The Art of Stealing Kisses (Stealing Hearts Book 2)

by London, Stella

  “And then you came along. And everything I thought I knew went out the window.” St. Clair looks at me, and the tenderness in his eyes takes my breath away. “You’re like nobody I’ve ever met before, Grace. Your energy, your strength, your passion – for art, and the world around you. You haven’t let the world beat you down, you’ve kept striving for the life you want. You believe in the good in people. In me.”

  He reaches down under the coffee table and pulls out a long black velvet box with a silver bow. I stare at it, dazed.

  “I guess, I just wanted to show you what you mean to me.” St. Clair looks at me intently. “And when I saw this, I knew it belonged with you.”

  He hands the box to me. With shaking fingers, I unwrap the bow and lift the lid open.

  Oh my God.

  I’m staring at the most incredible diamond necklace: a single perfect teardrop diamond pendant strung on a gorgeous gold chain. It’s absolutely breathtaking – and enormous.

  “St. Clair,” I stutter. “I can’t…this is…”

  “Don’t you like it?” his face falls.

  “Are you kidding? I love it! But it’s too much, Charles—”

  “Nonsense.” He smiles again. “It’s perfect for you.”

  St. Clair takes the necklace and lifts it from the box. I turn, and my heart racing, and move my hair aside as he gently fastens the chain around my neck.

  The diamond sits against my skin, sparkling, and perfect, and without a doubt, the most beautiful thing I’ve ever worn.

  “It’s incredible,” I whisper, still blown away.

  He leans closer, and drops a kiss on the line of my shoulder. “So are you.”

  I shiver, feeling the heat from his touch radiate through my body.

  I turn, and find myself pressed up against him. He reaches out, and trails his fingertip around the diamond pendant – caressing my collarbone. My skin prickles with awareness, and when I look up, his eyes are fixed on mine. Dark and glittering. Midnight blue.

  “I’m falling in love with you, Grace,” St. Clair murmurs, his voice deep with emotion. “I’ve been falling in love with you since the first time you spilled coffee on me.”

  I feel like I’m in a dream. I hear his words, but they don’t sink in. I’m still in shock from the necklace, from his confession, from the way my body is leaning into him, eager for another tantalizing touch.

  “Tell me you feel the same way,” St. Clair says, his voice turning urgent. His hand glides over my bare skin, caressing me, seducing me. Warmth radiates through my chest. “If you could ever think about loving a man like me.”

  I realize what he’s saying now, and it blows me away. He thinks he’s the unworthy one? I cup his jaw with my hand. “Stop, Charles.” Calling him by his first name like this, our connection feels more intimate than ever. “You don’t have to do this. I love you, too.”

  A slow smile spreads across his face. Wonder, and then fierce passion. He claims my mouth with a fierce kiss, all heat and strong possession.

  This time there is no hesitation, and my whole body urges me forward, demanding I touch his skin to mine. I kiss his neck, unbuttoning his dress shirt slowly, moving my lips to each patch of revealed skin, kissing his chest and sliding my hands down his abs. I pull his shirt out and reach for his belt…

  “Not yet,” he says and in one smooth move, he lifts me, hikes up my gown and wraps my legs around his waist.

  “Oh,” I say, my groin flush with his, his growing erection making me shiver with anticipation as he carries me up the stairs to his bedroom.

  He sets me on the edge of his bed and slips a finger under one strap of my dress, pushing it off my shoulder. He kisses along my collarbone as he reaches around to unzip the back. His hands find my bare breasts, and I moan at his gentle caresses, growing stronger, teasing at my pebbled nipples.

  He pulls away and strips off his pants, standing gloriously naked in front of me.

  He takes my breath away. Chiseled from pure muscle, a body that would put Michelangelo’s masterpieces to shame. I drink in the smooth planes of his chest, the ridges of his abs, the trail of hair dragging my eyes down to the rigid line of his perfect cock.

  And now he’s mine.

  I pull him down to meet me, kissing hungrily as our bodies tangle in an erotic dance, our hips pressing hard against each other. The feel of his hot skin on mine is incredible, and as I press my lips against the pulse in his neck, his expert hands send me writhing and moaning beneath him, panting into his ear. He groans at my pleasure, and his fingers slip between my legs to stroke me, sliding inside me, thrusting so deep into my aching pussy it makes me cry out with the sensation.

  I’m so wet, and so ready. God, I need him.

  I reach for Charles, closing my hand around his hard length. He groans again, lower and deeper this time, and I thrill at the sound of his undoing. I tease him, toying until I can feel his cock throbbing hot in my grip, until his breath is ragged and he pulls my hand away, pressing my wrists back into the soft pillow above my head.

  Holding me steady beneath him, never breaking eye contact, he thrusts inside. Slow, torturously sweet, inch by thick inch until he’s fully inside and we’re locked together.

  “Grace,” he moans.

  I moan in return as he plunges steadily back and forth, a fresh wave of heat pulsing between my legs with his every expert move.

  God, yes.

  I clench around him, arching my back to take him in even deeper, and even as I moan at the ache he still feels so good pounding into me that I think I’ll lose my mind. We find our rhythm, the ecstasy building stronger, and I lose myself in him, giving myself up completely.

  All my doubts are wiped away. Nothing else matters but the two of us, right here.

  And then his strokes turn faster. Harder. Deeper.

  “So good,” I moan. He dips his face to nip at my breast with his teeth, sending a shock straight through my entire body.

  “Grace,” he groans, rubbing his thumb against my slick clit as he thrusts. It’s too much.

  “Charles,” I cry out, throwing my head back as my climax overtakes me, ripping through me with a fierce intensity. He echoes my moan, and I feel his body explode before he relaxes, spent, into my arms.

  I hold him until I fall asleep.

  When I wake, it’s dark outside. My body is still humming with pleasure, that bone-deep satisfaction. I smile, reaching for St. Clair to snuggle close again.

  But there’s nobody there. The bed is empty.

  CHAPTER 14

  Where did he go?

  I’m disoriented for a minute, trying to get my bearings in the dark. Then I hear St. Clair moving around the bedroom. In the dim light, I can just make out his silhouette in the shadows. He’s opening drawers, getting dressed, but really quietly—like he doesn’t want to wake me.

  “Yes, everything is set. No problems,” he whispers into his phone. “Be there in twenty.”

  I shut my eyes fast, laying absolutely still as I hear him approach the bed. I feel the soft brush of a kiss against my forehead, and then the sound of the door clicking shut behind him.

  Where the hell is he going?

  I quickly scramble out of bed. My weekend bag from our visit to his parents is still here, so I pull on a T-shirt and jeans, then grab his coat and pull it over my top. I tiptoe down the stairs just as the front door shuts, then wait ten seconds before peering out.

  He’s walking down the block, towards the busier main road.

  I scurry after him, keeping to the shadows. I know I’m acting crazy right now, but I can’t help it. After everything we just shared, I have to know the truth.

  St. Clair turns onto the main street ahead of me, then flags down a taxi. Damn!

  I look around and catch sight of another black cab. I practically hurl myself in front of it to make it stop, then tumble into the back.

  “Follow that cab!” I exclaim.

  “Seriously, luv?” the driver asks but he pulls into t
he road. “Americans.” He shakes his head but I don’t care. I’m too busy running through thoughts of what St. Clair could be doing out here at three in the morning. I quickly come to the conclusion that there are no good options.

  St. Clair’s cab leads us through London into Fitzrovia, the neighborhood that’s an eclectic hodgepodge of old and new, with stone, brick, and wood buildings and a square in the center of the main intersection that Paige told me has a farmer’s market on weekends. The other cab stops on the side of the road and St. Clair gets out. My own cab pulls over half a block behind. “What now, luv?”

  The streets are dark and I hesitate. “Is this neighborhood safe?”

  “It’s 2 am, lady. You’re alone. What do you think?”

  St. Clair is walking away, and I have to make a decision fast. This whole thing is crazy—I can’t believe I’m following my boyfriend-slash-boss through the streets of London in the middle of the night. But I have to know the truth.

  “Thanks,” I say and pay the driver, and then follow St. Clair’s path onto a side street. The street is narrow and paved with cobblestones so I watch my step as I hurry along, but when I turn a corner, he’s gone.

  I lost him.

  I pass several alleys that he could have gone down, but I’m too scared to pick one and start walking. It’s creepy out here alone, and I suddenly feel foolish.

  What am I doing?

  I force myself to keep going until I reach a wide, empty square. Nothing but quiet storefronts, a café and a bakery, a gallery.

  A gallery.

  My blood goes cold. It can’t be where he was headed.

  The street is eerily quiet as I approach the front entrance. It’s all locked up. Silent. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  Maybe I’ve got it all wrong. Maybe Lennox has just made me irrational, and paranoid enough to sneak out in the middle of the night in pursuit of St. Clair. But if he’s sneaking out of bed in the middle of the night, something is definitely going on. And even if there was some perfectly reasonable explanation for why he needed to leave at this hour, he clearly didn’t want me to know about it. Shouldn’t that be reason enough to worry? And then another possibility strikes me: maybe there’s another woman. Maybe I’ve been a fool in more ways than one.

  I head back across the square, the yellow streetlights casting long shadows to match my mood. I decide to catch a cab home and try and forget about this whole thing. What was I doing playing Nancy Drew, anyway?

  I retrace my steps down the alley, hoping I’ll be able to find a cab home again, when suddenly a movement in the shadows makes me yelp.

  I leap back, my heart racing, as someone emerges from a hidden side door.

  St. Clair.

  He stops short when he sees me. “Grace? What are you doing here?”

  I take in his black pants and black turtleneck-clothes made to disappear in the dark. The expression on his face is grim. “I could ask you the same thing.”

  He shifts on his feet and glances back nervously and I notice what he has tucked under his arm: a carrier tube. Just like the kind you would use to transport a painting without a frame.

  I feel a chill spread down my spine.

  St. Clair. In a dark alley. With a painting.

  My mouth goes dry. It doesn’t get clearer than this.

  St. Clair follows my gaze.

  “This isn’t what you think it is,” he says.

  Suddenly, alarms sound from down the street, the shrill sound reverberating through the night. The gallery. We both turn our heads as a light flips on above us in someone’s apartment.

  St. Clair grabs my hand. “We have to get out of here.”

  I pull away. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what the hell is going on!”

  “We don’t have time!”

  More lights turn on above us as the sirens continue their shrieking.

  “You better explain fast, then.” Hot tears are burning behind my eyes but I refuse to let them fall. “Because if this is what I think it is, then you’ve been lying to me all along.”

  St. Clair comes toward me, his face creased with worry but still agonizingly beautiful, his features exaggerated by the shadows and looking more statuesque than ever. My heart is pounding with hurt and fear, and the alarm bells are piercing, but he reaches his hand out to me and I have to fight hard not to take it. “I’ll tell you everything, Grace, I swear, I’ll explain. But we have to leave right now, it’s not safe.”

  I waver, torn. I need an explanation. I need to know he hasn’t taken me for a fool. Because right now, everything feels like a fraud: my dream new job, this incredible opportunity, everything we’ve shared up until this point…

  The love of my life.

  “Please,” St. Clair whispers, his gaze darting around intensely before returning to meet mine. “Just ask yourself one thing. Do you trust me?”

  TO BE CONTINUED …

  What happens next? Grace and St. Clair’s whirlwind romance continues in THE ART OF STEALING FOREVER - Available October 28, 2015

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  ONE

  So a girl walked into a bar.

  It wasn’t a joke, it was my life.

  Which, actually, now that I think about it, sometimes feels like the same thing. No comments, please.

  Besides, tonight was the beginning of my new life. It was the first step in a direction I’d wanted to go for a long damn time. So where was I? Ah, yes. I walked into a bar.

  It was a nice bar, at least. In fact, it was really a lot nicer than any bar at a mid-range hotel—the only one my supervisors were willing to spring for—in a mid-range part of Charleston had any right to be.

  The lighting was soft, but not so much so that I couldn’t read the print on the bottles, glowing yellow and orange lamps bringing out the warmth of the polished walnut bar and booths, as well as the striking red brick of the walls and the paintings that adorned them. Some kind of mournful violin music was piping over the sound system, just loud enough to make itself felt and give the chatting patrons a bit of privacy.

  A profile caught my eye, a man silhouetted by the soft golden light, facing away from me. I admired the strong lines of his shoulders and the way that his auburn hair caught slivers of light even in the semi-darkness, throwing out glints of gold like sparks in a low-burning fire. Perhaps feeling my eyes on him, he turned. Before I could look away, our eyes met, and a shock of electricity pierced through the distance between us.

  Those eyes…deep and knowing, traveling across my face before wandering down my body and back up again, slow and leisurely as if he could feel every inch of me through his gaze alone. I felt my body heat up under his stare, my blood singing in anticipation at the offer his eyes were making. A smile began to stretch across his face, as if he could read the eager acceptance in mine.

  I looked away quickly. Research, Ally! I reminded myself. Not banging hot guys. Research is why you’re here tonight.

  I hurried away to the other side of the bar before I could give into temptation.

  The bartender—a wizened old guy with kind brown eyes and a face that looked like it had been there to meet Mark Twain—didn’t bat an eye when I told him what I was after, and after a brief chat with the waitress he got me a corner booth, tucked away behind a stuffed cougar that looked like it had time-traveled directly from the print ads for a 1950s Boy’s Adventure magazine.

  Camouflage was definitely necessary; I’d overheard the Douchebros—and I promise I’ll go i
nto more later as to why I even have a group of people in my life worthy of that title—bragging about how tanked they were going to get, and my plans for the night did not include fending off drunken advances, trying to tune out comments about the size of my ass respective to my brain, and counting how many times they could fit the word ‘bro’ into a single sentence.

  (So far, the record was seven.)

  My plans for the night, however, did include the next thing the waitress brought me: six different shots of bourbon, and a glass of water.

  And no, I’m not an alcoholic. This was research.

  Fun, delicious research, but research.

  Maybe I should back up a little bit. My name? It’s Ally. Allison Bartlett. I’m five foot four, have grey eyes, tolerate the straight brown hair that slides out of every ponytail I put it into, and frequently wear an anxious smile that I’m working hard to make not broadcast my ambition, desperation, and general worrywart nature. It’s an uphill battle.

  Anyway, I’m twenty-four, and I’ve been working at Geisel & Son Advertising in Washington, D.C. for two years now. I was an intern my senior year, and I lucked into an entry-level position opening up a month after I graduated. It’s full-time, benefits, the whole package. So I should be thanking my lucky stars, right?

  I sure would, if anyone at Geisel & Son ever managed to remember that I wasn’t the intern anymore.

  Time and again over the last two years, I’d heard my ideas shot down, only to turn around and see them accepted as brilliant when suggested by whichever man did the least possible amount of rephrasing. I’d been talked over in meetings, told to fetch coffee, and confused with the receptionist. And I think I might have been able to handle all that, if it had been coming solely from the old guard within the establishment. But no, more than half of it was coming from people barely older than me, who seemed to have watched too many episodes of Mad Men and taken all the worst bits to heart.

  So this was it. My possibly last big job, where I was going to try my hardest, stand up for myself and fight for my ideas, and give this advertising job one last chance before it ground me down into dust and I packed my bags and waved the sad white flag of surrender on my career dreams.