His For A Price |z.h|

5

The game began quietly enough, the betting conservative, no very startling hands, and the atmosphere round the table relaxed.

Providing that I discount my own state of mind, Niall thought wryly, trying to draw comfort from the air of calm confidence that his father was currently exuding. But it was still early in the proceedings, he knew, and the players would simply be testing each other's strengths and weaknesses.

At the same time, he was conscious that the pair of them were very much outsiders. That the rest - a couple of Frenchmen, a burly South African and his American neighbor - were all clearly long standing friends and acquaintances of Zayn Malik and each of them powerful and successful in his own right. Not the kind of company expected to welcome strangers into their exclusive and wealthy midst.

So, he wondered, what are we doing here? Why was it allowed?

The person who might have known, of course, was Nicholas Johnson, but he'd left while the first hand was being dealt. He wasn't a friend by any stretch of the imagination, but for a moment Niall had sensed he could be a reluctant ally.

And at least he'd never been openly hostile like the man Niall had originally mistaken for Zayn Malik, who'd turned out to be one of the several solidly built employees, stationed a deferential couple of feet behind their boss' chair.

Niall was well aware that this man's overtly inimical gaze was focused on him, and had been since the game began, and wondered if Bobby had also noticed. And if so, would he take warning?

His decision to bring Niall tonight had been a big mistake, the blonde wondered, biting his lip, so the best he could do was keep still and try to be as unobtrusive as possible, keeping his eyes fixed on his clasped hands and registering no reaction to the run of the play.

And his conviction that he was surplus to requirements was soon confirmed, when, after the first hour's play, Bobby was winning quite comfortably without any dubious assistance from him.

It was true that the pots were only moderate, but that couldn't be allowed to matter. Not when they were building steadily towards their agreed purpose.

Just keep going in the same way, Daddy, please, he pleaded silently, and we can be out of this room, this hotel, his place and on our way elsewhere by noon tomorrow.

At the same time, he couldn't avoid an odd feeling that the play so far had been almost deliberately restrained.

"Cigarette, honey?" The usual break had been called in the proceedings, and Chuck was offering Niall his pack of Chesterfields.

"No, thank you." The room already felt like an oven and his eyes were stinging from the smoke. He noticed thankfully that a member of the Malik entourage, in response to murmured instruction, was sliding open one of the heavy glass doors which led out on to the balcony.

"Then how about a Scotch or some bourbon?" His neighbor signaled to the water.

Niall shook his head. "I - I don't drink spirits."

"You don't smoke or drink? Then your vices must be the more interesting kind," he drawled.

Think what you like, Niall advised him silently. And then go to hell.

As the waiter came to his side he asked for Perrier water, and noticed his swift inquiring glance at Zayn Malik and saw the swift, barely perceptible nod in reply.

He's in control of everything, he thought with a sudden shiver. The air we breathe. Even what we have to drink.

He found himself suddenly wondering how old he was. He looked to be only in his early to mid thirties, yet in spite of that he'd managed somehow to survive the dangers of the past few years in Pakistan under the militancy regime, and prosper.