Page 116 of Devilish Ink

“Peter,” I repeated. “I’m—”

“Liam Merrick.” He nodded. “I know.”

I studied his face for a moment, trying to dissipate my unease by reminding myself how much we needed this guy’s cash.

“Because you looked me up online?” I asked.

Peter inclined his head. “You are impressive. You’ve done what I know a lot of people over the years have not been able to do.”

Again…what a strange choice of words.

I couldn’t shake the sense that something was off him. But before I could figure it out or get the nerve to say fuck it to the money and fuck it to him, Peter drummed his fingers on the edge of my desk.

“So,” he said, “here’s the gist: this Harley is down in Cork. It’s in bad shape according to my sources, but that’s where you come in. And that’s where my million euros also comes in.”

“Excuse me?” I choked.

Peter tilted his head to the side. “You don’t think it’s a fair price?”

I stammered as I tried to process a single coherent thought.

A million euros. For a Harley transformation.

I mean, I’d heard of a 1908 Harley going at auction for over a million. I’d heard of a Harley transformation that cost several hundred million, so really, a million wasn’t unheard of.

But for what he was after, I made some calculations in my head, it’d leave me with a profit of at least a few hundred thousand.

My head spun. That would cover all the pregnancy costs and more.

Peter waved his hand. “Fine. Make it two.”

“Twomillion euros?”

Peter’s smile unnerved me once more. He leaned forward. Too close.

“You get me what I want and I’ll give you all the money in the world.”

Fuck.

I could buy Ryleigh a house, a practical mansion with a giant nursery. I could hire a nanny to help her. I could buy her her own tattoo parlour. She’d never have to worry about anything again.

We discussed particulars till he glanced at his beeping phone. He picked up his phone and scowled at it.

Pen in hand, mid-sentence, I stopped. “Everything alright?”

“Of course,” Peter said, adding, “though, I wonder if I might inconvenience you for a drink.”

“We have some Cokes in the fridge out back?”

I left to get the Coke and when I returned, Peter was gone.

On the desk was a note that he’d been called away on business after all, but that he’d be in touch and he very much looked forward to working with me.

I told myself that he was eccentric because he was rich. Because that much money could make anyone a little weird.

But I couldn’t ignore unease as I remembered that tiny detail that had been buried by the staggering amount Peter offered.

I had to go to Cork to retrieve the bike.

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