Perfect Scoundrels
Page 6

It wasn’t like Kat knew what she was doing. She hadn’t had time to form a plan, to even know if Marcus was right and Marianne had been wronged. All she knew for certain was that Marcus was still arguing with his sister and, outside, it was a beautiful day. And, besides, her rides—both of them—were either gone or otherwise engaged, so Kat stepped out into the fresh air to collect her thoughts. It wasn’t her fault her footsteps kept drawing her through the woods and closer to the big house, one word on her mind.
Hale.
Kat had to talk to Hale. That was the beginning to any possible plan: explain Marcus’s theory and find out what—if anything—Hale might know about his grandmother’s final wishes and anyone who might want to circumvent them.
For a moment, Kat had to laugh. It all seemed so outlandish, so extreme. But then the big house came into view, and Kat had to remind herself that nothing about Hale’s world was ordinary. So she walked across the grounds without another thought. It felt good to have a job. A purpose. And her footsteps felt more certain as she went through the back door and up the stairs.
She threw open one door and moved on to the next. And so on and so on. She kept going until she saw a closed set of double doors, light streaming through the cracks beneath them, and Kat pressed her ear against the wood and listened.
“‘To Cousin Isabel,’” a man said, “‘I leave the dia- mond broach that had once belonged to her great-great- grandmother.’”
Kat eased open one door just in time to see a woman throw her hands to her chest. She looked like someone had just named her Miss America.
“So that concludes the issue of the Hale family gems,” said the man behind the podium. He had a dark suit and eyes so black there was no doubt in Kat’s mind that she was looking at Natalie’s father.
He brought his hands together and stood quietly at the front of the room like a preacher at a wedding, waiting for someone to object.
“What about the company?” Hale’s father asked.
“Yes, yes.” The lawyer shuffled his papers and a few fluttered to the floor. “We are about to that point now, I believe.”
“Well, get on with it, Garrett.” The Hollywood uncle glanced at his wife. “We have a jet reserved for eight o’clock, and I don’t intend to miss it. We’ve already spent three days on this.”
“How rude of Hazel not to die on your schedule,” Hale said. His family ignored him.
At the back of the room, Kat dared to open the door a little wider, but no one noticed. The collective gaze of the entire Hale family was locked on Natalie’s father. They sat, straight-backed, on folding chairs, waiting. European cousins lined the right wall; distant nieces and nephews gathered on the left. And, at the front of the room, sat two sons, two daughters, and the various offspring and in-laws who had come with them.
It felt like a scene straight out of Agatha Christie, with the country manor’s drawing room full of greedy heirs. So Kat peeked inside, staring at the usual suspects.
“Mrs. Hale discussed this moment with me many times, and, before me, she discussed it with my late father. You should rest assured that Mrs. Hale knew the gravity of what she held and the responsibility it was up to her to bestow. She watched her husband accept the mantle of sole control of Hale Industries when his brother passed. She herself took it up after the death of Mr. Hale the Third.”
He drew a deep breath. He didn’t look like a man accustomed to public speaking as he read, “‘Hale Industries is our family’s legacy. Our birthright. Our responsibility.’” The attorney adjusted his glasses and spoke directly to the men and women in the front row. “Those were your mother’s exact words.”
He continued to read. “‘My father-in-law gave it to his sons and then my husband gave it to me, and now it is my responsibility to give it to the next generation—to our family’s best hope, my greatest faith in the future.’”
Watching, listening, Kat felt a sudden wave of sadness that she had never known the woman who had written those words, and she hated the possibility that there was a traitor in this family’s midst, someone who could manipulate the will of the sixth-wealthiest woman in the world to their liking.
“‘And thereby,’” the lawyer read on, “‘upon my death, sole ownership and control of Hale Industries shall pass to my grandson, W. W. Hale the Fifth.’”
Kat might have thought she’d misunderstood, had it not been for the shocked expressions and stunned silence that filled the room.
“The Fifth?” Hale’s father asked. “My son? My mother left our company to my son?”
“Actually, Senior,” Garrett said, “I think it’s his company now.”
“But he’s a child!” Hale’s aunt cried.
“And your mother was well aware of that. That is why paragraph eighteen dictates that, should she pass before he is of age, his interest in the company will be held in a trust until he turns twenty-five.”
“And who’s the trustee?” Hale’s mother asked.
“I am,” the lawyer said.
Hale’s father was up, crossing the room, reaching for the document. “I’d like to see that, if you please.”
“Fine,” Garrett said. “We have copies for each of you. Hazel’s wishes were clear and, make no mistake, her mind was sharp.”
“I think company performance of late says otherwise,” Hale’s uncle muttered, but no one else said anything aloud.
“She knew exactly what she wanted,” the lawyer said, and a hush fell over the room as he raised a finger and pointed toward Hale. “And what she wanted was him.”
Chapter 8
When the noise came in the middle of the night, Kat was the only one who heard it. Perhaps it was because her senses were more heightened, her reflexes more sharp. But probably it was just because she was the only person in the brownstone who wasn’t already fast asleep.
Gabrielle never even stirred in her twin bed when Kat crept out of the room they shared and down the stairs, inching toward the single light burning in the kitchen.
“Watch the glass,” somebody said.
“Hale?” Kat asked. Cold air rushed into the kitchen, and Kat reached for one of Eddie’s sweaters that hung on the back of a chair. She pulled it tightly around her small shoulders, shivering in the chilly wind.
“You broke Eddie’s window? I hope you can pay for that,” she tried to tease, but Hale just ran a hand through his hair.
“I didn’t want to wake anyone, so I tried to pick the lock. Have you ever tried to pick Eddie’s locks? They’re…unpickable. So I…I’m sorry about the window.”
“Hale, what’s wrong with you?”
“I haven’t been to bed. I mean, I tried to go to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. I’m hungry.” He opened the refrigerator but barely glanced inside before slamming it quickly shut. “Are you hungry?”
“It’s two o’clock in the morning.”
Then something seemed to dawn on Hale; a light filled his eyes, and he was moving toward Kat, taking her hands in his and saying, “Not in Rome. You know that little bakery you like so much, I bet it’s open. Let’s go get some breakfast.”
“Hale, I need to talk to you.”
“I don’t want to talk. Come on, Kat. Let’s go get croissants in Paris.”
“I thought you wanted to go to Rome.”
“We can do both. We can do anything.” He pulled her closer. “You know you love me in a beret.”
And there he was—Hale. The real Hale. Smiling and dipping her low in the middle of Uncle Eddie’s kitchen, ready to kiss her like she was the heroine in a black-and-white movie. Gone was the coolly indifferent boy on the street, the vacant shell standing in the corner at the funeral. He was back.
I stole him once, Kat thought. I could do it again. All they had to do was pack a bag and call a cab, jump on a jet and disappear. It could be like it was before Argentina.
“We can leave right now.” Hale squeezed her hand. “Marcus will meet us at the airport. Just—”
“Marcus,” Kat whispered.
“Yeah,” Hale said. “He’ll take us anywhere we want to go. How about Hawaii? We can be on the beach in time to watch the sun come up.”
And then Kat pulled away. She forced herself to walk to the other side of the table, needing a barrier—something to keep her from grabbing his hand and running out the door.
“I saw Marcus today, Hale. Did he talk to you?”
“No. He’s been staying with his sister. She and my grandmother were very close.”
“I know,” Kat said. “He told me.”
It felt like she hadn’t seen Hale in days, and she wanted to fill him in on these strange encounters that she’d had with a boy who looked vaguely like him—to tell him about Marcus and Marianne and the search for a lost will that might or might not even exist. Kat wanted to tell him everything, but try as she might, she couldn’t get the words to come, and the longer she stood there, the more Hale’s smile faded until, finally, he sat down at the table and ran his hand along the old wood.
“You’re not going to run away with me, are you?”
Kat shook her head. “Not tonight.”
“That’s a shame.” He drew a long breath. “This time I think they’d notice.”
“They noticed last time.”
“You’re right.” He gave a low, dry laugh. “But this is the first time they’ll care.”
“Hale—”
“Hazel disinherited my parents, Kat,” Hale finally said. “My aunts and uncles, too. Sure, she gave away some jewelry and some paintings—the houses. But she didn’t give them a single share of Hale Industries.” He huffed. “Ever since Hazel got sick, that’s all Dad has been able to think about. His mother was dying, and all the man could talk about was how hard it was going to be to buy his brother and sisters out of the company.”
Hale took a deep breath. “She disinherited everyone,” he said, as if trying to convince himself that it was true. “And she gave it all to me.”
The moonlight sliced through the broken window and across his face. He didn’t look like a boy who’d just inherited a billion-dollar corporation. He looked like a boy who wanted his grandmother back.
“Why would she do that? Why would she pick me?”
It was supposed to be rhetorical, but Kat couldn’t help herself; she thought about the question—saw it in the light of everything Marcus had said. And in that moment, she knew that Hale being the heir was no mistake, no coincidence. It was an all-important part of the con, Kat was certain, as she whispered, “You’re a minor.”
So often in life, Katarina Bishop forgot that she and her crew were teenagers, that in the eyes of the law and society itself, even W. W. Hale the Fifth was a lesser citizen. It had often been an asset, but it had never made her a mark before, and right then she hated being fifteen.