The Art of Stealing Forever (3 page)

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.

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
one 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.”

“You’re
probably right,”
I
agree. He hasn’t—
because he’s
owned it all along.

“I’m
not saying it’s
a victimless crime,”
she
adds, “but
high-end art thefts aren’t
exactly leaving people ruined. Most of the time, they just shrug it
off and cash the insurance check. And it’s
not like my company can’t
afford to be writing those checks –
they
have billions in assets.”

“Now
where are those drinks?”
Paige
looks around. “And
in the meantime, I guess I’ll
just have to get my romance from TV like everyone else.”

“I
might be joining you on the couch soon,”
I
tell her, frowning. She pats my hand and gives me a supportive look,
and I’m
so thankful to have her back in my life in person again. “I
missed your face,”
I
tell her earnestly.

“Yours
too.” She
scans the room again for our waiter. “Drinks!
Drinks, good sir!”
she
yells, and we giggle like old times.

I
think about Paige’s
words all the way home from the Tube station. Couples stroll
arm-in-arm down these quaint streets and I wish I could have that
again. It was just a week ago that St. Clair kissed me in the
fountain, like it didn’t
matter who was watching. He brings out a side of me I haven’t
felt since my mom died, a playfulness and energy that has reminded me
that life can be fun and exciting and passionate; that I need to live
in order to make art, that I owe it to myself to express that
creativity on and off the canvas. He’s
opened me up so much that my black and white way of thinking seems to
have blurred into a murky shade of gray.

I
always thought there was right and wrong, but I’m
beginning to at least see where St. Clair is coming from. Paige
didn’t
think his crimes were serious, and she doesn’t
even know the reasons behind them.

Is
it really so bad if nobody gets hurt?

I
pass the last of the cafés
with their tables pulled in for the night and walk by the flower
boxes full of trailing purple blooms in front of the buildings on my
street. I head up my steps and find St. Clair sitting on my stoop. I
feel a rush, just to see him. He stands at the sight of me, smiling
with hope and a hint of sadness. “Grace,
good evening.”

He’s
holding a gorgeous bouquet of flowers wrapped in brown paper. Yellow
roses. My favorite. How does he know these things?

“What
are you doing here?”
I
ask, trying to put an edge on it, but the truth is, I don’t
feel angry anymore. “I
told you, I’m
not ready to make a decision yet.”

“I
know. But I miss you.”
He
smooths a hand over his stubbly chin—unusual
for him. “I
couldn’t
stay away any longer.”

He
sounds sincere but I remind myself that I know better now. He’s
a practiced liar.
“Or
are you really just worried that I’ll
rat you out to Lennox now that I know the truth?”