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“No deal.”
Weston’s head snapped up. He’d been so certain Styles would swallow the bait.
“I’m not interested in pissing off ‘good ol’ Benedict.’”
“He won’t find out.”
“No?” Styles’s grin grew sterner and his fingers tightened around his glass, showing white knuckles under his tanned skin. “Why should I trust you?”
“Why not?”
“If I sign on with you and you make it known, I’m out of a job.”
“I won’t breathe a word. This is just between you and me.”
“Is it?” Styles’s eyes sparked with an intensity that scared Weston. Who was this guy? Lucifer incarnate? “As I asked before, why should I trust you?”
“Because I wouldn’t pay you a shitload of money just to blow your cover.”
“And what’s a shitload?”
So he was listening. Weston felt an evil bit of glee. Denver Styles was out for number one. Just like everyone in this whole damned world. “I said I’d—”
“Not interested.”
“So what if I double it—no, triple it?” Weston was anxious to get down to serious business. Any amount of money was insignificant. “Whatever Dutch is paying you, I’ll pay three times.”
“Up front?” Those intense eyes didn’t leave Weston’s face. “Three hundred grand.”
“A hundred grand to begin with. The rest later.”
Styles’s jaw worked as he thought.
“And for that I’d want to know whatever it is you’re checking into for Dutch, and I’ll want information about his new project—the next phase of Stone Illahee.”
“That’s pretty much common knowledge—just check the county records. He’s adding on to the original tract, going to build another smaller lodge with a golf course, tennis courts, the whole ball of wax.”
“Where?”
“About half a mile inland from the main building.”
Weston felt a tremor of dread. He’d been expecting this, but had hoped his information was wrong, that Dutch had found a safer, more scenic spot for his newest construction project. Hell, even the best-laid plans . . .
“The county’s already approved the site. Excavation starts this week.” Styles was staring at him again, as if he were trying to read Weston’s mind.
“So soon. Jesus.” He reached for his cigarettes and felt sweat collect on his forehead. Be cool, he t
old himself. There wasn’t a problem yet. But he had trouble flicking his lighter to the tip of his Marlboro. All his perfectly laid plans could be destroyed with one swipe of the bulldozer’s scoop. Stay calm. You’re borrowing trouble. “Well, do we have a deal?”
Styles paused, his jaw hard, his muscles tense, as if he thought he was actually bargaining with the devil instead of the other way around.
“You could be a rich man when this is over,” Weston prodded.
“Or a dead man.”
We both could be, Weston thought, but didn’t say it. Instead he offered Styles his hand.
Denver nearly sneered, but he wasn’t man enough to walk away. Excellent. “All right, Taggert,” he finally said, standing but refusing Weston’s handshake. “You’ve got yourself a deal. But if word of this leaks out, you’ll be sorry.”
