Total pages in book: 235
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 227851 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1139(@200wpm)___ 911(@250wpm)___ 760(@300wpm)
She huffs her disbelief, remaining at the door.
“I can’t fucking find them,” I grate, pointing to the chaos on the floor. Sarah shakes her head in exasperation and starts cleaning up the mess I’ve made, then she hands me what I’m looking for. I know it would have only been seconds had I not gone in like a bull. “I need these scanning and emailing to me.” I shove them back into her leather-clad chest and leave. “Do it when I’ve gone home,” I mutter, getting back to dealing with Ava’s brother. The news of his imminent, potential death changes things slightly. I might think he’s a first-class cunt, but my wife loves the rogue. Which leaves me no choice but to help him.
I walk in and find him sitting on the couch browsing through one of the magazines. “Superbikes,” he says. “Do you ride?”
“How much?” I ask, lowering to the couch, making Dan slowly close the magazine, well aware I’m not into any chitchat.
“One fifty.”
“I assume we’re not talking in hundreds.”
He shakes his head. “One hundred and fifty thousand.”
“Is that including all of the outstanding debts here in the UK?”
“You’ve been looking into me?”
“Yes, I looked into you, Dan. Credit cards, loans, car finance. You changed your attitude toward me like the wind. Suddenly, you want to be all pally? Suddenly, the Australian dream is being forgotten so you can kick your heels around London with endless debt collecting agencies chasing you?”
“How did you get that information?”
And now he’s hostile again? Prick. I won’t expose Cook. “How much? Total.”
“The loan shark is one hundred,” he breathes, relenting. “The other fifty is for my debts here.”
“One hundred grand? No wonder they want to kill you.” Wish I could fucking let them. I shake my head, exhaling. “How the fuck does a man get into that level of debt?”
He sighs, rubbing at his forehead. Oh, he’s stressed? “It was an opportunity I couldn’t miss.”
“To be turned over?” I ask, laughing.
“The surf school,” he grates, unimpressed. Oh, he’d better be massively impressed with me right now. Forevermore, in fact.
“Go on.”
“Carlos had the money he needed to get the equipment, the licences, the staff, and building. But I wanted in. It was a no-brainer. But I was kind of at the end of my rope with handouts from Mum and Dad, and credit. I met a guy in a bar one night. An investor. He gave me the number of somewhere to get cash fast with little questions.” He smiles meekly, obviously embarrassed. “They asked no questions. Neither did I.”
“Like payment terms,” I say quietly. The dumb fuck. “Or interest rates.”
“I handed the money over to Carlos.”
“In cash?” I ask, astounded, and he nods, albeit reluctantly. “Jesus Christ.”
“And that was the last I saw of him.”
“I’ve met some stupid men in my time,” I say, getting up and fetching some water. “But you, Dan, win the award for superior stupidity.” Fuck me, I’m staggered. So he wasn’t living the dream in Australia at all. He was actually living a fucking nightmare.
“I need to pay them,” he says, pulling my alert attention his way.
Pay them before they find him. Or maybe they’ll find Ava. And suddenly, I’m wondering—
Fuck, do I need to be thinking along those lines? No, it couldn’t be. If they stole my car, they would have kept it. It would more than cover his debt. “How do they want paying?” I ask.
“An offshore account.” He pulls out his phone, some cheap pay-as-you-go crap, and starts firing numbers my way.
“Hold up,” I say, going to my desk and plucking a pen out of the pot before pulling open the drawers to find a pad. “Go again,” I say, jotting down the details of the offshore account. “And your details?” I ask, noting them down as he reels off his bank details. “So one hundred to the sharks, fifty to your personal account?”
“Yeah,” he says, quiet.
I drop the pen and look at him. “I’m adding another fifty thousand.”
He recoils. “Why?”
“Because you’re going to get on that plane and fuck off back to Australia and do what you’ve told your family you’ve been doing. Because that will make your sister happy. And if your sister is happy, so am I.” I quickly send a text to John telling him to take Ava to the bar—the last thing I need is her storming my office. I don’t want to throw her brother under the bus. I just want him gone.
“Thanks,” he says, holding his hand over the desk.
I look at it. Don’t take it. “I’m going to assume your arsehole behavior and attitude toward me since the day we’ve met was because of the stresses you’ve been dealing with in your life.” I know I’m wrong. He was born an arsehole. I don’t know how. His parents are decent, and Ava’s . . . placid? I laugh to myself. Hardly. But she’s got a good heart. Being the better man, I accept his offered hand. “Please stay out of our marriage.”