Page 51 of Stuart Woods' Smolder

But while the money was good, he wasn’t earning it fast enough to build the fortune he craved. Nor, he’d come to believe, was the amount Simon paid him commensurate with the value of the information he was providing. After all, without the information he passed Simon’s way, Simon’s illegal activities would come to a crashing halt.

The only fair deal would be one in which Dalton received a percentage of the take from each job. And not some piddling amount, either.

Fifty percent seemed fair, but Dalton was not an unreasonable man. He would settle for a third.

He had intended to make the case when Simon last called but decided it was not a conversation to have over the phone, and ended up settling for double his fee.

Which was why, instead of messaging Simon the info on the Matilda Stone paintings, Dalton had taken a flight that morning from New York to Santa Fe, arriving just before lunch.

While he waited in line for his rental car, he checked his phone and saw that he had a text from Simon.

Call me

No doubt it was about the Matilda Stones.

Dalton sneered and shoved the phone back into his pocket. Simon would get the info after they renegotiated their deal.

Dalton’s stomach growled.

Make that after Dalton grabbed a bite to eat, and then renegotiated their deal.

One of the clerks at the rental desk waved Dalton forward. “How can I help you, sir?”

—

Nico was just about to bite into a sandwich when his office door flew open and Petry strode inside.

“Well?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The paintings.”

Nico quickly rose from his desk and closed the door, then turned to his boss. “What about them?”

“Have we got them yet?”

Choosing his words carefully, Nico said, “Not as far as I know. Remember, I told you it would take—”

“Yeah, yeah. You said it would take time. We’ve given them time. What’s it been? A week now?”

Nico had said it could take up to a month, but best not to remind Petry of that. “It’s been two days.”

“Two? That’s all?” Petry had never been a patient man.

As calmly as possible, Nico said, “Yes, sir.”

Petry huffed. “When was the last time you talked to what’s-his-name? Seymour? The painting guy.”

“Simon.”

“Whatever. When?”

“An hour ago,” Nico lied.

His last conversation with Simon had actually been yesterday, to confirm Simon had received the preferred list. But Nico didn’t want to tell Petry about the list until Simon had at least one in hand, because if Nico let it slip now and none of Barrington’smost wanted paintings could be obtained, Petry would go ballistic. Best to control the man’s expectations.

“Oh,” Petry said, some of the wind knocked from his sails. “And?”

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