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

“No
need for thanks,”
he says, showing off his dimples in a smile. “It’s
the truth.”

Our
eyes meet and there’s
a moment where I look at the perfect shape of his lips, a beat where
he takes a breath like he’s
going to say something else, and I feel all the reasons why staying
professional is going to be a big challenge. I take a breath,
down
girl
.
“How
about we start by talking about the position. I mean, the job,”
I add, ignoring my blush. “Being
a consultant is a pretty wide-ranging description, and I know lots of
people approach it in different ways.”

“Of
course.” St.
Clair comes closer, then takes a seat in the chair opposite. “What
I’m
thinking is that you’ll
be my main advisor on everything related to art. You’ll
help me build my collection, source new artists and acquire pieces,
manage the public face of my art. My budget is pretty much
unlimited,” he
adds with a sheepish grin, “So
you’ll
have free rein to steer me in whatever direction you think is best.
Maybe I should be building a classic collection, maybe you want me
investing in newer works. It’s
all up to you.”

My
pulse speeds up with excitement—this
is the real deal!

“This
all sounds…perfect,”
I manage to
get out.

“Charity
is important to me,” he
adds, “So
your first task is to select several pieces from my collection to
donate to the new wing of the Nob Hill Hospital, which will be
unveiled at the opening gala later this week.”

“Any
guidelines?”
I ask, eagerly jotting down notes.

He
smiles. “Follow
your instincts. I trust you.”

My
mind is already spinning with ideas as the driver pulls up to the
storage vaults where St. Clair’s
overflow art is stored. He has so many pieces, he can’t
display it all in his many houses and offices around the globe, so
the rest gets stored here in this special climate-controlled vault. I
can’t
even imagine having enough works of priceless art that you keep most
of them hidden out of sight, but I guess I’m
in a whole new world now: where I have a private driver and town car
transporting me around instead of the bus, and sole discretion about
which magnificent paintings are going to be displayed in a major new
hospital wing.

Inside,
I find it’s
kind of like a regular storage unit: if storage units came with plush
carpets, chandeliers, and armed guards. The vaults are various sizes,
smaller rooms for fine wines and jewelry, bigger rooms for furniture
or artwork. A concierge whisks me down a long corridor to St. Clair’s
rooms, and enters a complex security code before the doors click
open. There’s
a hissing noise.

“Air
pressure is strictly regulated,” he
explains. “All
the art is sealed in climate-controlled plexiglass storage shells, so
you can browse without compromising the canvas.”

He
stands aside, and I step into the suite. This place is like a museum!
Racks of paintings are stored all across the room, and I can summon
any item by pressing a button and bringing it gliding along the
automatic tracks. I glimpse them as I scan the racks: a Klimt in all
its golden-toned glory, a Picasso full of bright colors and shapes, a
Rothko with its bold strips of color…I
want to spend all day here, to study each brushstroke up close, to
smell the canvases.

I'm
in heaven.

“Will
there be anything else?” the
concierge asks. “Tea,
coffee?”

“No,
thank you.”

“When
you’ve
made your selections, simply note down the item numbers, and our
transport team will arrange for the paintings to be sent over.”
He ducks out
of the room.

I
feel like a kid in the candy store. It’s
like a supermarket dash – but
with priceless art, and I can choose whatever I want. My mom would
have loved this, too, a secret gallery just for us. We spent our
weekends during my childhood taking BART into the city to see the
museums and galleries – but
not just the big ones, she loved tiny pop-up shows, and hidden spots;
graffiti on the walls, and the guys painting portraits for tourists
down by the bay. “Good
art isn’t
always obvious, Gracie,” she
said. “The
real work takes risks, touches you, opens your heart.”

I
don’t
even know where to begin with so much to look at, so I start at the
beginning: going through each piece in turn and taking notes, so I
get an idea of his whole collection. I may be looking for something
specific now, but I’ll
need to know everything for other exhibitions down the line, and I
want to do a great job. I’m
lost in the frenetic splatters of a Jackson Pollock when I hear a
noise behind me. “It’s
one of my favorites, too,” a
voice says.

I
startle: it’s
St. Clair, leaning against the wall, watching me with a smile.

“How
long have you been there?” I
exclaim.

“Long
enough,”
he grins. “You
look so excited. I’ve
never seen someone so happy to be locked down here in this box.”

“It’s
not the room, it’s
everything inside it! Stalker,” I
add, playfully sticking my tongue out.

“Beauty
makes me stop and stare every time,”
he says and
my heart flutters. He steps closer to me, his eyes intent on mine. “I
mean the paintings, of course.”

“Of
course,”
I echo, feeling a pull like a magnet, a need to feel his skin against
mine.

He
answers me with a kiss. Soft, and light, barely brushing my lips. I
melt against him, resting my weight against his muscled chest,
savoring his strong hands on my waist and his soft lips exploring
mine. His mouth grows more insistent, the kiss deepens, and I hear
myself moan as my head tilts back.

I
forget that I’m
supposed to be working, that St. Clair is my boss, and let myself get
consumed by the heat of his kiss.

A
few days later, I press the intercom button on my phone. “Maisie,
can you email me the proofs of the title cards for each of the Nob
Hill Hospital paintings? I want to finalize those and get them to the
printer.”

The
title cards are the last step. The artwork I selected has already
been transported and hung with the other donations, and so far, I
feel like I’m
on top of things. My mom would be so proud. I think she’d
like the paintings I chose, too. I hope St. Clair likes them –
it’ll
be a surprise for him to see what I’ve
picked. After our steamy storage room kiss, he had to fly up to
Seattle for business, and won’t
be back until the opening gala tonight. Despite his absence, I’ve
been grateful coming into work every day. This job is my dream, and I
can hardly believe I’m
here.

“I’m
still waiting on them,” Maisie
replies. “Shouldn’t
be much longer.”

“Thanks.”

I
sip my coffee and glance over the schedule of upcoming exhibits and
auctions, marking the ones I think we should attend. I hear a chime
from my computer and look up to see the Skype icon on my screen
bouncing. It’s
my best friend, Paige.

“Hey,
you,” I
say as her face appears on screen. She’s
in sweatpants and a ponytail with a Chinese take-out carton in one
hand and chopsticks in the other, rapidly chewing a mouth full of
noodles. It must be dinner time over there
– Paige
is eight hours ahead, in London.

I
raise an eyebrow. “Dinner
of champions?”

She
swallows. “Dinner
of a single woman working overtime.”

Paige
works for an insurance company, investigating stolen art claims
around the world. “Still
looking for the stolen Reubens?”
I ask. Last week, a highly prized painting was taken from
Carringer’s,
right after St. Clair won it at auction for six million dollars. It’s
a huge scandal – and
a big mystery too, to have a painting like that disappear into thin
air.

“Yeah,
that Interpol guy, Nick Lennox, thinks that theft is linked to others
around Europe, but he doesn’t
have any real evidence or suspects.”
Paige
shrugs. “I’ve
done everything I could think of to find a possible lead, but I’ve
got nothing.”

“I
hope they find they guy. What kind of asshole steals priceless
masterpieces just to hide them in a vault somewhere?”
I ask,
getting riled up. “St.
Clair and other collectors keep things stored temporarily, between
exhibitions, but these thieves want to lock the painting away so
nobody else can ever enjoy it. Bastards.”

Paige
grins at me. “Easy
there, tiger.”

“Shut
up.” I
stick out my tongue.

She
twirls her chopsticks. “How’s
the new dream job going?”

“Great!”
I perk up in my seat. “I
keep expecting to get used to it, but every day, it hits me all over
again, this really is my life!”
I know I’m
beaming, but I can’t
help it. “I
got to choose the paintings St. Clair is donating for the new wing of
a hospital. I wish you could come to the opening.”

“Me
too,” Paige
grins. “Someday,
though.

“I
hope they like my choices,” I
add, nervous. “It’s
my first big job, and I want it to be a good reflection of St.
Clair.”

Paige
grins. “Oh,
I’m
sure it will be. But how ever will he show his appreciation to his
new employee, hmm?” she
teases. “I
may have a few ideas…”

Before
I can protest, my phone pings. It’s
a text from St. Clair.

Join
me at the gala tonight?

My
face heats up.

“A-ha!”
Paige misses
nothing. “That
was him, wasn’t
it?”

“He
wants to take me to the gala.”

“Like
a date?”

My
pulse races a bit with hope, but I’m
not sure. “Maybe?
Or maybe it’s
just professional. I mean, I did curate the pieces.”
But there was
also that kiss…
“What
do I say?”

Paige
rolls her eyes. “Say
yes!”

I
text
Sure
and he replies almost instantly.
Great!
Can I pick you up for dinner beforehand? 7?

Paige
sings, “Grace
and Charles sittin’ in
a tree…”

My
face flushes. “Stop!”

“K-I-S-S-I-N-G.
First comes love—”

“Seriously,
Paige. He’s
my boss now. It’s
not so simple anymore.”

“Simple
is what you make of it,” Paige
shrugs. “Wouldn’t
you rather have hot, complicated sex than simple platonic nights
alone?”

“Well,
when you put it like that…”

I
smile. This is why everyone needs a friend like Paige. I text St
Clair:
Can’t
wait.
Then I think about what I’ve
just accepted: an invitation to a fancy black-tie gala, surrounded by
San Francisco’s
high society. My smile slips.

Paige
says, “What’s
wrong?”

“I
have nothing to wear.”

“Grace,
please. This is the part where you go shopping. Splurge on something
sexy.”

“I
can’t
afford that,” I
say automatically.

Paige
snorts. “You
told me what your new salary is, and trust me, you can swing a fancy
new outfit. Besides, you’re
an art consultant to a billionaire now. You better look the part. You
know my motto: fake it ‘til
you make it.”

I
scoff. “You’ve
never faked anything in your life. You’re
too confident.”

Paige
lifts her eyebrows. “Oh,
I have faked plenty. That’s
why I don’t
do one night stands anymore.”

I
laugh. “I
miss you,” I
say, feeling a pang. “I
need more sass in my life.”

“I
know,” she
says. “We
need a night out. Like the old days.”

I
sigh, nostalgic for the times when I came home to Paige watching MTV
on the couch with a bag of peanut butter pretzels and a bottle of
wine, waiting to hear about my day and tell me about hers. “Rain
check?”

She
nods. “Rain
check.”

I
decide to take Paige’s
advice and spend the afternoon shopping at stores whose price tags
usually make me hyperventilate. I have to talk myself down from
fleeing right back to H&M - if I’m
going to be taken seriously as someone who belongs in this world,
then I need to look the part. So I grit my teeth, steel myself (and
my credit card), and do what needs to be done.

Three
hours and a few hundred dollars later, I’m
standing in front of my mirror, staring at the reflection of someone
who doesn’t
look like me. Or is this some alternate version of me: cultured,
sophisticated. Dare I say glamorous? It may be the new heels. These
strappy things cost enough to buy my groceries for a month, but
they’re
hot. And high. And I kind of love them.

My
new black strapless gown is silky and sexy, and makes me feel like a
movie star getting ready for the red carpet. The cost made me wince,
but to my relief, it won’t
bankrupt me – not
anymore. St. Clair paid me a generous retainer, an advance on my
first paycheck, I guess, and it’s
more than I ever imagined earning all those nights I served spaghetti
and meatballs downstairs. More than enough for a new dress and shoes,
a cute clutch purse, and a fancy hairstyle from the blow-dry bar down
the block.

Now
that I look the part, I have to make sure I act it, too. I don’t
want to let St. Clair down- or myself. I have the chance of a
lifetime here, and I want to savor every moment of it.

I
hear raised voices from the restaurant downstairs, the di Fiores in
full form. Then I catch a British accent and realize St. Clair must
be here. My heart flips. I give myself one last look in the mirror,
remind myself again that I can do this, and then head down
Giovanni’s
.

I
follow the commotion and find him literally surrounded by di
Fiores—the
owners Nona and Giovanni as well as their daughter Carmella and her
husband Fred, plus Cousin Eddie, all talking to him at once at a
decibel level normal ears would find nearly deafening.