The Art of Stealing Kisses (Stealing Hearts Book 2)

by London, Stella

  “We have no idea, and that’s the problem.” Paige sighs. “There’s no pattern to the thefts—no time of day or MO similarities, the paintings themselves are all from different time periods and artists and countries of origin, and he hasn’t left a shred of real evidence. It’s baffling.”

  “Like a puzzle.”

  “Except this one seems unsolvable, and I am not going to become one of those characters in a TV drama who gives up her life and her sanity—not to mention her figure—to stare at some case she can’t crack.” Paige grins.

  “But don’t you like the chase?” I know she does, or she at least loves chasing all the men she sets her eyes on.

  “Yeah, I love the chase, but I also love to get the guy, too. Do you know how awesome it is to catch a snooty investor filing a false claim, or bust someone for fraud?” Paige’s eyes light up.

  I laugh. “You’re like insurance fraud Dirty Harry.”

  “Damn straight!” She grins. “But this thief is just too good, and the cops aren’t good enough. The leads are played out, the trail’s going cold, and I’m getting bored.” She sips her tea. “I wish they would give me something else to work on.”

  The waiter brings our food and it smells delicious. I dig in as Paige says, “You know what’s not boring?” I groan. “That’s right—you bumping nasties with the hottie billionaire. Give me the scoop, woman!”

  I swallow a mouthful of heavenly hollandaise sauce. “There isn’t a lot to tell, really. I’ve told him I want to keep things professional, and he’s been respecting that.”

  “Professional only? Please.” Paige eyes me with skepticism. “You can suddenly be just coworkers? How’s that working out for you?”

  “He’s my boss, Paige. I want to earn his respect, not blow this opportunity to advance my career.”

  “It’s the blowing that helps you keep the job, girl,” she jokes.

  “Haha.” I roll my eyes. “Seriously. This matters to me. I want to do this right.” I feel a little like a stick in the mud, but Paige knows how hard I’ve worked to get here, what hurdles I’ve had to clear for this opportunity.

  “I get it, Grace, I do.”

  I take another sip of my tea, pleasantly surprised to find that I like it, and have to keep from spitting it out when Paige says, “But dear God, that ass!”

  We burst into giggles and it feels like the old days, like we’re sitting in our pajamas eating popcorn and watching Netflix. “It is definitely distracting,” I admit. “I’m trying to do a good job, stay focused on the work…but I’ve never met a man like him before.”

  “You mean sexy, rich, and charming as all hell?”

  “Exactly!” I think of him encouraging my painting and telling me the passion will come again, him getting me to my apartment when jet-lag knocked me out. “And sweet and kind and generous…”

  “Uh, oh,” Paige says, reaching across the table to press the back of her hand against my forehead. “Someone’s got it bad.”

  I swat her hand away. “It’s not a fever. It’s an inappropriate crush. Remember that Anthropology TA you dated?”

  “Carl.” She makes a grossed out face and I laugh.

  “Carl!”

  “It was three dates,” she says.

  I grimace. “His feet left black marks on our carpet.”

  She points at me. “What about Roman?”

  “Oh, God,” I say, covering my face with my hands, ashamed.

  “Didn’t he ask to have a threesome on your first date?”

  “Yeah, with you.”

  Paige laughs. “That’s right!”

  “He was so surprised I said no.” We both crack up and it’s a wonder they don’t ask us to leave, we’re being so loud.

  “I missed this,” Paige says when we’ve giggled ourselves silly and out of breath. “It’s so great to see you in person.”

  “Me too. So much. I can’t wait to see you more now.”

  “Tru dat,” she says and we burst into another fit of laughter.

  Paige goes back to work after lunch, and I take a stroll around the neighborhood, just taking it all in. Then I see an email on my phone from Maisie: still managing to be efficient, even from across an ocean. Here are the student portfolios. I can’t wait to dig in.

  I’m standing in front of a gorgeous park—a green expanse like a golf course with a small pond in the center—and I decide that a lovely pastoral setting like this might ease the pressure of my choice a little. Maybe. At the very least, it will be pretty, and I can never turn down something beautiful.

  I follow a dirt path down to the pond. Mothers push strollers and elderly women walk tiny dogs past cute white metal benches and little trees growing pink and orange flowers. I sit on a bench and pull my tablet from my bag to better see the art. I angle the screen so it’s shaded by trees above and get to work.

  There are 250 graduating seniors and I can choose just ten final projects. Ten students whose careers are going to potentially be catapulted into the stratosphere. This is a life-changing award, and I feel like I’m in no position to be dealing out people’s fates. Just a few weeks ago, I was in their shoes, applying for an internship with fierce competition and hoping that the selection committee would see my talents, hoping that I could show them what I was worth.

  My phone pings. St. Clair writes, How’re your sea legs? You up for dinner tonight?

  I smile as I type back, Yes! Though my legs make no promises. I hit send before I realize how suggestive that sounds. Crap! Was that too much, past the line of cute flirty and into desperate bar slut-y?

  Pick you up at 8. He adds a winky face emoticon and I know it’s silly and so middle-school, but I do a little twirl holding my phone to my chest even though I’m in public. And in England, where public emotion is generally frowned upon.

  I don’t care. I can’t wait.

  CHAPTER 7

  St. Clair opens the car door for me and I step out onto a busy street, pulsing with lights and chatter and after-work drinkers. “Welcome to Soho,” he says. I stand sort of shell-shocked for a minute as my eyes adjust to the barrage of color. “Don’t worry, the restaurant won’t be this bright.”

  He leads me past a club pumping out dance music and several bars full of lively people, laughing and enjoying themselves. It doesn’t feel like St. Clair’s type of scene, but several people call out to him from bar patios, and women wave at him and give me the once-over.

  “You’re a popular guy.”

  He shrugs. “I used to be.”

  I wonder how much he used to party, if he still does. Paige and Chelsea have both referred to him being a playboy—am I just another plaything? Will this worry ever go away?

  We turn down an alley and the noise suddenly decreases several decibels. A simple brick façade with a metal door and the name Tony’s in white lights are all that indicate there’s anything here at all, but once we’re inside, I immediately see the appeal.

  Subtle elegance abounds; now this is more St. Clair’s—at least the St. Clair I know—style. Long white tablecloths are draped over small tables lit intimately with candles. Wooden beams polished to a shine hang above us in the vaulted ceiling and the walls are tastefully decorated with large black and white photos of London through the years.

  “Best steak in town,” he says just as the maître d’ comes over. We’re seated in a corner booth, a cozy and private table. We slide into the leather seat and end up closer than planned, but neither of us moves away.

  “The ’83 Cote du Rhone, please,” St. Clair says to the host, ordering us a bottle of wine that I don’t even want to contemplate the cost of.

  “Very good, Mr. St. Clair,” our host says approvingly, hurrying away to get the bottle.

  “Everyone knows you here,” I note again.

  He shrugs as he lays his napkin on his lap. “I was born here.”

  “When did you move to the States?” I ask, wondering why he would leave. “Don’t you miss it here?”

  “The
country, sure. The proximity to my family, not so much.” Our wine arrives and the server pours an inch for St. Clair to smell and taste, and once approved, he disappears again as St. Clair fills our glasses. “Have you taken a look at those student portfolios yet?”

  “I thought I was supposed to take it easy today?” I tease.

  He chuckles, but I can tell this matters to him. “Of course. It’s just that the Grace Bennett I know wouldn’t be able to help herself from peeking.”

  “I did take a peek,” I admit. “And I really like what I saw so far. But I’m still feeling a little heady with all this sudden power. The pressure is a bit much.”

  He tips his glass toward me. “The cream always rises to the top, Grace. Talent needs time to mature, like a fine wine, and it may not be one person’s time to shine now, but that doesn’t mean they won’t eventually.” He nods. “You just pick the work that speaks to you, that shows the most promise.”

  “What about people whose confidence gets shot and they give up?”

  He looks at me carefully before speaking, knowing me well enough by now to realize I’m talking about myself, too.

  “Failure can knock you down, or it can drive you to succeed, to push harder. It’s all in how you look at it.” He runs a hand through his hair. “When I first took over my father’s company, I made a colossal mistake. I won’t bore you with the details, but it cost the company millions in a failed deal, and then millions more when we lost that client.” He winces. “It still hurts to talk about.”

  “I throw a fit when I lose a twenty,” I say, and he laughs.

  “This was a lot of twenties. But in the end, it was the thing that made me stronger and better. I was no longer cocky, and started triple checking every move I made, and it gave me the determination I needed to prove to those finance assholes that I deserved this job for more than just my name.”

  I’m impressed. “Not everyone in your position would work as hard as you.”

  “I never wanted to trade on my background. I wanted to make my own reputation.”

  He’s not like the Chelseas of the world—he could have been just another spoiled trust fund kid, but he chose a different path. It’s one of the things I like about him. “You’ve done a fabulous job.”

  “I can always do more. That’s why I’m helping with this graduation ceremony, giving back to these students. I want to help support a new generation of artists achieve their dreams.”

  “You’re like a Renaissance patron of the arts. A modern day Medici.” I frown. “But hopefully you aren’t vying for political power.”

  St. Clair laughs, his eyes sparkling with delight. “I love your sexy art references.”

  “You’d be the first,” I smile, thinking of all the bad first dates I’ve been on. “I was on a blind date once, and the guy said he loved Monet: the guy’s last album was killer!”

  St. Clair laughs as our waiters arrive with plates of food. Filet mignon with chanterelle mushrooms and roasted fingerling potatoes, endive and pear salad with candied pecans and shaved parmesan, and fresh-baked bread for each of us.

  “This looks amazing,” I say, my mouth watering. “I eat so much Italian food—this is a treat!” I freeze with my knife halfway through my steak. “Don’t tell Giovanni or Fred I said that!”

  “Cross my heart,” he grins. “This is my comfort food—simple, classic, good ingredients. This is one of my favorite restaurants in London.”

  The food is delicious and we eat happily, talking in between mouthfuls a bit more about the student exhibition and the sights of the city. It’s a lovely meal, and I’m feeling peaceful and content as we leave the table.

  St. Clair takes my hand as we leave, and I can feel his pulse in his fingers, a little spark of heat as we exit through the lobby. The maître d’ says goodnight and we are almost out the door when I feel St. Clair tense up. An upper-crust-and-he-wants-everyone-to know-it-type guy in a flashy suit has just entered with what I assume is a trophy girl on his arm, with shiny dark hair and scantily clothed.

  The tall, red-haired man sees him. “St. Clair!” the man bellows as he swaggers over, almost dragging his girlfriend who’s in heels too high to take normal steps. He claps St. Clair on the shoulder. “Good to see you, mate.”

  I wouldn’t like him, even if St. Clair wasn’t rigid as steel beside me. The guy has ruddy cheeks and a smug, sneering expression permanently fixed on his face.

  St. Clair doesn’t speak. St. Clair, speechless?

  The man says to me, “Spencer Crawford.” He doesn’t offer his hand or introduce his date. “Have you sufficiently licked your wounds since the showdown at the Soho Auction House?”

  St. Clair glares at Crawford. “I never sweat the small things, Crawford.” His tone is icy, so different from the playful St. Clair I’m used to. “I don’t suppose you managed to find the title deed for that Armande painting?”

  “I won that fair and square,” Crawford says, smirking. He leans in close. “For such a loser, you’re not very good at it.” He lets out a harsh laugh, but St. Clair doesn’t join in.

  “Let’s get some fresh air,” St. Clair says as he turns to me, ignoring Crawford completely.

  “Good idea,” I agree.

  Out in the brisk night, the stars are obscured by low clouds, but the party still continues in the bars and clubs. St. Clair walks in silence beside me for a block before I ask, “What happened in there? Who is that guy?”

  “Nobody worth mentioning.”

  “Come on,” I urge him. “You guys obviously have a history.”

  St. Clair sighs. “Spencer Crawford was a prep school bully who picked on the weak and took pleasure in it. As an adult, he’s graduated to the role of corporate raider.”

  I try to lighten the mood. “Like Indiana Jones?”

  St. Clair smiles at my joke, but not enough to snap him out of his momentary darkness. “He only cares about profits and trophies, bottom lines and status symbols. He’s more like Prince John, stealing from the poor and underrepresented to provide for the rich.”

  I remember what he told me about the Durer painting being looted by the Nazis. “Are you more like Robin Hood?”

  He gives a bitter laugh. “Sometimes I wish I could be.”

  “The Armande painting Crawford mentioned—is that Pierre Armande?” I ask, naming a famous impressionist painter.

  He nods. “Yes. It’s his last known work, the famous Garden of the Valley. It used to belong to my mother, a family heirloom that was passed down through generations, kept through poverty and smuggled out during wars. Priceless. And my father lost it to that asshole.”

  “What happened?”

  St. Clair swallows, like he’s been carrying this burden for years, and I guess he has. “My father has a gambling problem,” he admits quietly. “A big one, and got into a lot of debt a few years ago that he kept secret from the rest of us. Crawford, opportunist extraordinaire, bought my dad’s debt and then demanded the Armande in payment.”

  “What a jackass,” I blurt angrily.

  St. Clair nods. “My dad, too. And it gets worse. Mom was sick, so Dad ferreted the painting out in the middle of the night without the title deeds or official sale papers. Crawford never should have accepted it.”

  I can’t believe it. “Can’t you sue him and get it back?”

  St. Clair pauses. “I considered it. But a court case would draw attention to my father’s illegal dealings.” He sighs again. “I was in the US when all this happened and when I found out, I offered Crawford ten times what he paid for it, but he just loves having it to lord over me. I should have been there, I could have prevented this.” He sounds angry, not at Crawford, but himself.

  “It sounds like you did everything you could,” I say gently.

  “It’s not enough,” he says sharply, and then softens. “Grace, I’m so sorry. I’m being incredibly rude, spilling all my dark family secrets.”

  “You’re not. I love that you tried so hard to get your family
heirloom back. You care about what’s right, and not many guys think that way.”

  St. Clair squeezes my hand, and I remember, he’s still holding it. Then he brings it to his lips, and drops a light kiss on my knuckles. It’s just a moment of contact, but I shiver, remembering those lips on mine.

  And more…

  As a rush of heat spreads low in my belly, I force myself to shake away the memory before I get too distracted.

  Charles doesn’t let go of my hand and we walk a little further, the buildings full of brick and wood, old, sturdy construction. “We don’t have this kind of age to the buildings in California,” I say, looking around. “Everything feels so stately here.”

  He smiles. “Stately sounds boring.”

  “You know, sophisticated. Cultured, full of art everywhere you turn.” We come across a small courtyard with a fountain. Statues of three young women stand in stone in the pool, water cascading out of their heads. “Like, how pretty is this? There are little pockets of beauty all over this city.”

  St. Clair pauses, and then a wicked grin spreads across his handsome face. “Let’s take a dip, shall we?”

  “What?” I gasp. “No! Isn’t that illegal?”

  St. Clair laughs at me as he loosens his tie and takes off his shoes. “Who cares?”

  Then, before I can process that he’s actually serious, he climbs over the fountain rim and wades into the water.

  “Come on,” he calls, beckoning me. “You’re missing all the fun!”

  He stands back, under the spray of the fountain. Water soaks through his shirt, plastering it to his body, and drips in rivulets off his wet hair.

  He looks like a masterpiece himself: honed from the finest marble, designed by an expert.

  “Grace!” St. Clair insists. He scoops up some water and splashes it at me, but I jump back with a smile, just in time. “Are you going to stand around watching all night?”

  I would if I could, but the temptation is too much. I want to feel what it’s like to be so spontaneous and reckless. Giggling, I take off my shoes, and gingerly step into the water.