Free A Beautiful Heist by Kim Foster Page B

pushed forward. It was years ago, on my first day with AB&T, Templeton saying something to me about AB&T setting up a legitimate shell company, carrying all of their employees on their books. Something about protecting themselves, and that we needed to do the same thing. But I hadn’t really paid attention. I was too excited—my first day at a new job.
    “Didn’t they send you W-2s?” Mel demanded.
    “I hid them. I thought the whole operation was secret,” I said miserably.
    “Oh my God, Cat, how can you be so naive?” Mel shook her head.
    “Okay, now you sound like my mother.” I crossed my arms.
    “I’m sorry about that, but this is a big problem. You have to pay that bill. ASAP.” Mel looked at me with genuine fear in her eyes.
    An icy hand touched my spinal cord. She was right. The last thing I wanted was the IRS conducting a full-blown audit on me. If they came sniffing around they could find out what I do. Even if they didn’t imprison me for tax evasion, they would get me for my real crimes. My head began to swim. I couldn’t let that happen.
    “Do you have enough to pay the bill?” Sophie asked, eyes wide.
    “No,” I said, rubbing my forehead. “I gave a lot away—UNICEF was in major need last year, and the Red Cross had a very persuasive fund-raiser . . . and the rest I lost in that bad investment scheme, remember? My Swiss account is bare bones right now.”
    Mel closed her eyes. “Okay,” she said, with a deep breath. “Is there some other way you could come up with that sort of money? In thirty days?”
    I stood there, chewing a fingernail.
    Mel closed her eyes and shook her head. “Oh no. No you don’t.”

Chapter 7
    After a long, restless night filled with dreams about Fabergé Eggs and prison bars and—inexplicably—figure drawing classes, I still wasn’t sure what to do. In bed, I cracked my eyes open and glanced at my alarm clock. Highly inconveniently, it read 10:12 a.m. I sat bolt upright.
    Crap, crap, crap. My mother was going to kill me. I should have been up an hour ago. I was supposed to be going to a baby shower with her this morning. I flew out of bed and started tearing clothes out of my closet.
    It’s not that I was keen to attend. On my list of things I’d like to be doing that day, a baby shower in the suburbs fell somewhere between swimsuit shopping (I’ve long suspected they use fun-house mirrors in those changing rooms) and having my car serviced (curse those mechanics and all the damn extra repairs they “strongly recommend” knowing perfectly well I have no idea what they’re talking about).
    The trouble was, my mother lived for these social graces. She also possessed an athletic talent for administering guilt trips. I’m convinced mothers learn this skill in Lamaze classes. You know: This is how to breathe in the second stage of labor, this is how to change a diaper, this is how to deliver an effective guilt trip. . . .
    So it was fine. I would just make a brief appearance, make my mother happy, then get out of there.
    I got dressed for the shower in a whirlwind. I bolted through the rain, threw everything in my black Mini Cooper—including my pitiful potluck contribution of a bag of frozen edamame chipped away from the back of my freezer, and my makeup bag—and leaped behind the wheel. I had luck on the freeway and made pretty good time. I even managed a half-decent job at applying my makeup as I went. The concrete and glass of the city quickly changed into leafy streets and houses of the suburbs. I careened off the 520 to Kirkland, and drove on autopilot. My mind roamed away. Thoughts of Sandor, and his offer, bubbled like soup in my brain.
    Mostly, I wanted to take the job. For practical reasons: I needed the money. Badly. And for less practical reasons, too. The thrill, the challenge, and—no matter what my friends said—the irresistible possibility that this job could be the one.
    But I knew it could be a big career error. It could ruin my