The Art of Stealing Kisses (Stealing Hearts Book 2) (4 page)

“No
leads just yet. Whoever he is, our man is thorough.”
Lennox gives
St. Clair a measured look. He’s
probably hoping St. Clair won’t
be angry or impatient they haven’t
caught the perpetrator yet.

“Or
woman,” I
pipe up. They both turn, surprised. “We
don’t
know that it’s
a man,” I
shrug. “You
said so yourself, there aren’t
any leads.”

St.
Clair chuckles. “She’s
got you there.”

Lennox
pauses. “No,
this is a man. Someone with too much time on their hands, with an
incredible ego, who’s
used to getting his own way.”

“So
he’s
a pro,” St.
Clair says. “That
doesn’t
bode well for me or my painting.”

“No,”
Lennox says
slowly. “It
doesn’t
bode well for you at all.”

There’s
a weird tension in the air, and I wonder if the two of them have any
history. Maybe Lennox isn’t
too pleased about chasing down all these works of art for their rich
owners. Either way, I don’t
want to be stuck in the middle of something.

“If
you’ll
excuse me,” I
say, “I’m
going to head to the ladies’ room.”

I
slip through the crowd and find the bathrooms. Of course, they’re
brand new and full of polished marble. I’ve
just entered a stall when a group of girls comes into the room,
laughing and chattering away. A voice I recognize distinguishes
itself. Chelsea. “She
only got the job because she’s
fucking St. Clair. Duh,”
she says. I freeze in my stall, my blood gone cold. “I
mean, it’s
hard to blame her. That guy is yum!”

My
stomach clenches. They’re
talking about me.

“How
do you know?” another
girl asks.

“Have
you seen her resume? Please,”
Chelsea
sneers. “No
one is going to take that girl seriously no matter how much she
dresses herself up. Besides, St. Clair’s
such a playboy. In a week, he’ll
have some new hotter girl on his arm and Cinderella will be back
scrubbing floors where she belongs.”

My
face gets hot, and I feel the sting of tears in my eyes, but I don’t
move.

“She
seemed nice when she talked about visiting hospitals because of her
mom,”
the other girl says.

“Whatever,
sob story, ugh. She doesn’t
belong in this world, and she’ll
be forced to see it soon enough. Anyway, did you see what Fifi was
wearing? O.M.G, can you say desperate?”

Their
conversation moves on, but I’m
forced to wait, silent in the stall until the door closes shut behind
them.

I
feel sick. Sure, Chelsea is being a jealous bitch, but her words
bring up the same fears I’ve
been trying to ignore this whole time.

Maybe
I
don’t
belong. Maybe I never will.

And
the things she said about St. Clair…
I’m
not naïve,
a man like that must have women throwing themselves at him 24/7, but
I’ve
been too swept up in the romance of it all to think about that. But
if he is a playboy – if
he does date a new woman every week –
what does
that mean for us? Or worse, what if there is no ‘us’?

I
head back out to the party, trying to ignore my doubts. Then I see
St. Clair across the room, standing very close to a woman I don’t
recognize. She’s
beautiful and sophisticated, with long blonde hair and a stunning
black gown. I can’t
hear what they’re
saying, but it’s
clear she’s
flirting with Charles, placing her hand on his chest and leaning in
too close to laugh with him.

I
feel jealousy rising in my chest, but I try to push it away. We spent
one night together. We haven’t
event talked about what it meant, if anything, and it’s
not like he’s
my boyfriend. I have no real claim on his attention, but still,
seeing them together slices right through me.

I
try to get my feeling under control. I can’t
get too emotional—he’s
my boss. And he’s
gorgeous. There are always going to be women hitting on him. This is
something I need to get used to. He’s
not mine.

As
I watch them, St. Clair laughs again. The woman hugs him and my
control is a distant memory. Is Nona right, what she said about
letting my heart get swept up? I have worked so hard to find a place
for myself in the art world, and no matter what Chelsea said, I’m
just starting to prove myself. I can’t
let my feelings ruin this opportunity to launch my career
– however
much I want St. Clair.

Priorities,
Grace
.

Instead
of going right back to him, I do my best to network for the rest of
the evening: chatting to the hospital board, collectors and the rest
of the rarefied guests. St. Clair finds me just as people are
starting to leave.

His
eyes are a painter’s
dream, and my resolution to stay focused on the business side of our
relationship starts to evaporate as he walks me out of the lobby into
the cool night air. “I’m
happy to have Arturo take you home,”
he says. “Or
we could go to my place for a nightcap.”

He
brings my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles. Those eyes are on
mine, sparkling with heat and suggestion.

“Um,
well…” I
can’t
help it. Just like that, my desire to go back to his house is nearly
overwhelming. I want to grab him and pull him close, run my hands
through his hair. Discover his body all over again.

But
I remember what Chelsea said – and
how it felt, watching him flirt with that woman. I swallow thickly.
“I
don’t
know if that’s
such a good idea. I think it might be better if we, uh, hit pause on
our romance for now. Or whatever it might be.”
I look away, feeling my cheeks flush.

He
sounds disappointed. “Oh.”
He drops his
arm but doesn’t
let go of my hand and the heat of his skin against mine almost burns
through my willpower. “Right.”

“For
now,” I
say, awkwardly. “You
know, being colleagues, professional is probably the way to go here,
right?”

He
lets go. “Yes,
of course. I totally understand.”

“You
do?”
I’m
equal parts relieved and disappointed.

“You’re
smart to separate business from pleasure. I guess I’m
not so good at drawing the line.” He
clears his throat. “But
if you ever decide you would like to mix them up again…”

I
playfully swat at his bicep, relief washing through me. “So
we’re
okay?”

“Better
than okay,” he
reassures me. “I
think we’re
going to make a great team. Professionally speaking, of course.”

We
reach his car. “Take
the driver. I’ll
grab a taxi.” He
winks at me as he backs away and I think
Dear god, Grace, are you really letting that fine ass walk away?
He looks so good, framed in the streetlight, it makes me wonder what
the hell I’m
doing turning him down. “See
you Monday, super star,” he
says and disappears into the night before I can change my mind.

Sometimes
being responsible is such a buzz-kill.

If
I was concerned about things being awkward between us now, I
shouldn’t
have worried. St. Clair is so busy with meetings all week that except
for a quick nod and smile in the hallway, our paths barely cross.
Luckily I’m
so inundated with work I don’t
have time to dwell on our awkward goodbye in the street after the
hospital gala, or my decision to hit pause on those perfect lips
coming in for a kiss, that carved body pressed against mine…wait,
why did I do that again? Work, Grace, remember? That career you’ve
been seeking for your entire adult life? Oh yeah, that.

Besides,
I have so much to keep me busy, I barely have time to think. My work
is incredible—even
better than I dreamed. I keep track of international art sales and
dealer buzz, research potential clients, investors, and artists. I
visit gallery and garage openings like I did with my mom, and stay up
late reading industry tipster sites to stay on top of the latest
news. I feel like I’ve
been thrown into the deep end of the pool to sink or swim, but I love
that St. Clair trusts that I’ll
make it to the other side. It’s
been so long since I cared enough to try this hard at anything, and I
have to admit, I’m
enjoying it. Even the di Fiores have been supportive of my new work
schedule, leaving warm plates of food at my door in the evenings and
waving me off every morning as I head out to the office. If they’re
missing my waitressing, I haven’t
heard about it, and I hope I don’t
let anybody down by allowing this job to eat my life right now.

My
new assistant, Maisie, is godsend, helping with anything I need, just
like she promised. I stop by her office, which is really the large
luxurious area outside St. Clair’s
corner suite. “Hi
Grace,” she
says. “Did
you ever find that email from Porter?”

“Yes,
actually I wanted to ask you about that. Porter says there’s
a great new artist having a show, and I think St. Clair should invest
in this guy, which means…”
Maisie has
started typing again, while still looking at me, showing off her
enviable multitasking skills. “Sorry
for boring you with details. I just need to talk to him. Is there a
time when he’s
not busy?”

Maisie
makes two clicks on her computer. “There’s
nothing on his calendar now. I just got back from lunch, but he
should be in there. You can go on in.”

I
smooth down my hair and then push open the heavy door of St. Clair’s
office. I’m
greeted to a view of Charles sitting at his desk—across
from the sexy blonde he was chatting up at the gala. She’s
leaning over in her chair to give him a view of her cleavage that I
can’t
help but get an eyeful of myself. They’re
both laughing and don’t
notice me.

“Oh,
sorry,”
I say, shocked, my cheeks reddening. “I
didn’t
mean to interrupt.” I
start to turn around, keeping my eyes on the plush carpet, and run
into a potted palm.
Idiot
!
I try to recover my balance and what’s
left of my dignity, but St. Clair’s
voice stops me.

“Grace,
wait.”

I
look up to see St. Clair standing, beckoning me closer. “I’d
like you to meet Amanda Leighton.”
The woman
nods at me. “She’s
a journalist who is…”

He
pauses and my mind fills in the blank with a million gut-wrenching
options as I stand there with a smile plastered on my face.
…going
to be my wife …fucking
my brains out later this evening since you said no …your
replacement in every way.

Amanda
finishes for him. “Stealing
all his time, I’m
afraid. I’m
writing a feature profile for Forbes, about your boss.”

“I
tried to get out of it, but she’s
very persuasive,” St.
Clair grins.

I
bet she is.

I
still feel awkward, like I interrupted something I shouldn’t
have. “I’ll
let you get back to your interview, then.”

“No,
it’s
fine. We were just wrapping up,” he
says as Amanda picks up her purse.

“Nice
to meet you,” she
says to me, with a surprisingly genuine smile. “I
was meaning to tell you, I just loved your choices for the hospital
wing. So bold.”

“Um,
thanks.”

To
St. Clair she says, “Pick
up your phone if I call for follow up questions, okay? No more phone
tag.”

“Done,”
he says. She
kisses his cheek and then she’s
out the door, her perfectly perky ass bouncing as she exits. St.
Clair looks at me and smiles his quiet smile, the one the cameras and
reporters don’t
get to see. “So
what can I do for you?”

My
stomach flip flops, but I remind myself to be strong, to resist his
many, many charms. “This
won’t
take long, I wanted to talk to you about a—”

“Have
you eaten lunch?”
he interrupts.

“Not
yet, but—”

“I’ve
barely seen you since the gala,” he
says, reaching for his jacket. “Let’s
catch up over sandwiches. It’s
lunch hour anyway and I want to hear all about what you’re
working on now.”

My
heart sinks. So much for keeping things in the office. How can I say
no?

St.
Clair picks up some food from a deli and then takes me to a small
museum nearby that I’ve
never seen before: hidden in a townhouse on a side street away from
the rest of the office buildings.

“I
don’t
think we’re
allowed—”
I start, glancing at the big signs warning us not to bring in food or
drink.

“Don't
worry about it. There’s
no one else here.”
St. Clair leads me to a bench in one of the gallery rooms.

“What
about the guards?”

“Who,
Kevin?” St.
Clair winks at the uniformed guard standing silently in the corner.
“I
do this all the time. It’s
one of my favorite lunch spots. Peaceful.”

I
study him. “You’re
not much for following rules, are you?”

“Where’s
the fun in that?” He
grins.

“What
about the consequences?”
I ask, thinking of all the times I tried to misbehave, and only got
into trouble.

“If
you lived your life thinking about the worst that might happen, you’d
never leave the house. Sure, I might like to test the limits
sometimes, but I’m
always smart. Careful.”

“I
didn’t
say you weren’t.”
I glance at
the guard as St. Clair begins to unwrap his sandwich. Kevin barely
glances over at us, so I follow St. Clair’s
lead, the paper making a crackling noise that echoes off the walls. I
feel a little excitement at doing something against the rules and
can’t
help a little smile. “You’re
a bad influence,” I
tease.

St
Clair laughs. “We’ll
make a risk-taker of you yet.”

“Is
that how you’ve
become so successful?” I
ask, curious. “Breaking
the rules?”

“Maybe.
I just grew up with so many rules and limitations. Everyone at school
and in my family wanted people to fit into nice little boxes with
easy labels. No one was allowed to be themselves, or stray from the
lines.”