The Art of Stealing Kisses (Stealing Hearts Book 2) (13 page)

“We
should move along,” I
say smoothly, pulling him away. Once we’re
out of earshot, we both giggle.

“And
I thought you Brits were so reserved,”
I laugh.

He
smirks. “Clearly,
she can’t
resist the goods.”

“Modest,
much?” I
hit his arm lightly, but he grabs my hand, and looks into my eyes.

“You
know I’m
taken,” he
says in a low voice, and the intensity in his gaze takes my breath
away. “I
only have eyes for you.”

My
heart takes flight. I stare at him, overwhelmed –
and guilty as
sin for the secrets I’m
hiding from him.

“Mr.
St. Clair?” We’re
interrupted by the college president. St. Clair drops my hand. “We’re
ready to welcome everyone, if you’d
like to follow me. We’re
all looking forward to your remarks.”

“Of
course.”

We
move to the stage area at the back of the room. The president
introduces him as an important donor to the school and the benefactor
for tonight’s
event. St. Clair steps up to the podium to a round of thundering
applause. I look around, seeing the respect and admiration on
people’s
faces. I think of St. Clair growing up in that cold house with
nothing but criticism. If only his father could see how much his son
is appreciated.

“Thank
you,” St.
Clair starts as the applause dies down.
“This
is a very special night for me, a cause that’s
dear to my heart.” His
eyes find mind and he holds my gaze while he pauses, then goes back
to glancing at the crowd.

“I
know what it’s
like to have a dream—to
want something so much you can taste it, but not quite touch it. And
it’s
opportunities like this showcase that will propel these artists into
the realm where dreams become possibilities. So my hope for all the
students here tonight—whether
you are in the showcase or not—is
to follow your passion. Don’t
be afraid to take a few risks, maybe break a few hearts”—there
are chuckles—“but
be true to yourself. It’s
a much bigger risk to try to be someone else. Art is about
authenticity, and only you know your heart.”

His
eyes meet mine for a moment again, and then he looks away. “I’m
so pleased to have a small hand in supporting the future of authentic
expression, of creativity, and of these young artists here tonight.
May all these futures be fruitful. Thank you very much.”

He
steps off the stage to more applause, and I’m
so proud of him for helping to jumpstart the career of these
students, and proud to be a part of his company for doing good deeds
like this, for giving back to the art community. I look around and
see the beaming faces of the students and know without a doubt that
we made in difference in their lives today. It feels great.

After
the art show, St. Clair’s
driver takes the scenic route along the Thames. I gaze out of the
window, treated to a palette of colorful lights: the old buildings
lit up, with the rainbow of the London Eye in an array of changing
colors like a planetarium light show.

“Did
you have fun tonight?” St.
Clair asks. He takes my hand and squeezes it.

“I
always have fun with you.” I
realize how corny my answer sounds and cringe, but he doesn’t
seem to mind.

“I
always have fun with you, too.” His
reply is quiet, thoughtful. He seems contemplative for the rest of
the drive, not really saying much until we’re
back at his place again. There, St. Clair opens a bottle of wine, and
we sit together on the couch.

“To
another successful endeavor,” he
says, raising his glass in a toast.

“To
the show,” I
agree, tapping my glass to his.

He
takes a sip, still looking thoughtful. I wonder what’s
going through his head. I start to get nervous. I’m
not used to him being this way – not
unless something’s
wrong.

What
if he knows I’ve
been meeting Lennox?

My
heart drops. Crap. If he knows about the clandestine meetings, he
might think I’m
betraying him. But isn’t
that what I’m
doing, the longer I entertain notions of him being the master
criminal Lennox claims?

I
sit, waiting, my heart beating faster, until finally St. Clair puts
down his wine glass and looks at me straight on. The energy between
us is all fired up from the night, from teasing each other and
laughing the whole car ride home, but now I can’t
get comfortable with him so close.

“Uh
oh, you look serious. Should I be worried?”

He
gives me a smile – not
broad and flashy like the ones he gave everyone at the event tonight,
but something private and sincere, just for me. “You
make me happy, Grace.”

I
gulp. Is this a break-up speech, or a ‘I
know you’ve
been meeting the feds behind my back’
speech, or
what?

“I
don’t
often let people in,” he
continues. “Well,
more like never. It’s
just easier that way, to keep focused on business, keep my personal
life and professional worlds separate.”

Oh
God, it is a break-up speech. I feel a pain in my chest, and I have
to bite my lip to keep the tears from welling up.

“And
then you came along. And everything I thought I knew went out the
window.” St.
Clair looks at me, and the tenderness in his eyes takes my breath
away. “You’re
like nobody I’ve
ever met before, Grace. Your energy, your strength, your passion –
for art, and
the world around you. You haven’t
let the world beat you down, you’ve
kept striving for the life you want. You believe in the good in
people. In me.”

He
reaches down under the coffee table and pulls out a long black velvet
box with a silver bow. I stare at it, dazed.

“I
guess, I just wanted to show you what you mean to me.”
St. Clair
looks at me intently. “And
when I saw this, I knew it belonged with you.”

He
hands the box to me. With shaking fingers, I unwrap the bow and lift
the lid open.

Oh
my God.

I’m
staring at the most incredible diamond necklace: a single perfect
teardrop diamond pendant strung on a gorgeous gold chain. It’s
absolutely breathtaking – and
enormous.

“St.
Clair,” I
stutter. “I
can’t…this
is…”

“Don’t
you like it?” his
face falls.

“Are
you kidding? I love it! But it’s
too much, Charles—”

“Nonsense.”
He smiles
again. “It’s
perfect for you.”

St.
Clair takes the necklace and lifts it from the box. I turn, and my
heart racing, and move my hair aside as he gently fastens the chain
around my neck.

The
diamond sits against my skin, sparkling, and perfect, and without a
doubt, the most beautiful thing I’ve
ever worn.

“It’s
incredible,” I
whisper, still blown away.

He
leans closer, and drops a kiss on the line of my shoulder. “So
are you.”

I
shiver, feeling the heat from his touch radiate through my body.

I
turn, and find myself pressed up against him. He reaches out, and
trails his fingertip around the diamond pendant –
caressing my
collarbone. My skin prickles with awareness, and when I look up, his
eyes are fixed on mine. Dark and glittering. Midnight blue.

“I’m
falling in love with you, Grace,”
St. Clair
murmurs, his voice deep with emotion. “I’ve
been falling in love with you since the first time you spilled coffee
on me.”

I
feel like I’m
in a dream. I hear his words, but they don’t
sink in. I’m
still in shock from the necklace, from his confession, from the way
my body is leaning into him, eager for another tantalizing touch.

“Tell
me you feel the same way,” St.
Clair says, his voice turning urgent. His hand glides over my bare
skin, caressing me, seducing me. Warmth radiates through my chest.
“If
you could ever think about loving a man like me.”

I
realize what he’s
saying now, and it blows me away. He thinks he’s
the unworthy one? I cup his jaw with my hand. “Stop,
Charles.” Calling
him by his first name like this, our connection feels more intimate
than ever. “You
don’t
have to do this. I love you, too.”

A
slow smile spreads across his face. Wonder, and then fierce passion.
He claims my mouth with a fierce kiss, all heat and strong
possession.

This
time there is no hesitation, and my whole body urges me forward,
demanding I touch his skin to mine. I kiss his neck, unbuttoning his
dress shirt slowly, moving my lips to each patch of revealed skin,
kissing his chest and sliding my hands down his abs. I pull his shirt
out and reach for his belt…

“Not
yet,” he
says and in one smooth move, he lifts me, hikes up my gown and wraps
my legs around his waist.

“Oh,”
I say, my
groin flush with his, his growing erection making me shiver with
anticipation as he carries me up the stairs to his bedroom.

He
sets me on the edge of his bed and slips a finger under one strap of
my dress, pushing it off my shoulder. He kisses along my collarbone
as he reaches around to unzip the back. His hands find my bare
breasts, and I moan at his gentle caresses, growing stronger, teasing
at my pebbled nipples.

He
pulls away and strips off his pants, standing gloriously naked in
front of me.

He
takes my breath away. Chiseled from pure muscle, a body that would
put Michelangelo’s
masterpieces to shame. I drink in the smooth planes of his chest, the
ridges of his abs, the trail of hair dragging my eyes down to the
rigid line of his perfect cock.

And
now he’s
mine.

I
pull him down to meet me, kissing hungrily as our bodies tangle in an
erotic dance, our hips pressing hard against each other. The feel of
his hot skin on mine is incredible, and as I press my lips against
the pulse in his neck, his expert hands send me writhing and moaning
beneath him, panting into his ear. He groans at my pleasure, and his
fingers slip between my legs to stroke me, sliding inside me,
thrusting so deep into my aching pussy it makes me cry out with the
sensation.

I’m
so wet, and so ready. God, I need him.

I
reach for Charles, closing my hand around his hard length. He groans
again, lower and deeper this time, and I thrill at the sound of his
undoing. I tease him, toying until I can feel his cock throbbing hot
in my grip, until his breath is ragged and he pulls my hand away,
pressing my wrists back into the soft pillow above my head.

Holding
me steady beneath him, never breaking eye contact, he thrusts inside.
Slow, torturously sweet, inch by thick inch until he’s
fully inside and we’re
locked together.

“Grace,”
he moans.

I
moan in return as he plunges steadily back and forth, a fresh wave of
heat pulsing between my legs with his every expert move.

God,
yes.

I
clench around him, arching my back to take him in even deeper, and
even as I moan at the ache he still feels so good pounding into me
that I think I’ll
lose my mind. We find our rhythm, the ecstasy building stronger, and
I lose myself in him, giving myself up completely.

All
my doubts are wiped away. Nothing else matters but the two of us,
right here.

And
then his strokes turn faster. Harder. Deeper.

“So
good,” I
moan. He dips his face to nip at my breast with his teeth, sending a
shock straight through my entire body.

“Grace,”
he groans,
rubbing his thumb against my slick clit as he thrusts. It’s
too much.

“Charles,”
I cry out,
throwing my head back as my climax overtakes me, ripping through me
with a fierce intensity. He echoes my moan, and I feel his body
explode before he relaxes, spent, into my arms.

I
hold him until I fall asleep.

When
I wake, it’s
dark outside. My body is still humming with pleasure, that bone-deep
satisfaction. I smile, reaching for St. Clair to snuggle close again.

But
there’s
nobody there. The bed is empty.

Where
did he go?

I’m
disoriented for a minute, trying to get my bearings in the dark. Then
I hear St. Clair moving around the bedroom. In the dim light, I can
just make out his silhouette in the shadows. He’s
opening drawers, getting dressed, but really quietly—like
he doesn’t
want to wake me.

“Yes,
everything is set. No problems,”
he whispers into his phone. “Be
there in twenty.”

I
shut my eyes fast, laying absolutely still as I hear him approach the
bed. I feel the soft brush of a kiss against my forehead, and then
the sound of the door clicking shut behind him.

Where
the hell is he going?

I
quickly scramble out of bed. My weekend bag from our visit to his
parents is still here, so I pull on a T-shirt and jeans, then grab
his coat and pull it over my top. I tiptoe down the stairs just as
the front door shuts, then wait ten seconds before peering out.

He’s
walking down the block, towards the busier main road.

I
scurry after him, keeping to the shadows. I know I’m
acting crazy right now, but I can’t
help it. After everything we just shared, I have to know the truth.

St.
Clair turns onto the main street ahead of me, then flags down a taxi.
Damn!

I
look around and catch sight of another black cab. I practically hurl
myself in front of it to make it stop, then tumble into the back.

“Follow
that cab!” I
exclaim.

“Seriously,
luv?” the
driver asks but he pulls into the road. “Americans.”
He shakes his
head but I don’t
care. I’m
too busy running through thoughts of what St. Clair could be doing
out here at three in the morning. I quickly come to the conclusion
that there are no good options.

St.
Clair’s
cab leads us through London into Fitzrovia, the neighborhood that’s
an eclectic hodgepodge of old and new, with stone, brick, and wood
buildings and a square in the center of the main intersection that
Paige told me has a farmer’s
market on weekends. The other cab stops on the side of the road and
St. Clair gets out. My own cab pulls over half a block behind. “What
now, luv?”