His For A Price |z.h|

3

(They meet properly soon so just please wait for the story to build up! Just one more chapter to go)

"There you are," Bobby marched briskly into the sitting room, kicking the door shut behind him. 

Niall, curled up in the corner of the sofa, finishing off the remains of his breakfast rolls which had not improved with keeping, glanced up warily. 

"It's where you told me to be," he pointed out mildly, observing with faint disquiet the brightness in his eyes, and the tinge of red in his face. There was a bunched tension about him too he remembered from other times. That, and the way he kept clenching and opening his fist. 

Niall added, "Has something happened?" 

"It has indeed, my pet. We're about to hit the jackpot - big-time." Bobby paused for effect. "Do you know the name of that yacht in the bay?" 

Oh God, Niall thought, cringing inwardly as he remembered that insolent, mocking grin. It would have to be that. 

"I didn't learn Arabic at school," he said. "Only Spanish." 

He waved an impatient hand. "Well, she's called Persephone. And she's owned by no less a person than Zayn Malik." 

Niall frowned. "Should I have heard of him?" 

"You're hearing now," Bobby came to sit beside him. "He's British Airlines.' He counted on his fingers. 'He's the ZM Record Production House. He's the Malik Hotel Chain - out outfit currently buying the building we're living in, along with all the other St. Vermin hotels."

He smiled exultantly. "He's one of the super-rich. Had the wit to stay out of harm's way on his boat and some island he owns back in Bradford, avoiding politics during these past years in Pakistan, that's where he's from. But when the militancy there was finally overthrown, he began to operate freely again, and they say he's set to climb into the financial stratosphere." 

Niall suddenly remembered the portly man in the silk suit he'd seen with Nicholas Johnson. So that was what a Pakistani tycoon looked like, he thought, reflecting that the well jawed face had possessed undoubted shrewdness if nothing else to write home about.

"How did you discover all this?" Niall asked. 

"Jessica Van Harper told me over the bridge this morning." His face clouded momentarily. "She'll never make a card player. Talks too damned much. But she knows everything that's going on, and this time she told me something I wanted to hear."  

And don't I wish she hadn't? Niall thought wanly. Why couldn't she go on chatting about the New York cultural science or Coachella music festival, the cute things her grandchildren said last Thanksgiving, and what her late husband paid for all that wonderful jewelry she wears morning, noon and night? 

Bobby leaned forward. "Do you know why he decided to buy the St. Vermin? Because he comes here each year to play poker with some of his cronies and business connections and has got to like the place. They have dinner in a private suite on the top floor, then they get down to the real business of the evening - by invitation, of course." 

"I see," Niall managed to conceal his relief. "Well, that settles that." 

"On the contrary, my pet. I had a quiet word with Johnson, asked him to pull a few strings. Get me into the game," Bobby smiled with satisfaction. "And somehow he's done it. Probably thinks it's the only way he'd get paid." 

Niall moved restively. "Dad - are you quite sure about this?" 

"Have a little faith, darling," Bobby spoke reproachfully. "It's the answer to our prayers."