The Art of Stealing Kisses (Stealing Hearts Book 2)

by London, Stella

  His face softens. “I understand. Rain check on lunch?”

  I nod. “Definitely.” After I go off to meet a man who wants to arrest you and ruin your life. “Can’t wait.” I check the time. “I should get going.”

  I get up to leave, but he catches me on my way to the door, and pulls me in, close to his chest. “Maybe dinner tonight instead?” he says, low, and I can see the desire in his eyes. He traces the outline of my lips with his fingertip, and I can’t help but melt against him.

  My mind may be torn and conflicted, but my body has no doubt.

  He kisses me, and I can’t help it: I kiss him back.

  My guilt is as heavy as a statue.

  I walk to meet Lennox at the address he gave me: the Green Frog’s Pub in Soho. It’s a small, sort of old fashioned English bar with lots of wood and flags outside, not as hip and modern as the other neighborhood spots. I bet that’s why Lennox chose it—not as many people to overhear a discreet midday conversation.

  My heart is racing by the time I step through the door. I don’t know what my game plan is, I just know, I need to find out more. It’s going to be tricky dealing with Lennox, but I remind myself: he needs my help. He doesn’t know about St. Clair’s calendar, and I don’t have to tell him just yet, not until I’m sure.

  Inside, the pub is dim and quiet. I find Lennox sitting in a small back room, empty save for one other occupied table that houses two men talking low and intently.

  “I feel like we’re in a gangster movie,” I say as I sit down. “Are you actually a cop?” I joke, but I really am nervous. I snuck out of the office even though I’m sure St. Clair’s not following me. I feel like I’m doing something shady, like I should be cloaked and slipping out into the shadows under the cover of darkness.

  A ghost of a smile tugs at Nick’s lips. “I thought you might be more comfortable somewhere inconspicuous.”

  “Okay.” I jiggle my leg, not sure what to say and full of nervous energy.

  Lennox studies me and then says, “You’ve found something, haven’t you?”

  I stop shaking and jerk my head at him. “No.” Damn! I really need to work on being cool under pressure. “I just want to know more about the case.” I force myself to calm down. “These are big accusations you’re throwing around. And if it is St. Clair, then that might make me guilty, too. An accessory or something like that. I need to know what I’m dealing with.”

  Nick nods. At least he looks like he believes me now.

  “I knew you weren’t stupid,” he says. “You’re right, you need to think about yourself. You might have been an accomplice to his crimes without even realizing it, and that could get you in big trouble. Unless you cooperate now. Then I can help you, cut a deal.”

  “You mean, testify against him?” My stomach drops. “But I told you, I don’t know anything.”

  Anything concrete, at least.

  “You don’t know that for sure.” Nick leans forward. “We need to go over everything you’ve seen and heard since you met him. There must be something you’re overlooking. Tell me what you know. It’s the only way we can get you out of this mess.”

  I study him for a minute. He looks so eager.

  That’s when I realize: I’m not the one who needs help. He does.

  “You really don’t have anything on him, do you?”

  Nick frowns. “I know he’s guilty.”

  “But that’s not enough, not to arrest him, or have any chance of winning a trial.” I sit back, feeling more in control. “You’ve got nothing.”

  Lennox leans back into the leather booth and strokes his stubble. He makes a tiny shrugging motion like he’s decided it can’t hurt to tell me. “Okay, Grace, here’s the deal. I checked his travel and the dates match up. I know St. Clair was in the city of each stolen painting on or near the date of each robbery.”

  I feel weirdly relieved. If Lennox already knows that, I don’t have to tell him – or betray St. Clair. But then it hits me – Lennox does have some evidence, after all.

  He watches my reaction. “You don’t seem surprised.”

  “St. Clair travels a lot. So do many other high-profile businessmen,” I say, trying to keep cool. “I bet there are dozens of people whose travel patterns fit the same dates.”

  “But St. Clair is the one who fits the psychological profile,” Lennox says, looking stubborn. “This guy has rule-breaker all over him. Look at his family, his upbringing. He was punished for breaking his father’s strict guidelines and now he won’t play by anyone’s rules, including the law.”

  “Lots of people were raised with strict parents.” I find myself defending him, even though I don’t know why.

  “Yes, but combine that with his need to win, to possess anything he wants…” Lennox shrugs. “His profile speaks for itself. He has motive, he has means, and we can prove he had opportunity. Lots of it.”

  “So according to you, all rich men raised by overbearing fathers are destined to become white collar criminals?”

  He shrugs. “Not all. But definitely this one.”

  My mind races. Lennox hasn’t told me anything I don’t know – and all his evidence so far is circumstantial. A coincidence. It’s certainly not enough for a jury to be convinced. That means he’s not even close to arresting St. Clair.

  Why does that make me feel relieved?

  “What I’m hearing is a whole lot of theory, and no hard evidence,” I tell him, even though it all seems plenty damning to me.

  “That’s where you come in.” He leans in, his brown eyes intense and sharp. “Career criminals like St. Clair are good, smart. Hard to catch. And I’ll tell you something else—I need a break in this case soon or I’ll lose it. That’s the truth. He’ll make a mistake eventually, but by then my bosses will be onto the next thief.”

  “Maybe you’ll be able to catch that guy.”

  “I’m going to catch this one,” Lennox vows. “You can get close to St. Clair, Grace. I need your help to get the proof we both need.”

  “You want me to spy on him?” That’s too far. “I won’t betray him like that.”

  “It’s not betrayal! You’d be bringing him to justice.” Lennox looks around to make sure no one heard him.

  “But what if he’s innocent?” I still have hope that he is. He has to be.

  Lennox smirks, like he knows I’m clutching at straws. “Well, then you won’t find anything, will you? And I’ll have to move on. Everyone wins.”

  He’s good. It’s a Catch-22 for me: either tell him to go to hell and then risk getting charged as an accessory to St. Clair’s crimes, or spy on the man I care about in order to prove his innocence.

  But I don’t have to play Lennox’s games, I remind myself. I can buy some time, and figure out what I’m really going to do next.

  “I shouldn’t have come here,” I say, rising from the chair. “I have to go.”

  Lennox sighs. “He’s not innocent, Grace. Trust me, he’s behind these heists.”

  That’s the thing, I don’t trust him. I’m not sure if I trust St. Clair fully right now either, but I trust how I feel when we’re together, trust that his sweet caresses are genuine, his generosity not a cover for ulterior motives. “Sometimes instincts are wrong,” I point out.

  “They certainly are,” he says as I head for the door.

  Outside, I walk along a cobblestone path that winds along the Thames. I watch the grey water lap at the embankment, my mind racing to figure out what to make of this situation.

  Is it a mistake to believe in St. Clair? To believe in the man who has made me feel special and safe, who makes me laugh and makes me weak in the knees, the man who believed in me right from the start, even when no one else did? This whole fairy tale job-slash-romance has seemed too good to be true from the get-go, but now that might really be the case.

  A couple strolls by arm in arm, snuggled up in each other and oblivious to the world, and despite everything, I wish St. Clair was here with me right now. I wish
he were here to watch the way the sunlight’s reflection shimmers on the dark water’s surface, to enjoy the cool air on our skin, to walk along this river holding hands. He is the person I most want to ask for advice about this whole situation, the person I most want to spend time with, no matter what I’m doing.

  It hits me then: why I didn’t come clean to Lennox about my suspicions, or take his deal to investigate St. Clair and find evidence.

  After everything, I still want to protect St. Clair. To be with him – and show him the same faith and belief he’s shown in me.

  I can’t help it. I’ve fallen in love with him.

  CHAPTER 13

  I spend the next three days feeling like a spy, torn between what Lennox told me and my own growing feelings for St. Clair. I try to distract myself from the battle my brain is waging against my heart with some solid time in the art studio, but even with all the easels and brushes and paints I could ever want at my fingertips, my work feels forced. After filling a few canvases with abstract color studies (all of which are blue, and look a lot like the shade of St. Clair’s eyes), I give up and start spending my free time walking around the neighborhood, lost in thought.

  Part of me wants to call Nona, ask for advice, admit that I’m in way over my head. But when I left the di Fiores, I was full of excitement and anticipation about this trip. The last thing I want is for them to worry about me from all the way in San Francisco, or worse—be disappointed in my decision to come here, my decision to jump into things with Charles so fast. In the end I decide to wait things out for now—I’m not ready to make a move until I know more.

  In the meantime I watch St. Clair for anything suspicious or out of the ordinary, but I see nothing that raises any red flags. If anything, he’s more perfect than ever: planning little sightseeing trips around the city for me, surprising me with a romantic dinner or bouquet of roses, being more open and affectionate than I’ve ever seen before.

  He’s the sweet, charming, sexy, funny guy I fell in love with…and yet Lennox’s certainty and the things I saw still have me questioning St. Clair’s motives. How well do I really know him? If I keep getting closer, keep risking my heart, what happens if I’m wrong?

  Can I be in love with a man who might be a criminal?

  “Ready?” St. Clair lifts a tuxedoed arm for me to take as I step out of the cab. It’s the night of the big showcase exhibition at the London College of Art. I can hear muted laughter and conversation and jazzy music from inside the party, but I’m nervous. The artists I selected tonight will reflect on St. Clair. He’s the patron after all, and I don’t want to let him down.

  I inhale and exhale, following a tip from my mom for stressful situations, and smile at him. “Ready.”

  Together, we step into the grand main room of the gallery at the college. Tonight, it showcases the student art pieces I selected. Canvases, sculpture, and mixed media pieces sit or stand or hang from or on dazzling displays around the room, and I’m proud of the diversity of the art.

  St. Clair whispers, “No one has shouted in outrage at any of the choices, so that’s a good sign.” He’s teasing, I can tell.

  “Maybe they’re being polite, and waiting until after the canapés before they riot.”

  St. Clair chuckles, and leads me into the crowd. It’s a well-dressed mix of London society and prominent art-world people. “I can see the headlines now: Scandal at the school of art!”

  “Stop!” I swat at him playfully with my beaded clutch. “I’m nervous enough!”

  He squeezes my hand and tilts his head down to plant the lightest of kisses on my cheek. “You have nothing to be nervous about. Just relax and enjoy the fruits of all your labors. They’re going to love it.”

  We circulate through the room, checking out the full size final projects of the students. Some I hadn’t seen in all their full sized glory, like the twelve foot sculpture of Goliath, foot raised, about to squish a terrified three foot David, his slingshot discarded on the ground, or the mixed media installation that includes a piece of a toilet. I look around, still nervous, but everyone seems to be enjoying the art and having a good time.

  No riots yet.

  “Congratulations,” St. Clair says to each student artist as we stop and study their work. He introduces me to all of them, and talks about their pieces in depth. It’s clear he studied all the files I gave him, and now he asks great questions, engaging them to talk about their passion.

  I love this part. It’s so fun to see the artists in their element, explaining their aesthetic choices, their ideas and the process of bringing those ideas to life. It makes me want to get back in the saddle, to paint something worth showing, worth talking about. I want to feel that passionate about creating again.

  St. Clair makes sure to shake each student’s hand before we move on, and he puts everyone, including me, at ease. He’s charismatic and gorgeous, as usual, and women find ways to touch him all night, patting his shoulder or arm, commenting on his suit, his hair.

  One woman is so bold she says a variation of the same line as the others, “Your suit looks so luscious. What’s it made of?” except she slides her hand along the top of his thigh to find out. He manages to keep a straight face and discreetly remove her hand while thanking her for her admiration.

  “We should move along,” I say smoothly, pulling him away. Once we’re out of earshot, we both giggle.

  “And I thought you Brits were so reserved,” I laugh.

  He smirks. “Clearly, she can’t resist the goods.”

  “Modest, much?” I hit his arm lightly, but he grabs my hand, and looks into my eyes.

  “You know I’m taken,” he says in a low voice, and the intensity in his gaze takes my breath away. “I only have eyes for you.”

  My heart takes flight. I stare at him, overwhelmed – and guilty as sin for the secrets I’m hiding from him.

  “Mr. St. Clair?” We’re interrupted by the college president. St. Clair drops my hand. “We’re ready to welcome everyone, if you’d like to follow me. We’re all looking forward to your remarks.”

  “Of course.”

  We move to the stage area at the back of the room. The president introduces him as an important donor to the school and the benefactor for tonight’s event. St. Clair steps up to the podium to a round of thundering applause. I look around, seeing the respect and admiration on people’s faces. I think of St. Clair growing up in that cold house with nothing but criticism. If only his father could see how much his son is appreciated.

  “Thank you,” St. Clair starts as the applause dies down. “This is a very special night for me, a cause that’s dear to my heart.” His eyes find mind and he holds my gaze while he pauses, then goes back to glancing at the crowd.

  “I know what it’s like to have a dream—to want something so much you can taste it, but not quite touch it. And it’s opportunities like this showcase that will propel these artists into the realm where dreams become possibilities. So my hope for all the students here tonight—whether you are in the showcase or not—is to follow your passion. Don’t be afraid to take a few risks, maybe break a few hearts”—there are chuckles—“but be true to yourself. It’s a much bigger risk to try to be someone else. Art is about authenticity, and only you know your heart.”

  His eyes meet mine for a moment again, and then he looks away. “I’m so pleased to have a small hand in supporting the future of authentic expression, of creativity, and of these young artists here tonight. May all these futures be fruitful. Thank you very much.”

  He steps off the stage to more applause, and I’m so proud of him for helping to jumpstart the career of these students, and proud to be a part of his company for doing good deeds like this, for giving back to the art community. I look around and see the beaming faces of the students and know without a doubt that we made in difference in their lives today. It feels great.

  After the art show, St. Clair’s driver takes the scenic route along the Thames. I gaze out of the window,
treated to a palette of colorful lights: the old buildings lit up, with the rainbow of the London Eye in an array of changing colors like a planetarium light show.

  “Did you have fun tonight?” St. Clair asks. He takes my hand and squeezes it.

  “I always have fun with you.” I realize how corny my answer sounds and cringe, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

  “I always have fun with you, too.” His reply is quiet, thoughtful. He seems contemplative for the rest of the drive, not really saying much until we’re back at his place again. There, St. Clair opens a bottle of wine, and we sit together on the couch.

  “To another successful endeavor,” he says, raising his glass in a toast.

  “To the show,” I agree, tapping my glass to his.

  He takes a sip, still looking thoughtful. I wonder what’s going through his head. I start to get nervous. I’m not used to him being this way – not unless something’s wrong.

  What if he knows I’ve been meeting Lennox?

  My heart drops. Crap. If he knows about the clandestine meetings, he might think I’m betraying him. But isn’t that what I’m doing, the longer I entertain notions of him being the master criminal Lennox claims?

  I sit, waiting, my heart beating faster, until finally St. Clair puts down his wine glass and looks at me straight on. The energy between us is all fired up from the night, from teasing each other and laughing the whole car ride home, but now I can’t get comfortable with him so close.

  “Uh oh, you look serious. Should I be worried?”

  He gives me a smile – not broad and flashy like the ones he gave everyone at the event tonight, but something private and sincere, just for me. “You make me happy, Grace.”

  I gulp. Is this a break-up speech, or a ‘I know you’ve been meeting the feds behind my back’ speech, or what?

  “I don’t often let people in,” he continues. “Well, more like never. It’s just easier that way, to keep focused on business, keep my personal life and professional worlds separate.”

  Oh God, it is a break-up speech. I feel a pain in my chest, and I have to bite my lip to keep the tears from welling up.