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  TIAGO’S LOVE

  A Night Of The Kings Novel

  Shayne Ford

  Copyright © 2019 by Shayne Ford

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, organizations and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features mentioned in this book are the property of their respective owners and have been used without permission and in an editorial fashion only, with no implied endorsement.

  The publication/use of these trademarks is not associated with, approved of or sponsored by the trademarks owners.

  This book is for entertainment purposes only. The author and publisher disclaim any and all responsibility for any liability, loss, or risk, personal or otherwise, incurred as a consequence, directly or indirectly in relation to this book.

  This book is intended for mature audiences only.

  Written by Shayne Ford

  www.shayneford.com

  Twitter:@ShayneFordBooks

  Cover design by Shayne Ford

  The image on the cover is a licensed stock photo, and it is used for illustrative purposes, any person who may be depicted on, is a model.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  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

  Also by Shayne Ford

  About the Author

  1

  EVE

  New York, First Week of December

  “Would you like to try a slice of our signature chocolate truffle cake, Miss?” the man asks with a friendly voice.

  The waiter, an older man with beautiful features, a lean frame, and silver hair, smiles at me as he sets the cup of Rumchata Hot Cocoa on the small table in front of me.

  My eyes train on him, my words lagging.

  “It’s delicious. It has a smooth finish of dark chocolate ganache and comes with fresh raspberries.”

  “Sure. I’ll give it a try.”

  “Excellent choice, Miss.”

  Grinning, the man turns around and pulls away from me, heading to the bar.

  I watch him absently before my eyes shift away from him, and start scanning the baristas. None of the people who were working at the bar that night are in today. Disappointed, I move my eyes back to the window.

  Outlined by the walls of the hotel, the courtyard is covered with freshly sifted snow. Once in a while, soft flurries swirl in the air, falling to the frosted ground.

  Slowly, I curl my fingers around my cup, bring it to my lips, and take a mouthful of creamy chocolate.

  The drink is as delicious as it was that night.

  The memory is bitter.

  Mechanically, I set the cup down and drag my finger across my phone screen.

  I sift through the messages that I got from Rain, a couple of text alerts I received from work and a photo Andy sent me before I pull up the pictures folder and start searching for the photographs that Christian took in this very place that night–– the hotel where he used to stay.

  Within moments, I find the picture that I was looking for.

  The memory comes running to me.

  A few weeks back, he introduced me to this delicious drink that makes my taste buds tingle with delight before he charmed me straight into his arms.

  Enlarged, the photograph fills my screen, vibrant and immortal, a testament to the fantastic days we spent together. The amazing moments that feel like a dream now.

  My eyes rove over the details of the snapshot while my memory revisits that moment in time, the evening infused with sheer magic as I was sitting at this very table, my chin propped on my hand, and my profile partly visible. Sunk in thought, I was looking out the window.

  Below, I read the message that he sent with this photo.

  Christian: One day, you’ll watch the falling snow and think about me.

  And here I am, living that day, and thinking about him as my eyes absorb the beautiful winter imagery sprawling in front of me.

  It’s the same place, only a few weeks later, and the whole paradigm has shifted.

  I no longer soak in the view with consuming anticipation and yearning desire.

  I no longer believe that good things are about to happen.

  Quite the opposite, I’d say, and not surprisingly so.

  Staring blankly at the view, I wrestle with the new reality. It’s hard to comprehend that he pulled away from me so easily.

  A sad chuckle leaves my lips as I shake my head in utter disbelief. The sad part is that I can’t even share my story.

  At least not now.

  And definitely not the whole story.

  And for sure, not the fact that I’m the one to blame for letting myself deceived by him.

  What does that say about me? How stupid does this make me look? How ignorant of a person must I be to let myself be tricked so easily?

  And who knows what this man was after, anyway?

  For sure, it wasn’t me.

  And yet, so many things are still confusing me.

  His life story and confession threw me for a loop. He opened up to me and made me resonate with him, but then again...

  How do I even know that it was true?

  How do I know that what he told me carried any truth?

  Perhaps, it was made up. Pure fiction, picked up from a book.

  Maybe he read a sappy story, borrowed the material and used it many times with women like me.

  Women who want to find love and be loved and get close to a man and not only for sex. Women who still believe that men who have a heart have not completely vanished.

  Women who are under the impression that it’s only a matter of chance and patience and good timing to find someone like that.

  Like him. Or what he wanted me to think of him.

  Women who cherish the idea that words still mean something in this world and aren’t a mere placeholder for illusions.

  But who am I to question this world? And why do I even care?

  Isn’t that what most people deal with these days?

  And isn’t it me, the one to blame this story on after all?

  I wanted what I wanted, and he had given me in spades. I wanted love and affection, his attention, and mind-blowing sex. And he over delivered.

  I wanted a man who had wit and playfulness, and also the wisdom of an old soul.

  I wanted someone who appreciated what I had to give. Who didn’t pull away from me every other second, or played games, or hid his feelings behind trite things.

  I wanted it all, and I got it all. And now I know why.

  It was a big fat lie.

  The man I fell for didn’t exist.

  He was very good at giving me what I wanted and making me believe that I mattered to him.

  He gave me the love of a mortal God before he took it away from me, all at once.

  He gave me the wisdom of an old soul before he turned it into a pile of dust by pulling aw
ay from me like a coward.

  He served me lie after lie, starting with his name. Who knows what else he lied about.

  And I bought everything he tossed at me, so hungry to see the light at the end of the tunnel, so eager to feel something real, so captivated by the idea that things could turn around for me too.

  He caught me at my lowest point when I was paying men a wage to get some company, and sure exploited every bit of vulnerability to play with it whichever way he wanted. To amuse himself, and perhaps to stroke his ego.

  Who can tell after all?

  And here I am.

  ‘Naive woman falling for a stud.’

  Now that’s a headline that won’t hold anyone’s attention.

  Who gives a damn that I was clueless?

  So yeah...

  How could I share my story with anyone? Really. How could I?

  I should’ve known better. I’m not a teenager anymore.

  Sighing, I swipe my phone screen with my thumb and flip my cell face down.

  A shaky breath enters my lungs.

  And yet, somehow I need to tell Rain.

  She kept asking me about him these past few days. She wants the four of us to get together so that they meet him.

  There must be a way to break the news to her–– tell her that he is no longer in the picture without making a big deal out of it.

  “Here,” the silver-haired man says as he smoothly slides a dessert plate onto the table and sets the spoon and a napkin on the side.

  “Is everything okay?” he asks, concern flashing through his eyes as he gets a glimpse of my expression.

  “Yes.”

  I manage to give him a withering smile.

  “Enjoy,” he says affably as he starts to pivot away.

  I flick my hand up, prompting him to stop.

  “May I ask you a question?”

  “Sure,” he says, grinning.

  “A few weeks ago, I was here with a friend of mine. A man who used to stay in this hotel. Young, dark-haired, green eyes. I don’t remember seeing you that night, and chances are that you weren’t working, but maybe you can help me to locate him.”

  The man slings me a questioning look, his smile clinging to his lips as I continue.

  “I, um, sort of lost track of him. The truth is, I don’t know much about him, or where to find him, so I was hoping that someone working in this place might know more about him. People serving at the bar that night seemed familiar with him. Unfortunately, none of them are in tonight,” I say as I shift my gaze to the bar briefly.

  “I’m sure someone knows him, but not me, I’m afraid. Do you have a picture of him?”

  “No, I don’t,” I say with a trembling voice.

  “I can still ask at the bar. Maybe someone recognizes him from your description. ”

  I gesture faintly with my hand.

  “No. It’s okay. I wanted to know if you knew him since he seemed to be a regular here.”

  “No, Miss. I’m sorry.”

  With these words, he nods and strides away.

  It’s almost ten o’clock in the evening when I pay for my drink, and the slice of cake, put on my coat and walk out of the hotel.

  I catch a cab, and once I slip inside, I give the driver the address of the hotel where Christian and I met for the first time.

  Within moments, we navigate the cold streets of Manhattan.

  Minutes later, the car slows down as we near our destination.

  An event has drawn a line of cabs and limos in front of the establishment, people walking in and out of the hotel.

  I pay for my trip and step out of the car before I join a group of guests and stroll into the lobby.

  Smoothly, I shed my coat, fold it over my arm and walk across the marble floor, swiveling my head and looking around.

  I doubt that I can get more information about his whereabouts, but I’m determined to give it another try.

  A different woman works behind the concierge desk tonight. It’s not the same I’ve asked for help before.

  That’s my luck.

  I take a few steps to the side, stop not far from the Christmas tree that graces the foyer, and start checking my phone, pretending that I read something on my screen, at the same time surveilling the hotel lobby.

  A couple of male voices ring out not far from me. Discreetly, I tilt my head in that direction and spot the male employee I’m looking for.

  Quietly, I listen to their dialogue.

  They stop and start to walk again before they go separate ways. Like a shadow, I follow the man I want to talk to.

  I catch up with him not far from the concierge desk.

  “Emmanuel?”

  He stops and pivots to me. He looks at me, intrigued.

  “Yes. How may I help you?” he asks.

  I close the space between us.

  “Do you remember me?”

  A small smile tilts his lips, but nowhere on his face, I spot a shred of recognition.

  “I’m sorry. There are so many guests in this hotel. Have you stayed here before?”

  “I was here a few weeks ago. I met a friend, and you gave me a red rose on his behalf. His name was Christian, although the room–– it seems, was booked under a different name.”

  “Okay.”

  He no longer smiles as he studies my face.

  I don’t know what to gather from his expression.

  “Oh... yeah. I remember you. You wore a red dress,” he finally says. “And you asked about the same man some other time. My coworker told me that someone made an inquiry about me in connection with that guest.”

  “Yes. I was hoping that you could help me track him down.”

  His eyebrows lift a little, surprise reading on his face.

  “If you are here to ask for private information, I won’t be able to help you, Miss. It is against our policy to reveal that type of information. I could lose my job over this.”

  “That is not my intention, I can assure you. I wouldn’t tell anyone,” I say, panicked.

  I sound quite desperate, and the man’s eyes light up a little, a pang of empathy flashing through his gaze.

  “It’s really important to find this man. The name he has given me was not real.”

  He looks at me, spooked.

  “I don’t want to get into any trouble, Miss.”

  “You won’t. I’m not going to put your job at risk. Trust me. I wouldn’t ask for this piece of information if I had a different choice. This is my last resort. All I need is a name. I tried to do a reverse lookup on his phone number without success. He must’ve used one of those apps that reroute calls and keep a phone number private.”

  He gives me a long stare.

  “Perhaps he had his reasons.”

  His remark stings, but I take it like a champ.

  “Maybe. Regardless, I have no intention of calling him. I just want to know who he was. Listen, I’ll be very honest with you. We dated for a while, and things were really good between us. And then I found out that he was not the man he said he was, and when I asked for an explanation, he ghosted me. I don’t want to talk to him. All I want is to know who he was.”

  I don’t know what gives him the final nudge and convinces him to help me. Perhaps I wore him out with my insistence, or maybe he feels bad for me.

  Whatever it is, I’m happy that it works.

  “Do you remember what date it was?” he asks.

  “Yes.”

  I give him a piece of paper with the date and the room number.

  “Are you sure this is correct?” he asks as he lifts his gaze.

  “Yes. It was Room 1011,” I repeat convincingly, hoping that he doesn’t remember that the real Christian was supposed to meet me in Room 1101 that night.

  “Wait here,” he says before he walks away.

  I retreat near a window and watch him as he steps behind the concierge desk and starts typing on the keyboard, his eyes trained on the computer screen.

  It takes a few l
ong minutes before he scribbles something on the same piece of paper and comes back to me.

  “This is the name of the company that booked the room,” he says, handing me the piece of paper.

  Lips parted in surprise, I look down and read the name of an LLC based in Switzerland.

  The name of the company doesn’t say anything to me.

  “Would that be all?” Emmanuel asks.

  “Yes. Thank you,” I say numbed as I slip the piece of paper into my pocket.

  The man nods curtly in my direction and steps away from me for the second time while I put my coat on and rush out of the hotel.

  2

  EVE

  On my way home, I run an online search on the company name on my phone, but I don’t find much. Not that I expected to.

  If he wanted to reveal his name, he would’ve used it to book the hotel room.

  Disappointed, I slip my cell into my pocket when a random thought makes me shift my eyes to the driver. I ask him if he knows any sports clubs in the area, especially places with boxing rings.

  He thinks about it for a moment before he comes up with a few names. He even calls a friend and asks him if he knows any places, and five minutes later, I have a list of four names.

  “Would you mind if we drive around. I’d like to check them out.”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  The first two destinations turn out to be dead leads. Same goes for the third sports club.

  For the fourth venue, we go all the way to Brooklyn.

  I’m not thrilled that I spend all this time and money chasing a ghost, but now that I started doing it, I better go all the way and try to find something about this man.

  It’s late evening, when I climb out of the cab, rush across an icy sidewalk, and push through a heavy door that takes me to a large workout area.

  A few men lift weights, a couple of boxers warming up in a boxing ring.