“By all means,” St. Clair says, his hand on the door edge, ready to close it. I resist the urge to push the officer off the threshold and out of our faces.
“See you again soon,” Lennox says ominously as he exits. St. Clair slowly closes the door, but his muscles are so tight I can tell it’s taking all his will power not to slam it.
We stand silent and tense, wait for them to drive away. Slowly, the engines start again and the lights recede, until we’re left in darkness again.
Alone.
I inhale a deep breath, my anger starting to return. “You better start explaining. Now.”
“Why don’t we talk while we shower?” St. Clair asks.
What? I open my mouth to give him a piece of my mind when he leans in close and whispers, “Lennox may have planted bugs, or is trying to listen from outside. We need to go somewhere we can’t be overheard.”
Bugs, surveillance. I feel a chill. I really am in over my head.
Upstairs in his luxurious bathroom, the shower running full force, we slip off our robes and step into the steamy tiled space. St. Clair pulls me close, and my skin prickles at the heat of our contact, my body not yet betrayed even though my mind and heart are as suspicious as Lennox. My instinct is to lean into St. Clair, relax against the strength of his chest and pretend that tonight never happened. But I can’t.
He betrayed me, and there’s no going back.
“Okay, talk,” I demand, tears stinging my eyes in the spray. “I trusted you, I lied for you, and now, if you ever cared about me at all, you’ll tell me the truth. Everything.”
He takes a deep breath, and his handsome face flickers with an expression I’ve never seen before. Trepidation – and relief.
“He’s right. Lennox. The man behind all the heists, and the gallery theft. It’s me.”
“What?” I reel back in shock, speechless, barely comprehending his words.
St. Clair exhales, like it’s a secret he’s been carrying too long. He looks at me, his blue eyes filled with a new kind of hope. “But you have to believe me, I never wanted to lie to you, Grace. All of this, you and me, it’s real. It’s the realest thing I’ve ever known.”
I shake my head. “How can I believe you? You just said that everything you’ve ever told me has been a lie!”
“Shh,” he hushes me. “Please, Grace, let me explain.”
“What is there to explain?” I demand, furious now. “You steal from people, St. Clair. God, why? You’re the richest man I know. You could buy any one of those paintings without breaking a sweat.”
“It’s not like that. I don’t take them for me.” He reaches for me but I pull away.
“But you do take them. And for who, then?” I stare at him, confused.
“Whoever they belong to. People who don’t have a legal claim, who have been shut out of the system, who have no other way. I bring the art back to the rightful owners.”
“Like who?” I ask, not understanding, but still wanting him to make this right.
“Families who lost everything in wars,” St. Clair explains. “Art that was looted by the Nazis, or stolen in the first place. People’s lives were taken, everything that mattered. There are hundreds of masterpieces that were illegally seized, hanging in galleries now, or being traded at auction. I don’t see it as stealing. I see it as justice. These families lost their most prized possessions—if I can return their family history, their priceless heirlooms that were taken from them illegally in the first place, is that so wrong?”
“Yes,” I tell him, fighting the bile rising in my throat. “It is. Charles, if you cared about justice, you’d hire lawyers, you’d fight them in court. But instead you sneak around in the middle of the night and steal them. You’re a criminal. And you do it because you love the thrill. The challenge. God, Lennox was right about you.”
I turn away from him, but St. Clair grabs my arm.
“No, Grace, please listen to me.”
“I have been listening! But I need better answers,” I say. “What was tonight about? What big injustice were you righting with this theft?”
He straightens up, his chin taking on a self-righteous tilt. “That piece belongs to a Russian family. It was taken by KGB agents, and then gifted to one of their wealthy supporters. I’ve been following this case for years, after I saw an article about the family in the newspaper.” His energy lifts, his face becoming animated. “It’s been a hard piece to acquire, with the security at the other museums, so when I heard it had been transferred here…” he trails off, looking at me. “What?”
“Look at you,” I almost laugh. “This isn’t about justice, or playing Robin Hood. You love the game, outsmarting the cops and insurance investigators. Tonight, I was terrified we’d get caught. The alarms, the police, I’ve been going out of my mind with worry, but this…this is fun for you.”
“I never meant for you to get caught up in this.” St. Clair’s expression turns plaintive. “I’m so sorry for putting you through it all.”
“So, what?” I ask, as fury rises in me. “You were just going to keep on lying to me? Pretending? Using me?”
“No, Grace—”
“Because that’s what you’ve been doing since the start.” I have to fight back tears. “At Carringer’s. You were casing the place, weren’t you? And I was just an easy distraction.”
“No. That’s not true.” St. Clair puts his hands on my bare shoulders, holding me. Begging me. “I meant every word I ever said to you.”
“You’re a liar and a thief,” I whisper, looking up into the dark pools of his eyes.
“Grace. I love you.”
I stare at him, saying the words I’ve dreamed of hearing him say. The water runs off his damp hair in rivulets, over the handsome planes of his face: those cut-glass cheekbones, those sensuous, wicked lips. And then I realize, I don’t even know this man anymore. If I ever did.
“It’s not enough,” I whisper. “What am I supposed to do now?” I wish I didn’t know the truth. My mom always said there was truth in beauty, but this feels so ugly I’m afraid nothing will ever seem beautiful again.
“Please, don’t go to Lennox,” he asks, sounding desperate. “Take some time, think about it. I swear, I’ll never lie to you again. I love you,” he whispers again and leans in to kiss me.
His mouth is hot and anguished against mine. He kisses me hard, desperately, like the passion between our wet bodies can overcome my doubts, and for a moment, it feels like maybe it could. As our slick bodies press against each other and his hands tug at my hair, I try to find my way back to St. Clair, to believe the man I knew is still there underneath all the lies. His mouth devours me, brands me, and I sink into his fevered embrace.
I want him. Even after everything, my body aches for his touch. The slide of his muscular body against mine…the slow heat of his hands peeling my panties away…
He dips his head, kissing a trail down my collarbone before closing his mouth over the hard peak of my nipple. I moan, clutching him to keep my legs from giving way. I can feel him, hard against my thigh, and I ache to feel him thrusting deep inside me, the way he did last night, back when everything was perfect, and clean, and simple.
St. Clair makes a growling sound, then lifts me, wrapping my legs around his waist and pressing me back against the tile wall. His hand slides down between us, and I gasp as he curls two fingers up inside me, stroking into my slick, aching pussy. I moan, lost in the sensation of the water beating on our naked skin; his mouth, so hot and hungry at my breasts, and those fingers driving me crazy, thrusting harder, faster, exactly where I want them—
Damnit, Grace. He lied to you!
The daze breaks. I pull away from him, struggling down to my feet again. “I can’t do this,” I say backing away – out of reach of his hands, and lips, and all those things that cloud my judgment.
“Grace—” St. Clair looks broken. Like he really does care.
But how can I trust him anymore?
I
hurry to the bedroom and blindly pull on my clothes, stuffing things in my bag before I hurry downstairs and out the front door.
I have to get away.
CHAPTER 3
The next two days are torture. I try to paint and work, to ignore the massive choice I have ahead of me, but nothing can drown out the voices of indecision in my mind. St. Clair keeps calling me, texting, sending flowers to the lovely little flat that I’ve been living in; begging to talk, to see me, anything I want. But I can’t face him, not yet.
I have no idea what I’m going to do.
St. Clair hasn’t said a thing about how much he’s done for me, not once mentioned anything that would suggest he thinks I owe him, but my dirty cocktail of emotions includes guilt for that as well. How could I turn him in after the opportunities he’s provided me? But then again, I can’t help wondering if that was part of the plan. Did he hire me, bring me to London, gift me that art studio, all just to keep me distracted and in the dark?
I force myself to go into the office on Monday, hoping to steer clear of St. Clair for another day, but of course, he’s the first one I see. He hovers in the doorway of my office, looking too good to be true in a perfectly-tailored navy suit, his skin tanned against the white shirt open at his collar.
“Good morning,” he says. “I wasn’t sure if I’d see you today.”
My heart skips a beat just seeing him again, but I force myself to play it cool. “I still have a job to do. Don’t I?”
“Of course,” he says, frowning. “Grace, you know I hired you because of your talent. I don’t want you to think you owe me anything because of this job.”
It’s like he’s reading my mind.
St. Clair moves closer. “If you’re not comfortable…I don’t want you to go, but if you want to leave, I won’t stop you. I can book you a ticket home,” he says softly. “I’ll write you references, find you another job—”
“No,” I stop him quickly. “I mean, I don’t know just yet.”
He nods, but there’s a hopeful glimmer in his eyes. “So you haven’t gone to Lennox’s side yet?” St. Clair gives a nervous laugh. “I wasn’t sure if I’d arrive this morning to find this place crawling with feds.”
“I told you, I need time,” I say slowly, still feeling so torn. “But I wouldn’t do that to you. Whatever I choose, I’ll tell you first. So you can…make arrangements.”
St. Clair looks about as surprised as I feel. “You don’t have to do that.” He pauses, quizzical. “Why would you give me that chance?”
I let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know,” I admit quietly. “I guess, after everything we’ve been through together…”
I trail off. I can’t explain it, how I still feel this connection to him. I want to believe our relationship hasn’t been a lie – I just don’t know whether that makes me a fool all over again.
St. Clair holds my gaze for a long moment. “Thank you,” he finally says. “I know you’re hurting, that you feel betrayed. Just tell me what you want from me, and I’ll do it. Whatever it takes to make it up to you. I promise, Grace.”
His expression is so sincere. I want to believe him. To forget this ugly revelation ever happened.
“I should get back to work,” I say abruptly, dragging my eyes away.
“Doesn’t your boss ever give you a day off?” he jokes, but it doesn’t have his usual zest behind it.
I shrug. “My boss does a lot of things I don’t agree with.”
St. Clair sucks in a breath, like I just hit him. “I guess I deserve that.”
He pauses a moment longer, and it takes everything I have to keep focused on my computer screen, to pretend I don’t want to rush into his arms. After a moment he nods, and retreats. “Let me know when you’re ready to talk.”
“It might be a while.”
Try a hundred years. I could spend a lifetime puzzling over the way I feel about him. I watch St. Clair’s back as he walks away, and feel my confusion grow stronger than ever. I know he explained it to me – that he’s righting wrongs with his thefts, more like a Robin Hood than a criminal – but he’s still stealing priceless works of art, still breaking the law for the fun of it. Still lying to me and everyone else. How can I ever trust him again?
Dammit. It always looks so cool on TV and in the movies: the charming rogue thief, breaking into galleries and making off with multi-million dollar artifacts. But it’s different when that thief turns out to be the man you trusted, and your whole future is on the line.
If I forgive him, if I go along with it, what does that mean? Will I spend the rest of my life panicked and on the run, waiting for the police to break down our door? St. Clair is good at what he does, there’s no question of that – he’s gone this long without leaving any evidence, and up until now he’s been getting away with it. But now Lennox has him in his sights, and there’s no way in hell that man is giving up.
He’ll hunt St. Clair, right to the end.
I shiver. I don’t want to see St. Clair go down for these crimes. Yes, they’re thefts, but he’s been doing them for the right reason. For justice.
But it’s still stealing. Still illegal.
God, I’ve never had such a hard time figuring out right from wrong. And my stupid heart is just making things even more difficult.
I need a distraction from this dilemma, so I meet Paige for drinks at a swanky rooftop bar that looks out over the Tower Bridge. It’s gorgeous, but my mood is about as bright as a black hole. It only takes a few minutes for Paige to notice.
“What’s wrong?” she says, looking concerned.
“I’m sorry I’m being so lame tonight,” I say, trying to will myself to be better company.
“Did Mr. Perfect finally crack his shiny shell and reveal that he has flaws like the rest of us?” she teases.
I look down at my cocktail. “Something like that.”
Her demeanor immediately shifts. “Aw, I’m sorry, love. What happened?”
I shake my head and sip my fruity booze. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”
Except I do. I’m longing to spill all the details, but I can’t. I pause, and try to think of a way to ask Paige’s advice without telling her everything. “What do you do if you find out someone isn’t who you thought they were? But you still feel the same? Or think you do…”
I take another drink to cover the wobble in my voice. Paige considers my words, sipping her own martini. “Look. Everybody’s hiding something,” she says. “I think you just have to decide if whatever you’ve discovered is a deal breaker or if you can live with the flaw.”
Would she think criminal mastermind is a deal breaker? I wish I could ask her.
“Nobody is ever perfect,” she adds. “Believe me. But if the good outweighs the bad, then maybe it’s still worth a shot.”
“You are a wise woman, my friend.” It’s good advice, but I don’t know what to do—I’m not sure I want the same future that St. Clair wants. How could it ever be stable? Or legal.
She shrugs. “Fat lot of good it does me.”
She sounds upset, too, and I feel bad for being so selfish lately. Time to be a good friend. “Not a lot of hot prospects in the man department these days?” I ask.
“Nobody told your hot guy delivery service that I need one, too,” she says with a smile. “It’s just hard, you know? Trying to find someone when I’m so focused on work all the time.”
“Guys are always checking you out,” I say. “Case in point at the table to your left.”
We both look over – in time to see the guy’s girlfriend arrive.
“Maybe not,” I sigh. “But there has to be someone in this city worth your time. British dudes are sexy, right?”
“Yours is,” Paige winks. “I mean, yes, I go on dates, but I haven’t met anyone who really makes me feel. These days, I get more excited chasing down fraudsters at work than going out with a guy.”
“It’s okay to focus on your career right now, too,” I say. “No o
ne says you need a man to be happy.”
She giggles. “Yes, Oprah!” She waves at the waiter and holds up two fingers to indicate we want two more drinks even though mine is less than half gone.
I try to convince myself that this is true, that I don’t need St. Clair. I know I’d survive without him, but I can’t keep from wanting to not have to. Since I met him, everything in my life has seemed so full of possibility, so alive, so…exciting. But the thrill doesn’t extend to committing international art crimes. And it doesn’t seem like he’s interested in stopping.
Paige says, “The problem is that right now, work is frustrating, too! That stupid Carringer’s theft is a dead-end and it’s really been dragging me down. I’m looking forward to getting something hotter and more exciting.”
I tense. “The Carringer’s case isn’t closed yet?”
“No,” she rolls her eyes. “Usually we settle after a few weeks, but the powers that be were like a dog with a bone on this one. I don’t think we’ll find the guy no matter how hard we look. I mean, I’m pretty damn good and I found no trace of the thief. We’re just going to have to take the hit, cut a check to Carringer’s, and move on. Thank God.”
I feel ashamed. The thief she’s chasing is just a few miles away – and I could deliver him to her on a silver platter. “Do you mind it, when you don’t catch them?”
“I mean, there’s a professional rivalry,” Paige shrugs. “But it’s not my stuff they stole. Some of the time, I even admire them for it,” she admits, dropping her voice and glancing around, like she’s guilty even thinking of it. “I mean, this guy is seriously skilled. To make off with a painting like that and not even leave a trace…it’s pretty impressive.”
“And illegal,” I remind her, surprised at the vehemence in my voice.
She grins. “I know. But it’s not like they’re stealing bread out of the mouths of starving orphans. If you work this gig long enough, you learn that it’s all just rich kids bickering among themselves. I bet St. Clair hasn’t lost a wink of sleep over that stolen painting.”
The Art of Stealing Forever Page 2