Counterfeit Conspiracies by Ritter Ames Read Free Book Online

contact had been snuffed out created an even more critical need for me to count noses and be absolutely sure of who was and was not a player in this fatal farce.
    The room phone gave a hesitant ring, pulling me out of my musings.
    "Hello."
    "Is this Miss Beacham?"
    "Yes."
    "So sorry to bother you, miss, while you're probably unpacking and all. But we seem to be having a bit of a problem with your credit card. Could you come back down and bring it with you?"
    I caught my lower lip between my teeth to keep from cursing out loud. It was time to pay the piper for the shopping spree—not that any of it was my fault. Except for the fact I kept maxing out my credit cards. But I wouldn't have if Max hadn't made me reverse directions after my bags were already loaded for Tahoe. Yes, I could have had them routed back to me and waited, but I'd been given a two-day window for this job. Besides, I thought the card number I'd surrendered to the hotel still had a credit cushion. Obviously not. Damn! "I'll be right down."
    Max had to get to work on this, there was no other way. He would scream at me about fiscal responsibility, but this wasn't all my fault. I couldn't help it if my dad squandered everything away before he drank our family finances into oblivion. My place as a Beacham required I at least try to uphold the image my grandfather had so fiercely created and protected.
    I straightened my shoulders and drew a deep breath. If it took listening to another lecture, so be it. Max may have been mentored by my grandfather, and gained trust through his frugal habits, but regardless of how my boss gained the top slot, my grandfather left me the legacy of lessons learned to allow my entrance into all avenues of society. Without the image I maintained I couldn't go where the foundation and my job needed me to go and get introduced to the people I needed to see.
    "Still, if I could have gotten the money back on the Tahoe place that this little job made me give up, my gold card would have some breathing space now," I muttered aloud. The buck may stop here , as old Harry T. used to say, but Max deserved a hefty share of the responsibility this time.
    The room alarm clock said four p.m., which meant it was late morning in New York, and Max likely hadn't even had his first cup of espresso yet. Since he'd yelled at me earlier at Heathrow, he'd gone to bed well past his personal curfew. It made sense to call him ahead of going down, but I reasoned he'd be less likely to start a lengthy lecture series if I phoned him from the front desk and related everything as a business problem.
    "It is that after all," I said, practicing my upcoming speech as I searched for my wallet. "Accounting still has to reimburse me for expenses incurred last week in Italy. If he would issue me a corporate card—"
    No point in going on with that tack; there was no way he would. The high balances I carried on five bankcards gave him ample reason to resist giving me another to run up to the limit. I dragged my purse closer and rummaged, looking for the wallet that carried the one credit card I thought I could still use, and my phone. In the process, the business card Jack Hawkes gave me surfaced again.
    My first impulse was to crush it under my heel, but first impulses aren't always best. Little benefit in letting him in on my secret just yet. I tossed the card into the brass trash bin next to the table. No doubt, he would feel silly following around a British rubbish truck in the early morning. Then, feeling almost paranoid, I picked up the coral and returned the thumb drive to its secret center before putting the heavy sea beauty back in my jacket pocket. While a little unusual, it seemed like as good a hiding place as anywhere else I could come up with at the moment. I scooped up the key from the table beside my purse, and slipped my wallet under one arm.
    I stopped at the door. Should I pretend to pull Hawkes in, give him my financial state as a reason to call?