of things on the phone. Kassidy had tried to take them all in; she wasn’t sure she could.

  Heather, her heart aching within her core, moved from her bed and walked towards Kassidy. She stared down at her phone and scrolled through the messages that Max had sent merely minutes ago. She gazed at the trio of kisses. It was the last contact she’d had from him; she would never feel his kiss again.

  Kassidy placed an arm around Heather’s shoulders and pulled her towards her. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said.

  Heather, her eyes still awash with tears, looked up at Kassidy. ‘Why has this happened? Why now?’

  Kassidy went to say something but stopped herself. She pulled the door shut on Heather and Max’s room, a room Max would never see again.

  He would never see what was on the bedside table either. Neither did Kassidy. Only Heather knew of its existence. She was the one who had put it there. It was the reason she had returned home from the meal, the something she had to do. But now, given the tragic, life-changing news she had just received, a pregnancy test somehow didn’t seem so vitally important anymore.

  22

  The multi-hued lights of Crete winked up at Sutton as she stared out of the private jet at the island below her. She’d never been to any of the Greek islands before and she’d never imagined that she’d be going there for the first time to aid her youngest daughter in her hideous hour of need. But it was where she needed to be as a mother, alongside the beautiful baby girl whom she had nursed and watched as she grew into a remarkable young woman.

  Just like the lights below, Heather had always been a bright, twinkling source of energy, one of those people others found themselves automatically attracted to.

  Sutton was well aware that she herself wasn’t always the easiest person to deal with. She could be demanding, nagging and horribly insecure. If the recent disastrous meal with Hatton and the subsequent falling asleep after making a full-on pass at one of the hotel employees debacle hadn’t already been enough to send a shiver of crippling self-doubt to her very core, she knew that she was feeling more vulnerable in her life with Sheridan than ever before. But she could never be without him. The pre-nup in which she had signed away any rights to his fortune proved that. If Sutton wanted to keep the life that she was accustomed to then she needed to stay with Sheridan, despite sometimes wishing that she could run off into the distance with someone else. But she couldn’t help feeling that the chances of that happening were becoming thinner and thinner as she became older. As thin as the wrinkles that she could feel appearing on her face and body day after day after day. Without Sheridan and his riches how could she even attempt to hold back the ravages of time?

  Sutton couldn’t believe that it had been Sheridan’s bit on the side, Kassidy, who had phoned with the news of Max’s death. How insulting was that? It was as if he didn’t consider his wife’s thoughts anymore. Sheridan hadn’t even thought to phone her personally. The man was unbelievable, but he would always be the one who had unbelievably turned Sutton’s life on its head and given her more than any of the other girls from her ghetto background ever dreamt of. Sheridan loved her, as she did him, but she was more than aware that it was a special kind of love that spoke its own unique language, a language that Sutton didn’t always understand.

  Kassidy did say that Sheridan was being checked over at the hospital – she had the name written down somewhere – so maybe telephone reception was an issue or, as she suspected, perhaps he was too busy having wires attached to him in the
vain hope maybe some Greek doctor could actually find a loving heart beating away beneath his hard-as-nails exterior. She doubted they would find one; she couldn’t remember the last time she had seen it. Sheridan would be too busy making sure that bimbo Kassidy was all right to think about his dear wife. She should fire that little skank’s ass, but she knew that her husband would not be happy.

  Sutton hoped that Sheridan would be looking after Heather in her absence. She had tried to phone her daughter throughout the entirety of the flight to Crete, but Heather’s phone had clicked straight through to voicemail. But she needed a parent by her side and preferably one she could relate to. That had always been Sutton as opposed to Sheridan.

  Despite every shudder of dislike and vein of vulnerability that ran through Sutton’s inner core when she thought about her role as the wife of Sheridan Rivers, as the Velvet private jet landed on one of the runways at Heraklion International Airport, she was grateful that at least she still had her husband in her life. She may not always have agreed with what Sheridan did, and there were times when she could have happily held a loaded gun against his forehead and blown his brains out in anger, but at least he was still alive. Still able to breathe, and criticise, and be the head of the family when he deemed fit. Max Stoneham would never be able to do any of that again, and that meant Sutton’s beautiful daughter Heather was now a widow at the age of twenty-four. Where was the justice in that?

  Blair had woken up to find Nikki lying on the floor of her hotel suite crying. His first reaction had been to assume she was having some kind of hideous melancholic reaction to the drugs she had taken the night before. But as he rushed across to her and held her in his arms he could see that her tears were not ones of self-pity and early comedown maudlin, they were the Real McCoy, tears of genuine sadness. When she told him the news she had been given about Max he could understand why. Nikki had lost someone close to her, a family member; maybe not someone that she saw every day but obviously someone she loved and respected.