Perfect Scoundrels (Heist Society #3)(12)

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.”





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.”