Heist Society (Heist Society #1)

Heist Society (Heist Society #1) Page 24

She saw Hale start to speak, to challenge the new status quo, but then Simon said, “Showtime,” and turned an enormous laptop around for them to see.

Anyone could tell from the image on the screen that Gregory Wainwright was not a morning person.

His tie was entirely too crooked for a man of his station. His suit was rumpled. And as he lumbered toward his desk, he looked a great deal like a man who wanted nothing more than to return to his bed.

Hale looked at Nick. “You sure you’re up for this, newbie?”

“Oh,” Nick said with a laugh, “thanks for the concern, but I think I’ll be okay.”

“Yeah,” Hale scoffed. “Well, okay might be okay working short cons and street stuff, but this is . . .”

The walkie-talkie crackled to life again. “Excuse me, miss,” Marcus said a moment later. “The gentlemen would like to know if”—he cleared his throat—“that boom was as bloody brilliant as they thought it was.”

Kat hadn’t heard anything but the sound of the quiet war that was waging beside her, and so it fell to Gabrielle to lean toward the butler and say, “More smoke. Less boom.”

Marcus dutifully relayed the message.

“Guys,” Simon warned, turning down the sound and pointing to the man on the screen, who was now talking to his assistant. “It’s showtime,” he said again. But neither Nick nor Hale seemed to notice or care as they stared at each other across the table.

In the distance, Angus was chasing Hamish across the dewy grounds toward the rising, spiraling smoke, and Kat found herself whispering, “Two boys running . . .”

Hale looked up. Only he seemed to have heard her, and with that, he slid the phone across the table to Nick. “Make the call.”

They saw Wainwright pick up the phone. They heard Nick say, “Yes, Mr. Wainwright, Edward Wallace from Binder and Sloan here calling to assure you personally that this nasty business with our Windsor Elite furnace model is not as bad as you might have heard. Why, the fire marshal has assured us that—”

On screen, they saw Wainwright speak, but only Nick could hear him.

“Oh dear,” Nick said with a wink in Kat’s direction. “That is disturbing. Well, not to fear, Mr. Wainwright. I’ll tell you what I told Her Majesty’s personal valet this morning: We at Binder and Sloan have been entrusted with the safety and comfort of some of the United Kingdom’s most beloved buildings, and we will not rest until every faulty furnace has been repaired.”

Wainwright stood to examine the small vents in the floor of his office as if he expected flames to come shooting out at any minute.

“Yes, sir,” Nick said. “Now, I see that we can have a team come out to do these repairs two weeks from next Tuesday— Not quick enough? Of course, sir. It is a high priority, yes sir. Of course. Yes. First thing Monday it is.”

Walkie-talkie static filled the air again, and Marcus said, “Excuse me, miss, but the young gentlemen say that you cannot get smoke without the boom, and they would like your advice on how to proceed.”

But Kat’s mind was still lost in a dream, clouded with smoke and fire.

“Excuse me,” Marcus whispered. “Miss, the gentlemen—”

“Are morons,” Gabrielle said, taking the walkie-talkie from his hand. Kat watched her cousin storm off with an exasperated sigh of, “I guess I have to do everything myself.”

Kat, Hale, and Nick watched her go. Another roar bellowed in the distance as Kat found Hale’s gaze and whispered, “Bigger.”

Chapter 28

Sometimes Katarina Bishop couldn’t help but wonder if she had been the victim of some colossal, genetic mistake. After all, she almost always preferred black to pink, flats to heels, and as she stood perfectly still atop one of the silk upholstered chairs in Hale’s great-great-grandmother’s dressing room, all she could think was maybe she wasn’t even female— at least when compared to Gabrielle.

She glanced down at her cousin, who sat on her knees beside the chair, a pincushion in one hand and a cell phone in the other.

“Of course I want to come to your engagement party,” Gabrielle said with a sigh into the phone. “Those are always fun, but you know how Switzerland is this time of year.” She darted her eyes toward her cousin. “No, Mother, I haven’t seen Kat in ages—you know we’re not exactly close.”

Gabrielle winked.

“It’s too short,” Kat whispered at the exact moment Gabrielle chose to mouth, “I think it’s too long.”

“Sure, I think you should call Uncle Eddie,” Gabrielle said into the phone, but stared up, straight into her cousin’s eyes. “Whoever ratted out Kat’s dad should totally pay.”

Kat cut her a look. Gabrielle gestured and mouthed the word “Turn.”

Kat did as she was told. She could feel her hemline rising as her cousin worked, but she didn’t protest. After all, Kat was a natural grease man, wheel man, and inside man. Gabrielle was a natural girl. So Kat stayed still and quiet on her chair, staring through the bay windows, looking out onto the garden and the statue, trying to remember which parts of the night before had been a dream.

“So . . .” Gabrielle said slowly. The cell phone was gone. The skirt was nearly finished. And there was no disguising the thrill in her voice as she said, “Where’d you and Hale disappear to last night?”

“Nowhere,” Kat said.

“Turn,” Gabrielle instructed. Kat moved a half step, but her gaze never left the garden. “Remind me . . . didn’t you used to be a better liar?”

Kat sighed. “Probably.”

Even with a straight pin between her teeth, Gabrielle managed to nod and say, “Thought so.” She gripped the skirt’s hem, then cried, “Ouch!”

Kat glanced down in time to see Gabrielle pulling a stray pin from her finger.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Kat said. “Marcus is working on the costumes.”

“The last time Marcus made our costumes, you looked like a nun.”

“I was a nun.”

Gabrielle shrugged as if that were utterly beside the point. “Besides”—Kat heard the teasing tone in her cousin’s voice again—“you’ve got legs.”

“Thanks,” Kat said flatly.

“What’s wrong? Are you afraid your men might notice?”

“What men?”

“You know…” Gabrielle teased. “Your boyfriends . . . Hale and the new kid.”

“Hale’s not my boyfriend,” Kat blurted.

“Of course not.” Gabrielle rolled her eyes. “Hale is definitely not your boyfriend.”

“But you just said—”

“Let’s face it, Kitty Kat. Of all the men you’ve known in your life, Hale’s the first guy who could be your boyfriend.” Kat started to protest, but Gabrielle silenced her with a hand. “And a tiny little part of that great big mind of yours has always thought that someday he would be your boyfriend.”

Kat wanted to deny it, but she’d forgotten how to speak.

“Turn,” Gabrielle commanded, but Kat didn’t move. She just watched her cousin finish. “And Nick . . . well, Nick’s the new Hale.”

“No”—Kat’s voice was as sharp as the pins in Gabrielle’s hand—“he’s not.”

Gabrielle raised her eyebrows. “Well then, maybe you should make sure the old Hale knows that.” Kat stood perfectly still for a long time, thinking about the guys in her life: the ones she could trust and the ones she could con, wondering if she really knew the difference—wondering if, in that respect, she’d ever be as wise as Gabrielle.

“Do you like Nick?” Kat asked timidly. “I mean . . . do you trust him?”

Kat felt her cousin’s hands fall away from the skirt. “Those, Kat my dear, are two very different questions. Why do you want to know?”

“Do you remember that day I was late coming back from the Henley—the day before I met Nick? I saw Taccone that afternoon. He gave me these—”

“Excuse me, miss?”

Kat turned to see Marcus in the doorway of the dressing room, holding a massive bouquet of roses and lilies and orchids so rare that Kat imagined they must have been stolen from nature itself.

Gabrielle squealed and ran toward them. “Oooh! Sven!” she cried, reaching for the card. But then she stopped. A shadow seemed to fall across her face. “They’re for you.”

Her cousin tried to hand her the card, but Kat stood back, staring. Something told her that nothing that beautiful ever came without some kind of string attached, so she didn’t reach for the flowers. She didn’t want to listen as Gabrielle started to read.

“‘I was sorry to hear that your father is currently unavailable. Nevertheless, I am looking forward to seeing you very soon. Yours, A. Taccone.’”

The room was suddenly cold, the smell of the flowers overpowering. Gabrielle seemed like the wisest person in the world as she sighed and said, “Sometimes I really hate boys.”

2 Days Until Deadline

Chapter 29

La Casa di Vetro was neither Rome’s most expensive restaurant nor its most exclusive, but Kat could see why it was Arturo Taccone’s favorite. There were no tourists here, no crowds—only decadent smells and soft candlelight. But as she walked through the intimate dining room, she thought back to the look on Abiram Stein’s face as he’d stared at Two Boys Running Through a Field of Haystacks, and she remembered that the man at the small secluded table in the corner was evil. It didn’t matter that they were in one of the greatest restaurants in the world; he was still a common criminal.

But then again, Kat realized, so was she.

“Hello, Katarina.” Taccone smiled as Kat settled into her chair. His eyes passed to Gabrielle, who stood, arms crossed, three feet away. “And who is this?” he asked, appraising the beautiful girl with cold disinterest.

“She’s the muscle,” Kat answered simply.

Taccone smiled. “I assume you got my flowers.” His voice was low against the din of the crowd.

“They were beautiful.”

“Well,” he said casually, dabbing his napkin to the corner of his mouth, “I do hope they brought you some joy. You have been working so very hard.”

“I drink caffeine,” she said calmly. “Lots of it. Gives you pep.”

Arturo Taccone laughed softly, but there was something odd about the sound. As if it too had been stolen from its rightful owner.

He sliced into a beautiful filet. But as he brought his fork to his mouth, he paused. “Forgive me. Are you sure I can’t get you and your companion something?”

“Thank you, but no.”

“I must say, you have not made things easy for me, Katarina.” He took a bite. “Interesting. But not easy.”

“If it makes you feel any better, my own father would probably agree with you.”

“Ah, yes.” He took a sip of wine. “How is your father? Does prison agree with him? I hear he’s coping quite well. Of course, the case against him is . . . shaky. A single eyewitness, I understand.”