The Art of Stealing Forever (8 page)

St.
Clair continues, “I’m
loaning it to the Chervelle Foundation for their big charity exhibit
in Paris. It’s
their biggest donation, of course. The press is having a field day,
all the headlines are already written.”
He
looks Crawford in the eye. “It’s
a pity you don’t
have anything that could match it. I suppose this puts me on top of
our little rivalry, old friend. I hope you’ll
be able to make the opening.”
St.
Clair smiles, but the challenge is there and Crawford rises to it.

“As
it happens,”
he
muses, “I
have
been looking for a place to display that Armande painting I love so
much. Perhaps this is the perfect chance.”

St.
Clair’s
smile vanishes. Crawford smirks. “Yes,
now that I think about it, the Foundation would love an artwork of
that caliber for their exhibit. It would really raise the tone of the
whole proceeding. Natalie!”
he
barks, without looking.

She
appears at his side, clipboard at the ready.
“Yes,
sir?”

“Contact
my art team, tell them we’ll
be transporting the Armande to Paris.”
He
turns back to St. Clair with a smug grin. “Let’s
see how much they care about your Graziano with a
real
masterpiece on display.”

St.
Clair manages to look downcast, and he keeps up the act all the way
into the dining room. We take a seat in the corner, and only then,
out of sight, does he let his smile of triumph show.

“He
took the bait, hook line and sinker!”
He
raises his glass in a toast, and I clink it.

“But
wait,” I
say, still not following. “How
is moving the painting to the gallery going to help us? They’ll
have plenty of security, too.”

St.
Clair nods. “True.
But nothing compared to those vaults. I’ll
have access to the gallery because of my own donation, and it’ll
be far easier to find a weakness in their system.”

I’m
impressed. “You’re
kinda good at this.”

He
chuckles. “I
do my best.”

“Seriously
though, how do you do that? Take charge, make things happen instead
of just waiting, or hoping, for something to work out?”

“I’m
no good at waiting,”
he
shrugs. “I
want things to happen my way.”

“I
wish I could be more like that, in charge of my own destiny, not
afraid to go after things I want.”
I
sigh and think about how my life might have been different, how it
could be different now if I wasn’t
so cautious.

“You
are,” he
reassures me, reaching to take my hand. “You’re
here, making your own decisions right now. Don’t
sell yourself short, Grace. Besides, there will be no time for
feeling sorry for yourself once we’re
in Paris.”

“Paris?!”

His
eyes are dancing. “Well
that’s
where the painting will be,”
he
laughs. “How
do you feel about a little trip?”

“I’m
going to Paris!”
I
nearly shout with glee. Paris! I can’t
believe it.

Two
days later, I’m
all packed for the trip
– well,
almost. I still need a gorgeous ball gown for the big exhibition
event, so I recruit Paige to come shopping with me in Soho.

“What
do you think of this one?”
I
ask Paige, holding up a stunning red silk gown that falls to the
floor in lush drapes and body hugging curves.

Paige
whistles. “Gorgeous.
I wish I had a reason to get that dressed up.”

“I
wish you could come to the opening.”
I
say. Paris still feels like a dream come true. The most romantic city
in the world, with the hottest guy I’ve
ever met—who
just happens to be in love with me. Is there a better fantasy?

“Me
too,”
Paige
sighs. “And
I wish I had a handsome rich boyfriend to whisk me off for romantic
weekends abroad, too,”
she
winks. “I’m
guessing you decided that the good outweighs the bad then?”

“What?”
I
pull my gaze away from the midnight blue dress I’ve
been dreamily eyeing.

“Our
not-so-hypothetical conversation, about people having a dark side?”
she
reminds me. “It
looks like whatever you learned about St. Clair isn’t
a problem anymore.”

I
feel guilty for hiding everything from her, but I know I can’t
tell her the truth. “I
don’t
think it is, no. But, I do have another hypothetical for you…”

“Ask
away!”
she perks, holding up a black floor-length halter dress with tons of
sparkles along the bodice. “Too
Vegas?”
she
asks, swishing it back and forth. I flash a thumbs-down.

“So
the question is…have
you ever done the wrong thing, but for the right reason?”
I
ask, trying to make it sound light, but really wanting to hear her
opinion.

She
looks up from another gown she’s
eyeing and raises an eyebrow. “Deep
thoughts today, Gracie?”

I
shrug. “I
was just wondering.”

Paige
looks at me, and I know she can tell I’m
serious. “Whatever
thing you’re
doing, or whatever your reasons are—or
his—I
trust you to make the right decision for you. Nothing is black and
white, you know that.”
She
pauses. “I
think you just have to trust your instincts.”

“That
makes sense.”
And
my instincts do feel like this is the right thing. “Thanks.”

“You
want to talk about what’s
on your mind?”
Paige
says and I feel another twinge of guilt at not being able to confide
in her.

I
shake my head and force a smile. “I’m
just nervous.”
I
hold up the red dress against my chest again. “Should
I try this one on?”

“Yes!”
Paige
says, letting the topic drop. “Lady
in red…”
she serenades as I walk away.

When
I come out of the dressing room wearing the luscious silk against my
skin, its one shoulder design highlighting my shapely torso, I feel
like a million bucks.

“You
look stunning,”
Paige
says.

“It’s
not too much?”
I ask.
It’s
definitely the most attention-getting dress I’ve
ever worn.

“No
way,” she
soothes. “It’s
sexy. Classy. Perfect.”

I
do a little twirl and Paige laughs. “I
feel like a celebrity,”
I say, staring at myself in the mirror. I’ve
come such a long way from my waitress outfit at Giovanni’s.

“You
seem like one these days,”
Paige
says. “Really,
I’ve
never seen you so happy, so confident, so alive. Your mom would be
proud, seeing you embrace life again.”
Paige
squeezes my shoulder. “I
think she’d
agree it’s
time.”

I
feel a pang of sadness, thinking of my mom, wishing she could come to
Paris with me. But I also feel thankful, to have met St. Clair, to be
in love and living this exciting life. “I
feel really lucky,”
I
admit. “It’s
all because of St. Clair.”

Paige
says, “I’m
so happy for you.”
She
smiles and I know she really means it, even if she hasn’t
found her own happiness yet.

“Thanks,”
I say.
“I
would not have made it here without you all these years.”

I
hug her, and then slip back into the dressing room before tears show
up. I gaze at my reflection, the fancy gown, a world away from where
I thought I’d
end up, doing things I never would have imagined I’d
do.

Would
Mom approve of our plan for justice? I’m
not sure, but I do know she always trusted me to follow my path, make
my own decisions. And what’s
more, I believe in St. Clair, in this cause that’s
no longer just his. We are doing the right thing, I’m
sure of it.

I
take the dress off and carry it to the register. Paige squeals,
“You’re
going to Paris! It’d
better watch out for your sexy ass if it knows what’s
good for it.”

I
grin at my old friend. “Yes,
I am, and yes it should.”

I
know this trip is going to be life-changing.

Touchdown
in Paris! I’m
so excited I can hardly contain myself as we catch a cab from the
airport, swiveling my head from side to side, trying to catch a
glimpse of the Eiffel Tower.

“Where
is it?” I
ask as we turn another corner. “When
can we go see the sights?”

“You’re
adorable when you’re
excited,”
St.
Clair says, kissing my cheek. “But
remember why we’re
here.”

I
smile. “I’m
actually excited about that, too,”
I
say truthfully. “It
seems your bad influence may be rubbing off on me.”

He
grins, then clears his throat. “I’ll
take you to see the sights, I promise. But first we have to deliver
my painting to the gallery, so we can scope out the scene. I sent the
delivery by van ahead of us, and they just arrived.”

“You
really do think of everything,”
I
note.

St.
Clair takes my hand; I can tell he’s
excited too. “I’m
glad I don’t
have to hide this,”
he
murmurs, kissing my neck. “That
I don’t
have to lie anymore. It makes me feel even closer to you.”

“Me
too,” I
answer, even as my stomach twists in a nervous knot. Now that we’re
here in Paris, it’s
feeling more real: what we’re
about to do.

Am
I making a mistake?

The
gallery is an old building in a fancy area, understated yet
luxurious. It’s
closed, but we’re
shown inside, past the construction and all the preparations for the
upcoming exhibition. I look around, noticing the artwork already
hanging on the walls. Part of me wishes I could just enjoy the art at
the opening like a normal attendee.

“Mr.
St. Clair,”
a
woman says with French accent, coming to greet us. “How
wonderful to meet you at last. Marie Villenueve.”
She
steps forward and shakes his hand.

St.
Clair says,
“Enchantee,”
and
then something else in French, and Marie beams. Then he says, “This
is Grace, my art consultant.”

“Nice
to meet you,”
she
says to me. “We
are just so thrilled that you have loaned us such an important
painting for our opening. We can’t
thank you enough.”

“It’s
my pleasure.”
St. Clair looks around. “Did
it arrive safely?”

“But
of course. We have it in the back, and you’re
more than welcome to check the condition yourself.”
Marie
smiles, and gives me a look. “I
know how possessive these art lovers can be. They like to know their
infants are safe. Come.”

We
follow her through a ‘staff
only’
door,
into the back of the gallery. Here, behind the scenes, it’s
a lot like the auction house in San Francisco: there are offices and
several rooms filled with artwork in various stages of unpacking or
restoration, and people are bustling around getting everything ready.

Marie
leads us to a large room in the back, which opens up to a loading
dock for deliveries. This space is the most chaotic of all: packing
crates are stacked against the walls, tables are loaded with
supplies, and worker are busy unloading a pallet with large crates
stamped ‘handle
with care’.

I
look around, trying to see the scene not as a new consultant or
intern, but as St. Clair would see it: as a thief would see it. First
I notice that St. Clair was right—there
is definitely less security here. I see a couple of guys in guard
uniforms, but they’re
bustling around, talking to people, not posted on watch. Lots of
people are coming and going—workers,
maintenance men, gallery docents, curators like Marie, art restorers,
and all types of other employees. And there are multiple entrance and
exit points for sneaking in and escaping.

Compared
to the vaults, this is a breeze.

Another
storage crate is being unloaded from a truck onto the dock.
‘Crawford’
is printed on a label on the side. Marie sees me looking at the
crate. “And
another big donation coming in at the same time!”
She
turns to St. Clair. “We
just can’t
thank you enough for recruiting Spencer Crawford to help with the
exhibit as well.”

St.
Clair smiles, modest. “This
is an important cause. I want to see it do well.”

“We
never expected such a generous loan from two of the art world’s
biggest names!”
she
gushes. “Truly,
it’s
an honor.”

“I’m
happy to do it,”
he
says.

Marie
clears some space on the closest table and directs two workers to
roll the crate with St. Clair’s
painting a little closer. They lift the painting from the crate with
care, like they’re
holding a baby, and set it carefully on the table.

“Beautiful,”
Marie
breathes. “I
hadn’t
seen it in person yet.”

“Indeed,”
St.
Clair says. “I
can’t
wait to see it hanging tonight.”

Marie
calls someone else over, and they begin talking in rapid-fire French.
I’m
sure St. Clair’s
brain is tracking all the little details he’ll
need to pull off the heist, and I know the things I noticed are just
the beginning.

“See
that?” St.
Clair whispers, nodding to another table. I follow his gaze. There’s
a jacket slung over the back of a chair –
with
a security badge dangling from the pocket.

I
nod.

“I
need a distraction,”
St.
Clair whispers. “Can
you make that happen?”

I
nod, but my mind goes blank. What do I do?

“My
apologies,” Marie
says, turning back to me. “Now,
are we all set here?”

St.
Clair gives me a look. Time’s
running out. I have to think fast.

I
look around and see a bottle of restorer’s
chemicals on the table –
right
beside St. Clair’s
painting. I recognize the label: it’s
a gentle water-based cleaning fluid that can be used on even the most
delicate canvas.

In
other words, it’s
totally harmless.

“What’s
that?” I
ask loudly, pointing to the painting. “That
dark smudge?”

“What?”
Marie’s
head whips around.