The Art of Stealing Kisses (Stealing Hearts Book 2) (3 page)

“Guys,”
I say, but no
one hears me over Fred asking St. Clair for investment advice and
Eddie showing off his biceps. “Come
on, man, how much can you bench?”

“Hello!”
I yell at full volume.

They
all turn.

Eddie
whistles, Nona claps her hands together in delight, but St. Clair’s
is the only reaction I care about. His eyes widen a little, and then
they take on a new smoky intensity.

I
feel like the only woman in the world.

St.
Clair’s
still gaze gets the chatty Italian family that has welcomed me into
their lives to slowly quiet down and all turn to me.

“Hi,”
I say
nervously.

Nona
beams. “Our
little Gracie, all grown up.”

I
walk toward them, a little uneasy in these new heels that are higher
than I’m
used to. St. Clair takes my arm, steadying me with his firm but warm
grip. “It
was wonderful to meet you all, but we have dinner reservations.”

Giovanni
steps in our way. “Dinner
where? Nowhere in the city has better food than here. You stay, eat.”
He claps
twice and a waiter appears to set the prize table at the front of the
house, Nona and Giovanni’s
throne.

St.
Clair looks at me, questioning. I want him all to myself, but I don’t
want to be rude to the di Fiores either. And I’m
curious to see how Charles will stand up to their strong
personalities (and what I know is hands down the best marinara sauce
this side of the city).

“Let’s
stay,” I
decide. “If
that’s
okay?”

“Of
course.” St.
Clair smiles at me. “I’d
love to get to know everyone.”

He
puts his hand on the small of my back as he follows me to the table
and a little shiver runs up my spine. I hope I can keep my blushing
under control - something tells me that Nona will notice everything.

We
take our seats, with Giovanni and Nona joining us at the table.
Carmella and Fred head back to work, and Cousin Eddie lingers nearby,
glaring at St. Clair.

Giovanni
passes a basket of fresh-baked ciabatta rolls around the table. St.
Clair takes a bite and his expression freezes. “Oh
my God, this is the best bread I’ve
ever had.”

Giovanni
laughs, “Everyone
says that.”
He beams proudly.

Nona
says, “It’s
the
biga
-
a secret starter yeast recipe I brought from my grandmother’s
kitchen in Naples, over fifty years ago. That’s
the secret of good bread, it’s
all in the right ingredients. Like a marriage,”
she adds, giving me a look.

St.
Clair chews a big mouthful. “It’s
delicious,” he
says and I smile. He’s
figured out the way to their hearts, food of course, and won them
over. “So
tell me about how you started the restaurant?”
St. Clair
asks. “This
place is an institution, I hear.”

Giovanni
launches into the history I’ve
heard a hundred times, so I sit back, and try to relax. Still, it’s
strange to have everyone around the same table. The di Fiores know me
as their waitress and surrogate daughter, but St. Clair’s
only seen the face I present to the world: polished and confident—
or at least trying to be. I wonder briefly what he makes of them. The
restaurant is a far cry from the five-star restaurants he’s
used to, with its homey feel and rustic food. But soon Charles is
talking enthusiastically about the unusual foods he tried in Italy,
and Giovanni and Nona are laughing along.

He
fits. Somehow, St. Clair has the ability to walk into any room and
put people at ease. It’s
not just shallow charm, it’s
how he’s
genuinely interested in everyone and wants to hear their stories.

Dinner
flies by, and once the plates have been cleared, Giovanni raises his
glass. “A
toast to our Gracie and Charles, and their big night out.”

A
chorus of “hear
hear”s
go around.

St.
Clair smiles. “And
to the bread!”

I
glance down at my watch, mindful that St. Clair is a guest of honor
at the benefit tonight. “We’d
better get going,”
I say, apologetic.

“Thank
you so much for a lovely meal,” St.
Clair says to the di Fiores, shaking Giovanni’s
hand. He kisses Nona on the cheek and gives Eddie a friendly
shoulder-grab that I’m
pleased to see Eddie return in kind. “I
hope to see you all again soon.”

“I’ll
just get my wrap,” I
tell him, and go to the cloakroom at the back of the restaurant. Nona
follows me.

She
looks up at me, the wrinkles in her face creased with concern. “You
seem very…taken
with this young man.”

I
blush. “I
really like him,” I
confess.

“I
can see that. But don’t
let your heart get so swept up that you cannot see the ground
anymore, okay?”

I’m
surprised. Where is this coming from? “Nona,
I’m
fine.” I
kiss the top of her head. “Thank
you for looking out for me.”

“Just
be sure that you don’t
let the stars get in your eyes, Gracie, dear.”
She
squeezes my hand. “All
that glitters...”

“Don’t
worry about me, I’ll
be fine.”

“I
know you will,” she
smiles gently.

I
go to meet St. Clair by the doors, but I can’t
help wondering if what Nona said is true. Is all this glitz going to
blindside me into making bad decisions? Or even more troubling: has
it already?

When
we arrive at the gala, I can’t
believe the scene: it’s
being hosted in the lobby of the new modern wing at the hospital,
with a real-life red carpet and photographers lined up outside to
snap the society arrivals. Camera lights flash and reporters toss out
questions to the guests and I feel like a celebrity, walking up on
St. Clair’s
arm.

“Mr.
St. Clair, over here!”

“Charles,
a word!”

“St.
Clair!”

He
guides me smoothly past, pausing to talk about the great work the
fundraisers did, and how many people the new wing will help.

“You’re
so natural out there in front of all the press,”
I say once
we’re
past the paparazzi.

His
smile slips. “It’s
part of the job,”
he shrugs. “But
to tell you the truth, it’s
not my favorite. All the attention comes with the territory, but it’s
a performance too.”

I’m
taken aback, but he seems genuine. “So
who is the real you?” I
tease.

“Just
me,”
St. Clair gives me a quiet smile and takes my hand.
“The
guy who cooked you dinner in Napa, who just spent a lovely evening
with your family.”

I
smile. “That
guy’s
great,” I
say, but I wonder why this sudden burst of authenticity.

He
smiles back. “Don’t
forget that,”
he says.

Inside,
the grand lobby has been turned into a reception area, with a bar at
one end of the marble floor and the donated art pieces hung
throughout the room. St. Clair is surrounded immediately. He
introduces me to all kinds of amazing people, saying,
“This
is my art consultant, Grace Bennett,”
and I feel like Cinderella at the ball. It’s
magical.

Finally,
St. Clair says, “Let’s
take a tour, go say goodbye to my donations.”

I
laugh, then realize he’s
serious. “But
they were just sitting in your vault.”

St.
Clair grabs two flutes of champagne from a passing tray and hands me
one. “Which
is why I’m
giving them away to live a better life. But I still want a last
look.”

We
make it around the room to where St. Clair’s
donation is displayed. A small crowd has gathered in front of the
three pieces I agonized over but finally chose: a wild and crazy
splattering of a Pollock, an abstract Picasso, and an up-and-coming
artist named O’Brien
who uses neon colors and big sweeping shapes.

People
are whispering and there’s
an energy surrounding the art that makes me nervous. The paintings I
picked don’t
fit in with the rest of the art here. All the other pieces are tame
and traditional: watercolors, landscapes, lots of florals and
delicate brushwork. The typical thing you find in doctors’
waiting rooms
– and
exactly why I went in a different direction. Now, I’m
having second thoughts. If these pieces aren’t
appropriate, then it makes St. Clair look bad.

“Do
you think there’s
a problem?” I
ask nervously, my body tensing as we get closer. Before St. Clair can
answer, someone sees him and starts clapping. More of the crowd joins
in until dozens of people are applauding and clearing a path for us.

“Guess
not,” he
whispers to me.

A
reporter from the
Chronicle
stands ready with a dictaphone. “Everyone
is very impressed by your donations, Mr. St. Clair.”

Agreements
and things like, “Wonderful
choices, St. Clair!” and
“So
lively!” float
from the several dozen people standing around gazing at the artwork I
selected. I love the paintings, so it shouldn’t
be surprising that others love them, too. And yet, I’m
relieved and grateful.

“Speech!”
someone
shouts and the crowd quiets down.

“Yes,
please,” says
the man from the Chronicle. “Can
you tell us a little about your donation? It’s
by far the most impressive collection to hang in a public building
like this. Aren’t
you worried about security?”

St.
Clair clears his throat and addresses the room. “Actually,
my art consultant, Grace Bennett, was the brilliant mind who selected
the art here tonight. Please, Grace.”
He gestures
for me to speak.

What?
My mind goes blank. I look at the sea of expectant faces and don’t
know what to say. “Um,”
I say,
beginning to sweat. St. Clair gives me a little nod of encouragement.
“Well,
my mom was sick a few years ago,” I
start slowly, speaking from the heart. “So
I spent a lot of time in hospitals—waiting
rooms and hallway seats, patient rooms—and
the art was always so lifeless. It was supposed to be soothing, I
know, but instead, it felt like defeat. I always thought there should
be more vibrant colors, more movement in the art to lift people’s
spirits,” I
go on, and suddenly I can’t
stop the words flowing out of me. “To
remind them about the beauty in the world when they’re
facing their most difficult challenges. I know I would have liked
pieces like this hanging on the hospital walls I had to be in. I hope
others feel the same.”

There’s
applause, a few nods of understanding, and St. Clair rests a hand on
my shoulder. “Great
job,” he
murmurs. And I can tell from the look in his eye that he means it.
“This
is why I hired you, you know,” he
says as the crowd disperses. “You
see art as something that can enrich the everyday, not just something
to stay on the wall and be admired from a distance. I’m
proud of you.”

His
words spark a warm glow. If my feet didn’t
hurt so much in these heels I would feel like I’m
floating on air. I didn’t
let him down at my first task – and
I might make a difference to the people who will be using this
hospital wing. It feels great, and I know my mom would be proud of
me, too.

“Grace!”

I
freeze, recognizing that voice. In an instant, my warm glow fades.
Lydia Forbes, my former boss from hell, strides up, tailed by the
snooty intern at Carringer’s,
Chelsea.

“Hello,
Lydia,” I
say politely. “How
are you?”

Lydia
gushes. “I’m
good, but you two look amazing! I just love the pieces you chose,
Grace.”

What?

I’m
too stunned to speak. St. Clair says, “Yes,
she has quite the eye. I’m
thrilled she agreed to work for me.”

“Congratulations,”
Lydia says to
me. Then to St. Clair, “You
know, with all the hullabaloo at Carringer’s,
I may be in the market for other opportunities myself. If you know of
any openings…”

I
forcibly clench my jaw to keep it from dropping to the floor. St.
Clair’s
multi-million dollar painting gets stolen from Carringer’s
on Lydia’s
watch, and now she’s
turning around and asking him for a job? But St. Clair is smooth, as
usual. “I’ll
keep that in mind,” he
says, moving out of her reach. “But
I believe Grace has filled the last spot on my team of experts.”

Chelsea
starts to roll her eyes but stops herself when she sees me looking.
“I’m
so happy for you!” she
says instead, clearly lying out of her ass. “It’s
just so hard to believe how far you’ve
come so fast! It seems like only yesterday you were scrubbing
floors.”

I
gulp the last of my champagne. “That’s
because you’ve
never seen what hard work will get you.”

St.
Clair stifles a laugh. “Shall
we take a look at the other donations?”
he says to me, holding out his arm. I take it.

“Let’s.”

“It
was nice to see you, ladies,”
he tosses back over his shoulder as we go.

We
move off. A waiter passes with a tray of canapes and I remember that
the last time I was at an event like this, it was me carrying the
tray of appetizers, sweating over orders handed down to me by Lydia.
Chelsea’s
right, I’ve
come a long way. I can’t
keep the smile off my face.

“What’s
so funny?” a
male voice asks out of nowhere. We turn.

It’s
Nick Lennox, the Interpol agent who was investigating the Carringer’s
theft.

St
.Clair extends a hand politely. “Lennox.
I wouldn’t
have expected to see you here. Nobody making off with any paintings,
I hope.”

“Not
yet, at least. But I’m
keeping my eyes open.” Nick
shakes his hand. He’s
tall and broad-shouldered, and looks like he’d
rather be in jeans than a tux. “Miss
Bennett,” he
nods to me. “I
heard about your change in employment.”

“Thanks,”
I say, even
though I’m
not sure it’s
a compliment.

St.
Clair nabs a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and hands it to
Lennox. “Any
leads in the search for my painting?”
he asks. The
thief made off with a priceless piece that St. Clair had just
purchased at auction, but there hasn’t
been any word yet about catching the thief.