The Art of Stealing Kisses (Stealing Hearts Book 2) (11 page)

St.
Clair moves his tongue to my belly and kisses his way down across my
hips, along the dip in my pelvis that leads lower. My body aches for
more. He extends his hand to caress my breast, kneading my nipple in
his fingers. I want him so much my cells feel like they will burst.

He
exhales a warm breath onto me and skims just the wet tip of his
tongue across my throbbing clit, so slowly I think I might scream.

“Jesus…”
I pant.

He
brushes his tongue against me again, with more pressure, and then
again, harder, the pleasure crashing over me in waves until I’m
arching my hips to meet him. He growls, holding me down as I writhe
against him. I look at the stars as his hot tongue glides up and
down, thicker and faster, faster, faster, deeper.

“Charles,”
I whisper. He
groans against me, his tongue relentless, pushing me to the edge.

I
don’t
cry out, but I want to as I climax, as currents of pure explosive
bliss rip through me until my thighs are quivering and I’m
spent.

Afterward,
St. Clair invites me to stay in his room, which is twice as big as my
whole apartment. “Mind
if I jump in the shower?” he
asks, while I take in the palatial spread. “You’re
welcome to join me…” he
adds, pulling me close and dropping a kiss on my shoulder.

“I’ll
be right in,” I
tell him, melting into his embrace. “I
just want to check my messages, in case Maisie sent some files.”

“So
diligent,” he
grins, then heads for the en-suite bathroom –
but not
before landing a light slap on my ass.

I
laugh. I hear the water start up from the shower, and I find my
phone. There are some work emails, but nothing pressing, so I look
around the room instead. There are pictures of him and his parents
from Paris, Rome, New York, his mom always smiling, his dad always
straight faced. There are equestrian trophies on one shelf—it
looks like St. Clair was particularly good at jumping—and
a baseball signed by Mark McGuire.

I
wonder what it would be like to have grown up with this type of
money, and if it would be worth trading the love and support of a
parent. I don’t
think so, and I feel for St. Clair again, for his cold upbringing.

I’m
passing his desk when I see blueprints half-covered by other papers.
Is he designing something? I push aside some bills for the family
estate and pull out the full blueprint. It looks like a museum.

I
glance toward the bathroom to make sure St. Clair is still sudsing up
and look closer.

It
is a museum—the
museum in San Francisco that was robbed. It shows exits, security
cameras, everything you’d
need to pull off a major heist.

My
heart stops.

If
St. Clair is the man I told Lennox he was, the man I believe him to
be, why the hell does he have these blueprints?

“Grace?
Hello? Earth to Gracie…”
Paige waves
her hands in front of my face.

“Hmm,
what?” I
look up.

Paige
rolls her eyes. “Snap
out of it already. What is wrong with you today?”
she asks.
“Still
swooning over Mr. Perfect?”

We’re
lunching at a small café not
far from my place in Notting Hill, sitting at a small and slightly
uncomfortable but cute metal table and chairs and sipping coffee that
will knock your socks off any time of day, but it still can’t
shake my worries loose.

“I
was just thinking about work,” I
lie. The truth is, I can’t
get those blueprints or St. Clair’s
phone conversation off my mind. It’s
been days since we got back from Sussex, and all I’ve
done is go over everything a million times, trying to come up with an
innocent explanation that doesn’t
involve grand theft and illegal dealings.

Paige
studies me carefully. “Are
you sure everything’s
okay? You can talk to me, you know. Whatever it is.”

“I
know.”

But
I feel guilty, because I can’t
talk to her, not about this. Paige is the one who’s
been investigating the theft from Carringer’s,
which means if Lennox is right, St. Clair’s
been fooling us all. I wish I had more information. What if it’s
nothing? Or worse: what if it’s
not?

“I’m
just feeling the pressure about making this big decision for the art
exhibit.”
I hate lying to her, but I don’t
see another option.

“You’ll
do great,” Paige
grins. “But
I can talk about art all day back at the office. I want to hear about
your sexy weekend away.”

I
laugh. “Sure,
because nightmare family tension really sets the mood.”

“It
must have worked, because you look all…
glowy.”
Paige narrows
her eyes. “Please
tell me you decided to give this ‘strictly
work’
thing up and make hay while the sun shines.”

“Maybe…”
I feel the
tingle of desire pulling at me, remembering his hands, his tongue…
I sigh. “I
tried to keep things professional, I really did.”

“Oh,
I’m
not blaming you. In fact, I’d
be mad if you weren’t
hittin’ that.”
Paige
stirs her coffee. “Tell
me everything.”

“A
lady doesn’t
kiss and tell,” I
grin.

“Traitor.”
Paige sticks
her tongue out at me. “I
need to live vicariously through you. All I do is work these days.”
She lets out
a weary sigh.

“It’s
still that busy at the insurance company?”
I ask. “Any
new leads?”

“Not
a one. Usually this is where we’d
cut the check and move on, but the authorities won’t
let it go. That Lennox guy is persistent. And intense. And kind of
hot…”
Paige bites her lip. “What
do you think?”

“He’s…
cute,
I guess.” I
feel guilty again hiding so much from her, but I need to learn
exactly what Lennox is telling people about St. Clair. “Has
he given you any suspects?”
I ask carefully.

“Not
really. Just that he thinks it’s
someone who’s
in it for the thrill, not someone who needs the cash.”
Paige smooths her hair down. “Is
St. Clair still upset about his missing masterpiece? He didn’t
lose any money, right?”

“No,
Carringer’s
lost the money,” I
say absently. St. Clair would never do this for the money, Lennox is
right about that. He has more than enough. But it still doesn’t
make sense: I can’t
see St. Clair risking everything just for a passing thrill.

Or
maybe I’m
wrong, and I don’t
really know him at all.

“Grace?”

I
snap back. Paige is rolling her eyes. “I
did it again, didn’t
I? I’m
sorry for spacing.”

“It’s
a good thing I love you so much.”
She winks.

“Love
you too.” My
guilt grows. I hate keeping secrets, especially from my best friend.
“I
don’t
deserve a friend like you.”

After
lunch I head back to St. Clair’s
office—my
office—and
try to focus on work. I flip through the final art pieces I’ve
chosen for the London College of Art show —a
mix of classically talented artists and daring original works—and
feel good about my picks. I think the show will be a success. I’m
trying to have confidence in my gut and follow the path my instincts
want to travel, even if it means a rocky road. I know a few older
members of the board may be surprised by some of my choices, but I
also know these are the students who deserve to be shown.

With
my choices finally made, I turn my attention back to my main job, and
the incredible European pieces I can see in person now to add to St.
Clair’s
collection. I call Maisie, back in San Francisco, and ask for his
schedule so we can set up some viewing appointments. My spirits lift
just thinking about it.

“You’re
all set,” she
says down the line. “I’ve
given you permissions on his calendar, everything should be in
there.”

“Thank
you – and
good morning,” I
add, remembering the time difference.

I
click open his calendar on my computer and pull up my spreadsheet of
the upcoming art openings and gallery galas, when artists are booked
in town or rumored to be giving private showings in a remote
location. It’s
been fun researching, making calls and being on the cutting edge of
the international art scene.

I
click through, trying to figure out his complicated calendar. There
are different color codes for travel, business meetings, personal
appointments – and
it goes back for years, too.

I
pause. All his past travel and appointments are right here in the
schedule. If Lennox is right, then those dates would match the other
heists. I could check right now, but somehow that feels like a
betrayal. Like I’m
saying the accusations could be true.

I
sit there, torn. The information I need is right at my fingertips,
yet I just can’t
bring myself to check. What if Lennox is right?

But
what if he’s
wrong – and
you can prove it
,
a voice argues. If St. Clair’s
schedule doesn’t
fit with the heists, then that’s
all the evidence I need to put Lennox’s
crazy theories aside and move on.

I
can’t
go on like this, suspecting but not sure. I need an answer.

My
heart racing, I click through to last year. Lennox mentioned a heist
in Belgium, and a quick Google search brings up the details of the
crime. May 18
^th
,
Brussels. Gold bars stolen from a vault, no suspects, no witnesses.

I
turn back to St. Clair’s
schedule, my fingers dancing over the keys, but I waver. Is this
crossing the line? What about trust, giving him the benefit of the
doubt?

That’s
exactly why I need to do this—to
give him the benefit of the doubt and prove once and for all that he
couldn’t
possibly have done what Lennox thinks.

My
pulse races. I check St. Clair’s
calendar.

May
10
^th
to 20
^th
- Belgium. New investor meetings, touring a tech facility, meeting
local business leaders.

Brussels
.

My
heart sinks, but I try to ignore it. This could be a coincidence.

I
check the other dates. A diamond theft in Monaco. Rare art stolen in
Rio. And every time, St. Clair’s
travel plans match the heists. He was right there in the country when
they all went down, with the perfect cover every time.

I
stare at the screen in disbelief. My heart is still telling me this
is wrong, some mistake, but the evidence doesn’t
lie.

It
all matches up. St. Clair, and the heists. They’re
connected.

I
feel a pain shoot through my chest.

How
could I have been so naïve?
To think that I believed in St. Clair, and the whole time he was
lying to my face.

It’s
all lies.

I
don’t
know what to do. I reach into my purse and find Nick Lennox’s
card.

My
hands are shaking as I dial his number. He answers on the first ring.
“Grace,
I was hoping you would call. What can I do for you?”

I
swallow back my tears. “I
think we need to talk.”

I
don’t
sleep all night, tossing and turning for hours, and when I do manage
to catch a wink, I dream of St. Clair. But instead of my usual sexy
dreams, these are more like nightmares: chasing him down a long road,
calling out his name, but he never turns around. I wake up feeling
lost and full of dread. No amount of concealer can cover my under-eye
circles, but I have to go into the office and pretend that everything
is normal, at least until I figure out what the hell I can do next.

I
set a meeting with Lennox at one, and the minutes tick by painfully
slow. I try to concentrate on my work as usual: setting St. Clair’s
schedule and making calls to arrange upcoming viewings, but all I can
think about is everything I’ve
discovered. The travel plans, the dates of the other heists…
All the
evidence points to St. Clair being a criminal, but the one thing I
can’t
understand is,
why?

Why
steal things he can easily afford? Why risk a lifetime in prison just
for…what?
I don’t
buy Lennox’s
“in
it for the thrill” motivation.
St. Clair enjoys risk, yes, but always for a purpose. What could he
possibly want with those paintings he couldn’t
show off or enjoy?

“Staring
at a great piece of art?” St.
Clair pops his head into my office. I jump, and slam my laptop shut.
He’s
smiling at me, totally relaxed. “You’re
so cute when you’re
focused.”

I
force myself to smile. “Uh…hi,”
I
stutter. “Just
quadruple checking my list for the student art show.”
My hands are
shaking so I put them in my lap. I hate lying like this.

He
smiles. “I’m
sure they’re
the perfect choices.”

There
he goes, being so supportive again. It only makes me feel worse for
planning on turning him in, for suspecting him in the first place.
God, and what if I’m
wrong?

“I
just dropped by to see if I could take you to lunch. You free?”
He flashes
his pearly whites and his dimples at me like a one-two punch and my
heart does a little flip flop in my chest. I want to say yes so
badly.

“I’m
sorry, but I can’t,”
I lie again.
“I
have lunch plans with Paige.”

“You’re
making it a regular daily appointment then.”

Crap!
I forgot I told him about yesterday. I try to cover. “You
know us girls—we
just can’t
stop talking!” St.
Clair gives me a puzzled look.
Stay,
cool, Grace, geez.
I
take a breath. “It’s
just been so long since I got to spend any time with her, you know?
I’ve
really missed her.”

His
face softens. “I
understand. Rain check on lunch?”

I
nod. “Definitely.”
After I go
off to meet a man who wants to arrest you and ruin your life.
“Can’t
wait.”
I check the time. “I
should get going.”