The Art of Stealing Kisses (Stealing Hearts Book 2) (14 page)

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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Do you like romantic, fun books? Keep reading for sneak peeks of hot new releases by Lila Monroe and Bella Cruise!

Hunter Knox comes straight up – with a side of trouble! Meet the bourbon heir making life
complicated for ad girl Ally in
BILLIONAIRE WITH A TWIST
–
Available now
!

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 into 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.

In
case you’re
wondering how all of this has anything to do with my solo bourbon
sampler party, our latest client was Knox bourbon.

I
decided to start and end with said bourbon, in order to better
compare it to the others. I leaned over the first glass, parting my
lips as I inhaled, both smelling and tasting the aroma of burnt
caramel, old wood, and cinnamon. A promising start…I took a
sip of the amber liquid, letting it roll slowly across my tongue as I
memorized and savored the taste. It had a bold, spicy flavor thanks
to the high rye content, with a hint of charred oak and honey, and a
strong bite.

I
breathed out through my nose and mouth at the same time, and the
flavor intensified until I swallowed. I smacked my lips in
satisfaction as I set the glass back down. I generally drank a
wheated bourbon rather than a rye, and I did miss that slight hint of
sweet vanilla, but this wasn’t
bad at all.

Glass
number two was a rye after my own heart, vanilla like the first lick
of ice cream on a hot summer day, cool and refreshing, with a bit of
biting heat like a miniature sun right after it washed down my
throat. I took another sip of that one, in the interest of more fully
appreciating that fine flavor. Maybe I was playing favorites a
little, but who was going to tell?

And
here came number three. That distinctive flavor that said Kentucky,
Bourbon County, that long tradition of Scots-Irish immigration. All
the old ways carefully preserved and kept going: a hint of cedar, a
touch of honey. A little rough around the edges, but in a way that
soothed with its familiarity. I sighed, letting my eyes fall shut,
the taste of the bourbon becoming my entire universe.

“Ah,
a lady who knows how to savor the good things in life.”

I
started, blushing, my eyes popping open and my hand nearly dropping
the glass in dismay. Dammit, I’d
wanted to be discreet! I hadn’t
wanted anyone seeing me geek out like this, and now—

I
looked up, and my annoyance at being interrupted died on my lips as I
let my bourbon take a rest, and drank in the sight of the interloper
instead. It was the same man who’d
caught my eye just minutes earlier. Of course. And here I was sighing
and drooling shamelessly over an entire smorgasbord of booze. Damn
but he was even tastier up close.

Had
he said something about the good things in life? Well, he would know,
since he was definitely one of them. Golden-brown eyes like the sun
shining through a tumbler of bourbon, freckles sun-kissing the bridge
of his nose, and a chiseled jaw you could cut diamonds on. His
auburn-gold hair was swept back from his forehead and his navy polo
shirt clung to all the right places of his shoulders and chest. I bit
my lip and resisted asking him to do a spin so I could check and see
if those khaki pants clung in all the right places, too.

Barely
resisted.

And
that accent he spoke in, oh, it made me regret all the work I’d
done to lose my own. A warm honey-slow drawl that drew attention to
his lips and the way they quirked up at the corner.

“I
didn’t
think it was good enough to stun you into silence,” he teased.

I
blushed and shot back, “I’m
just trying to figure out what criteria led you to hone in on the
girl with the highest alcohol content in the room. Your self-esteem
that low?”

I
regretted the sarcastic remark the second it left my mouth. In
high-stress situations, I tended to blurt out exactly the wrong thing
at exactly the wrong time; it was an adrenaline-fueled, involuntary,
and very unfortunate defense mechanism of mine. One that got me into
trouble more often than not.