The Art of Stealing Hearts (10 page)

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.”

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—”

“My
stolen painting—” St.
Clair adds with a teasing grin.

“Yes.
Well, that people like that can buy a masterpiece they don’t
love,” I
exclaim.

“And
then store it in the cellar like a block of cheese getting pricier
with age,” St.
Clair continues.

“Right!
That’s
a tragedy,” I
say, and mean it. “God,
If I had a Picasso or a Rubens, or a Rothko, I’d
put it on display, like you.” I
mean, I’d
put him on display, too, but I gesture to his walls, painted plain
white so the art can stand out. “Somewhere
I could stare at it all day long.”

“Art
is meant to be seen,” Charles
says and I smile. “What?”
he asks.

“My
mom always said that,” I
confide.

“Smart
woman,” he
says. “Just
like her daughter.”

Our
eyes lock, and I feel the heat pulse between us again. Then
somewhere, a clock chimes and the moment is broken. “Let
me show you to the guest suite,” he
says and I follow him up a staircase to the second floor.

The
carpet is so plush it muffles our footsteps as St. Clair leads me to
a huge master suite, perfect as a hotel penthouse. “Here
we are. Is this okay?” he
asks.

I
try not to laugh. There’s
a king-size bed, and through the door to the bathroom, I can see a
tub big enough for the whole di Fiore family. It’s
so luxurious, I never want to leave. “I
think I’ll
manage.”

He
chuckles. “Dinner
should be ready in about an hour. Relax, make yourself at home.”
He closes the
door behind him, leaving me alone.

Wow.
The décor
is stunning—more
thick carpet and elegant curtains and bedding, satin sheets and a
beautiful quilt stitched with blue and silver patterns that looks
like a work of art.
Did
he have this made up for me, or is he always prepared with an
exquisite guest suite in case he decides to bring a girl home?

Huge
windows look out over a private patio and the vineyards beyond. It’s
like I’m
dreaming, except that kiss in the elevator was definitely real, and
hot, and he invited me here, alone, which is also not a dream.
I’m
in Charles St. Clair’s
house, about to have dinner with just him.
The thought sends shivers of nervous anticipation down my spine.

I
head to the bathroom and fill the massive tub with hot water and
lavender scented bubble bath. He said to make myself at home and a
long luxurious bath sounds like just the ticket after the stress of
today and our long drive. I undress and slide into the water, loving
the feel of the bubbles and hot water on my skin. For once, I don’t
have anywhere to go, or anything to do: no waitressing shift, or job
interview, no boss demanding my time, I can just lay back and breathe
it all in.

After
a while, I worry about being late to dinner so I stand and wrap a
towel around me. Then it hits me: I only have my work clothes from
before to wear! It feels wrong to be putting my boring blouse and
suit back on for a romantic dinner, but as I step into the bedroom, I
notice a dress has been laid out on the bed. It’s
a simple blue sundress that looks like it will hug my curves but
still be comfortable. I’ve
got to give the guy credit. He has good taste in everything.

For
a moment, I wonder why he has brand new women’s
clothing on hand, but I push the thought aside. My make-up is a bit
faded, but my cheeks are pink with the heat of the bath and thoughts
of what tonight might bring, so at least my face has some color, and
my eyeliner has smudged in an
I-just-happened-to-sleep-in-my-make-up-and-wake-up-looking-sexy way
that I could never have pulled off if I’d
tried to achieve it.
Not
bad
,
Gracie
.
Already, something smells delicious downstairs, so I get dressed,
take a deep breath and head out to face St. Clair again.

“Hello?”
I call,
looking around the empty living area.

“Out
here.”

St.
Clair’s
voice comes from outside, so I follow the sound out to the terrace.
It’s
breathtaking. There are twinkling candles, and a rustic table with a
white tablecloth has been set with two places. Beyond the terrace,
the sunset has splashed an array of colors across the sky, lighting
up the clouds and turning them a fiery orange-pink-purple-gold mix.
But none of that takes my breath away like the sight of St. Clair.
He’s
changed into worn, casual jeans that hug his ass just right, with a
white shirt open at the neck and his feet bare on the flagstones. He
looks relaxed, at ease, and good enough to eat.

“You
look great in that dress,” he
says, greeting me with a light kiss on the cheek. “I
had to guess your size, but I figured it would fit. And I know you
like blue, so…”

“Thank
you, it’s
perfect.”

“You’re
very welcome. I like to keep some things here for guests.”

So
he does have women here all the time! I try to hide my
disappointment, but it must show on my face because St. Clair adds,
“Guests
like my sister. She and her family like to come stay at the estate
during vacations.”

“Oh,”
I say,
secretly filling with relief at not being just another
interchangeable ‘guest’
he brings up
for a night. “That
sounds nice. I bet they love it here.”

“That
they do. Are you ready to eat?” he
asks.

“Yes,
please!” I
reply right away. I haven’t
eaten since lunch, and it feels a lifetime ago.