The Art of Stealing Kisses (Stealing Hearts Book 2) (9 page)

I
tense a little at the tone. “Art
consultant,” I
correct him. I get out my keys. “Is
there anything I can help you with?”

“I
hope so.” Nick
smiles at me. “Can
we go somewhere to talk?”

“We
are talking.”

He
smiles but it doesn’t
reach his eyes. “More
privately.”

Instead
of inviting him in, I nod to the small park at the end of the block.
“After
you.”

We
walk together in silence, but my mind is racing. Finally, I ask. “Has
there been a break in the Carringer’s
case? New leads?”

“You
could say that.” We
reach a small bench, and he gestures for me to sit. “I’m
coming to you because I need your help.”

Really?
“My
help? With what? I already told you everything I know about the
Carringer’s
heist. I don’t
know anything.”

“And
if you did? Would you assist the investigation?”
Lennox looks
at me dead on.

“Of
course,” I
frown. “I
want to see the thief caught.”

“Good
answer.” He
smiles at me. “I
know who stole the painting from Carringer’s,
who’s
behind all the thefts, and it turns out you’re
in a unique position to assist in proving his guilt.”

I’m
still confused. “How?
And…who?”

“It
was St. Clair.” Lennox
tells me, not taking his eyes from my face. “He’s
the thief.”

I
burst out laughing.

Lennox
just waits, his eyes still studying me.

He’s
serious?

“There’s
no way!” I
protest. “St.
Clair doesn’t
need to steal anything. He bought the painting! He could buy anything
he wants!”

“I
never said he was in it for the money.”

“Then
what?” I’m
still reeling. This doesn’t
add up. St. Clair isn’t
a thief, he cares about wrong and right, and on top of all that, he
has no motive. “You’re
not making any sense.”

“Aren’t
I?” Lennox
challenges. “You
know our friend: St. Clair thrives off risk, adrenaline. He enjoys
breaking the rules, and he doesn’t
care about the consequences. He’s
rich, idle, and has a God complex. I think he fits the profile
perfectly. It’s
not just the Carringer’s
job, there’s
a whole string of international robberies over the past few years.
The Brussels gold heist last year. The Alberti diamonds in Monaco.
Rio de Janeiro – I
could go on.”

“Don’t.”
My voice is
cold. I know that St. Clair is an adventure junkie, but making out in
a public fountain and picnicking in a no-food zone at a museum hardly
seem like precursors to multi-million dollar art theft.

I
get to my feet. “I’ve
heard enough. You have no reason to accuse him. If you really think
it’s
St. Clair, why haven’t
you arrested him yet?”

Lennox’s
expression slips. “I
don’t
have any proof—”

“Ha!”

“Yet.
But I will.”

“You’re
reaching. The reason you haven’t
found any proof is because there isn’t
any.” I
shake my head, remembering what Paige told me. “I
know the case is getting colder. Are you really this desperate?”

His
eyes narrow. “I’m
not wrong, Grace. You can help me get the evidence—”

“Not
a chance,” I
snap, turning to walk away. But Lennox takes my arm and pulls me
back.

“He’s
guilty, Grace. And a criminal. And eventually I’m
going to catch him. It’d
be a shame to see you go down too.”
He holds out
his card. “I
hope you’ll
reconsider.”

I
can’t
believe he’s
threatening me. I don’t
take the card. “You’re
the criminal, smearing his good name.”

He
leans in, makes his face look concerned. “He’s
not so perfect, you know.” Lennox
slips his card into my purse. “St.
Clair’s
got you fooled. You don’t
know him at all.”

“Yes,
I do! And you don’t
know what you’re
talking about. He’s
a good man. The best,” I
shoot back fiercely.

“Maybe,”
Lennox
replies. “But
on the other hand, maybe he’s
too good to be true.”
His words strike me, and I can tell from his smirk that he knows it.
“Think
about it. And when you realize what a fool he’s
made of you, come find me. Because I won’t
stop until I bring him down.”

He
releases me, nods, and then strides away, leaving me alone in the
park with the first seeds of doubt beginning to grow in my mind.

“You
okay?”
St. Clair asks as he pours me a glass of Sauvignon Blanc to go with
the fish sizzling on the stovetop.

“I’m
fine,” I
say, for the tenth time this week when he’s
caught me in a moment of doubt, a moment of wondering if Lennox could
be right, which always turns into a moment of guilt because St. Clair
has been so affectionate and wonderful the last few days: cooking me
dinner, walking me home, kissing me goodnight—
passionate and tender—and
not expecting more.

“You
seem distracted.”

Maybe
because an Interpol agent informed me that you are a major criminal
last week,
I
think but then he reaches out to squeeze my shoulder, his beautiful
blue eyes concerned, and I feel bad for even giving the accusations a
second thought.

Lennox
is on the edge, out of leads, and probably facing a lot of pressure
from the agency—there’s
no way his suspicions could be true.

“Just
thinking about the student art pieces.”
I force
myself to smile.

“Any
good ones? From what I saw, it’s
going to be a tough choice.” He
flips the filets in their garlic butter sauce and checks on the
broccoli roasting in the oven, his biceps flexing in his gray
T-shirt. I think I like him best like this: after hours, out of that
suit, his hair messy and falling into his face. My breath catches a
little in my throat.

“It
really is,” I
agree. “There’s
a lot riding on my choice for them, and I don’t
know which way to go with some of the artists.”

“You
follow your heart, of course,” St.
Clair says and I wonder if he can read my mind.

“Is
that how you make your business decisions?”

“Most
of the time. Heart, or gut,” St.
Clair shrugs. “You
can weigh the options over and again, but at the end of the day,
every choice is a risk. Our heads just get in the way sometimes.”

"You
make it sound so easy.”

He
grins. “Don’t
you know by now that anything easy isn’t
very interesting? But I prefer to make my decisions on instinct, the
thrill of the deal.”

As
he plates our food, I flash back to what Lennox said about St. Clair
enjoying the thrill of the heist. Reckless, he called him. Idle rich.
St. Clair has never been idle, but now I wonder about that rebellious
streak…

“How
are things going with work?” I
ask, to get my mind off the subject. “Is
the trip working out the way you wanted?”

“Yes,
and no.” St.
Clair gives a rueful smile as we sit at his dining table. “It’s
been good having face-to-face meetings with some business associates,
but being over here in England has certain…
drawbacks.”

“Like
what?” I
take a bite of my food, and of course, it’s
amazing.

“Like
a summons from my father.” St.
Clair sighs. “I
have to go visit my parents this weekend.”

“You
make it sound like you’re
visiting the Grim Reaper.”

“Not
far off.” He
picks at his food. “Though
the Grim Reaper would probably be more excited to see me.”

I
know his father got into gambling debt, that he was harsh with St.
Clair, even when he was a child. And right now it’s
plain to see the relationship hasn’t
improved. “I
could go with you,” I
offer.

“Really?”
He looks surprised. “You
don’t
have to. It’ll
be a bore.”

“I
want to,” I
say and mean it. “I’d
love to see where you grew up.”

He
looks surprised, but happy. “Well,
if you’re
sure… It
would help,” he
adds with a small smile. “My
parents are a stickler for manners. At least with a guest in the
house, they’ll
have to be civil.”

“There
you go. And who knows, it might be fun. Family dinners can be nice.”

He
laughs. “My
family is not like the di Fiores, Grace. This will probably not be
fun.”

“Way
to sell it.”

He
laughs again, his dimples doing their best to distract me, his smile
warmer now. “Don’t
say I didn’t
warn you.”

He
leans over and kisses me on the lips lightly, sending the slightest
jolt of electricity through me. “Thank
you,” he
says. “I’m
glad you’ll
be there.”

We
drive out in the morning. I sit in the passenger seat of St. Clair’s
convertible as we leave the bustling city for the countryside home of
his parents in Sussex. I’m
excited to learn more about his family, but St. Clair hasn’t
said much at all since we left London’s
border - seeming to withdraw more with every passing mile. I can see
the change come over him the further out we get, moving closer and
closer to his past, so I try to lighten the mood, chatting about all
the different student projects I’m
reviewing – some
of them pretty out there.

“Did
I tell you about the Twitter installation?”
I ask. “This
girl stands in a white room reading Twitter comments about darkness
out loud.”

St.
Clair barely cracks a smile. He keeps his eyes on the road.

I
babble on. “And
there’s
another student who has been spray painting black Xs on abandoned
buildings to call attention to the media’s
abandonment of diversity and social justice. It’s
like they think that by being weird they’ll
get noticed, but weird doesn’t
mean good, you know? I think some of them are just too young to see
that yet. I remember when I was in art school, we all wanted to make
a splash.”

He
smiles, but it’s
dimmed, not his normal thousand watt version. “Any
more promising ones?”

“A
few. It’s
like you said—it’s
just not going to be the right time for some of them. Timing is so
important.”

Like
with us. I think about everything St. Clair has done, how he changed
my life in so many ways. Not just the job, and this incredible
opportunity to travel, but little things too. Encouraging me to paint
again, inspiring me to be more confident and believe in myself more.

The
miles slide by, and now the scenery is changing. Green grass on green
hills and green leafy trees for miles. Dark wooden barns and white
woolly sheep dot the fields and hillsides, and a few wire fences mark
property lines, but we are definitely not in the city anymore, out in
the English countryside in all its lush glory.

“Are
we getting close?” I
ask. “I
can’t
believe you grew up out here. It seems so remote!”
I think of my
childhood in Oakland, surrounded by activity and noise and people.

“That’s
the idea for most of these folks.”
He turns onto
a narrow paved road I would have missed—unmarked
except for an ornate freestanding mailbox. As we wind down the road
overhung by giant oak trees, St. Clair seems to tense even more, his
jaw tightening.

The
lines of oaks on either side of us stop and open up to reveal an
amazing country estate, buried in the hills. St. Clair’s
family home is all stone and brick, three stories high, and imposing
and grand. A low stone wall separates the house from the deep mossy
green of the yard and a stone pathway leads to a huge wooden door
like a castle entrance. Flowers line the stone wall, and ivy makes a
pretty green archway above the door.

“Home
sweet home,” St.
Clair says in that same tone of the eternally damned. Out of the car,
the air smells like fresh earth and feels damp. Ferns and other
flowers trail up the path and it’s
so quaint and cute, I can’t
help but be excited despite St. Clair’s
sour mood.

“It’s
so pretty, like a fairy tale.”

St.
Clair nods as we head up the path. “There
are plenty of monsters. Brace yourself. ”
He pushes the
large door open with some effort. “Mum?”

It
takes a minute for my eyes to adjust to the dim inside, but then I
see a tiled entryway and the large sitting room beyond, with windows
looking out over a blooming and colorful garden. St. Clair leaves our
luggage and we walk through a stone archway into a room with antique
velvet couches with shapely lines and plush cushions, dark wood side
tables, and brass lamps that complete the castle look. The stone
walls are mounted with oil paintings of landscapes, old maps of the
UK, and one huge deer head above the mantle. I shudder.

“Darling!”
A small woman
wearing a flowing peach dress comes in and kisses St. Clair on each
cheek. “It’s
so wonderful to see you!”

They
hug and St. Clair smiles his first real smile since we left London.
“Good
to see you, too, Mother.”

“I’m
so glad you could make it,” she
says. “Your
father—”

We
hear heavy footsteps approaching. “Speak
of the devil,” St.
Clair mutters as a tall man with St. Clair’s
dark hair and swimmer’s
build stomps in.

“Son,”
he says and
extends a hand for St. Clair to shake. “Your
front tire looks a little low. Have Renaldo take a look at it before
you leave.”

“Hello,
father. It’s
nice to see you.”

“You’ve
brought a guest.” St.
Clair’s
dad turns his steely gray eyes to me. There’s
nothing of St. Clair’s
warmth or sparkle of humor in them.

“I
was just about to introduce Mum to Grace here. Grace, this is my mum
and dad, Alice and Richard.”

“Hello,
nice to meet you.”

There’s
a long silence as they look me over. I feel like I should curtsey or
something. Do I shake their hands? I don’t
know what to do with myself. I knew there wouldn’t
be warm fuzzies, but this is so awkward. The silence stretches as the
large grandfather clock ticks back and forth. I finally settle on,
“You
have a lovely home.”