Deadly Obsession (17 page)

‘
Y
ou know
that this hotel has an in-house tailor who will make you a tuxedo if you don't have one. I am not heading to a
soirée
on the rooftop terrace, dear man, if you are not dressed appropriately. I cannot be seen overlooking Times Square clutching a martini in my hand wearing a Joseph Ribkoff leopard print with you looking anything less than Daniel Craig divine.'

‘Caitlyn, we're in New York City. They do have shops here if I needed to buy a tuxedo, my sweet, and for your information I did pack two before we boarded the jet in London.'

Caitlyn Rich placed the hotel brochure she was reading from on the bedside table and lay back across the king-sized bed, loving the fresh feel of the cotton sheets against her naked skin. She was in great shape for a woman of her age – forty-seven in reality but thirty-nine to those who dared to ask – and the sexual workout she had just enjoyed with her lover, the man stood equally naked at the end of the bed, would certainly help keep the inches trimmed in all the right places. Her breasts stood proud, even when she lay on her back, but then they would. They were the handiwork of Jona Fleet, the famed Harley Street cosmetic surgeon to the stars, who had made sure that Caitlyn's considerable breasts, not glamour-model over-large but still sizable enough to give good cleavage, did not stray into different time zones from each other and head under her armpits when she lay on her back. Caitlyn had used one of her joint accounts with Adam to pay for the surgery eighteen months ago. Along with a tummy tuck and a chin dimple operation. The results had been so good that Jona didn't just ask her for a reference, he asked for a date, and despite being married to one of the most hardened men in the UK, Caitlyn had been glad to oblige. She and Jona, the man now sharing her hotel suite at Manhattan's reopened famous Knickerbocker Hotel, had been lovers for the past fourteen months.

Caitlyn's sex life had never been better. There was still the odd drunken fumble from Adam when he came in smelling of cigar smoke and whisky on one of his nights out with the boys but to be honest, Adam hadn't really bothered her sexually for years and that was just how she liked it. Adam was her cash cow, her pay cheque, her security. He wasn't her fun, her freedom, her fantasy. He had his lovers, Caitlyn knew that, and she had hers. And Jona was her latest, and with a nine inch erection bobbing between his legs, he was certainly her greatest too.

It was his huge erect phallus that caught her attention again as she stared at him from the bed. ‘Well, we need to get rid of that before you go slipping into any clothing as you'd see that delightful monster distending a tuxedo made from the thickest of materials. I love the fact it's ready for action so soon after its last workout.'

‘Can you blame it, Caitlyn? Look at you. You could turn any man on with a body like that. Even if I say so myself,' said the surgeon, his cock throbbing with anticipatory delight.

‘Well, it's your doing, Jona. Now fix me a Martini and come back to bed. We didn't fly across the Atlantic in your jet for a romantic weekend to not make use of every delightful moment.'

‘I'll phone down and order room service. They supposedly invented the Martini in this hotel back in 1912 so nobody is going to make it better than them.' Jona moved to the bedside table and stared down at Caitlyn's curves and the soft, downy patch of hair between her legs as he picked up the phone to order the Martini. His cock, still hard and proud, stood out in front of him. As he spoke on the phone, Caitlyn moved into position at the side of the bed and took his hardness into her mouth, working the shaft expertly with her tongue and lips as he placed the order for two Martinis. Caitlyn nibbled gently on the tip of his erection with her teeth causing her lover to flinch slightly as he hung up the phone.

‘Now now, you can stop that right away,' he joked. ‘If you're hungry I'll treat you to dinner in one of the sky pods at the St Cloud over Times Square. And yes, I'll be wearing a tuxedo.' Jona climbed onto the bed as he spoke and moved Caitlyn into position, lying her on her back once more underneath him.

‘This is no time to talk about restaurants. And what's with all this Amerifying everything … if that's a word. We're both British, for heaven's sake, it's a dinner jacket, not a tuxedo.'

‘Well, you started it, my angel. Now. Talking of dinner, I seem to have quite an appetite.' Jona placed his hands between Caitlyn's legs and opened the folds of her pussy to reveal the juicy pink core within. He buried his face deep inside and began licking at the flower within.

Caitlyn threw her head back in delight at the pleasure she was experiencing from his tongue. Neither Caitlyn nor Jona heard the knock of the door from room service as, unable to wait any longer, she moved Jona's mouth from her sex and eagerly slid his nine inches into her. The Martinis would still be on the menu later on.

A
my's visit
to the casino had not gone as planned. She had followed Adam into the building and watched as he marched into Tommy's office. Whatever he wished to discuss, it was clear that he meant business. Determined not to be spotted, Amy had closeted herself as closely as possible, attempting to remain as hidden as she could. Screened behind a fruit machine, she angled herself to try and eavesdrop on the clandestine conversation between Adam and Tommy. It was futile – all she could hear was the constant noise of the gambling machines surrounding her.

She watched through the open door of the office as Adam banged his fist on the table, then stabbed his finger towards Tommy and threw his hands to his head. It was clear he was agitated. She was surprised the door had been left open but even though it was she still struggled to hear. She was sure she could read the words ‘Riley' and ‘Amy' on his lips.
Was she imagining it?
She had to try and move closer without the risk of being seen. She was just about to try when a voice sounded ...

‘Can I help you? Are you looking for someone?' It was a man, early twenties, good looking. From his black waistcoat and crisp white shirt combo Amy guessed that he worked at the casino. ‘If you're looking for the cash booth, it's over there.' He pointed towards the far side of the room.

‘No, I was after a job.' It was the first thing Amy could think of to say and she was sure the lie was visible on her face as she felt her cheeks begin to redden with embarrassment. ‘I was wondering if I could pick up an application form if you have any positions vacant, especially over the Christmas and New Year period. I'm looking to make a bit of money ... I'd be good at it ...' Amy drew her ramblings to an end, aware of just how unconvincing she could hear herself being.

The man, however, obviously as naive as he was handsome, seemed to believe her. ‘Oh right, I'll go and find you a form. I'm sure I heard the boss say he was looking for more people.'

The boss. Tommy. Amy looked back towards the office where Tommy and Adam's little one-to-one was still in full, furious flow. She had to try and hear what they were saying. Determined to get rid of the man who was stopping her from doing so, Amy fired off her reply. ‘Yeah, that's great, if you could I'd be really grateful.'

‘I hope it works out for you,' replied the man with more than a measure of flirtation in his voice. ‘We could do with some fit girls working here. I've only been here a few weeks. Used to live in north Wales, thought I'd come to a big city to earn some dough. This is my first job. It's all right, the boss is a bit of a git but he's okay. I'm Jimmy by the way ...'

‘Er, hi ... nice to meet you' said Amy, half-listening. Her eyes were still fixed on the office. She could see that Jimmy had his hand outstretched towards her out of the corner of her eye.
God, this was all she needed ...

‘Hi Jimmy, cheers ... yeah, if you could ... er ... get me ... a form that would be excellent,' she faltered, shaking his hand and smiling weakly.

‘Sure thing, I'll be right back.' He winked cheekily at her before turning and wandering off.

The conversation, short though it was, was long enough to ruin Amy's chances of attempting to decipher any more of the exchange between Adam and Tommy. When she stared back towards the office, the door was now wide open and only Tommy was inside. Where had Adam gone?

Frenziedly scanning her eyes around the casino, Amy tried to locate him. His bald head, the scrunched up skin on his neck and his broad back were not hard to spot as he pounded his way towards the exit. Whatever he had been saying to Tommy, it was clear that it was both over and had done nothing to appease his tantrum. Amy wanted to speak to Adam, maybe she should follow him. If she did maybe some clue about Riley's ‘death' would come to light. She was certain that she'd lip-read his name. But she was here to see Tommy. He was still in his office, his mood not exactly jubilant either from the look of deep worry etched across his features. Amy was unsure what to do. Should she follow Adam or do what she'd come to do and see Tommy?

The decision was made for her.

‘I couldn't find a form ...' The male voice came from behind and Amy felt a hand on her shoulder. It was an animated Jimmy. She turned to face him. ‘But I've brought the lady who does the interviews here with me, as she said she'd see you now if you fancy ... is that a bit of luck, or what?'

The lady in question was Jemima Hearn and she was standing next to Jimmy. She was the last person Amy wanted to see. She knew she'd been caught, as did a grinning Jemima.

It was Jemima who spoke. ‘That's right. Jimmy tells me you want a job at Dirty Cash. I think you should follow me to the office don't you?. Let's see what the owner thinks of your
suitability
.'

Amy felt her heart sink as Jemima Hearn grabbed her roughly by the arm and frog-marched her towards Tommy's office.

A
s Amy steeled
herself to be grilled by the Hearns in the casino office, Grant Wilson was walking down a street on the other side of Manchester without a care in the world.

It was a crisp, fresh winter's day. The sky was blue with a snap of frost running through it, leaving him with a feeling of invigoration. There was a spring in Grant's step. It felt good to be at the top of his game. His work diary was full and he was a man in demand. The last year had been a major one for Grant. He had seen his star rise into orbit. He was on the verge of breaking through on an international scale. The right part, a well-timed meeting and he could be hanging with the Hollywood hot-shots like Cruise and Clooney by the time the next series of
Ward 44
had aired. He was in control. Just how he liked it, just as he'd always craved. All of the plates he'd attempted to spin over the past twelve months had paid off. They were all still spinning in joyous harmony. And he was their master. No, Grant felt invincible and the visit to Manchester was adding to that. Nobody could topple him.

He liked spending time with Amy. It pleased him. She'd been spat out by life over the last year. But as far as Grant was concerned she was better off without that wanker of a husband of hers, whatever the circumstances. Dead or otherwise.

Grant liked being back in Manchester. His old stomping ground. It gave him the chance to reminisce, to recollect. There was an air of cool about it that the rat race lifestyle of London couldn't always achieve and Grant was determined to try and re-tread an old path while he was in the neighbourhood.

Walking up to his destination he stared at the door in front of him and placed his face against the window framed within it. He placed his hands either side of his face to blinker the reflection of the blue sky on the glass. He let out a smile and attempted to push the door. It opened and he walked inside ...

I
t broke
Genevieve's heart every time she saw her daughter. The relationship between the style icon and her own mother was far from rosy and Genevieve was determined that her bond with her own offspring would be as strong as it possibly could be. At least that had been the original idea when baby Emily came into the world.

Growing up, Genevieve had often dreamt of what it would be like to become a mother. She remembered how, as a child, she would scan the romance books sitting on her mother's bookshelf and pore over the words. She would imagine that one day a dashing, Herculean hero would sweep her into his arms and state his adoring love to her. That she would wear a huge fluffy dress of white on their wedding day and that nine months later she would give birth to the first of many beautiful children. But that was just fiction.

As Genevieve became older, her grasp on the harsh realities of life made her once pure and hopeful mind cloud into a miasma of putrid awakening that life was not as black and white as the pages of her mother's escapist reads. Of all of the boyfriends she'd had since first sharing a date outside her local chip shop at the age of fourteen, none had measured up. All of them had been dashing, a few could have been considered Herculean, but how many of them had stated their adoring love? In her teenage years the L-word had been liberally used by her admirers, mostly as a way of trying to crawl inside her knickers. But as Genevieve became a success in her own right, achievement and an ever-growing personal fortune had made her paranoid about what people wanted from her. Her twenties had been a period where, as the walls of her own fashion empire grew, so did the barriers of protection placed around her heart. A healthy bank balance and an unhealthy dose of doubt had come hand in hand. She was afraid to let herself be loved.

As for her youthful flashes of marrying in a huge white fluffy dress ... well, thankfully her drum-tight grip on the fashion world had knocked any such delusions out of the window quicker than you could say ‘meringue'. If Genevieve was ever to marry, it would certainly not be in some fairy-tale monstrosity housing metres of shiny, pearlescent fabric.

Not that any man had ever made her entertain thoughts of being betrothed. Well, at least not until Riley had come into her life. She may have known that he was married from their first meeting, but the love-making she shared with him was something that even the idyllic romance tales in the pages of her mother's bedtime reading would have been hard-pushed to describe.

The sex was electric. Genevieve had been able to feel every nerve-ending tingle with a heightened desire as he'd made love to her. There was a connection as she had looked into his eyes. She could feel it – deep, dark and delicious, a carnal fusion of adventure, danger, power, respect and love. It was a provocative mix. The adventure and danger came from knowing that Riley was cheating behind his wife's back. The power and respect came from knowing that he was a man who lived life to the full. Like her, he was unafraid to take risks, to achieve what he desired, even if it meant bending a rule or two. She worshipped him.

The love however, was one-sided. That was something that had become clear on the day Genevieve announced to Riley the ill-timed news that she was carrying his baby.

His face had drained of all colour as she'd informed him, his usual healthy complexion turning ashen and ghostly white. His horror had been impossible to camouflage and with a crushing brutality he had told her to abort the baby. He would take care of it. There was no asking, it was telling. Riley was prepared to murder their baby in the same calculated, cold-hearted manner he organised a criminal hit on one of his enemies. It was at that moment that Genevieve had made up her mind. She was keeping the baby, no matter what Riley wanted. It was at that moment that she'd fallen out of love.

This was not how it was supposed to be. A baby was the last thing she needed at such an early, crucial time in her career. Research trips abroad, front rows at London Fashion Weeks and fashionista lunches were never going to be possible with a mood board under one arm and a bag of nappies under the other. The perfect accessory it was not. But Genevieve had recognised how her heart had skipped a beat and danced with delight when her doctor had confirmed that she was expecting. What she
hadn't
been expecting was such a harsh reaction from Riley. After the initial soul-crushing shock of being told that he didn't have a single trace of desire in him with regards to impending fatherhood, Genevieve had asked him to leave.

Part of her had wanted him to stay, to sweep her into his arms and tell her that he was leaving Amy. That he was ready to be with Genevieve and their child. That part was stamped underfoot immediately, crushed into a mass of miserable specks of heartache. Riley had trampled on her hopes and dreams.

His parting shot had been the worst, his words virulent and unthinking. ‘Just get rid of it. Do whatever it takes. And don't let anyone know.' As he barked his demands he had thrown a wad of notes onto the table, freshly pulled from his wallet. Genevieve's eyes, glazed with tears, stared at the notes as Riley walked away from her and out of sight. Their relationship was over, the cost of her silence the final nail in its coffin. She knew it would be the last time they saw each other as lovers.

G
enevieve had been thinking
about Riley's poisonous words ever since she had arrived back at the shop after seeing Emily. Riley's daughter. He had never even met her, a fact she had hated him for. Now he never would. Emily would grow up fatherless, just as Genevieve had – her own father had left her mother to run off with another woman while Genevieve was still at junior school. Another man who thought with his cock and not with his head. He'd tried to contact Genevieve once after she'd first become successful, looking at her as some kind of family cash machine. He needed money. She had refused to see him.

It had been her father's infidelity that had caused Genevieve's mother to turn to drink. For years Genevieve would return home from school to find her mother slurring words of hatred into a half-empty whisky bottle. It had driven a wedge between them, but Genevieve would always understand her mother's reasons for drinking and would forever blame her father for causing it. She was a broken woman, broken by an unloving man.

At first Genevieve had threatened to place her baby with a foster family. Maybe that would be for the best. But there had been such a fear in her mother's eyes when Genevieve had revealed her plans. Deep within her Genevieve knew that she never had any intention of doing so, but she needed to use shock tactics on her mother if she was to be part of her granddaughter's life. Genevieve needed her help, having a baby was not something she was prepared to do alone. The baby needed to be surrounded by what family it had. Her mother may have been a liability but she was all Genevieve had. She needed her, as would her baby – as a carer, as a grandmother, even acting as a mother when Genevieve couldn't be there.

The birth had to remain a secret and Genevieve needed all possible blood-ties helping her. She didn't need a baby ruining her reputation. It had only been through clever dressing and a minimum of socialising that Genevieve had hidden the pregnancy from her work contacts during the months before the birth.

Her mother, horrified at the thought of losing her first grandchild to a foster home, had offered to look after the baby. Genevieve turned the offer down, citing her mother's drinking. Her mother swore to never touch another drop. And in all fairness she didn't. When baby Emily was born, Genevieve passed her over to her grandma. A sitter-come-help was hired to help out and it was an arrangement that seemed to work.

‘
M
ind you
, like mother, like daughter ... maybe drinking's one of the traits she's passed onto me,' thought Genevieve as she poured herself a glass of neat vodka. She had been wallowing in her own misery ever since arriving back at the shop. She had drowned herself in booze into the wee small hours of the morning, eventually passing out on the office table.

Waking up the next day, she had decided to leave the shop closed. It was her assistant, Meifeng's, day off and Genevieve had little to no desire to deal with the outside world. What was the point of being boss if you couldn't make the odd rash decision every now and again? Despite the banging of her brain, Genevieve reached for the bottle and poured herself a mind-numbing dose of alcohol. She was just about to down the liquid when a figure appeared across the room.

‘The door was open. I thought this was a shop, not some morning boozer ...' he said, indicating the bottle. ‘What the fuck's happened to you?'

It was Grant.

‘What the fuck do you want? Shouldn't you be performing open heart surgery on some poor bastard on TV or shagging some buxom young nurse up against a locker?' spat Genevieve.

‘Oh dear, somebody's definitely had a bowl of bitch for breakfast haven't they?' deadpanned Grant. ‘I thought you'd be pleased to see me. Hell, I assumed a so-called hot-shot like you would be busy dishing up your next slice of fashion pie to the world. Nobody need dressing today, then? Everyone going
au naturel
? You're obviously fit for nothing,' he stated, noting the full glass in her hand and the slur in her voice.

‘Don't come the smug preacher man with me, Grant Wilson. Since when did your sorry arse gain the right to dictate to me about my life? You gave up that privilege the moment you climbed out of my bed and parked yourself between the legs of your next dumbass conquest,' she hissed.

All traces of jest disappeared from Grant's face. ‘Oh here we go ... that took ... oh, three minutes by my reckoning,' said Grant, glancing at his Rolex. ‘Poor hard-done-by Genevieve is still playing the woman scorned.'

His words were almost mocking, causing Genevieve to snap. Contemplating the failings of her short-lived affair with Grant was the last thing she needed bouncing around her mind when it was already soaked with misery reminiscing about her time with Riley.

‘Men are just put on this earth to make women's lives unbearably hard. To make us suffer. Just piss off back to the TV, will you, Grant. Just get out ...' Genevieve's voice became more animated with every word, her anger mounting. ‘I should have listened to my head when I first set eyes on your simpering little face ... if I'd have gone home alone that night things would have been a lot better.'

Not that Genevieve really meant that. Despite his indifference towards her, their time together had not been without its pleasures. They had first met a few years earlier when Genevieve had presented Grant with an acting newcomer's award at a London ceremony. The chemistry had been instant. An explosion of lust. They'd left together and screwed the night away at his hotel. It had continued at irregular intervals, the bodies coming together as their paths crossed. What Grant hadn't realised was that Genevieve was making sure that their paths crossed as often as possible. If there was a gala opening, press night or ceremony where she guessed Grant would be then she would make sure that she possessed a VIP ticket. But whereas their bouts of bedroom athletics had become sensual episodes of love-making in her mind, to Grant it was nothing more than a desire to get his rocks off. Grant had no qualms about telling her of other women he'd been shagging as he rode the fame train. An ever-hopeful Genevieve was convinced that maybe she could be the woman to change his bed-hopping ways, needing him in her life. She wasn't in love with him, but he certainly became an unhealthy obsession to her.

The sex was explosive but his interest in her was flickering no brighter than the weakest of flames. It was only when she'd met Riley that her longing for Grant finally died too. But her turnaround of interest seemed to fan the flames of desire within the actor. The power shift had changed. Suddenly Grant thought that maybe he was second best, a feeling he couldn't bear.