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“What is it you’re doing for Dutch?”
Styles tossed back half his glass of scotch as his gaze flicked around the polished wood of the cabin. As if he were assessing every tiny detail. “Is it any of your business?”
“Could be.” Weston grinned in a way that usually put people at ease. Styles obviously wasn’t buying it. “I think you’re here for damage control.”
One dark eyebrow rose, encouraging him.
“The way I figure it, Dutch is planning to announce his candidacy for the governorship, but he wants to clean house a little before he meets the press. He doesn’t want any surprises, no scandals or skeletons jumping out of closets that he doesn’t know about. He’s having enough trouble with Moran and his book. He doesn’t need anything else to sidetrack him or derail the campaign.”
No comment from Styles. Just those intense eyes, unblinking and silently charging him with any number of crimes. The guy gave Weston the creeps. No doubt he was good at his job, whatever the hell it really was.
“What is it you want, Taggert?”
The question surprised Weston. He didn’t expect Styles to be so direct.
“Well, you know that the Hollands and my family aren’t exactly buddy-buddies.”
Styles swirled his drink slowly as the sailboat gently swayed against its mooring. Outside the sound of a muted foghorn bellowed in the distance.
“In fact there’s been this feud going on for years, and, believe it or not, I think it’s good for the company,” Weston added. “You know I believe that a little honest competition stimulates the economy.”
“Honest competition?” Styles’s expression was mocking, as if Weston was wasting his breath because he didn’t believe a word of Weston’s speech. “Don’t bullshit me.”
“Well, honest for the most part.”
“You’ve stolen most of Holland’s key employees.”
“Hey, they were unhappy. Wanted more money.”
“And you probably have a few spies over at Dutch’s place.” Styles’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Don’t try to snow me, okay? This isn’t about competition, this is some kind of vendetta, and it works two ways.”
Christ, the guy had more information than he should have. Weston started to sweat. Styles would be a much better ally than enemy. “I was thinking you might want to cut yourself a better deal than the one you’ve got with Dutch.”
“With you?”
Weston nodded thoughtfully, his gaze centered on Styles, searching for any sort of reaction. There was none.
“Doing what?”
“Nothing more than you are now.”
Slowly Styles sipped from his glass. He didn’t flinch, didn’t show any sign of emotion. As if he had nerves of steel. Hell, Weston would never want to come up against him in a poker game.
“All I want is for you to do whatever it is you’re doing for Dutch and report back to me.”
The hint of a smile—hard-edged and sardonic—twisted Styles’s thin lips. Outside a buoy clanged. “So now we’re finally down to it.”
“It could be worth your while.”
“What makes you think I can be bought?”
“Everyone’s got a price.” Weston was getting a little more comfortable. The liquor was warming his blood, making him bolder, and now he was on solid turf, dickering about money for favors, an area he’d traveled many times before. Styles wasn’t bolting for the door, wasn’t even spitting out righteously indignant epithets against him for suggesting that he could be bought. Oh, no. The man was still sitting, sipping his damned scotch and contemplating his options. Good.
“I’ll pay you whatever it is you’re getting from Dutch, so you’ll be making double the money, but you’ll have to report it to two people.”
“And that’s it?”
“Well, I might ask you to keep some information from good ol’ Benedict.”
