Page 84 of Stuart Woods' Smolder

A handful of customers browsed the artwork, while three gallery employees hovered nearby. At the back was a desk where a fourth employee sat, leafing through a magazine. There were no customers near him.

He looked up as she approached. He was impeccably dressed and appeared to be in his late twenties. His gaze seemed to be assessing her, like he was trying to determine if she could afford to shop there.

“Good afternoon. How may I help you?”

“I’m looking for someone.”

“Oh?” he said, his tone turning dismissive.

“Do you have someone who works here named Tristan Williams?”

He blinked. “I’m Tristan.”

She smiled and held out her hand. “I can’t believe I found you. I’m Monica.”

He hesitated before taking her hand.

“We talked yesterday.” She laid her business card on the desk.

He looked at her, seemingly having no idea what she was talking about. Then he picked up the card, sucked in a surprised breath, and whispered, “You can’t be here.”

“I just need a few minutes of your time.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Please. It’s important.”

He held her card out to her. “I’m sorry. Take this and leave.”

“What time do you get off work?” she asked, not taking the card.

“It doesn’t matter. I told you I’m not talking to you.”

“I’ll be at the bar at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel from eight until ten. I’d appreciate it if you could join me.”

“Not going to happen.”

“I understand, but if you change your mind, remember the Roosevelt, eight until ten.” Monica turned and walked out, leaving her business card behind.

—

Dalton was starting to wish he’d stayed at the Verdugo Royale Hotel instead of tagging along with Simon to his gallery. They’d been there for over three hours already. Simon had been busying himself on a computer in a back office the whole time, doing God knew what.

Dalton had occupied the only other chair in the room, filling the time by answering a few work e-mails and playing Candy Crush on his phone. But there was only so long he could stare at his screen.

Deciding he could use some fresh air, he pushed himself out of his chair and said, “I’ll be back. Don’t go anywhere without me.”

The only sign Simon gave that he’d heard him was a low grunt.

Outside the office was a larger space that made up the rest of the employees-only area of the gallery. It was broken into three sections: a break area, a storage area for artwork, and a workstation, where at that moment a gallery employee was packing something into a box.

“Any good places to eat around here?” Dalton asked.

It took the woman a moment to realize Dalton was talking to her. “Oh, um, there’s a couple coffee shops that have food, I think. If you go down the block and around the corner, there’s a NORMS.”

“What’s NORMS?”

“A diner.”

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