The Art of Stealing Hearts

by Stella London

  “Did you see anyone else back there?” he asks.

  “Just Lydia and Stanford, a few photographers and clients…” My hands start to sweat. Now I’m really nervous. “What do you think happened? Do you think it was an inside job?”

  Lennox leans back. “It’s too soon to tell, and I’m not at liberty to share details, but it looks like it could be linked to other high-end art heists we’ve encountered in Europe.”

  So there have been other robberies. I doubt he’d tell me what was stolen so I don’t bother to ask. “Well, good luck,” I offer. “I wish I knew more.” The thought of all that stolen art makes my stomach clench.

  Lennox nods, going over his notes with a frown. He glances up as I stand. “If you think of anything else, remember any details…” He pulls a card out of his jacket pocket. “Call me anytime.”

  “I really hope you find this painting,” I tell him, taking the card. “It’s too beautiful to be hidden away in some thief’s lair.”

  He smiles. “We’ll find it, Miss Bennett,” he says. “No matter what it takes. You can count on it.”

  Outside, Stanford tells me that the auction house is closing for the day and we can all go home. The lobby still looks like a crime scene—I mean, I guess it technically is a crime scene—so I try to go unnoticed through the hubbub. Then I see St. Clair, standing with some older men by the doors.

  I pause, hanging back out of sight. Suddenly I’m nervous, my stomach turning a slow flip. My cheeks burn as I think about our kiss, but I’m not sure if I should go over to him and his friends. God, it’s like I’m in high school. Is it awkward to go say hi?

  “Grace!”

  I look up. St. Clair has seen me, and is waving me over.

  “Hi,” I say as I get closer, wondering how to greet him—a hug, kiss, handshake? I settle for a smile. “I’m so sorry about the painting. It’s such a shame.”

  He gives a rueful smile. “These things happen. I have every confidence that the police will find it and return it to me.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I choose to be.” He grins. I’m surprised; I was expecting him to be angry or upset: a six million dollar masterpiece is a big thing to lose, but instead he’s focused entirely on me. “Where are you off to right now?”

  “I’m going home,” I tell him. “Carringer’s is closing early for the investigation.”

  “Well if you’re free this afternoon, perhaps you can help me with something? Lend your expertise?”

  I laugh. “I’m not really an expert in anything…”

  “I beg to differ.” St. Clair smiles at me again, turning on that megawatt charm. “I’m considering purchasing a painting and I would love your opinion.”

  “Really?” He’s messing with me, right? “Why?”

  He lifts an eyebrow like, Come on. “Why do you think?”

  “I have no idea,” I admit, confused. “I’m not really qualified, like a certified appraiser or consultant. I don’t know if—” He puts a finger to my lips and the shock of his touch makes me fall silent.

  “I don’t care about qualifications,” he says, staring into me with those deep blue eyes. “You have a good eye and great taste. That’s what matters to me.”

  I gulp. “Well, okay…” I say. “But you can’t blame me if I tell you to spend millions on a kid’s crayon scribble.”

  He chuckles again. “I’ll have my fusty official advisors there, too, but I really want your passion. Your gut reaction.” He takes my hand, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Your attention to detail.”

  Oh my God, I am tongue tied. All I can think about are the details I’m noticing right now: the tingle of his fingers on my skin, the excitement of his asking for my advice, the validation. And, oh yes, the line of his abs under his shirt.

  “So what do you say?” he asks. “You feel like taking a ride with me?”

  My heart does little flips in my chest, but I manage to keep my voice from sounding like a Muppet. “Yes. I’d love to.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Heading across the Golden Gate Bridge in the passenger seat of Charles’ luxury car, I’m blown away again by this city’s beauty. Tufts of fog and low clouds drift by the thick orange cables and metal towers. When I was a kid and saw it from the ground, it so often looked like it was floating, which is kind of how I feel now. Light-headed, nervous, and dreamy.

  “It’s so gorgeous here,” I say. “I want to paint this bridge someday from up there.” I point to the Marin Headland hills above the bridge on the north side, rocky outcrops covered in sage. “The perfect angle.”

  “Let’s do it,” he says, glancing at me. “I’ll have to steal you away another day.”

  “This might be enough playing hooky for me for a while.”

  “Not much of a rule-breaker, are you?” he jokes. “No secret history of skinny dipping or sneaking out your windows?”

  “Not unless you count almost failing school as rule-breaking,” I say, thinking of my C average, my struggles to pay attention. “I behaved, I just never stopped sketching.”

  Sailboats take advantage of the bay’s winds below and dozens of tourists brave the blustery day to enjoy the amazing views of the city from the bridge.

  “Like this,” I say, gesturing to the whole world of life and art right outside. “How can I not want to capture this?” Couples kiss and kids ride bikes, and it’s a perfect portrait of San Francisco.

  When I look back at him, Charles is staring at me. “What?” I ask, self-conscious.

  “Nothing,” he gives a secret smile. “I just like the way you look at the world, that’s all. So many people never take the time to see what’s right in front of them, but you see the beauty in everything.”

  I flush. “I got that from my mom,” I confide. “She was the most observant person I’ve ever known.” I watch him, curious. “How about your parents?”

  “I spent most of my childhood in boarding school in England.”

  I make a face—I can’t help it—and he laughs. “It wasn’t all bad. Not what you’re probably thinking. I learned discipline and independence and loyalty, but I did miss my family, my home.”

  “I’m sure they missed you, too,” I say, imagining what it would have been like to be away from home for most of the year, away from my mom. “Are you close to them now?”

  He hesitates. “Well, we get on fine, but in my family, even if you hated your cousin, you would smile and offer them the last roll at the family dinner table because that’s just good manners.”

  I laugh quietly. “Sorry,” I say. “That’s not funny. It’s sort of sad.”

  “It is indeed both, and that’s the way it is. Old British families, you know? Tradition and upholding the family name are paramount.” We cross the bridge into Marin County, lush green hills on both sides, layered with moss and dripping from the mist. I don’t know if I should say something. His whole life feels so foreign to me. “After we lost Robert…” St. Clair pauses. “He was older, the heir apparent. Suddenly, all the family pressure landed on me.”

  I don’t know what to say, so I reach over and squeeze his knee. “I bet they’re so proud of you now, with all your international success.”

  “I’m not so sure,” St. Clair’s tone is light, but I see the shadow on his face. “They’ve never once said anything about it.”

  “It’s just the stiff upper lip of Britain, right?” I say, hoping he doesn’t take that the wrong way. “I mean, isn’t that, like, a thing? You Brits don’t know how to show affection?”

  Charles looks at me, his eyes sending little sparks through my blood. “I beg to differ.”

  I feel heat spreading low in my belly and I look away before he can see the desire he’s ignited written all over my face. He turns back to the road and I watch his profile, the perfectly shaped features. I remember our kiss, the charge that passed between us, and how badly I want that spark against my skin again.

  “So,” I say, ho
ping my voice doesn’t sound like I’ve just been picturing his lips on mine, his skin on mine…Stop it, Grace! “Where are we heading?”

  “The artwork is at an estate in Napa,” he replies. “An original Manet was apparently unearthed in the cellar of this house when its owner died a few weeks ago. The family is looking to sell it.”

  “You’re kidding!” I exclaim. “A find like that…”

  “I know,” he says, the same awe in his voice. “If it’s real. My associates are here to verify its authenticity, but I never buy anything sight unseen.”

  The lazy hills have turned into vineyards, and a few farms with cows and horses roaming in the fields. Huge puffy clouds drift across a bright blue sky, hawks and crows soaring in great looping arcs. He turns off the highway, and the road leads us into a grove of oak trees with an expanse of vineyard beyond, all the green leaves turning gently in the breeze. At the end of the driveway sits a huge stone estate, the size of four normal houses with a stone tower on one side.

  St. Clair pulls up beside another car. “Excellent, they’re already here.”

  Inside, the house looks like it hasn’t been redecorated since it was built over two hundred years ago. Two older men are waiting in the foyer.

  “Gentlemen, thanks for making the trip. Grace, this is Mr. Pemberly, and Mr. Coates. Grace Bennett is a friend of mine,” he explains, and the men shake my hand politely.

  Pemberly has an actual monocle tucked into his front pocket instead of a handkerchief. “How nice of you to join us, Miss Bennett.”

  “It’s an honor to be here,” I reply, stifling a grin at his old fashioned fanciness.

  We walk past a grand staircase as we move into the drawing room. Floor to ceiling bookshelves line the room, and several plush armchairs face a gigantic hearth. A writing desk sits in the corner, with an ink bottle and quill resting next to a piece of paper like someone was writing a letter and never came back.

  The broker, a brisk woman who clearly takes a page out of Lydia’s book, shows us to the corner, where the painting is set on an easel by the windows.

  “And here we are,” she says grandly. “Sailboats at dusk.”

  I stand there, staring in awe. The painting shows a boat bobbing gently on the Venice canals. I did a unit on Manet at college, and I recognize the signature striped poles and blue water in the foreground and the white walls and lighted windows of the city buildings of Venice in the background.

  Coates claps his hands together. “Remarkable, just remarkable. I assume the canvas and paint have been age-tested?”

  “Of course.” The broker presents a folder filled with authentication paperwork, photos, official looking seals and other documents as Pemberly steps up to the masterpiece, pulling out his monocle.

  “It’s breathtaking,” Pemberly says, examining the canvas up close. “Breathtaking.”

  Coates examines the paperwork, nodding. “Everything looks in order.” He moves in for his turn at the canvas.

  Pemberly beams. “Definitely a Manet. What an exquisite find, Mr. St. Clair.”

  Coates looks up from the painting. “Absolutely. A dream find. A dream investment.”

  Pemberly says, “We’ll have an unveiling in the city in a few months, build the buzz before then.”

  I expect Charles to charge ahead and celebrate, but instead, he’s watching me. “Grace?” he asks. “What do you think?”

  I’m not sure what else I can add, but I step forward to take a closer look. The painting really is beautiful, and the rest of the room seems to melt away as I absorb the painting, take in its intricate brushstrokes, Impressionist work at its best.

  It looks authentic, and everything about the movement of the paint and the indentations in the canvas says it’s from Manet’s time period, and yet…

  I pause.

  “What is it, Grace?” Charles says, coming closer. “What do you see?”

  “Well…” I look up and find all those expectant eyes on me, the looks of skepticism on the older men’s faces. I step back and shake my head. “It’s probably nothing.”

  St. Clair gives me a look. “Tell me.”

  I really don’t want to, but when I think of the alternative – him buying this possibly inauthentic painting – I have to speak up.

  “Okay.” I sigh. Here goes. Please don’t hate me. “I think…it’s a forgery.”

  The broker gasps. “Never!”

  Coates laughs out loud. “Who is this girl?” he says. “I assure you, the paperwork is sound.”

  “I’m probably wrong,” I say quickly, embarrassed. “Sorry.”

  St. Clair takes my arm and draws me aside. “What makes you think it’s not authentic?” “I don’t know, I just feel it in my gut.”

  Coates interrupts, “The tests have all been conclusive.”

  Pemberly shows St. Clair the file. “The pigments in the paint, the composition of the canvas threads—it’s all from 1850-1890, which fits the timeline for Manet.”

  “But those are the best forgeries,” I say, unable to stop myself. “Right? Forgers would paint fakes during the same time period and hand them down through the generations until someone could finally pass it off as the artist’s actual work.”

  “But the signature is perfect,” Permeberly says, pointing it out in the bottom left hand corner of the painting. “Flawless.”

  “Actually,” I go on, feeling my pulse quicken. Why stop now? It’s all or nothing. “It’s the signature that makes me wonder.”

  The fussy men still look skeptical, but I have St. Clair’s attention, and he’s the only one who matters.

  “Show me,” he says, leaning in.

  I point at the T. “See how the brushstroke that crosses the T goes left to right? Manet’s real signature has the T crossed from right to left.”

  The art advisors are unconvinced. “That’s not confirmed on every piece,” Coates says.

  “It’s a tiny detail,” I agree, “but this painting doesn’t have the usual provenance. Just being discovered after all this time? It’s a one-in-a-million chance.”

  “So either I’m really lucky, or someone wants me to think I am,” St. Clair says slowly.

  He leans back and surveys the painting, thoughtful, then finally announces, “I’ll take it.”

  The broker lets out a sigh of relief. “Wonderful.”

  “Excellent choice,” the others pitch in, but I feel his words like a betrayal.

  He doesn’t believe me.

  I’m crushed. Tears are forming in my eyes, and I’m too close to embarrassing myself even further, so I say, “Excuse me,” and walk through the old house and out into the sunshine.

  It’s okay, I tell myself. So what if he believed those experienced art advisors over me? Wouldn’t any smart person do the same? Especially with a large investment like that?

  “Grace?” I jump at the sound of my name, but it’s Charles, looking concerned. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m so sorry,” I flush again. “I feel like such an idiot.”

  He sits beside me. “Don’t be. I believe you—you were right about the cross on the T.”

  I jerk my head up in surprise. “You think it’s a fake, too? Then why did you buy it?”

  “Because it’s still a beautiful painting.” He smiles. “Why should one painting be worth more just because it’s by a certain person and not another? Isn’t it still amazing, regardless of who painted it?”

  I can’t believe it. He really doesn’t care about the names and labels.

  “It’s getting late,” he says, looking up at the dusky sky. “How would you feel about staying the night out here rather than driving back? I have a place nearby.”

  Blood rushes to turn my face beet-red faster than I can form a complete thought. “Oh.” OMG is more like it. Did he just ask me to spend the night?

  “I have plenty of guestrooms available,” he says quickly, but there’s a moment when our eyes catch. Electric.

  A night alone with him, away from
everything…it’s tempting, unpredictable, and probably way out of my depth. But being around him makes me want to take a risk.

  “Yes,” I tell him, and take the leap. “I’ll stay.”

  CHAPTER 10

  I don’t know exactly what I was expecting—some kind of English castle—but when we drive around the hill and pull up in front of St. Clair’s place, I find a modern, sleek house. It’s really more of an estate, a huge glass, steel, and stone building nestled in the hills above a beautiful vineyard.

  “Your place is gorgeous,” I breathe, following him through the front door. It’s all open plan, with massive windows looking out over the hills. The kitchen is bigger than my entire apartment, a spacious expanse of stainless steel appliances and a wide granite-topped island.

  I turn to take it all in, and then I see it: a real-life Rothko painting on the wall. My jaw drops. “This was at the LACMA last year. I wanted to go so badly. How did you get it?” I almost squeal when I get close. “The color in this is exquisite.”

  St. Clair smiles. Then I notice a de Koons. And oh my God. “Is that a real Andy Warhol?!” I exclaim, running over to look. “Oh my God, it is!” I hear the excitement in my voice and force myself to stop, painfully aware I’m swooning like a teenage girl at a boyband show. “Sorry, I’ve never seen anyone actually own art like this. It’s always just been in galleries and museums.”

  But St. Clair doesn’t seem to mind my enthusiasm. “No, it’s great. Most people don’t even notice the art itself, they just want to clock the artist and the value and move on.”

  “This is an incredible collection.” I look around some more, a giddy lightness coming into my chest as I examine each piece, unable to wipe the smile off my face. I stop when I see him staring at me again.

  “Don’t stop,” he says, grinning proudly. “Feel free to babble away. I’m so happy to share these pieces with someone who cares.”

  “It’s a shame that people like that guy Andrew who almost won your painting—”