The Art of Stealing Kisses (Stealing Hearts Book 2) (5 page)

I
take a bite of my turkey and avocado and wait to see if he’ll
say more, but St. Clair seems to be staring off into someplace in his
memory. His life is so far removed from mine, it’s
fascinating. I may not have had as much time with my mom as I wanted,
but she always encouraged me to be myself.
“That
must have been hard.”

He
pauses, and when he answers, his voice is quieter. “It
was. Growing up, I knew I was a disappointment to the family. I
couldn’t
understand why I was just supposed to do what they expected of me.
There was so much more in the world I wanted to see, to discover. It
was like being given a canvas and a set of oil paints, then being
told I could only paint in black and white,”
he adds with a rueful smile. “I
didn’t
last long. As soon as I was old enough, I left to make it on my own.”

I
smile, hoping to lighten the mood. “And
how’s
that working out for you?”

He
smiles, too. “Not
too bad right now.”

We
eat in silence for a few moments, munching on chips and enjoying the
light tinkling of the fountain in the courtyard right outside, the
cool sea air on our skin. St. Clair has a lock of hair sticking out
over his eyes and I want so badly to reach out and touch it, brush my
finger down those sculpted cheeks and bring his lips to mine…

Keep
it professional, remember? I turn away to look around at the art, an
eclectic mix. St. Clair sat us in front of a Durer piece, a detailed
depiction of a rabbit. It sounds simple, like child’s
play, but it’s
actually so dense it’s
like looking under a microscope, every detail perfect.

St.
Clair sees me staring. “You
like what you see?”

“I
love Durer’s
work, especially these quieter, less famous pieces,”
I say. “The
fur actually looks like real fur.”
I’m
in awe.

“Do
you know the provenance of this piece?”

“Will
you fire me if I admit I don’t?”

He
laughs. “It’s
disputed, actually. This piece is rumored to have been looted by the
Nazis, taken from a Jewish family in Paris.”

“How
did it end up here?”

“Years
of changing hands and finally a wealthy Russian family decided to
donate it.”

My
brow creases. “Why
not give it back to the original owners, then?”

He
leans back and rubs his chin. “That’s
the horrible part. During the war, title deeds were often lost, or
destroyed, and billions of dollars’
worth of
priceless art was stolen from their rightful owners. Some of the
surviving families have tried to get their property back, but without
the deeds, there’s
no way to prove it.”

“That’s
so sad,” I
say, feeling a pang. “Those
families lost so much. The least they can do is have their art
returned.”

“I
absolutely agree.” St.
Clair nods. “How
about you, Grace? How is your art coming along?”

I
start a little, and he looks confused. “You
did study to be a painter, didn’t
you?”

“Yes,
but I was never good enough to really go anywhere with it.”
I wave my hands in dismissal. “And
I haven’t
painted in forever.”

“Why
not?”

I
wince, thinking of the ache that builds in my heart every time I pick
up a brush. “Since
my mom died, I just haven’t
felt that spark. It’s
too hard.”

“Have
you tried?” he
pushes lightly.

I
shrug. “I
still sketch, but every time I’m
faced with a blank canvas, the brushes that belonged to my mom…I
just freeze.” I
busy my hands with clearing up the remnants of my sandwich,
self-conscious about admitting something so personal.

He
reaches out and takes my hands. “You’ll
paint again, Grace. True passion like your mother’s,
like yours, never disappears completely.”

I
look at him. “Are
you sure?”
I whisper, desperate for his words to be true.

He
rubs his thumb across my palm. “Give
it time. When you’re
ready, the muse will return. Trust me.”

I
swallow back the tears of emotion suddenly welling in my throat.
“Thanks.”

His
phone buzzes, ruining the moment. He checks the screen. “I’ll
be right back,” he
says, stepping out into the hallway.

I
clean up our lunch scraps and put them in the trash near the guard,
who barely looks at me. I guess St. Clair really does do this all the
time. I wander the hall studying the art, the color and shadow. I
study the rabbit’s
nose up close—it
really is incredible—and
realize how much I want to get back into my own art. I’ve
missed it. I need it, I think.

Artistic
expression is a part of who I am, and I’m
glad St. Clair is reminding me of that.

The
next morning I’m
on the phone waiting to speak to the manager of a reclusive artist
for an appointment that I’ve
been trying to get for days and Maisie is chattering nonstop about
some robbery.

“They
don’t
know who did it, or how. It’s
all very mysterious,” Maisie
says, dropping a pile of papers on my desk. I nod absently, thinking
about how much I want an exclusive deal with this artist. “It’s
all over the papers, especially after the Carringer’s
fiasco.”

“There
does seem to be a spree, doesn’t
there?” I
say, wondering why there’s
this sudden interest in art from the criminal community.

“It’s
like Ocean’s
Eleven!” Maisie
giggles just as the manager comes back on the line. “Miss
Bennett?”

“Yes,
I’m
here,” I
say. Maisie gives me a thumbs-up and leaves.

A
few minutes later I’m
knocking on St. Clair’s
office door, excited to tell him about the appointment I just made
with the reclusive artist that is going to knock his socks off.
“We’ll
get to visit his studio next week,”
I tell him
happily. “He
hardly ever allows collectors to see his work in progress, I think
this could be a great relationship for you.”

St.
Clair seems distracted, putting papers into his briefcase. “I’m
afraid it’ll
have to wait. I’m
leaving for London tomorrow and I’ll
be gone for a month.”

A
month?

“Oh.”
I can’t
imagine a month without seeing him, but I try to act like it’s
no big deal. “Okay,
well, can I get you to sign those release forms for the new purchase
and approve the—”

“I
don’t
know if that will work either.”
There’s
a strange smile playing on his lips.

“Okay...”
Confusion
freezes me where I stand. What’s
going on? “Why
not?”

For
a terrible moment, I wonder if he’s
decided to fire me, after all. Then St. Clair’s
grin widens. “Because
you’ll
be coming with me.”

After
a whirlwind week packing and making arrangements, I still can’t
believe it when we touchdown and I step off the plane in London. I’m
in Europe!

I’m
so excited I’m
almost bouncing on my toes as we maneuver through the crowds at
Heathrow and get swooped up by St. Clair’s
car and driver. Charles sits calmly in the seat next to me, checking
his phone as I rubberneck at all the tourist attractions I’ve
only read about.

“Look,
there’s
Big Ben!” I
say as we drive by the famous tower. “And
Westminster Abbey!”

St.
Clair smiles, amused. “Be
glad Londoners can’t
see or hear you right now. You’d
be ribbed mercilessly for being so American.”

I
laugh. “Sorry.
I tried to play it cool all the way here, couldn’t
you tell? It’s
not every day I fly first class.”

Try,
never.

“Real
cool,” he
grins, teasing. “The
whole plane heard you squeal when they brought out afternoon tea.”

“But
it was scones and clotted cream, on real china!”
I protest. “I
know, I’m
not sophisticated, I’ve
just never traveled abroad before. I’ve
wanted to for so long.” I
gaze out the windows at all the old brick, the stone fountains full
of sculptures, the actual cobblestone roads, the river Thames and its
ancient waters. “There’s
so much history here.”

“It’s
a great city,” he
agrees. “And
you’ll
have plenty of time to explore it.”

“I
don’t
know. My boss is pretty strict.”

“Don’t
worry.” He
grins. “I’ll
make sure that jerk doesn’t
work you too hard.”

We
stop at a signal in front of Buckingham Palace, its grand façade
stretching for blocks. “Wow,
the palace guards really do stand still as statues. Is it true that
if you go bother them, they still can’t
move or talk?”

St.
Clair laughs.

“What?”
I say, stiffening.

He
says, “It’s
been so long since I came here with a fresh pair of eyes like yours.”

We
enter Notting Hill—which
I recognize from the Julia Roberts movie—and
I’m
oohing and ahhing over the cute colorful buildings when we stop in
front of one. I can’t
wipe the huge smile off my face, but I try not to be presumptuous.
“Do
we have business here, Mr. St. Clair?”

He
gets out of the car and I do the same, stepping out into the street.
There’s
a cute café
with outdoor tables, artists riding by on bicycles, little boutiques,
and a great buzz, just like in the movie.

“This
is your home away from home.” He
gestures to the bright blue stucco buildings in front of us, with
flower boxes in the windows, and a cat peering at us from the front
steps.

I
gasp. “Really?”

St.
Clair grins, his dimples throwing me off balance. God, he is
gorgeous. “Number
3 on the left.” He
hands me a brass key. “It’s
a friend of a friend’s
who’s
out of town. I thought the apartment and the neighborhood would suit
you. This way, you have your own space, to really get to know the
city.”

“Thank
you,” I
gush. I hug him, I can’t
help it, and he hesitates and then embraces me fully, our bodies
pressing together. I inhale his aftershave, slide my hands along his
muscular shoulders, feel the heat rise in my chest and begin to sink
lower, so I let him go.

“How
are you holding up?” he
asks. “You
should take it easy for a while, get some rest before the jet-lag
hits you.”

“I’m
fine.” I
look at the cute front stoops, the cherry trees, and the colorful
café awnings.
“I’m
more than fine. I’m
in London!” I
spread my arms wide. “Let’s
get started.”

“Okay,
okay, Energizer Bunny.”
St. Clair laughs. “I’m
texting you an address where you can meet me in a few hours.”
He gestures
to the driver, who lifts my suitcase from the trunk and carries it up
the stairs to the front door. “Go
inside and get settled, and I’ll
see you later.”

He
turns to get back in the car. “Charles?”
I say, my voice stopping him. “Really,
thank you,”
I tell him again. “This
is incredible.”

“Don’t
thank me yet,” he
says, getting into the back seat. “We
are
still here for business.”
He winks and shuts the door.

Inside,
the apartment is an artist’s
dream. It’s
light and airy, open and full of homey touches like soft blankets on
the comfy couch, a tea selection fanned out on a pretty plate, and a
wall lined with lighted cabinets housing little statues and
decorative vases.

The
bedroom has a queen bed with a fluffy comforter, and a small desk in
the corner with an ink jar and quill pen. I quickly unpack my things
in the small closet and go through to the bathroom. There’s
an actual claw-foot white porcelain tub and a jar of lavender bath
salts, and I can’t
wait to draw a bath and have long relaxing soak.

Even
though St. Clair warned me about jet-lag, I don’t
want to waste another moment indoors. I decide to go out and
experience the culture. I stroll down the tree-lined streets, past
vintage clothing stores with beautiful displays of dresses and shoes,
and quaint cafes with metal folding chairs out front. It feels like a
fairy tale. I actually live here! Even if it’s
only temporary, it’s
a dream I never imagined coming true.
Mom,
I hope you can see this.

A
few hours later, freshened up and clothes changed, half a baguette
and an apple in my stomach, I’m
standing inside London College of Art waiting for St. Clair to come
out of a meeting with the professors of the college. A display of
student art installations sits in the center of the room, and it’s
fun to look at what creativity the students are allowed to develop. I
remember how much easier it was to take risks when there were safety
nets and no real-world repercussions, and I miss the feeling of
flying, of being so inspired you just jump and trust that where you
land is where you’re
supposed to be.

“Grace?”
St. Clair is
at my elbow. “Sorry
that took so long. We’re
finalizing the details of the show and as you know, artists can
be…particular.”

I
laugh. “That’s
very diplomatic of you. Now, what show would that be?”
I pull out my
notebook and pen like a reporter, a trick I learned from Paige, who
is always saying her notes are her lifesavers.

“Right,”
St. Clair
says, shaking his head like he can’t
believe himself. “Sorry
again. I haven’t
even told you what you’ll
be doing here, have I?”

“Not
in so many words,” I
admit.

“My
company is sponsoring a graduation show for the college. It’s
a whole event, with a huge opening the press will attend and all the
big names in the industry. It’s
a big honor for the students who are chosen to exhibit their final
pieces.”

I
nod. “I’m
sure it can jumpstart careers. Change lives.”

He
agrees, “It
does, which is why the professors always bring in an impartial
outside judge.”

“That’s
a big task,” I
say, figuring he must have to look at hundreds of portfolios. “Do
you want me to vet the first round?”