The Art of Stealing Kisses (Stealing Hearts Book 2) (7 page)

He
leads me past a club pumping out dance music and several bars full of
lively people, laughing and enjoying themselves. It doesn’t
feel like St. Clair’s
type of scene, but several people call out to him from bar patios,
and women wave at him and give me the once-over.

“You’re
a popular guy.”

He
shrugs. “I
used to be.”

I
wonder how much he used to party, if he still does. Paige and Chelsea
have both referred to him being a playboy—am
I just another plaything? Will this worry ever go away?

We
turn down an alley and the noise suddenly decreases several decibels.
A simple brick façade
with a metal door and the name
Tony’s
in white lights are all that indicate there’s
anything here at all, but once we’re
inside, I immediately see the appeal.

Subtle
elegance abounds; now this is more St. Clair’s—at
least the St. Clair I know—style.
Long white tablecloths are draped over small tables lit intimately
with candles. Wooden beams polished to a shine hang above us in the
vaulted ceiling and the walls are tastefully decorated with large
black and white photos of London through the years.

“Best
steak in town,” he
says just as the maître
d’
comes over. We’re
seated in a corner booth, a cozy and private table. We slide into the
leather seat and end up closer than planned, but neither of us moves
away.

“The
’83
Cote du Rhone, please,” St.
Clair says to the host, ordering us a bottle of wine that I don’t
even want to contemplate the cost of.
“Very
good, Mr. St. Clair,”
our host says approvingly, hurrying away to get the bottle.

“Everyone
knows you here,” I
note again.

He
shrugs as he lays his napkin on his lap. “I
was born here.”

“When
did you move to the States?” I
ask, wondering why he would leave. “Don’t
you miss it here?”

“The
country, sure. The proximity to my family, not so much.”
Our wine
arrives and the server pours an inch for St. Clair to smell and
taste, and once approved, he disappears again as St. Clair fills our
glasses. “Have
you taken a look at those student portfolios yet?”

“I
thought I was supposed to take it easy today?”
I tease.

He
chuckles, but I can tell this matters to him. “Of
course. It’s
just that the Grace Bennett I know wouldn’t
be able to help herself from peeking.”

“I
did take a peek,” I
admit. “And
I really like what I saw so far. But I’m
still feeling a little heady with all this sudden power. The pressure
is a bit much.”

He
tips his glass toward me. “The
cream always rises to the top, Grace. Talent needs time to mature,
like a fine wine, and it may not be one person’s
time to shine now, but that doesn’t
mean they won’t
eventually.”
He nods. “You
just pick the work that speaks to you, that shows the most promise.”

“What
about people whose confidence gets shot and they give up?”

He
looks at me carefully before speaking, knowing me well enough by now
to realize I’m
talking about myself, too.

“Failure
can knock you down, or it can drive you to succeed, to push harder.
It’s
all in how you look at it.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “When
I first took over my father’s
company, I made a colossal mistake. I won’t
bore you with the details, but it cost the company millions in a
failed deal, and then millions more when we lost that client.”
He winces.
“It
still hurts to talk about.”

“I
throw a fit when I lose a twenty,” I
say, and he laughs.

“This
was a lot of twenties. But in the end, it was the thing that made me
stronger and better. I was no longer cocky, and started triple
checking every move I made, and it gave me the determination I needed
to prove to those finance assholes that I deserved this job for more
than just my name.”

I’m
impressed. “Not
everyone in your position would work as hard as you.”

“I
never wanted to trade on my background. I wanted to make my own
reputation.”

He’s
not like the Chelseas of the world—he
could have been just another spoiled trust fund kid, but he chose a
different path. It’s
one of the things I like about him. “You’ve
done a fabulous job.”

“I
can always do more. That’s
why I’m
helping with this graduation ceremony, giving back to these students.
I want to help support a new generation of artists achieve their
dreams.”

“You’re
like a Renaissance patron of the arts. A modern day Medici.”
I frown. “But
hopefully you aren’t
vying for political power.”

St.
Clair laughs, his eyes sparkling with delight. “I
love your sexy art references.”

“You’d
be the first,” I
smile, thinking of all the bad first dates I’ve
been on. “I
was on a blind date once, and the guy said he loved Monet: the guy’s
last album was killer!”

St.
Clair laughs as our waiters arrive with plates of food. Filet mignon
with chanterelle mushrooms and roasted fingerling potatoes, endive
and pear salad with candied pecans and shaved parmesan, and
fresh-baked bread for each of us.

“This
looks amazing,” I
say, my mouth watering. “I
eat so much Italian food—this
is a treat!” I
freeze with my knife halfway through my steak. “Don’t
tell Giovanni or Fred I said that!”

“Cross
my heart,” he
grins. “This
is my comfort food—simple,
classic, good ingredients. This is one of my favorite restaurants in
London.”

The
food is delicious and we eat happily, talking in between mouthfuls a
bit more about the student exhibition and the sights of the city.
It’s
a lovely meal, and I’m
feeling peaceful and content as we leave the table.

St.
Clair takes my hand as we leave, and I can feel his pulse in his
fingers, a little spark of heat as we exit through the lobby. The
maître
d’
says goodnight and we are almost out the door when I feel St. Clair
tense up. An upper-crust-and-he-wants-everyone-to know-it-type guy in
a flashy suit has just entered with what I assume is a trophy girl on
his arm, with shiny dark hair and scantily clothed.

The
tall, red-haired man sees him. “St.
Clair!” the
man bellows as he swaggers over, almost dragging his girlfriend who’s
in heels too high to take normal steps. He claps St. Clair on the
shoulder. “Good
to see you, mate.”

I
wouldn’t
like him, even if St. Clair wasn’t
rigid as steel beside me. The guy has ruddy cheeks and a smug,
sneering expression permanently fixed on his face.

St.
Clair doesn’t
speak.
St.
Clair, speechless?

The
man says to me, “Spencer
Crawford.” He
doesn’t
offer his hand or introduce his date. “Have
you sufficiently licked your wounds since the showdown at the Soho
Auction House?”

St.
Clair glares at Crawford. “I
never sweat the small things, Crawford.”
His tone is
icy, so different from the playful St. Clair I’m
used to. “I
don’t
suppose you managed to find the title deed for that Armande
painting?”

“I
won that fair and square,” Crawford
says, smirking. He leans in close. “For
such a loser, you’re
not very good at it.” He
lets out a harsh laugh, but St. Clair doesn’t
join in.

“Let’s
get some fresh air,” St.
Clair says as he turns to me, ignoring Crawford completely.

“Good
idea,” I
agree.

Out
in the brisk night, the stars are obscured by low clouds, but the
party still continues in the bars and clubs. St. Clair walks in
silence beside me for a block before I ask,
“What
happened in there? Who is that guy?”

“Nobody
worth mentioning.”

“Come
on,” I
urge him. “You
guys obviously have a history.”

St.
Clair sighs. “Spencer
Crawford was a prep school bully who picked on the weak and took
pleasure in it. As an adult, he’s
graduated to the role of corporate raider.”

I
try to lighten the mood. “Like
Indiana Jones?”

St.
Clair smiles at my joke, but not enough to snap him out of his
momentary darkness. “He
only cares about profits and trophies, bottom lines and status
symbols. He’s
more like Prince John, stealing from the poor and underrepresented to
provide for the rich.”

I
remember what he told me about the Durer painting being looted by the
Nazis. “Are
you more like Robin Hood?”

He
gives a bitter laugh. “Sometimes
I wish I could be.”

“The
Armande painting Crawford mentioned—is
that Pierre Armande?” I
ask, naming a famous impressionist painter.

He
nods. “Yes.
It’s
his last known work, the famous
Garden
of the Valley
.
It used to belong to my mother, a family heirloom that was passed
down through generations, kept through poverty and smuggled out
during wars. Priceless. And my father lost it to that asshole.”

“What
happened?”

St.
Clair swallows, like he’s
been carrying this burden for years, and I guess he has. “My
father has a gambling problem,” he
admits quietly. “A
big one, and got into a lot of debt a few years ago that he kept
secret from the rest of us. Crawford, opportunist extraordinaire,
bought my dad’s
debt and then demanded the Armande in payment.”

“What
a jackass,”
I blurt angrily.

St.
Clair nods. “My
dad, too. And it gets worse. Mom was sick, so Dad ferreted the
painting out in the middle of the night without the title deeds or
official sale papers. Crawford never should have accepted it.”

I
can’t
believe it. “Can’t
you sue him and get it back?”

St.
Clair pauses. “I
considered it. But a court case would draw attention to my father’s
illegal dealings.” He
sighs again. “I
was in the US when all this happened and when I found out, I offered
Crawford ten times what he paid for it, but he just loves having it
to lord over me. I should have been there, I could have prevented
this.” He
sounds angry, not at Crawford, but himself.

“It
sounds like you did everything you could,”
I say gently.

“It’s
not enough,” he
says sharply, and then softens. “Grace,
I’m
so sorry. I’m
being incredibly rude, spilling all my dark family secrets.”

“You’re
not. I love that you tried so hard to get your family heirloom back.
You care about what’s
right, and not many guys think that way.”

St.
Clair squeezes my hand, and I remember, he’s
still holding it. Then he brings it to his lips, and drops a light
kiss on my knuckles. It’s
just a moment of contact, but I shiver, remembering those lips on
mine.

And
more…

As
a rush of heat spreads low in my belly, I force myself to shake away
the memory before I get too distracted.

Charles
doesn’t
let go of my hand and we walk a little further, the buildings full of
brick and wood, old, sturdy construction. “We
don’t
have this kind of age to the buildings in California,”
I say,
looking around. “Everything
feels so stately here.”

He
smiles. “Stately
sounds boring.”

“You
know, sophisticated. Cultured, full of art everywhere you turn.”
We come
across a small courtyard with a fountain. Statues of three young
women stand in stone in the pool, water cascading out of their heads.
“Like,
how pretty is this? There are little pockets of beauty all over this
city.”

St.
Clair pauses, and then a wicked grin spreads across his handsome
face. “Let’s
take a dip, shall we?”

“What?”
I gasp. “No!
Isn’t
that illegal?”

St.
Clair laughs at me as he loosens his tie and takes off his shoes.
“Who
cares?”

Then,
before I can process that he’s
actually serious, he climbs over the fountain rim and wades into the
water.

“Come
on,” he
calls, beckoning me. “You’re
missing all the fun!”

He
stands back, under the spray of the fountain. Water soaks through his
shirt, plastering it to his body, and drips in rivulets off his wet
hair.

He
looks like a masterpiece himself: honed from the finest marble,
designed by an expert.

“Grace!”
St. Clair
insists. He scoops up some water and splashes it at me, but I jump
back with a smile, just in time. “Are
you going to stand around watching all night?”

I
would if I could, but the temptation is too much. I want to feel what
it’s
like to be so spontaneous and reckless. Giggling, I take off my
shoes, and gingerly step into the water.

“It’s
cold!” I
shriek.

“Come
here.” He
grabs me and pulls me deeper, under the spray. The water cascades
over us and we’re
drenched in seconds. I cling to him, laughing, and then slowly, my
laughter fades.

He’s
looking at me with a raw hunger in his eyes. Desire. I’ve
never seen anything like it before.

“Hi,”
I whisper, looking up into his eyes. Water drips down his perfect
cheekbones, over his mouth. I can’t
help but stare.

“Hi.”
He moves a wet strand of hair off my forehead and our eyes lock as he
leans in to kiss me. Slow and hot and deep. I melt into it, and he
yanks me closer, until I’m
crushed against his wet, chiseled body.

God,
it feels good. I spread my lips and let his tongue invade. He groans
and bites at my lower lip, his need fueling my desire. I grab his wet
shirt and drag him closer, wanting more, wanting that crackling, full
body skin to skin contact. I don’t
know how long we’re
there, caught up in this epic kiss, but suddenly, there’s
the loud blare of a horn.

“Yeah!
Get in there!” a
holler comes. I break away from Charles to see a car of guys all
whooping and cheering as they pass.

I
flush red, embarrassed, but St. Clair just laughs and waves back.

I
catch my breath, reeling. I could kiss him all night. I hesitate for
half a moment and then look him in the eye. “Do
you want to come back to my apartment?”
I whisper.