Free Confidence Tricks by Tamara Morgan Page A

them. That was good. It meant Bea would never get a chance to notice that Asprey Charles very clearly wasn’t playing opposite Katherine Heigl in yet another cheesy chick flick. No—he was far too busy slipping past her careful cover, getting under her skin until she felt so hot and itchy not even a cold shower could completely get him out of her system.
    A smarter woman would use this opportunity to retreat. Forget the necklace. Forget the partnership. Running the opposite direction was her best option if she wanted to come through this unscathed.
    Too bad Poppy had never been known for her common sense. The Charles family—rich, illustrious and all over the Internet—was hiding something. And she wanted to know what.
    “I’d like for us to go to a movie,” Bea said. “Or you could whisk me away to a bar where I can pretend, for just one night, that I’m not responsible for the life of another human being. It’d be fun. We could talk.”
    The fake smile stretched wider. Poppy would rather watch a Katherine Heigl movie. “Sure thing, Bea. Soon.”
    “You’re leaving again, aren’t you?” Bea stepped back to allow Poppy enough room to get up and slip her feet into a pair of perilously high heels.
    “Oh, you know,” Poppy said lamely, trying to ignore the undeniable mixture of grief and accusation in Bea’s voice. “I’ve got to go see Nancy down at the prison-away-from-prison.”
    “Didn’t you see her yesterday? And why would you dress up to visit your parole officer?”
    Poppy shrugged, as though she didn’t care that she was responsible for the heavy sadness that weighed on Bea’s once strong shoulders. She didn’t want to sit and rehash the past, and she wasn’t about to admit that she was elbows-deep in research for a con. It would break her friend if she knew Poppy had gone back on her word.
    “I thought a nice pencil skirt might blow the old ball-and-chain away for a change. She thinks I might be sending the wrong impression to potential employers when I wear jean shorts.”
    “I thought you called her a battle-ax.”
    “She’s that too.” Poppy laughed and squeezed Bea’s hand. “You need to stop worrying about me. I know it’s hard for you to understand, but I’m fine .”
    “A person doesn’t lose two years of her life and walk away unscathed. I don’t care how much you pretend otherwise. You can’t just bury yourself in”—she waved her hand—“whatever this is and pretend it’s all okay. I wish there was some way I could repay you.”
    Enough.
    Poppy didn’t bother with the fake smile that time. She was tired of thinking about jail, tired of talking about rebuilding her life. Action was so much more effective than sitting around and examining her feelings. That was why she’d learned to fight in the first place. Did a girl with no future and a single-wide trailer she shared with her grandmother cry into her prepackaged, Salisbury steak dinner, or did she go out and find a sparring partner to work out those emotions?
    This girl chose the latter. She always would.
    “I’ll be home late,” Poppy said. “Don’t wait up.”
    Before she could think the better of it, or before guilt yanked her back inside their apartment, a colorful mess of baby blankets and too much furniture, she headed out the door.
    Her destination, a downtown Seattle office building that rose an impressive fifty stories in height, overlooked City Hall. After finding a parking spot in a garage offering exorbitant daily rates, she twisted her hair into a quick bun. Some nonprescription glasses might have added a nice touch and helped her stay on the down low, but she’d already reconciled herself to the possibility of being recognized. She was here to gather information, sure, but she was also making a statement.
    What that statement said had yet to be determined. But as she glanced at the building directory, which included a square plaque announcing Charles Appraisals and Insurance up on the