The President's Daughter - Mariah Stewart [6]
“The Hayward book and the book you’re working on now. I will want the Hayward book first, of course.”
“You’d buy my book sight unseen?” Simon’s brows lifted.
“Well, of course, I would want to see the first hundred or so pages as soon as you can get them to me. If I don’t like what you’ve done, well, we’ll have to talk about it, once the Hayward book is finished. Though frankly, judging by all you told me about the book at Frank’s wedding, I can’t see how I could be disappointed.”
“How much?” Simon heard himself ask. After all, before he agreed to sign away the next several months of his life, to put aside the book he’d been sweating over and living with for the past year, he had to know.
Norton took a pen from his pocket and wrote a number on an unused napkin, his eyes twinkling. Not for the first time, Simon was reminded of Sean Connery, tall and once brawny, albeit with a New Englander’s accent.
Simon studied the sum for a very, very long minute and willed himself not to react. It was more than enough to fill up that on-empty savings account. Enough to keep Simon in food and shelter—if not some few minor trappings of luxury—while he finished not only the Hayward book but his own book as well. With enough left over for the first real vacation Simon had had in a very long time. Mentally, for just a flash, Simon pictured himself trekking across the hot sand of a tropical island. . . .
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll think about it.”
“Yes. Of course I will.”
“Give me a call after you’ve had a few days to mull it over. I understand that you’ll have things to think about. Rest assured that I’ll make certain your interests are protected. But to keep all aboveboard, I know of several fine agents that I’d be happy to refer you to— including my own.”
“That’s very generous of you.”
“Just want to make sure that you feel comfortable with the arrangements I’m offering.”
“I appreciate that. I’ll definitely give your offer some thought.”
Norton took a last bite of his crab cake and gestured to the open window, where fat flakes were beginning to fall and the small sailboat was heading for the marina. “Can I plan on hearing from you within a few days?”
“I’ll be back to you by the weekend.”
“I can’t ask for more than that. Now”—Norton stood and straightened the sleeves of his well-tailored jacket—“why not send that manuscript along to me? Overnight it, if you would. I’m eager to have a look. . . .”
All the way back to his apartment in McCreedy, Simon tried to put his finger on just what it had been about Norton’s offer that had kept him from turning cartwheels from table to table across the restaurant and accepting on the spot.
Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that the money seemed like a lot for a book that was only expected to take six months of his time and a second book that Norton hadn’t even seen.
And then, it had struck Simon as odd that his former mentor—a man whose high journalistic standards were legendary—would be willing to use Brookes Press to promote someone’s political agenda.
The money aside—and Simon readily acknowledged that the money was more than would have occurred to him to ask for—he wasn’t fool enough not to recognize an amazing opportunity when he saw one. As he sat in traffic on the approach to the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, Simon ticked off the pros in his head.
For one thing, the book proposed by Norton wasn’t expected to take much more than a few months of his time. And he’d been guaranteed publication by Brookes Press, something no previously unpublished author in his right mind would pass on. The book itself would have tremendous support from a respected independent press—support that he hoped would carry over onto Lethal Deceptions, a book even Norton had agreed would be a tough sell, though Norton hadn’t seemed concerned about Simon’s refusal to name his source of information. Of course, Norton knew Simon, knew he wouldn’t have stuck by that story if he hadn’t believed, heart and soul, in its verity. There was a trust factor there,