His For A Price |z.h|

1

(You can directly jump to chapter 3 because that's where they actually come in contact with one another. Chapter 1 and 2 are just fillers) 

South of Ireland, 2016

"Pickings," Bobby Horan said with immense satisfaction. "And very rich pickings by the look of it." 

Stifling a sigh, Niall put down the toast he was buttering, and followed his father's gaze to the new yacht that had appeared overnight in the bay below the Hotel St. Vermin. 

It was certainly large and extremely opulent, effortlessly diminishing the lesser craft anchored nearby. A floating palace, he thought, of gleaming white paint and chrome. Very swish. And suddenly there. Out of nowhere. 

"A wealthy sheikh, perhaps," Bobby continued his musings aloud. "Or even foreign royalty."

'Or merely someone sheltering from last night's storm," Niall suggested more practically. He paused. "And, speaking of storms, the manager stopped me last night and asked when our bill would be settled. And he wasn't smiling." 

"Infernal bloody cheek," Bobby snorted. "Nicholas Johnson is becoming obsessive about cash. If he's not careful, the whole place will become insufferable bourgeois." 

"Just because he wants to be paid?" Niall asked mildly. "I thought making money was our sole reason for being here, too." He gave Bobby a level look. "And the fact that we haven't been doing so well lately must have been reported back to the office." 

"I'm still ahead of the game," Bobby said sharply. "All I need is one good night." His eyes strayed back to the yacht. "And one wealthy idiot who thinks he can play poker." 

"And maybe sir Nicholas is concerned about his job," Niall continued reflectively. "People are saying openly that the entire Vermin chain is being sold off. He won't want any bad debts on his books when the new owners take over." 

"Well I'm sure he doesn't need your concern," Bobby looked him over. "I think you should visit the hotel boutique, my pet. Buy a new dress as a demonstration of good faith." He nodded. "Something short and not too sweet to show off your tan." 

"Dad, I have plenty of clothes," Niall spoke with a touch of weariness. "Besides, we have no money to waste on empty gestures." 

"No waste darling. Investment. And please keep your voice down when you call me --that," he added irritably. "Someone might hear." 

"And draw the correct conclusion that I'm actually your son instead of your supposed nephew?" Niall shook his head."How long can we keep this farce going?" 

And, in particular, how long before you grow up? he wondered in unhappy silence as his father's mouth tightened petulantly. Before you acknowledge that you haven't been forty for some time. That your hair is only brunette because it's tinted and you're not wrinkled because you've had expensive fact-lift. 

"It's working very well. For one thing, it explains the same surname on our passports," Bobby retorted. "And, as I told you at the outset, it doesn't suit my image to have a son who's nearly nineteen." 

And it doesn't suit me at all, Niall thought bitterly. How long will it be before I can have a real life - the life I once planned? 

Teaching languages had been his aim. He'd been studying for his A levels prior to university when his mother had been taken suddenly ill, and diagnosed with inoperable cancer. Two months later she was dead, and Niall's relatively stable existence up to that point ended, too. 

Bobby, summoned home from London as soon as his wife's condition became known, had been genuinely grief-stricken. It had been his inability to settle rather than any lack of caring that had kept them apart for so much of their married life. Maura Horan wanted a permanent home for her only child. Bobby needed to gamble as much as he needed to draw breath.